3 years ago, I was trapped in an ocean of hyphey, coffeeshop fuckboi music from which I thought I could never escape. It seemed that everywhere I went, I would here some depressed white kid keeling over a Mumford and Sons track. Every store I visited was soon laden with the maudlin musical stylings of Arcade Fire. And I couldn't even get a simple cup of coffee without having to sit through half of Death Cab for Cutie's discography.
I tried to escape this endless sea of fuckboi music, but to no avail. Rappers and artists who I thought were "hard" later turned out to actually be wack as fuck. Tupac, the Notorious B.I.G, and countless others failed to save me from becoming a fuckboi.
One day, when I returned home, I was ready to end it all. I took off my fuckboi clothes- purchased at Hollister, ate my last fuckboi meal (gluten-free naan bread), and then took out my fuckboi weapon (the razor-sharp edges of a shattered Atmosphere album) to end it all. That is when Duncan came to me.
He came exploding through the wall, destroying the boundaries of my reality like some kind of flaming Kool-Aid guy. He was adorned with a shirt that displayed his sick tattoos and forearms, pants that perfectly outlined his impressive genitalia, shoes encrusted with diamonds, a jacket made from the hide of the very last West African Rhino, and sunglasses that perfectly hid the redness of his eyes. His hair was slicked back with the pure concentrate of Axe hair gel, and around him, marijuana smoke rose and spewed, immediately giving me a contact high. He took my hand in his, and it was as soft as a baby chicks buttocks. Together, we flew out on a magical cloud of smoke to Atlanta, where I learned to live and breathe by the way of my new God. I was decked in the finest of tracksuits, sipping only the very best purp, and blasting only the loudest music of such trill geniuses as Soulja Boy, Flo Rida, and Meek Mill.
Duncan guided me into a club, where Gucci Mane and Waka Flocka Flame awaited us, an army of bad bitches kneeling around them in worship. Gucci walked up to me, his chains bouncing on his majestic chest.
"Have I made you proud, my master" I cried.
"Not yet, hoe". Replied Gucci. Duncan smiled and nodded, and together they viciously beat all the fuckboiness out of me. The only remains of this cleansing were a pile of organic cigarettes, and the new me. I had thrown off the chains of fuckboiness and finally impressed the cult of Trill.
Duncan guided me back to my home, conjuring me a bed completely formed of money and naked women. He sang me a sweet Katy Perry lullaby as he kissed me gently on the forehead.
When I woke up, I was not sure if the events of that night even happened. Certainly, I was covered in a thick sheet of cocaine and bottles of purp. And Chieft Keef was passed out in the corner of my room. But I know Duncan saved my life that night. This is a blog dedicated to his legacy. His greatness. His majesty.
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