Yo son. Damn, I ain't never said that shit and had it mean somefing. Gucci goo. A shit Gucci! Ha! Why you cryin? We rich, motherfucka! Aight, let me drop some science so you know why you is here and why you should be happy like the K-Fedz.
Shit, I guess yo moms and I was just a couple dumb kids in love back nine mumfs ago. I must have got her pregnant seven times in like three weeks. It was before yo' moms and I discovered birf control: basically, she thought anal hurt too bad back then. Her publicist was straight heated.
I still remember that magical night you came into the world. I took yo moms to a strip club in Tijuana. It was her birfday, or mine, or all-you-can-eat fried chicken night ... either way, we got free fried chicken.
But let me take a step back here and talk to you about the big L, and how your mother made me discover it. OK, peep it: one day you going to meet a woman, and you'll hold her hand tight in yours while two strippers perform lesbian sex acts on one another. She will be beautiful and rich and famous, mostly rich and famous, though.
Well, I knew yo moms was the one that night in Tijuana. Yo pops always had a way of spinnin' a magic web of romance from which women couldn't escape, and I proceeded to do that shit all over mommy's tits and stomach, and a little bit in her hair too. Yo daddy's magic web is so thick we needed peanut butter to get it out.
Anyways, that's how you came to be. I know you look outcha lil crib at them other babies and you don't think any of them could never make you feel special the way yo mommy makes me feel. And they probably shouldn't - cause most of'em come from yo daddy's nudsack, which means they yo half sisters.
But just in case you catch wood off one of dem, make sure you know to practice safe sex- which means always in the ass.
Good talk, nigga!
Bawitdaba, pass the green beans.
It's hard out there for millionaire purveyors of garbage pizza.