[Originally published Nov. 4, 2009. Moved up because it’s Christmas in July time, bitches! And, yes, I will fix the iambic pentameter soon.]
In 2005, Robert Matthew Van Winkle, AKA Vanilla Ice, set out to make a comeback with his long-anticipated Kwanzaa album. After angry protests turned into violent riots that raged from Harlem to Watts, his label, Albinism Records, decided to pull Vanilla’s release before it began distribution.
Albinism has since spent millions of dollars keeping the material out of the media. The demo, lyrics, and promotional posters, that are rumored to feature Vanilla eating fried turkey at the head of the Last Supper table, have been locked in a fortified safe just outside Barstow.
His music has remained hidden, until last week when Vanilla created an Ebay account in order to raise money for his anger management classes. Court documents reveal Vanilla auctioned off a jar of his leftover eyebrows — accumulated after years of maintaining his signature creative brow design — and four of his concert outfits.
After purchasing a pair of silver crab pants, famed Ebay buyer, igotyoshit187, checked the pockets and found what appeared to be an early draft of a song off Ice’s holiday album. We’ve obtained the text, which was scrawled on the back of a receipt for various weaponry, including a tazer and harpoon gun, both of which were items found on Ice’s person when he was arrested by police last Wednesday after neighbors reported seeing a racially confused gentleman hiding in a tree just outside of igotyoshit187’s bathroom window.
At this point, we have decided the only ethical thing to do is to share Vanilla’s sick thoughts on the holiest of holidays with the public who once supported him. We warn you the following content is graphic and may not be suitable for small children, priests, and theologians who will surely be horrified by Ice’s utter lack of reading comprehension skills in regard to the Bible.
JOSEPH’S BABY MAMA
Yo, V.I.P., let’s kick it!
Vanilla is back on a Kwanzaa mission,
with a rhyme more money than your Harvard tuition.
Rappin. Bustin’ shit up in your ear,
with a story ’bout the holy fetus who blew up a new calendar year.
King Herod. He ruled the land.
Like a motherfuckin’ pimp with a strong backhand.
Flying. Into adobe.
He’ll make your head hurt worse than hearing Lawrence comma Joey doing karaoke.
The three wise men. They cameled up to the curb.
That’s right, bitch, now cameled is a verb.
They pulled up. Hopped off their beasts.
They said, “Yo, Herod, there’s a zygote you wanna meet?”
“Hells yes, that is my plan.
Get back on your camels and go find the little man.”
“Ah-ite, dawg, you the boss.
We know if we don’t go you gone get our salads tossed.”
Camelin.’ Back through the desert.
Knockin’ back forties while we ride, it’s fuckin’ pleasure.
“Hey, bros, where the fuck we are?”
“Shut your bitch ass up we be following the star.”
Trekin.’ Dropping peyote.
Seeing a mirage of all the chicks that wanna blow me.
“Focus. Find the fresh placenta.”
“But how can she be prego if he neva went up in her?”
“Immaculate. Conception, that be how it went down.”
“Bitch please, if Joe believe that he a motherfucking clown.”
“You know my baby mama pulled that shit on me last year and
I said, ‘Bitch, please, I ain’t even tryin’ to hear.’”
Just then, the star is overhead.
There’s the holy son lyin’ in a ghetto ass bed.
“What up, son, why you chillin’ in a barn?
You be sleepin’ on skid row, I gots nothing to rhyme with the previous yarn.”
“Listen. We brought you some shit –
random fucking elements a baby won’t know what to do with.”
Just then, Jesus’ ass got pimped out with gold, frankincense, and myrrh.
What a baby gone do with all that shit, I ain’t never been sure.
After busting on some sick old school wine, the homies passed out.
Then an angel said, “This spot ain’t be nothin’ Herod need to know about.”
On Jesus’ coordinates they ain’t gone squeal.
They just worship his baby ass as they motherfuckin’ kneel.
“Ah-ight then, yo we gots to roll.
Cuz fuckin’ King Herod nearly turned us into moles.”
The angel, he gets around.
He visits old Joseph as soon as the wise dudes left town.
“Broseph, yo, you gots to know,
that Herod’s comin’ to glock you if your ass don’t go.”
Avoidin’ pistol whippings, that’s how Joe gets down.
So he loads up the donkey and they get the fuck outta town.
Yeah, they sneak out.
In the middle of the night.
If this were a movie, starring Woody Harrelson, right?
Then this scene would feature a motherfuckin’ gnarly ass chainsaw fight.
Terantino, he’d call in the extras playing Herod’s army,
Body parts would be flyin’ like a motherfuckin’ harm spree.
But this ain’t one, so they hit the sand.
Jesus rides in a Baby Bjorn cuz they ain’t got no family van.
The family. Livin’ like they in witness protection.
Joe probably still up on Mary’s shit about her freaky conception.
He be wantin’ to take her ass on People’s Court,
so he don’t have to pay no bullshit child support.
They get their freak on, they be make up sexin.’ Now Joe believes Mary ain’t never wanted no other dude’s erection.
Things keep getting better cuz fuckin’ Herod, he ain’t got no GPS reception and his shady ass hunt never makes the connection.
Finally, Herod’s old ass dies
and Mary gets a crazy workout on her sexy ass thighs.
They travel out to Nazareth.
Let me puff on this L, hold up, lemme catch my breath.
Now they building,’ a sweet crib in the promise land,
And that little baby Jesus he grows up to be the man.
At the parties, he turns water into wine.
He got hookers on each arm and they lookin’ real fine.
Now I broken it down with this motherfuckin’ verse,
this be the legit story of the crazy Jesus birth.