Kanye West Owes Me $300: And Other True Stories From A White Rapper Who Almost Made It Big
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In June, comedian Jensen Karp released Kanye West Owes Me $300: And Other True Stories from a White Rapper Who Almost Made It Big, a book about his time as Hot Karl, a rapper from Calabasas, California. During his days under the silly moniker, Karp collaborated with Kanye West, who was a producer on his 2003 song "Armande Assante." In an interview with Sam Roberts on his Sirius XM show, Karp shares stories about Kanye before he became a rapper.
It took almost a year of writing and panicking, but Kanye West Owes Me $300 (and other true stories from a white rapper who ALMOST made it big) is now available everywhere books are sold. You see, in the year 2000, when I was just 19 years old, I entered a radio contest and my entire life changed. It was a nightly rap battle, where three to four callers competed against each other in rhyme, hoping to be voted the best of the segment and return the following night to compete all over again. The longest running champion before me lasted about 10 consecutive days. I retired after around 40. That unprecedented run, which remember happened before iPods or satellite radio, turned into a million-dollar recording contract at Interscope Records and an even more personally lucrative publishing deal.
Damn, Daniel, like the founder of SpotifyStreamin' freemium heat / your wounds'll get cauterisedRight in front of every fickle fan that you're followed byLike blackhat hackers, you'll be lookin' for compromiseYour man's laughin' while we're watchin' you backpedalThe crowd's cringin' / you can't win / your attack's mellowI'm half-hopin' you'll still rap when the laughs settleBodied by a singer from a band that did rap-metal?Shit / I digress / where to start?('Cause) whether I'm the biggest or I barely chartCount wins on the tracks and the mic and artI'm a legend in three games like I'm Jensen KarpSo irreverent / I tip-toe upAnd whisper that you're more irrelevant than "Real World" PuckHave you up at night, countin' all the reasons I suckAnd I would love to hear about it but I ran out of fucksGot a story so real had to write it as non-fictionFucking up the game like Scott Storch's drug addictionMy diction, though with conviction, despite my missionHalted by the vision of businessmen with bad decisionsTwenty years ago I was the next rapper to breakOnly to end up like Michael Jordan's crying faceBut please don't mistake that I'm not ill as straight sickFuck with my dogs, I'll hunt you down like I was John WickI wrote a memoir which is a dope thing to hear'Til I found out Ja Rule also wrote one last yearOh well, I guess it's just a string of bad luckBut like Russell dating Ciara I don't give a fuckKanye owes me 300 bucks from his wealthAnd my book about that shit is now on shelvesAnd every white rapper since 2001Makes me feel like Doc Rivers cause I'm coaching my sonI'm doneIt's been a long time, I shouldn't have left youWithout some dope lyrics to step toSo I grabbed on a mic with a pen so I could writeIt's like riding a bike, it's like riding a bikeBecause it's been a long time, I shouldn't have left youWithout some dope lyrics to step toSo I grabbed on a mic with a pen so I could writeIt's like riding a bike, it's like riding a bikeIt's kind of hard, we only talking in my Twitter pageHating on a cracker rap critic in a fit of rageSit center stage, sip gin and Minute MaidOld hipsters stick dick to every single Tinder dateSmooth it out, more bass than a tuba snoutDaggering a brown-skin betty with her booty outLoop the music 'til the YouTube user shout"HOODY WHO the fuck are you and what is you about?"I never knew, that's why I stayed middlingLiving in Los Angeles, fucking with all them fittin' chicksIt's no surprise that I'm down to date strippersWhen my fifth grade crush's real first name was CinnamonHuh, I'mma leave that thereBeing this self-aware shouldn't be that rareCatch me in the club with a mean-ass glareBecause I'd rather be at home in a beanbag chairIt's real rapRalph Waldo Emerson's invisible eyeIn the cart the high-top, fly, pelican, flyStorm-born Targaryen, you barbariansThen I take a piss on every graveyard they buried inPsychopathic thoughts of a violent authorIn the dark scribbling with a Pilot markerI put a basket of roses on your casket as it closeWhile I'm cracking clams open in the back of Gladstone'sThe American Werewolf is back homeReturned on the first full moon, you cast stonesNone of y'all can touch the Chi of the GNasty M.C. from the Caspian SeaDemented, red-lining off the headI'm out my fucking mind, kid, I'm off my medsI'm like Marv buckwilding in the City of SinLove rhyming like them guineas love Vinnie The ChinAnd I'm outIt's been a long time, I shouldn't have left youWithout some dope lyrics to step toSo I grabbed on a mic with a pen so I could writeIt's like riding a bike, it's like riding a bikeBecause it's been a long time, I shouldn't have left youWithout some dope lyrics to step toSo I grabbed on a mic with a pen so I could writeIt's like riding a bike, it's like riding a bike 2b1af7f3a8