Excuse me, Mr Dirty, but I feel obliged to inform you that I have the money which I owe you, so please do not worry.

A somewhat over-analytical overview of the classic track Got Your Money, by sadly deceased psychopath Ol' Dirty Bastard.

"

The song is initially dedicated exclusively to the world's population of attractive females, until ODB seems to have pangs of guilt for not including ladies who might be considered 'homely' or 'ugly,' so he decides to include them, with the encouraging words, 'to me, you pretty anyway, baby.' The artist begins the song by expressing his harsh disdain for women whom he meets, who initially appear to be interested in him, yet later express a reversal of opinion. He then transitions into a discussion about how women sometimes imply they are carrying one's child, although the DNA tests may not yet have come back conclusively.

ODB then expresses some confusion with respect to the morality of the situation, but he is able to remedy this by presenting his Cristal brand of champagne, and urging the patrons to disarm themselves, because ODB does not approve of such violence. Continuing, it appears at first that there is some mutual attraction between “Dirty” (ODB) and the female patrons in the establishment; however, it soon becomes apparent to Dirty that the females only wish to use him for a shot at music video stardom. Despite his knowledge of their ulterior motives, ODB’s primary interest remains focused on dancing, and he tries to perpetuate his image as one who should not be taken lightly. He acknowledges a lack of intellectualism, although he claims that this is superseded by his natural charisma.

The females in the establishment start admiring Dirty for his assets, which just causes Dirty to return to the situation at hand: his money. He asks for the females’ assistance in rectifying the situation, and subsequently asks them to expose their nether regions. Dirty finishes off the song with some nonsensical lyrics, that clearly imply his rising anger for the missing money."

The line there near the end which I've highlighted is completely and utterly my favourite moment in a piece of writing full to the brim of outstanding use of the English language. Bravo, Wordsworth.

Here be the song/video to which this clap-trap refers;

BOO-HOOING ALL THE WAY TO THE BANK

"We made a decision simply because he gets terrible abuse here. We don't want to subject him to that"

Oh, boo fucking hoo. So what if a load of empty headed moronic halfwits want to sing songs about how you went out and boffed some slags while your pregnant wife was at home carrying your child? Wayne Rooney must earn like, £100,000 per week. For that money it should be a legal obligation that overweight commoners scream things like "PRICK!" or "CUNT!" or "BASTARD!" at you every time you step outside your 12412-bedroom principality that you call a home. Seriously, for that kind of money I would allow every opposition supporter in the country to kick me in the throat. All Wayne Rooney has to do it take his dick out of a prostitute long enough to play football for 90 minutes and train for a couple of hours a day. Infact, here is a list of tasks that any human being should be legally forced to carry out when earning anything close to £100,000 per week;

* Eat stinging nettles that have been pickled in the ball sweat of overweight sexual deviants.

* Build 4 houses per every paycheck received. This rule is open to interpretation, for example the individual could build 6 small houses like bungalows, or one block of 3-storey apartments.

* Watch every episode of King of Queens. Twice.

* Cheat on you wife/partner. (Whoops, this one seems to already exist!)

* Drink a saucer of buffalo piss.

* Watch this AWFUL movie that is on the TV at the moment. Srsly, it's horrific. I'd do all of the above things just to avoid watching anymore of this garbage.


I feel that none of these things are too much to ask when you are taking home almost half a million a month. But GOD FORBID some strangers call you names. I cannot help but think that the best way to avoid having your feelings hurt with words (which, let's not forget, WILL NEVER HURT YOU! Not like those dastardly sticks and stones, which will break the shit out of your bones) is to not have sex with cheap-ass slappers whose only intention is to take a wad of cash from the N**s of the W***d in return for a series of lurid stories built entirely on puns relating to the victim's profession, for example, if the story is about a Formula One driver, the whore will say something like "Usually he is in pole position, but that night he had me positioned on his pole ALL NIGHT LONG!" like the name of an episode of a pornographic episode of Jerry Springer. It's like, I don't want people to think that I am a rapist or a murderer. So to achieve this, I don't rape or murder people. It's the most effective way in my opinion.