iPod Friday Fih-Teen Feat. Da Crunky R

Mr. Angry Runner/Ironman Playa’s fine comments about starting a rapper clothing line and the usage of ‘Mofo’ in yesterday’s post got me coming up with lots of strange ideas. First, I’ve been thinking about clothing lines vs. running teams vs. strange themes (more on that later), and then I thought it would be ‘fun’ to start an alternative universe blog that translates the regular version to another language, in this case, urban rap. And it would practically write itself: Crunky Runner, race pimp. Nice idea, but I don’t quite have the time to translate every blog entry into some alternate reality, whatever it is. But I did make a go at it, and below a ways you’ll find a posting by your pal Crunky, a down and dirty rap translation of the previous post about ‘Da Half’, kickstarted by one of those lame ebonic translation websites. And something of a pale homage to The Onion’s Herbert Kornfeld, who was there, doing it better, long before me. Love me some Herbert.

And while I’m on that theme, here’s a new offering from Fiddy, shamelessly lunging at the Top 40 with the help of Justin Timbaland, uh, Timberlake. Not the greatest tune, but what is nowadays…

50 Cent featuring Justin Timberlake - Ayo Technology (She Wants It)



Crunky Runner Playz Da Half

Soze I gots muh ma-fuh-in official race shit… lookin’ cot-ten, but
it’s uh cotton/poly Mikro-Tyson TV dinner blend pretending ta be like, uh, some gray-ass, whitey scrub triple-XL shih. ‘Property uhda' En Why See Half’, it say. Thassome REEE-al highclass sheeyit goin’ on, damn. But yo’ name printin’ 4 free, can’t pass dat shih up. Should’ve had dem spell out ‘D-A C-R-U-N-K-Y S-A-T-A-N’, but I don’t wants ta scare da baby’s mama’s babies. Oh, you know wha’m sayin’, I didn’t th'o't o' getting’ dat put onnit foe-iss done. Shee-yih, I ain’t frontin’..

So I gotsta be in line by 6 or somefin’ (da race start at 7…why day wanna play dat?), 'bfoe Da Man cut off da course. 10,000 sorry-asses loopin’ ‘round CP yo, down 7, through da white-ass/Kid Rock tourin’ cribba Times Square, ‘cross 42, then down da Wesside ta Battery P. Hills, mo' hills, flat, yo. Buncha muh-fuh, shee-yit, y’ask me.

Yearbefo it rained like muh-fuh-in Duke and Duchess uh Mofo, an' kicks turned inta buckets. This year, da foecast iz fo' hot an' hotta, an' I gotsta believe in it. We done official reached da tyme when you wantin’ more than shawtyz to gets da grime offa yo trainuhs and whatnot, huh?

Shee-yih, not trying ta th'o't about diss here one too hard, but wiff da last races bein’ mid-6 minute onda miles forda Crunky Runner, da speed crack lookin’ mighty fine, mighty fine. Then ag'in, wudden’t half marathongs in 80-90 degree outdoh, but ah flow like mah doe. So I leave da crib, gets dere, curse da fannypack playa hatas up front at da game, haul mah shih, an' git muh-fuh-in tired-ass an' angry in da last two. Bitch inner voice sayin’ ‘where iz dat dang muh-fuh-in finish, BITCH?’ near da end. Or dat Frankenstein-peesa-shih sayin’ ‘gotta… haul… ma… ass… to… muh-fuh-in Springsa… Poland…DAMN!’, which iz about all yo' membrane can come upwiff in this fuh-in ‘hood ‘bout to pop off, huh!?

Thass how I roll, bitchez! Shee-ih.