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Late 20th-Century Urban Gangster Battle-Rap Ritual Explication Theory
(With Corporate American References For No Reason)

by Claudia Sherman author info

Excuse me. Excuse me, there, sir. I would like to initiate a conversation. But I can only presume that you, being from Philadelphia, are not familiar with our Cleveland conventions. Would you like a brief primer on the mode of interaction that is most accepted here? Certainly! It is no trouble in the least.

First, if you will, pray tell: What is my motherfucking name? I ask this with Platonic ambitions. Clearly, you know my name; have known it for some time, and if, indeed, you had forgotten, you would have nonetheless ascertained its presence on this, my nametag, designated as it is with the noble standard HELLO MY NAME IS. We, sir, have attended the same Mid-American Metalcraft Industry conferences for years. And yet still, I entreat you: What is my motherfucking name? The Platonic I am referring to is not the sort mentioned in personal ads (and the personal I refer to means, in this sense, “desirous of finding a mate, or at least a partner for a few unsanitary hours”); no, sir, the Platonic I mean is, here, taken to mean heavily rhetorical questions aimed with the intention of forcing one’s dialectical opponent to retreat by framing even those statements which are accepted truths to sound as though they are admissions. By my demanding that you state my name aloud, I exert a sort of talismanic power over you, occupying your brain and mouth simultaneously, branding them, if you will, with my presence, imbuing them with my strength. Not that I’m saying anything…un-Protestant, my dear fellow, no no no! I am merely stating.

Requesting that my name be spoken aloud is also a method by which I can, in a sense, exact a tribute of fealty from my opponent - you, Mr. Goodwin - as well as to accustom you to the sensation of following my orders.

Bravo! You have stated my name and have thus accepted my challenge. Let me at first, and briefly, remark upon a few of the attributes I possess that you may wish to consider before engaging with me verbally. In the main I speak, my dear sir, of my skills. The skills I possess, for which I am most fortunate and of which I am most proud, are wide-ranging and numerous, but include a certain nimble facility with rhymes (including even the more complex internal schemata), and a no less nimble facility with the fairer sex. Indeed, ofttimes the two seem related: Wooed by the sweetly melodious euphony my tongue produces, they descend. I find myself beset upon on all sides, as a male honeybee lost in a tossing hedge of fragrant primrose, heady and sweet. “Why, Mr. Sinclair!” they coo, “your oratory is enough to test the harps of the very cherubim!” I aver politely, but do not enter their tender traps. For I am a man too untamed for monogamy, and something in my heart tells me that bitches just want the dick. Well, they ain’t have it.

Mr. Goodwin, might I take a moment to compliment you on the style of your trousers. Though I myself am incapable of sporting such a pair of slacks, due to the cargo area required for my manhood—this, too, speaks to and of my skill—I certainly admire the way they flatter YOUR skinny white ass!

During the heat of battle, I plan to expostulate upon various hypothetical competitive situations into which we might enter, and from which I will emerge the clear victor. I may also employ a range of metaphors and exemplars intended to impress upon you the severity of your defeat. For example, Mr. Goodwin, were we to step outside of the August Mid-American Metalcraft Industry conference, forthcoming in Boise, and were we to remove our sport jackets and to spar in shirtsleeves, it seems doubtless that you would get told. I would preface our fight with the phrase, “You wanna go?” which will be your signal to reply, “You want some of this?” These declarations aside, we may proceed to your whupping. Not only am I physically larger and more evenly muscled than you, sir, but my fighting style is of “the streets,” and as such a large component of its driving force is enthusiasm. I can say unabashedly that while y’all don’t mean shit to me, it would give me a thrill of pleasure to pound you, boy. And, during this fight, I plan to beat you in the same way one might beat an egg white, were one in search of the fluffiest, stiffest meringue possible; that is to say: I will beat you hard, and at length. There will be no doubt that you have been beaten. At that point, while you lay crumpled on the pavement just out back of the Randall deBois Convention Center, your women will emerge from the crowd (or from, perhaps, the secretarial college across the street), and they will leave the scene of the fight with me, since I will have proved I am the alpha male. Also they will prefer the jaunty cut of my Sansabelts.

I must pause in my little oratory to remember those of us who have fallen, and who now mill about that big water cooler in the sky. Lester “Genghis” Kann, Big Herb Schiller, and even Denise “Dza” Carmody: I tip a bit of my Columbian out to you. Ooh, careful, that’s hot. Now, where were we? Ah yes.

Mr. Goodwin, I would like to extend my most sincere thanks to you for allowing me these few moments to outline, as it were, our forthcoming interaction. I think you will find that this format of interaction allows a fair suppleness within its confines; indeed, the prelimited structure is often more freeing to a participant than might your classic rumble be.

Now: What’s my motherfucking name?

Claudia Sherman is a Michigan born writer who has lived all over, once in Chicago, now Long Beach. She writes for a variety of places, including Pistil Magazine. Her random thoughts can be found over at Vodka Catatonic.
All material copyright the authors, printed with permission.

^Back to Top^ Back to Archives

	Late 20th-Century Urban Gangster Battle-Rap Ritual Explication Theory (With Corporate American References For No Reason) by Claudia Sherman author info Excuse me. Excuse me, there, sir. I would like to initiate a conversation. But I can only presume that you, being from Philadelphia, are not familiar with our Cleveland conventions. Would you like a brief primer on the mode of interaction that is most accepted here? Certainly! It is no trouble in the least. First, if you will, pray tell: What is my motherfucking name? I ask this with Platonic ambitions. Clearly, you know my name; have known it for some time, and if, indeed, you had forgotten, you would have nonetheless ascertained its presence on this, my nametag, designated as it is with the noble standard HELLO MY NAME IS. We, sir, have attended the same Mid-American Metalcraft Industry conferences for years. And yet still, I entreat you: What is my motherfucking name? The Platonic I am referring to is not the sort mentioned in personal ads (and the personal I refer to means, in this sense, “desirous of finding a mate, or at least a partner for a few unsanitary hours”); no, sir, the Platonic I mean is, here, taken to mean heavily rhetorical questions aimed with the intention of forcing one’s dialectical opponent to retreat by framing even those statements which are accepted truths to sound as though they are admissions. By my demanding that you state my name aloud, I exert a sort of talismanic power over you, occupying your brain and mouth simultaneously, branding them, if you will, with my presence, imbuing them with my strength. Not that I’m saying anything…un-Protestant, my dear fellow, no no no! I am merely stating. Requesting that my name be spoken aloud is also a method by which I can, in a sense, exact a tribute of fealty from my opponent - you, Mr. Goodwin - as well as to accustom you to the sensation of following my orders. Bravo! You have stated my name and have thus accepted my challenge. Let me at first, and briefly, remark upon a few of the attributes I possess that you may wish to consider before engaging with me verbally. In the main I speak, my dear sir, of my skills. The skills I possess, for which I am most fortunate and of which I am most proud, are wide-ranging and numerous, but include a certain nimble facility with rhymes (including even the more complex internal schemata), and a no less nimble facility with the fairer sex. Indeed, ofttimes the two seem related: Wooed by the sweetly melodious euphony my tongue produces, they descend. I find myself beset upon on all sides, as a male honeybee lost in a tossing hedge of fragrant primrose, heady and sweet. “Why, Mr. Sinclair!” they coo, “your oratory is enough to test the harps of the very cherubim!” I aver politely, but do not enter their tender traps. For I am a man too untamed for monogamy, and something in my heart tells me that bitches just want the dick. Well, they ain’t have it. Mr. Goodwin, might I take a moment to compliment you on the style of your trousers. Though I myself am incapable of sporting such a pair of slacks, due to the cargo area required for my manhood—this, too, speaks to and of my skill—I certainly admire the way they flatter YOUR skinny white ass! During the heat of battle, I plan to expostulate upon various hypothetical competitive situations into which we might enter, and from which I will emerge the clear victor. I may also employ a range of metaphors and exemplars intended to impress upon you the severity of your defeat. For example, Mr. Goodwin, were we to step outside of the August Mid-American Metalcraft Industry conference, forthcoming in Boise, and were we to remove our sport jackets and to spar in shirtsleeves, it seems doubtless that you would get told. I would preface our fight with the phrase, “You wanna go?” which will be your signal to reply, “You want some of this?” These declarations aside, we may proceed to your whupping. Not only am I physically larger and more evenly muscled than you, sir, but my fighting style is of “the streets,” and as such a large component of its driving force is enthusiasm. I can say unabashedly that while y’all don’t mean shit to me, it would give me a thrill of pleasure to pound you, boy. And, during this fight, I plan to beat you in the same way one might beat an egg white, were one in search of the fluffiest, stiffest meringue possible; that is to say: I will beat you hard, and at length. There will be no doubt that you have been beaten. At that point, while you lay crumpled on the pavement just out back of the Randall deBois Convention Center, your women will emerge from the crowd (or from, perhaps, the secretarial college across the street), and they will leave the scene of the fight with me, since I will have proved I am the alpha male. Also they will prefer the jaunty cut of my Sansabelts. I must pause in my little oratory to remember those of us who have fallen, and who now mill about that big water cooler in the sky. Lester “Genghis” Kann, Big Herb Schiller, and even Denise “Dza” Carmody: I tip a bit of my Columbian out to you. Ooh, careful, that’s hot. Now, where were we? Ah yes. Mr. Goodwin, I would like to extend my most sincere thanks to you for allowing me these few moments to outline, as it were, our forthcoming interaction. I think you will find that this format of interaction allows a fair suppleness within its confines; indeed, the prelimited structure is often more freeing to a participant than might your classic rumble be. Now: What’s my motherfucking name?
	Claudia Sherman is a Michigan born writer who has lived all over, once in Chicago, now Long Beach. She writes for a variety of places, including Pistil Magazine. Her random thoughts can be found over at Vodka Catatonic. All material copyright the authors, printed with permission. ^Back to Top^ Back to Archives