Ladies and Gentleman, I’d like to bring things down for a minute, if that’s okay with all of you. Make things a little somber. Bring up an unflattering truth, even if we’re all reluctant to hear it, because that’s what rap is about: Making us face the unpopular realities of the world.

A lot of us have lost friends in the Las Vegas-Atlantic City Coast Wars, haven’t we? It’s sad, I know. Why, a friend of mine, MC Charles Laser, he was one of the first to go down in the dispute. I’d like to have a little hand for him, if we can, MC Charles Laser! A good man, if I ever met one. One of the best Las Vegas show-stopping rappers you ever could hear. Taken in the prime of his showbiz life—he was only 47.

But you know, as great as Charles was, he’s not the only one. A lot of us have lost homies on both sides of this senseless war. I’m not going to stand here and dis Atlantic City. There are many, many fine hip-hop artists out there, who perform some of the finest old school rap there is. Why, my very own DJ, DJ John Waterhouse, actually started with an Atlantic City act called Smilin’ Wiley and the Funky Bunch. To dis Atlantic City is to dis my own blood. Is that hip? I think not.

The Atlantic City rappers do their own thing, and we here in Vegas do our own, too. Cappin’ Crunch and I aren’t likely to share the stage, but it’s just because our acts are so different. I don’t begrudge him his success. He deserves every penny he’s earned for every record he’s turned. Give it up for Cappin’ Crunch now, everyone! That’s it!

Which is why it just burns me up to hear some of these rappers—and they know who they are—these rappers who insist on saying derogatory things about their “opposition” on the other coasts. I heard a rapper right here in Las Vegas say MC PawPaw in Atlantic City was a perpetrator. Now, I’ve met MC PawPaw, people. He’s no perpetrator. He’s the real deal, and I’d stake my own professional reputation as an old school rapper on that. Las Vegas, Atlantic City, it’s all good, friends.

Frankly, I think these negative rappers are just unimaginative. They have nothing good to say about anything, so they stoop to saying the worst things about other rappers. Other rappers, I might add, whom they know are class acts and possess talents superior to their own. That’s what really burns them up. You can sling mud all you want, but that’s not what rap is about. I rap about perpetrators, sure, but I never name names. That’s just low-class, folks.

But you all know the negative rapping isn’t even the worst of all this Las Vegas-Atlantic City rap war stuff. Friends have died. Homies have been lost. We all know the tragic story of DJ Sugar Cane, who was so distraught when he heard the negative things said about him in some “nameless” naysayer’s rap, he lost control of his car and crashed. Died instantly—that’s not right. Or Atlantic City’s own P. Party, who was so tormented to read the mudslinging in Rap-Happy magazine, he took his own life. Sad. And there’s the story of my friend MC Charles Laser, who became so infuriated, driven to near insanity by the slaps coming at him out of Atlantic City, he boarded a plane to fly out there and give them a piece of his mind. And that plane crashed upon take-off.

Too much blood has been shed already!

That’s why I’m pouring a martini for my dead homies—on both coasts—and ask all of you to stop the insizzanity. Make rap, not war.

Don’t Be Absurd My Dear, That’s Obviously Not My Shit
Deidrebane, my dear, I tire of your ceaseless accusations. I swear this is all I’ve heard about all week since you found that softball-sized rock of crack cocaine in the sofa cushions. For the googleth time, darling, that’s clearly not my shit. Do you see my initials monogrammed anywhere on the rock? I think not. So let’s put this silly controversy to bed before I miss another moment of the Ultimate Fighting Challenge.

My Dear, Your New Children Have Become a Nuisance
I can only assume these children were adopted by you on one of your recent humanitarian skylarkings, some time while my attention was turned elsewhere, say to the televised gladiatorial matches or to Bolivian chicken racing, whose season is now thrillingly underway. I know you claim the children to be the fruits of your loom, or loins, whatever it is you have down there nowadays, but needless to say, I find this to be horrifyingly implausible.

More Than Words
Standing out even more absurdly when surrounded by the superficial garbage being released in its day, trashy CDs even pressed on cheap and nasty plastic with cases that would not close completely, Extreme’s entire Extreme II: Pornograffitti album was a rare treasure that made the year 1990 seem even more like it were only a blissful dream.