Don’t Mess Wit’ Da Bes’

This is a joke. Don’t take it seriously.

A’ight, ya’ll. For real, there are some chumps walkin’ amongst us, trying to be like me. Every day, one of my boys comes up to me like, “Yo, I just seen this kid look just like you!,” enough so that I needs to take a stand.

To the fool out there who rocks the old school San Diego Padres hat, I wanna see you up in here. To the dude/dudes who look like me (you know who you is), I wanna see you up in this piece, too. Y’all been runnin’ around trying to be me for too long.

This school ain’t big enough for all of us, and something needs to be done about it. I got my own thing goin’ on, ya feel me?

And mugs can’t be impersonating all up on me like that, cause it ain’t feasible. That’s my word.

Two of the same thing can’t be in the same place at the same time; there’s an explosion an’ shit when that happens.

“Time Cop,” that bugged out Van Damme movie, taught me that. He had to deal with some fools trying to break off a piece of his pie too, so he broke them.

Just you watch-history gon’ repeat itself. At midnight on Sunday, March 2, meet me at the top of the Redstone green.

I’ll take on all y’all clone-ass suckas, one after the other, until only one remains. Like Highlander an’ sh*t. Y’all can name your duel, too.

Be it water polo, thumb wrestling, rock-em’-sock-em’ robots, or just me bitch-slappin’ your ass in front of all your homeboys. I promise, you’re all gonna look like the chumps that you really is.

Your women will leave you. Your friends will stop talking to you with any respect once it becomes known you’re just a cheap knock-off. Even your momma won’t respect you no more.

Especially you, with the hat. I hearda you a buncha times.

“Yo, Julian. There’s some kid out there with your same hat! You gonna stand for that?”

My homeboys know I ain’t gonna stand for it; that question was rhetorical as sh*t on their part. They know I’m gonna bring the ruckus.

Can’t nobody wear my gear in this Burlington, Vermont. ‘Specially not my hat. I love my hat. I’ll ride for my hat. You can’t be wearin’ my hat, all blatant wit’ your disregarding my steeze.

And y’all know my steeze too, that’s why your trying to be me. This 2-G plus three right here. This ain’t no 1985. ABBA and Public Enemy ain’t top of the charts.

People don’t rock Padres hats from the mid-80’s no more ‘cept me, you understand?

You may think I’m playing with you, but I ain’t. Keep pushing me, and see what happens.

Yeah, I wanna talk to the dude with the hat. But that don’t mean I forgot ’bout the fools that look like me. Don’t think you’re getting off easy just ’cause you ain’t rockin’ my hat. We need to chat, too.

Plus, I heard y’all was bitches, anyway, from my boys. Not on some “Oh, those guys look/act like you, that sucks,” typea bitches, like straight up bitches. Chumps. Suckas. Definitely not on my level.

So why you tryin’ to bang with me? I ain’t request no body double. I wish you ain’t started this, but I got no problem solving it. Seriously, I’m ’bout to get imperialist on yo’ asses. Some ol’ conquering sh*t. This kinda aggression can’t stand. I’ma find y’all suckas. For real. I’ma have y’all on some wearin’ dresses sh*t, walking the strip to get my paper.

I’ma take over y’alls’ lives, destroy you and build an oil pipeline up in yo’ sh*t to get my cheddar. I’ma build a Cabot factory on yo’ ass. It ain’t a game.

Any a y’all ever watch Kung Fu movies? I seen this one where some busta ass fool tried to steal Jackie Chan’s fighting style, and take over control of Shaolin temple. They was kinda workin’ it, too. That is, until Jackie showed up.

They was runnin’ sh*t while he was gone, all actin’ like him, kickin’ ass and takin’ names.

But once Jackie, the true Kung Fu master, showed up, it was all over for them fools.

He kicked their asses, and took back control of his sh*t. That’s what I’ma do.

It’s gonna suck for you after Sunday. I promise you that. Your days livin’ the high life off my persona are over.

Either find somebody new to be like, or think about who you are, try to figure out what the hell you’re doing acting all like somebody else.

I mean, I know I be top dog and all, but can’t ya’ll get your own persona? I’m big enough to hold this whole spot down, and y’all trying to get a piece of the action? There ain’t room, dog, there just ain’t room.

If y’all wanna be my mules, runnin’ my sh*t like frogger across state lines, I can let you get that. But don’t try to be no don when the realness is in effect. I’ll end that.

I understand and all if you got no creativity or self-determination; so you could try to leech off of someone else, though it’s still bad for your health. You need to get your own flava, your own steelo. Not mine.

That’s taken care of. So I’ll see y’all on Sunday, a’ight? And all of you who know these bustas, make sure they show their faces on Sunday. If not, recognize them for the foolish bitches they be. Either way, I’ll see y’all around, in your dorm, classroom or at a party. We’ll talk. To quote Tupac, who had to deal with fake-ass playa haters biting his style too, “You’re too near me not to hear me,” ya feel me?