One look says it all. Whatever IT is. (Ass Ass In.)
The rapper now known as Jay ZZZ was born Clifford O’Dell in Surrey, England in 1969. At age 5 he was involved in a car accident when his father Nigel (from Cornwall) and mother Mama (from the Republic of Togo) got into a heated argument over bagel spreads, and so crossed the line into the right lane (and oncoming traffic.) After extensive plastic surgery Cliff was adopted by William Cartwright (a plastic surgeon), and taken to Brooklyn (after a retirement vacation to Nevada.) There he was influenced by Nigel’s other son Derek (whose white mother Yolanda was a failed poet and successful laundress, and had moved there several years prior.) Derek was a writer of experimental fiction, and had even published a story in a literary magazine (of 400 circulation) on his three hundred eighty seventh attempt. Derek killed himself by hanging, but made it look like an accident. Yolanda hung herself too, not long afterward, but made it look like Cliff did it. Cliff managed to get away, and got a job in the Skylight Grill washing dishes (and money) for Simon “Bubby” Malone. While living in the basement, he wrote experimental fiction and tried getting it published in eighty different literary magazines without luck until one day Quincy Jones came down, looking for the restroom, and read one of his stories while on the john (the toilet itself being Cliff’s desk.) Scaring the crap out of youngster on emerging, Quincy apologized, then suggested Cliff change his name and write lyrics instead. Eight months later, without Quincy’s further help, ZZZ had an agent and a limo driver. Hence, the oft repeated comment heard from ZZZ while drunk, “Quincy saved my life.” This also explains why, if driving himself, he stays to the left, and never eats Nutella. Quincy denies the incident occurred, but then he’s getting on in years and is losing his memory. As evidence for this account, here’s the opening of one of ZZZ’s stories, released now for the first time:
“Yo Mama Blue” by Clifford D. O’Dell
“A crimson reticulate melds circumstance with affable malaise as Roderick positions equinoxes into interstadial events like polar supply chains.”
“What the hell was that???” demands Simon Cowell of the American Idol contestant.
“I wanted to utter a sentence so original that it will never be repeated again in the history of television.”
“Aren’t you going to say something witty about my song choice?”
“Okay, well let me help. ‘My glabrous thought veins skein into my narcosis like chiasma crossing filaments of joy toward an exuberant effluvium.'”
“Can you say, ‘I’m insane?'”
“Can you say, ‘I’m boring?'”
I love Twitter and I cannot lie,
Tweeting Tweets by de gross on da fly.
Gots no time ta reads no book
Insta-wham me selfies—look!
Gots no fame? Den who’s ta blame:
Ya jus’ be lame an’ needs ta DIE!
(I so Twitter, watch me titter,
I’s no quitter. See me flitter
befo’ I hit’er.)
Earth be flat, ya head be round.
I pound it down. Dun make a sound!
Tis all a game that stays the same,
sing this refrain ta hone yer aim:
Now read me lips and swing your hips.
Ya gots some dough, let’s make it flow!
Give dems da birds, yer Tweets in blue.
Tweet Dems ta hell, yer aim be true!