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true to life: a day in the life cam'ron giles
jim jones emerged from a cloud of wine black & mild smoke with half his hair braided, half his hair not.
"ayo killa"
"what's good doggie"
"this nigga hell rell is in the bathroom mirror with 2 tommy guns"
cam asked hell rell what the deal was with that peanut butter jelly ass bullshit.
hell rell told him he was sitting on missles for these niggas.
juelz santana cut past the bathroom door freestyling about his kilos.
three people nobody knew sat playing madden '05. falcons vs. packers. 103 to 8. it was three minutes into the second half.
"someone roll that purple up," cam'ron interjected, his stomach rumbling.
"take your achy breaky stomach ass the fuck on killa"
cam split a dutchmaster with barry manilow in his headphones, unaware of anything else that was going on.
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
"where dat nigga dmx at"
"we had him to stop at 7/11 for some slurpees"
"the fuck wrong with yall niggas b"
"don't worry killa we got you a blue and red one"
"that's goody goody b"
the ice cream man drove by the house; a mobb of light-skinned niggas formed around the truck. three spanish dudes asked for chili cheese fritos. jim jones gave a kid a wet willy for cutting in front of him. freaky zeaky bought 5 things of lemon lime shots and put them in a blue dufflebag.
inside, hell rell was juggling vials of crack. juelz santana puffed blunt smoke in everyone's faces while freestyling about how his girl juggled balls in her mouth. the three dudes huddled around the av cords trying to get a signal back.
the screen flickered.
3:57 left in the fourth quarter. mike vick had thirty rushing touchdowns.
cam started up his coup, flooding the block with katy perry.
"ayo that's my joint," he reassured.
a text from "jerome da gawd" came through cam's flip phone a few minutes later. an unidentified skeezer sat shotgun, wiping funyon residue on the leather seats.
"we getting ready to hit d spot on 142nd, b. keep your hands in your lap."
"short shirt long jacket" by cake came on the radio. he air guitared the main riff, using both hands to strum the imaginary strings.
they got halfway out the driveway before santana busted out the front door, still rapping.
"watch a flick with your spouse/got my dick in her mouth/it's a brick in the couch."
cam tried rolling the window down, forgetting he was in a convertible.
"what the fuck you want santana?"
"aye killa mane, we need some hambuger helper. jim brought it to the studio last night. that nigga max b ate two plates."
"the fuck is going on, b? this the mash potatoes and gravy bullshit i been talking about."
santana handed cam a bundle of hundred dollar bills, reminding him to get some swishers.
cam sped off doing the dougie to elton john.
jim jones emerged from a cloud of wine black & mild smoke with half his hair braided, half his hair not.
"ayo killa"
"what's good doggie"
"this nigga hell rell is in the bathroom mirror with 2 tommy guns"
cam asked hell rell what the deal was with that peanut butter jelly ass bullshit.
hell rell told him he was sitting on missles for these niggas.
juelz santana cut past the bathroom door freestyling about his kilos.
three people nobody knew sat playing madden '05. falcons vs. packers. 103 to 8. it was three minutes into the second half.
"someone roll that purple up," cam'ron interjected, his stomach rumbling.
"take your achy breaky stomach ass the fuck on killa"
cam split a dutchmaster with barry manilow in his headphones, unaware of anything else that was going on.
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
"where dat nigga dmx at"
"we had him to stop at 7/11 for some slurpees"
"the fuck wrong with yall niggas b"
"don't worry killa we got you a blue and red one"
"that's goody goody b"
the ice cream man drove by the house; a mobb of light-skinned niggas formed around the truck. three spanish dudes asked for chili cheese fritos. jim jones gave a kid a wet willy for cutting in front of him. freaky zeaky bought 5 things of lemon lime shots and put them in a blue dufflebag.
inside, hell rell was juggling vials of crack. juelz santana puffed blunt smoke in everyone's faces while freestyling about how his girl juggled balls in her mouth. the three dudes huddled around the av cords trying to get a signal back.
the screen flickered.
3:57 left in the fourth quarter. mike vick had thirty rushing touchdowns.
cam started up his coup, flooding the block with katy perry.
"ayo that's my joint," he reassured.
a text from "jerome da gawd" came through cam's flip phone a few minutes later. an unidentified skeezer sat shotgun, wiping funyon residue on the leather seats.
"we getting ready to hit d spot on 142nd, b. keep your hands in your lap."
"short shirt long jacket" by cake came on the radio. he air guitared the main riff, using both hands to strum the imaginary strings.
they got halfway out the driveway before santana busted out the front door, still rapping.
"watch a flick with your spouse/got my dick in her mouth/it's a brick in the couch."
cam tried rolling the window down, forgetting he was in a convertible.
"what the fuck you want santana?"
"aye killa mane, we need some hambuger helper. jim brought it to the studio last night. that nigga max b ate two plates."
"the fuck is going on, b? this the mash potatoes and gravy bullshit i been talking about."
santana handed cam a bundle of hundred dollar bills, reminding him to get some swishers.
cam sped off doing the dougie to elton john.
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