Yeah, my friends call me Skin an' Bönes. Shit's kinda thread-bare. Butt one thing I got in profusion: too much posse.

I gotta lotta peeps. Not the bird-shaped, marshmallow-type candy. I have a box of those (the yellow ones), too, butt I still  haven't eaten them yet. What I mean is peoples. That kind o' peeps. Aunts, uncles, cousins, nieces, nephews, steps an' siblings. Hell, I can't even tell 'em all apart. Hell, I'm probably related to YOU.

Butt mostly cousins. A veritable PLETHORA of cousins. First cousins, second cousins, removed, unremoved, whatever-whatever. I can't even begin to keep it straight. Hell, YOU'RE probably my cousin, too. I don't have two nickels to rub together, butt damn if I don't got mad cousins. Shit, I didn't even think white people were supposed to have cousins at all, let alone so many it makes my head spin (and not in a good way). It's all good, though. Yeah, Rebecca, "ITS ALL GOOD, DAWG!" So whatever-whatever, I gots more peeps an' cousins than I can count, and it all adds up to the same thing: TOO MUCH POSSE!

Thats ite, though. Why, you ask? Because I'm the oldest cousin. And you KNOW what that means: they never gave me a reason, butt I can kick any of my cousins' asses. That's right. Bring it. Don't make me put the hurt on you. ALL OF YOU. All that an' a side o' whoop-ass. Shit. How 'bout all you cousins all at once? I don't think you know what time it is. Serious. Just think of it as your own on-demand "Smackdown" whether it's Thursday night or not. Why? 'Cause thanks to me, "Smackdown" ain't just for Thursday night any more.

Yeah, I'm the oldest cousin. Butt that's not the only reason I can kick any and/or all of my cousins asses, either individually and/or collectively. Of course being the oldest is a darn good reason in and of itself.

Butt just check out all of the reasons for a potential beating, in addition to being the oldest. 1). I'm the meanest, by far. Why else would I callously smirk at the dumb-fuck who found his foot on backwards just cause he thought he was Aquaman with the ability to skate the wet spot? Why else would I hang up on the stupid old bitch that was badgering me about "pergnawgrephy" [sic] on the phone? Cruel, cruel, cruel. 2). 27 years of skateboarding. Hell, a smack in the head with someone else's skate-torpedo, and a proportional dose of skate medicine is my idea of A GOOD TIME. 3). I'm stubborn as shit. Why the hell else would I form a one-man def-jazz guitar army an' phantom ill-hop big band? Because I like spending what few nickels I got on speakers? 4). If you piss me off, I will never forget it. I WILL NEVER FORGET IT! 5). I live for revenge. And you don't want to be the one that gets punished for all the fucked-up shit that people have perpetrated on yours truly. 6). Fanaticism never goes out of style. IT NEVER GOES OUT OF STYLE. 7). I am the Prince of Darkness. 8). Body by Bridgeport. 9). In college, I kicked everyone's ass on the regular. 10). Etc.

Butt there is one cousin whose ass I can't kick. He lives in Forrest Grove. I cannot kick his ass. My great, great, great, whatever, grandfather ran a farm in Forrest Grove where he raised flowers and pigs. Best damn sausage 'round 'bout these parts, by the way. For fun he would blow up tree stumps with dynamite. Farm's still there, though.

Just up the road from said farm is where my cousin-who's-ass-I-can-not-kick lives. He refurbishes classic cars and old hand-cranked machines. His shop is immaculate, complete with outlines for the proper places for all the tools. He has a custom irregularly trapazoidally-shaped airbrushed mural of an imaginary jet fighter on his living room wall. For that matter, I think he built the whole house. I'm not sure why I can't kick his ass. He's older than me, but he is not my first cousin. I think the reasons he can kick my ass are that he's older than me, he fixes up old hand-cranked machines, and the airbrushed mural of the jet. I cannot kick his ass.

Butt them first cousins, that's another story. So what's up, cuz? Wha-Wha? You want some, too? Check the ones an' twos, dawg. That's right, doot. Skin an' Bönes is faux real, dawg. Skin an' Bönes is old school, dawg. These punk-ass relations want to go right for they gat whenever they got some beef wiff Skinny. Butt, word!, Skinny's 'bout to take to the streets an' show 'em what time it is in stereo, leff an' right channels, dawg. Bring your little punk-ass deuce-deuce, whatever. Recogspect an' reprenize that. Faux real! Shit! TOO MUCH POSSE!!!