Jan. 26th, 2011

Me and my posse were cruising Beachfront Avenue looking to rock the girlies. That’s Miami for the chumps -- my hood, the ground I pound yo. We were bumper to bumper, top down, styling and profiling, watching the sweet things in their G-strings. My tag you know; I flow for dough. I’m Vanilla Ice, the MC champ with the white knight stamp.

Shay was guiding the ride. His fade whipped about real fast. “Yo, Ice, it’s the dash-phone,” said my best bro. With a quickness I hooked the headset and cocked my wet-set. “It’s Ice’s dime/don’t waste my time,” I versibled.

“Agent Ice!” exclaimed Boris, my spy-boss and fly hoss. “What excellent fortune to have finally reached you!”

“Aw Boris, the Ice Man just following his Ice Plan!” I excooliated. “Can’t let some phone call set the tone, ya’ll!”

“Nevertheless, Vanilla Ice,” pressed Boris, “we have an international situation that has become highly explosive! Foreign-born and vaguely sinister MC Kikio Azz has challenged the President of the United States to a rap-off! Ice, this is a dangerous assignment; Kikio’s rhymes are wack and his piece is black!”

“Vanilla Ice is fine with his nine, Boris my main man,” I replied. “Me and the VIP will stump this chump like it’s eight no trump!” I saw my boy D-Shay wince up front, probably because my rhymes cut so deep, yo.

“Be careful, Ice,” Boris advised.

“Word to your mother,” I revised, and dropped the phone in the cradle like a red-hot ladle.

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