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No more dating deejays.

No more dating deejays, emcees, producers, hip hop critics, radio hosts, etc.

Wanted: A girl to date a deejay.
Must have strong arms for heavy lifting – includes crates and my ego.
Looks not important to me;
You will never look as good as the girls on my bootlegs, white labels and cd covers.
Please try not to look uglier than any of my deejay buddy’s girlfriends,
I’d really hate that.

Don’t.touch.my.equipment!

I like:
music
long walks on any street that sells used records
music
being a hater
music
and I do like music

Must be able to watch hours of DMC World Championship dj footage.
P.S. – If you’ve never heard of Deejay Rectangle – PLEASE DO NOT APPLY!

I’m done dating rappers, emcees, deejays.
I’m looking for a real nice Roger’s cable guy,
Who thinks that a Technics is a way to make love to me.

I was in love with your potential, I thought your hands were speaking to me.
Remember when we met and you were on that Jungle Brother’s “Back to Africa” trip?
You got me to throw away my rope chain.
Even took the chemicals out my hair.
You said you were my man, and we would be a strong black unit for change…
But yo’ momma’s basement was to small to house the revolution.

Grown-ass man.
But why move out and get a job?
You said you was ‘bout to make some cheddar off all this rappin’ and producin’.
--Wait ‘til you play me the new shit.

You said the sexiest thing about me, besides my fat ass, was the way I made you think.
And me and my fat ass was tickled pink.
But now it seems like mic cords are the only things you tickle.
I’m tired of eating Invizbl Skratch Piklz.

I stopped buying your mix tapes the day you said girls can’t deejay because their inner
ear is
smaller and it throws off their mixes.

Fuck the guest list! After three years, I’m more than just a guest!
But I guess you just ain’t know.

I stopped analyzing your lyrics when you stopped listening to my radio show.

And don’t ever get it twist – I’m telling you – The worst groupies have dicks.
Every guy I know can tell a story about a hoe and some rap star.
I ain’t hating, it’s the truth dog. I witnessed it, I swear.
Now you’re a man – at least for the groupie she’s about to give sex.

You already passed your tape to the rapper. He’s about to beat the face now.
Why-are-you-still-there?

And those groupie hoes, with their five minute hugs – I don’t watch no face, but these
girls take pleasure in provoking me.
And I can’t say shit. I have to retaliate in silence because the laminate from your
backstage pass keeps choking me.

And no, I don’t want to hang out with the other dj-girlfriends.
They’re adapters, automatic-after-performance-clappers.
Preparation-H for swollen ego asshole rappers.
They adapt to any climate, given doubt about any time, its seems appropriate.
You take these girls for joke, getting sweet like the two-o-ywal gunna live happy ever
after.

They study dinosaurs, we call them dino-whores. –Why?—
Because that’s what you call the girls who flock to the club on a Saturday night to do
what she can to catch a Toronto Raptor
– she’s an adaptor!

You can take your yellow-pagin’ dubplate making body trace, but personally I’ll pass.

You used to give a shit about turntablism, but now you can basically, galloping scratch my
ass.

I know I sound amplified. You can tell your friends its just hate.

Remember when you broke my face-plate?

The best mixer you had was a Gemini!
And if I hear one more dj cuttin the hell out of Peter Pipers, “Dats yo’ what?!”
Not-bad-meaing-bad-but-bad-meaning-good-not-bad-not-meaning-bad-not-bad not bad
not bad…
But sometimes we just want to hear da 'chunes bitches.

And its not the deejay, it’s me for thinking that he’s listening to what he plays, and the
messages he’s putting in the universe.
And when really, when I think about it, what you say and who you are...

I mean Luther is still singing about girls.

And I mean, Al Green was just a love machine who sang love and happiness while off-stage
he brutally dislocated his wife’s shoulder and fractured both her wrists.
She probably plays his 45s gingerly with broken arms, listening to him sing tender love
songs and thinks, “Who the hell is this?”

So ladies, the fault also lies in us if we mistake talent for tenderness.
A beat is not a love song.
A guest list is not a love letter.
But until I’m sure I’ve learn the difference, I just won’t date:

deejays, emcees, producers, hip hop critics, radio hosts, etc.

-Nick Holder-