Kanye West met with president-elect, Donald Trump and all hell broke loose. Most of you are done with Kanye. He represents something that needs to be dismissed and ridiculed and y’all do exactly that with hilarious dedication.
Except, when you scope the big picture, it’s not really that funny.
The Chicago-bred rapper married the priestess of reality TV and inherited a dynasty of White women who are Armenian but still kinda White as they flawlessly battle against that reality by inflating lips, asses and boobs.
He supposedly won the best of the lot and had two adorable children but his art and mind scale away like the dandruff in your hair — that you brush with vigor when you need to itch the day’s work.
Anyway, Kanye checked himself into a facility some weeks ago because he needed to chill out. Incidentally, another artist in a similar realm, Kid Cudi did exactly the same thing.
Fame is a drug that can’t be contained unless you are willing to gaze at the stars without taking mini-breaks. The gleaming streaks across the sky that alight your steps isn’t bestowed on just anyone. It’s understandable to be taken aback when the pavements glow as you approach the turn into the waiting fans and lenses that are propped to expose the dead in your eyes.
At some point, the stage caves in and the music dies. You will be approached by the demons of assault that wreck havoc when you are in motion and do even more damage when you are alone — in the cocoon of disarray.
Kanye had to get help despite the fact that the general consensus is that he lost his damn mind to the point where he needed to disappear into a vortex of “whatever.”
He emerged looking weaker and blond.
All the news outlets could summon was the fact that he was sporting a new hair do, which was a signal that anything could happen at anytime.
So, stay tuned!
Well, it happened. Kanye and the Donald bypassed the engagement and tied the knot at Trump Tower on Tuesday, December 13, 2016.
It was a pompous affair. Both men seemed pleased and relaxed despite the shock of the moment. There was a sense of a shared camaraderie that stemmed from years of relations, which Trump admitted to the press as he snickered away the flashes of light that threatened to drown the event.
Kanye was much more restricted in his response. Like any blushing bride — he understood his role and kept to it by smiling as he could and maintaining a measured stance.
He later expressed his thoughts via Twitter and it wasn’t necessarily reassuring but it did solidify a union that took a broken America to conceive.
This marriage between a hardcore rapper who once told a White president that he hated Black people and a White man who hates Black people but will be president of America as soon as you can spell out what that means is the perfect arrow of dysfunction.
The couple looks happy enough but deep inside — the disease spurred from the rotting symptoms of an infectious society that can’t decide exactly how it wants to die is mind-boggling and boring.
We chose our players and they are not disappointing in their need to perform accordingly and yet we chastise them for daring to improvise?
Kanye needs to be vaccinated but the Kardashians will let him die for his weakness and addiction to plastic.
Trump will save Kanye’s life by verifying his status and giving him the life support of what he doesn’t need to keep shelling out the beats that both earned and lost his peers.
America will gasp at the reception and tweet and retweet and tweet again. Shared views and threaded conversations fulfill the quota of timelines but this marriage isn’t for observers who sit and wear out their keyboards while begging for steady Wi-Fi.
If you want to make them pay — demand a divorce.