It has recently come to my attention that there is a new musical form known chiefly as "rap" practiced by gentlemen who use a manner of speech quite unlike any we have heard before. It filled me with despair to know that these lyrical masterpieces could not be appreciated by those of us with more delicate sensibilities. Recently, an acquaintance of mine attempted to remedy this with some rather stunning adaptations. The following work is quite incredible, and I wish that I were capable of writing something one fifth as engaging. Behold the translation of a one OrangeJulius, below.
Given the frequency with which matters of grave importance arise in the tumultuous and oft impoverished urban neighborhoods south of Los Angeles proper, I often find simple existence to be a trying concern. However, in some fashion I find difficult to put into words, I am still able to derive, often daily, works one might describe as baroque or avant-garde. With that in mind, as I find myself without any pressing engagements, I should welcome you, good friend, into my domicile, so that I might relate to you a brief anecdote or two in the hope that such a tale should lighten your purse a pence or two in compensation.
Fear not waking my mother, for she is not about, and indeed because of this, the revelry and merrymaking of this evening's fete has not yet subsided, even at this late hour of two. Several members of the fairer sex have congregated in my parlor, and are engaged in the act of lovemaking. I have their personal assurance that they will not be departing until the hour of six. With that in mind, I put forth this query: what activities would you prefer to partake in? Verily, I have several prophylactics on my person, as do the gentleman who accompany me. I will take no offense should you turn down the lantern and shut the door! I myself may do the same, but let us both admit, we carry no lasting adoration for these strumpets. Perhaps in addition to intercourse, we shall inhale the smoke of smoldering cannabis while we dance to the sounds of a wax cylinder rotating on my phonograph.
Verily, I have obtained some distilled alcohol flavored with juniper berries, distributed by Diageo PLC under the brand name "Seagrams", and it seems that everyone has a receptacle for said spirit yet no one has contributed any tender towards its procurement. The occurrence of this particular scenario being the norm, I find it not uncivil to partake in this beverage before anyone else has had a chance to do the same. Nothing is troubling or melancholy for those who hark to the words I speak. Often spoken with a timbre and pitch so as to resemble sing-song, and uttered while standing in the middle of the thoroughfare and imbibing a delicate aperitif, these words catch the ear like the song of the Sirens, and not soon afterwards, I am moved to become amorous with a moll answering to the moniker of "Sadie", who in a time long past was betrothed to a confidant of mine. With the mercury indicating a temperature of eighty degrees, I find myself coldly shunning the harlot, crudely demanding that she refrain from laying the weight of her loins against mine. With the haste of my retreat no doubt disturbing the air around her, I find myself with a group of close friends and join their ante-meridian constitutional.
Some time later another friend of mine, a physician with the sobriquet "Dre", victoriously arrived carrying with him a parcel consisting of a juniper spirit similar to that from the previous evening, but sporting the label "Tanqueray", and a wildly tumescent roll of cut greenleaf enclosed in paper and engineered to be smoked. It is not in jest, I assure you, that partaking in this roll, I found its effects so overpowering that I had to excuse myself briefly and set my toby jug aside. The spirit and drug together conspired to impair my senses, and yet I found myself uninclined to cease with either, for I found the disorientation pleasant and delightful. Philanthropically, Dre had also taken it upon himself to bring with him several courtesans from the prefecture of Compton, who began to service me in earnest. I explained to them in no uncertain terms that there would be no post-coital co-mingling, and asked that they not lament over my post-haste departure, for I hold no lasting fondness for them. And with that in mind, I find myself
Ambulating down the thoroughfare smoking green leaf and quaffing a combination of juniper spirit and juice, in an easy-going and quite casual manner, reciprocally and poetically having my thoughts focused on my finances, and my finances chiefly in my thoughts.
So, friends and colleagues, I propose that we try our hand at translating these finer works of culture. My own attempts will be forthcoming. However, in an effort to ensure that this communique remains respectful and commensurable with our character, I must ask that you provide any response in the most polite of manners. Ungentlemanly conduct will almost assuredly be met with scorn and reproach from your colleagues.
Enclosed, please find my attempt to translate the rather popular song "I Require Immediate Medical Assistance, Regards, Eminem" by Dr. Dre, featuring a one Mr. Marshall Mathers:
I am finding that I am losing control of my organs of sense. You departed some time ago, and I believe that I cannot go much longer without your medical expertise. I require the services of a doctor immediately. Please send another qualified medical professional, if not yourself. I require these services to reinvgorate me and to perhaps resurrect some semblance of emotion within me.
Ah, but I told the world one day I would return the favors it had to offer. I have recorded my thoughts on a phonograph, left it on the recorder, and made copies of the wax casings, specifically so that I could recall it at a future date. However, I am not aware of when I made these assertions. My memories of everyone have begun to penetrate my mind, and I find that every day is pigmented by shades of gray and black. Hope is an emotion that I find myself wanting; but alas, no listener seems to discern my particular conception when it is presented. They say it is queer, but I suspect that they simply do not understand the nature of beauty. Granted, I am unaware of whether I conceived of this melody while awake or in repose.
I am merely aware of the fact that when I was at the precipice of my life, you pulled me from the brink, and breathed new emotions into my very being. I owe my existence to you, but despite all my attempts to understand why, I cannot fathom why you do not share my opinions. However, I suppose that I should reflect that your countenance is in part a reflection of the loss of your first born. The emotions that you kindle in others reflect the darkness that fact has sparked within your soul.
Allow me to turn on the lanterns and enlighten you. I am not convinced that you have any notion as to what your presence means to me, not even remotely. You and I were like yachtmen, and I was but the cabin boy to your captain. When I end this soliloquy you will either engage in fisticuffs with me or embrace me as a brother, but I'm not a selection that you can choose from. There is no other action for me to take because
I am finding that I am losing control of my organs of sense. I need immediate medical assistance. The sands in the hourglass have fallen steadily. Please send a doctor with the most immediate haste possible.
Dre, it hurts when I see you struggle against this reality. You have come to me with brilliant notions, saying that they are but pieces of a larger puzzle. And yet, the rhymes which you have produced are beyond the notion of even a muse possessed of Bacchus's brew. Either you have grown lethargic, or you no longer believe in your own opinions. You have not recently formed an opinion without questioning yourself, and turning to me for advice, as if I were your leader! You are supposed to be my mentor, by God! It was you who believed in me, when every other colleague at your recording studio told you not to accept my services. You risked your entire professional life on me; let us not cut short the truth. You know it as well as I do. Nobody wanted to do business with me on account of the fact that I am a caucasian. Dre, I am crying in this recording booth. You have saved my life, and perhaps it is my turn to return the favor. However, I cannot ever hope to repay you; what you have done for me is more than I could ever give. Nevertheless, I am not giving up my faith, and you are not going to abandon hope for me. Get up, Dre. I am passing away, I need you, by God, come back!
It literally feels like a lifetime ago, however, I still remember those events as if they were yesterday. You walked through the door, wearing a yellow suit, designed for athletic events. You made amusing commentary, and when you entered the recording booth I asked you, would you care for a cigar? I inquired with some friends in regards to you, however, they just left. They claimed that intertwining our fortunes would bring about my demise. I ask you, where are they now?
But I do not need them, I see none of them have made their presence known to me in quite some time. I do not need their bothersome inquiries; all I see is Mr. Slim. Begone, all ye foul, fair weather friends. All I need is him. Useless backstabbers, the lot of you.
When the hour of need was upon us, you merely laughed at our misfortunes. However, you are about to feel my wrath for the actions which color our mutual history. You will see us in our laboratory coats and inquire as to our prior adventures. Please feel welcome to taste the excrement from my digestive processes, not to mention that of my friend with the fair complexion. I will produce one more album as per the terms of our contract, then I will assemble my belongings and leave you, permanently. Regards.
I guarantee you that when we lave this place, they will cry out to prevent our departure.
In any event, gentlemen, embrace your monocles. We are going to need more calligraphers.