The world’s most dangerous blumpkin.
Did you ever have a dream about someone, and then a few days later, you find yourself encountering them directly? Maybe it’s not a dream, but something indirect that prompts you to think of someone long forgotten for good reason like Immobilarity or “Ferris Bueller: The Sitcom” (the essential force behind my ban of CBS)?
In the past 6 days, I’ve had three instances that have related to Vanilla Ice.
Now in case you haven’t read up on my Beat Generation pieces at the Passion of the Weiss, I’ve already called for Vanilla to gargle a jar full of African killer bees, scuba diva in the cement district, and challenge Jean Claude Van Damme to a knuckles-dipped-in-broken-glass spar ala “Kickboxer” after he got busted for beating his wife again. Obviously, the world would be a better place with the Worst Shart Stain of the 90s rapping with the St. Peter All-Stars.
So…at first, I just thought it was time for whoever owns Rob Van Jerkoff’s publishing to shake the yearly tree and make some cash from 90s nostaljacks. Last week’s episode of “Life on Mars” featured a scene where Cutty from The Wire played a black militant who kidnapped Sam, the NYC detective from 2008 timewarped in 1973. At gunpoint, Cutty forced Sam to kick a ‘lemon to the lime’ Muhammed Ali-type of rhyme, as hip hop didn’t exist yet–Melle Mel and them were pissing on the streets without a care.
Sam decided to spit the first verse of “Ice Ice Baby.”
The 70s black militants went batshit.
Point to you, Vanilla.
Two days ago, I had two Vanilla run-ins within 120 minutes of each other. The first one was on the commute home, as the sports talk station I am addicted to led into a commercial break with the beat from “Ice Ice Baby.” That’s forgiveable, as they came back from commercial with “Nas is Like.” Almost exactly two hours later, I received a phone call from a buddy with questions on copyright clearance and publishing laws in regards to chopping up samples for a beat. This conversation lasted about a half hour, and wouldn’t you know it, we talked about “Ice Ice Baby’s” illegal use of David Bowie and Queen’s infamous “dun dun dun dundundun dun” bassline from “Under Pressure.” I was mildly creeped out at the six degrees of separation between myself and a guy who makes Fred Durst look like Don Cheadle in “Hotel Rwanda.”
Where is this going?
Today, Fresh at 33jones.com linked to an Idolator story that made it seem like John McCain had won the election and Sarah Palin was in charge of Cultural Diplomacy:
Vanilla fucking Ice.
Is releasing ANOTHER fucking album.
With one-two-three-FOUR fucking covers.
Of “Ice Ice Fucking Baby.”
Really, Vanilla? Who the fuck wants to hear you cover “Fight the Power”?
“Insane in the Brain”?
“Ice Ice Baby (Rock Hero Mix)”?
I think I have officially found my archenemy. I will throw a “Big Poppa”-style party when you die, Vanilla (assuming I can find that cute little black chick with blond pigtails who would get her friends to meet with my friends). I will go to the remaining three Best Buy’s still open in the continental US that will still carry CDs and broady your albums in my Depends weekly. And then poop on them. Weekly.
I’ll never make/buy/eat ice again. I will go broke bribing Keith Olbermann into making you The Worst Person in the World every night on “Countdown.” I will become penpals with Suge Knight and flatter him with oil paintings of him hanging you by your Vans from a hotel balcony in cubist and post-modern styles. I will conduct a monthly seance whereby I summon your spirit and tell your supernatural form you are still the wackest douchelord to ever mumble over a beat. I will work overtime for 10 years just to finance my own personal memorial to you: a 40 foot granite dildo flown in via helicopter and planted right on top of your grave plot with an Olympic flame at the top that will never extinguish. It’s symbolic, obviously (and the dildo will be wired with an internal sound system that bumps “Ninja Rap” at full volume into the night).
Poor Raphael…err Michaelangelo?
Once again, since you won’t go away Ice, I’m doing my part to remind the world that you are a fucking hangnail to pop culture, a Hershey squirt on the hip hop cannon, a batch of earcheese compared to real husbands who don’t beat their wives, a case of athlete’s foot to caucasions who had to overcompensate for your embarrassingly sterile and dull as dishwater existence. You’ve had your ass kicked by Todd Bridges on television, you’ve been outshined by the Insane Clown Posse, you’ve sucked off reality TV producers for this entire deacde, and now you’re back with a brand new invention that will sell worse than Ron Artest’s “album.”
Eat shit and die slow.
Your new archenemy,