check this shit out/new dinsdale article
- Thread starter michampin
- Start date
fuckin fuck here you go
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Love You Guys
I'm touched, really touched -- but not in pain.
BY NATHAN DINSDALE
I'm speechless.
No, really. I didn't write a speech. And this is such an unexpected honor. All the other nominees deserve this award just as much as I do. Oh ... (sniff) ... I promised (choke) myself I wouldn't cry. I'd like to thank the Academy, my family, my friends, my girl (I love you, baby! We did it!), and ... and ... I know I'm missing somebody. They're flashing that "cut to commercial" sign, but I don't care. I want to thank the guys who wrote my song!
That's right. I have a song.
Actually, the song belongs to four intrepid Kansas City gentlemen who have penned a wistful ode filled with sunbeams and daisies for yours truly. Not unlike Romeo's balcony soliloquy to Juliet, it's a lyrical love letter, written by four cute kids playing Kangol-wearing Cupids around Valentine's Day just for little old me. The name of the song?
"FUCK NATHAN DINSDALE."
It's a working title. But the sentiment of those who painstakingly constructed this perfume-scented butterfly kiss is not lost on this humble object of their affection. Indeed, I'm flattered.
The spark that lit the eternal flame of devotion within the swelling hearts of area rappers S.G., Mr. Luna, Kutt Calhoun and Grant Rice was none other than a little poetry of my own. The quartet took issue with two paragraphs within a 1,600-word column on Tech N9ne ("Going Back to Cali," December 25, 2003).
While discussing Tech's impending move to Los Angeles, I wrote an appraisal of the "talent" on his Strange Music label. My humble suggestion was that the moderate skills of his roster might hinder Tech's push to make Strange Music a hip-hop superpower.
The talent begs to differ.
Gave the wrong person a bad name/So they shot out your brains/With shaky aim from point-blank range/And stomp the shit out of you like streets and parades/I'm unswitching the blade, slowly slicing your legs/Cut you up like ham and crack your bones like eggs/Man, fuck Nathan Dinsdale.
Ah, stop, you guys are making me blush.
My advice to you would be to take precautionary measures/'cause Nathan, we can find you, like, whenever or wherever.
Quit it. I'm going to get a big head.
It's probably not worth it to mention his name/But yeah, it's probably just perfect/To touch him in pain/I bet you suck a dick well, Dinsdale, a 7-inch will do you.
Really, that is the sweetest thing anybody's ever said to me.
This is perhaps the best "Be Mine" I've received since Sally Jenkins made me a big paper heart with glitter, paste and elbow macaroni. I'm daydreaming about long, romantic walks. Baskets full of kittens. Spooning by a roaring fire.
My homies have given the best gift anyone ever gave a music writer. By definition, I have no discernible musical talent. I have no stage presence. No charisma. I get nervous ordering ribs at Gates. I can't play guitar, and I really can't rap. That whole "Rubber baby buggy bumper" thing totally fucks me up. And don't even try to get me to spell Mississippi aloud.
But I still have my own song. One certain to be immortalized in the pantheon of great fuck-something songs. Shove a bun, "Fuck Tha Police." Make way for "Fuck Nathan Dinsdale."
In fact, this is by far the best song I've heard any of these guys make. "Dinsdale" isn't the easiest name to rhyme with. But they managed. All they needed was a muse. Now they're all grown up ... coochie-coo ... yes, you are ... yes, you're all grown up ... my big grown-up-rappers, you.
OK, my only polite quibble with this coming-of-age tune is "Minute" Rice's attempt to deflect honest criticism by hyperventilating that I missed "half" the story by writing that he was onstage during "Industry Is Punks" when he wasn't. If it's true, I regret that minor oversight. All apologies. I wasn't wearing my glasses at the time. Though, strangely enough, my ears were working just fine.
And what I heard resonated with these brave balladeers. To think that I thought my criticism of their abilities was merely a digression in a story on Tech N9ne, to whose coattails these lads desperately cling.
But look at them now. I'm proud. So proud that I will happily download the song for anyone who can't access http://www.midwestinvasion.com/NTHNLOUDALL.mp3, at least until my bundle of CD-Rs runs out.
Thank you, men. This award is really yours. You've rewarded me with a song. And that's more than enough.
At least until the full album comes out.
----------------------------------------------------
wait........
why did you want this copied on here?
hey midwestinvasion was mentioned on pitch. aint that a cool fuckin thing?
------------------------------------------
Love You Guys
I'm touched, really touched -- but not in pain.
BY NATHAN DINSDALE
I'm speechless.
No, really. I didn't write a speech. And this is such an unexpected honor. All the other nominees deserve this award just as much as I do. Oh ... (sniff) ... I promised (choke) myself I wouldn't cry. I'd like to thank the Academy, my family, my friends, my girl (I love you, baby! We did it!), and ... and ... I know I'm missing somebody. They're flashing that "cut to commercial" sign, but I don't care. I want to thank the guys who wrote my song!
That's right. I have a song.
Actually, the song belongs to four intrepid Kansas City gentlemen who have penned a wistful ode filled with sunbeams and daisies for yours truly. Not unlike Romeo's balcony soliloquy to Juliet, it's a lyrical love letter, written by four cute kids playing Kangol-wearing Cupids around Valentine's Day just for little old me. The name of the song?
"FUCK NATHAN DINSDALE."
It's a working title. But the sentiment of those who painstakingly constructed this perfume-scented butterfly kiss is not lost on this humble object of their affection. Indeed, I'm flattered.
The spark that lit the eternal flame of devotion within the swelling hearts of area rappers S.G., Mr. Luna, Kutt Calhoun and Grant Rice was none other than a little poetry of my own. The quartet took issue with two paragraphs within a 1,600-word column on Tech N9ne ("Going Back to Cali," December 25, 2003).
While discussing Tech's impending move to Los Angeles, I wrote an appraisal of the "talent" on his Strange Music label. My humble suggestion was that the moderate skills of his roster might hinder Tech's push to make Strange Music a hip-hop superpower.
The talent begs to differ.
Gave the wrong person a bad name/So they shot out your brains/With shaky aim from point-blank range/And stomp the shit out of you like streets and parades/I'm unswitching the blade, slowly slicing your legs/Cut you up like ham and crack your bones like eggs/Man, fuck Nathan Dinsdale.
Ah, stop, you guys are making me blush.
My advice to you would be to take precautionary measures/'cause Nathan, we can find you, like, whenever or wherever.
Quit it. I'm going to get a big head.
It's probably not worth it to mention his name/But yeah, it's probably just perfect/To touch him in pain/I bet you suck a dick well, Dinsdale, a 7-inch will do you.
Really, that is the sweetest thing anybody's ever said to me.
This is perhaps the best "Be Mine" I've received since Sally Jenkins made me a big paper heart with glitter, paste and elbow macaroni. I'm daydreaming about long, romantic walks. Baskets full of kittens. Spooning by a roaring fire.
My homies have given the best gift anyone ever gave a music writer. By definition, I have no discernible musical talent. I have no stage presence. No charisma. I get nervous ordering ribs at Gates. I can't play guitar, and I really can't rap. That whole "Rubber baby buggy bumper" thing totally fucks me up. And don't even try to get me to spell Mississippi aloud.
But I still have my own song. One certain to be immortalized in the pantheon of great fuck-something songs. Shove a bun, "Fuck Tha Police." Make way for "Fuck Nathan Dinsdale."
In fact, this is by far the best song I've heard any of these guys make. "Dinsdale" isn't the easiest name to rhyme with. But they managed. All they needed was a muse. Now they're all grown up ... coochie-coo ... yes, you are ... yes, you're all grown up ... my big grown-up-rappers, you.
OK, my only polite quibble with this coming-of-age tune is "Minute" Rice's attempt to deflect honest criticism by hyperventilating that I missed "half" the story by writing that he was onstage during "Industry Is Punks" when he wasn't. If it's true, I regret that minor oversight. All apologies. I wasn't wearing my glasses at the time. Though, strangely enough, my ears were working just fine.
And what I heard resonated with these brave balladeers. To think that I thought my criticism of their abilities was merely a digression in a story on Tech N9ne, to whose coattails these lads desperately cling.
But look at them now. I'm proud. So proud that I will happily download the song for anyone who can't access http://www.midwestinvasion.com/NTHNLOUDALL.mp3, at least until my bundle of CD-Rs runs out.
Thank you, men. This award is really yours. You've rewarded me with a song. And that's more than enough.
At least until the full album comes out.
----------------------------------------------------
wait........
why did you want this copied on here?
hey midwestinvasion was mentioned on pitch. aint that a cool fuckin thing?
no offense to the rappers involved but nathan is shittin on yall.. he making you look bad, you need to step it on his ass..
i hate to do anything like quote pac or spread his ideology BUT, if your gonna come out come out HARD, no half assing in this game, you put your all into EVERYTHING because you never know whats going to be the spark to ignite it all.. and you never know who will hear your work..
much love
i hate to do anything like quote pac or spread his ideology BUT, if your gonna come out come out HARD, no half assing in this game, you put your all into EVERYTHING because you never know whats going to be the spark to ignite it all.. and you never know who will hear your work..
much love
