In this crunk ass life, there are the two motherfuckers riding up in your hood, in the name of Funkadelica. The Methafaygo is dry and the anime be fried from constant bejizzling upon the VCR television. The Star of Ghettos, being the most prominent in the nebula of the space crunk, is what you follow as you step outside. In the days of destiny's dusk, what you have seen is nothing like the crackers now filching garbage cans before you. The one emptying the cans inside the pinto, the one of pitying songs and snipped balls, is the one that feeds. The one that bleeds for the 90's, and the 90's hit CD on the sidewalk that nobody would take, is the one of balance, to be what the pitier is not. But you never wanted either, never even cried for the wolf you'd feed over the one that will be forgotten. With no Love Hina to return to, you confront the harbingers of fate.
"Step up honky crackers, step to da hood KUNG!" is the ghetto holy chant of your day of reckoning.
A dank haze swirls around the pitier, almost as a reflex to dissing. The silhouette of a dog's head peers from the cloud of crunk. Smiling for the first time in a Jay-Z minute, it started to speak, the piercing diamonds in it's mouth glowing and cackling.
"To see what is crunk, to be all the crunk, nothing but the crunk, is the fate of the union of this star, the Star of Ghettos. I am the crunk that shakes the heavens and seeds the fields of this very crunk you stand on."
The crunk of ages, bled from the sweet pines of Gojiranja, is what the power of pity wrought. A ten pound block of crunk ganja emerges from the asphalt street. The bleeder came unto the block and transfused to the crunk, his destiny complete. The sacrifice of the heir of ghetto crunk caused great and horrible things from the ganja. First morphing gradually into the shape of the mighty taco, its colour too changed. What was once earthly green is now a vibrant shade of purple crunk, covered in fine hairs of crystallized THC. After settling for a moment, the crunk of destiny suddenly fluffed out all at once while retaining its shape, flooding the hood with the scent of the reefer of omens.
The haze of dog approached the taco, approving of its stature, it's existence. It was the foretold manifestation of the Star of Ghettos on the earth, and the dog is as mesmerized by it as you are. Perhaps even more so, for even the ones above and beyond those of a material, temporal crunk knows crunk when they see it. Just standing next to it seemed to cause it to solidify, looking nothing like the cracker it did when it first rolled up in the hood. Soon, the haze has dissipated as the honky's true form is revealed. The doghead is now attached to a yellow suit, like a salesman, and the dog's eyes, once implied but shrouded, are now bright yellow and filled with chronic patterns of the astral crunk. It starts to laugh as it looks at you, like some arrogant cracker.
"The taco is strong."