You were the rapper who got mad when I didn't want to buy your CD for $5 outside a 7-Eleven in Fullerton. I left the store toting a bag of cheap groceries and a Slurpee. You decided to swoop over to me from your perch next to a trash can for another annoying sales pitch. “Yo, man, do you listen to hip-hop?” Like a fool, I said yes. What I should've said was “No, I only listen to German industrial metal and field recordings of nature sounds.” That might have ended the conversation. I listened for about 12 seconds as you described yourself as a cross between Kendrick Lamar, Tupac and Snoop. But you seemed more like a cross between thirsty, dirty and delusional. I politely declined your offer to buy a burned CD-R out of your backpack, which reeked of weed. As I walked away, you got mouthy. “Psssh, well, fuck you, then. I don't need your stank-ass money!” Good, I'm glad we're both clear on that. But ask yourself these questions, Makaveli: Are you really getting anywhere with this business model in 2014? Can you really be surprised that I said no? Would you like it if you were coming out of a record store and I tried to sell you a melted Slurpee? Is it too much to ask that you start a Band Camp site like everyone else so I can get to my car unmolested by a greasy car salesman posing as an artist?
