all he needs is a feud with a notorious large father

I have to admit, it was difficult to take the ambitions of a pet ghost seriously, but it is one month into his latest obsession, and Marley is still rockin' the beat. He envisions himself as the "white Tupac" -- rhyming from beyond the grave. I've trained Oedipus Rex to sit behind a little phonograph I found at a garage sale, with a pair of headphones balanced on his head. The two of them look like a Disney Channel version of what a DJ and rapper should be, but Marley gets crabby when I point out he's not even allowed to PLAY in the streets, let alone be FROM them.

Here's his latest gem:

Chicks moan when I'm on the mic,
moaning like
the most floaten-ist dopen-ist ghost in this
biz. I is unstoppable like a zombie fight
undead like Myers Mike,
and unafraid to get paid.

Don't tell me his rhymes aren't substantive -- he is a ghost. His essence is without substance. Plus, it took me 3 hours to write down using the Ouija board. I hate being his hype-man.



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