Hippit to the Hop
Unlike most, we were fooled by the rocks that she got. Damn near put us into cardiac arrest when we got the notion that maybe this J.Lo had taken over our sweet Jennifer Lopez and turned her into some bejeweled, pompous country-clubber. We didn't know how we'd go on with life without her bountiful real-ness. No more remixes? No more flamboyantly homosexual backup dancers gyrating behind her? How in the hell else were we going to be taught the ways of the world? After much consoling by MTV, we were reassured that she was still just Jenny from the block. We're softies without an ounce of street cred, and the fact that we spell our names without redundant apostrophes causes much teasing on the playground. Once, when told that it was hot in herre, we replied that yes, it was kind of warm and "would you mind turning on that fan?" We need help, and we aren't afraid to ask for it.
Perhaps it was a matter of fate that we learned about the Hip-Hop Jam Workshop, and the notion seemed to plead silently for us to take heed. Finally we can master the fine art of hip-hop, street hop and "pop n' lock" (a.k.a. breakdancing). Within six hours' time, we can learn how to get our proverbial freak on like none other. And it will be on. Oh, it will. Up next is the bling, the posse, the complete abandonment of the proper usage of the English language and then, of course, the Escalade--nay, the Hummer. We still aren't sure what exactly "pimp juice" is, but we are certain that if you suspect you've contracted it, consult a physician immediately. Forget trying to imitate the lame 15-second snippets on the commercial for that poseur Darrin's Dance Grooves. This is the rizzle thizzing. We're feeling cooler already.
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