I rediscovered the original manuscript for it while I was cleaning out some old boxes in my closet last weekend.
The dilemma I faced is that the only thing I was good at was writing. I didn’t want to write a sappy poem, though; I wanted to entertain. Then the idea popped into my head: I will translate the ghetto-ass lyrics from 50 Cent’s club banger, In Da Club, into white English.
Enjoy. And, to track the original lyrics with mine, click here.)
Dance young lady, dance. We will celebrate as if today were your birthday. We will sip on Bacardi Rum as if it were your birthday. Though truthfully, today is not your birthday, we do not care. Our celebration will be reminiscent of a birthday nonetheless.
You can find me in the disco with a bottle of expensive champagne tucked away in the pocket of my trendy denim jeans. At the current moment, I would much rather sample illegal drugs than have sexual encounters with a lady. However, I will greet the aforementioned ladies with a warm embrace. (Repeat)
When I drive to the entrance of the disco, you recognize my Mercedes Benz by the sparkling 20″ wheels that I have payed an exorbitant amount of money for. In addition, when attending the disco with 20 of my closest friends, we each carry a knife for the purpose of self-defense.
Ever since hip-hop mogul, Dr. Dre, became the producer of my music, many more people of color have wanted to befriend me. It appears that when your music sounds like that of fellow rap musician, Eminem, promiscuous women desire to fornicate with you.
Nevertheless, things for me have remained the same. For example, when engaging in sexual intercourse, I demand that my female counterpart remain on the bottom.
Now I see west coast rapper, Xzibit, the host of MTV’s “Pimp My Ride.” Together, we roll up a marijuana cigarette and smoke it.
I continue to dance. If you did not know me as an entertainer, you may mistake me for a pimp, one who gains a profit from prostituting loose women.
I have been shot nine times by a handgun, but this does not affect my ability to walk.
When I go into the low-income housing projects, the residents compliment me on my exquisite style and impeccable lyrics. I am pleased with their support because I want to be revered in the same manner as now-deceased rap artist, Tupac Shakur.
But if you go to the state of New York, African-Americans will tell you that I am “loco.” In Spanish, the word “loco” means crazy.
I have so much control over the hip-hop music industry that one could say that I have it in a headlock, a common grappling technique in the sport of wrestling.
I remain focused on my goal, which is to earn an obscene amount of money. For example, I earned one million dollars for signing my recording contract, yet I still sell cocaine as a source of income.
Now a young female approaches me and informs me that she is aroused by the combination of my stylish garments and my ability to recite lyrics. Because of this, she and a friend would like to engage me in a random sexual escapade known in French as a “menage au trois.” Intrigued by her offer, I gladly accept.