Hellifah

Uproar. A child disguised as one of those, you know, two-toed sloth types. Can't move. And if he moves, he goes slow. Damn slow. What kinda mother would insist that her child be a slug. Moving all droopy and full of lethargy. Feed your child some spice! Jazz that kid up into the bright sprightly spoonful of spontaneity he was born to be. How did it get this way? How did it turn out that babies learn to crawl and then stay on their knees? Only to tumble over in a stupor of stupidity, bred into them by a whole crockpot full of overcooked ignorance. Take the lid off! Let that stew breathe! Simmer it silly and let the fat rise to the top. Scoop that shit out. Your integrity is what will keep you warm at night. That, and how well you digest the knowledge that is being shared with you every. single. day. Experience is dumb, man. It doesn't speak unless you listen. And listen good. You gotta think about it. And there's no thinking happenin' if you're a slug. Rise up, brother.

Hellifah know what to do to make you stand and be counted.

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