Uh. Oh yeah. Shit’s getting out of control. The concrete slapping your sneakers, the bitches dishing looks like they’s on sale, the haters stopping just to pay the love they owe, shit’s fucking bananas for you right now.
Shit’s so bananas that when you miss that open manhole and tumble downward, into a hellish New York subway filled with terrible, terrible subhuman mutants who reach out towards you to grab you and start ripping your flesh apart the moment they make contact they’re all gonna hop back and say “Daaaamn.”
Then they’ll pitch you upwards in a fit of coordinated dancing, launching you out of the manhole and back on to the relative safety of the street where you’ll land between two ladies who will turn, give you the once over and go “Oh snap!” taking an extra moment to admire your funkiest of asses.
Then you’ll strut into the bank, drop a gun on the counter and tell the teller to fill up one of those fly ass bags with money. She’ll be so taken by your urban vernacular and forthright manner that she’ll just fill that bag right up for you without any trouble or dye tablets and you’ll walk out, whistling, into the street, drawing every eye towards you, including a few poking up from underneath the street, where word of how funky you are is quickly spreading and likely to spark a mutant uprising.
Congratulations on Getting Absurdly Funky!
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