WHITE CHOCOLATE

People have always underestimated the sheer persuasive power of gangster rap. Being a gangster rapper myself, I am writing with extensive experience in this matter. I have become known for my funky fresh rhythms and raw lyric power and with my expressive musical talents I have managed to save the world from it's own self-destruction. "How?" you might ask. Well, just kick back and I'll fill you in on the details. I can't really explain the "whys" or the "hows" of my revolutionary impact on the human race, but I think that if I outline the state of the human affairs before and after my life, and perhaps explain a little about my own adventures, you'll begin to understand.

When I was born, the human race was in quite a predicament. Race riots and genocide where the catch phrases employed by nearly every member of the journalistic population. Inexcusable social disasters were exploited for their entertainment value and very little was ever actually done to alleviate them. Plucky overpaid infotainment reporters delivered the tragic news of the world at large, while the signs of more immediate tragedies drifted in through every window across the globe: a sordid soundtrack of gunshots in the night, angry voices throughout the day, and whining sirens with no regard for the time of day.

Plop! That was the sound of me being born. Snip! Now my umbilical cord was cut. Then nothing but the cozy rustling of warm blankets and starched surgical gowns followed by the quiet fortitude of sleep.

Now don't freak out just yet, because this story has a happy ending, as I've already said. World peace and ethnic tolerance are the new trendy realities. Every reporter is now required by law to take extensive examinations in both areas of academia and morality. Laughter, birds, and loud kissy noises are the new musical accompaniment to every day life. Unwittingly I gave so much to society. The only thing that disappoints me is that all these wonderful changes occurred after I was long dead. But then isn't that what always happens to great revolutionaries?

So now you probably want to know how I can be so sure that I was "the" cause of this dramatic transformation. Well, let me first say, that when you're dead things become a lot clearer. It sounds rather ironic, but death gives you a unique perspective on life, and after a thousand years of being an objective spectator to the development of the human race, I've developed a pretty keen insight into the inherent nature of things. But I digress.

My initial point was that gangster rap can (and did) change the world, and 9 out of 10 people agree with me on this (there have been studies). There's always the occasional odd ball that disagrees with me, but I think that those people are jerks. I'm not saying that the world is perfect now, of course. There are still problems that aren't yet sorted out. People are still hungry when they are on diets and they're still sad when they lose at Monopoly. People are also still pretty depressed about death, but I just think that's because they haven't been there. Overall though, the world is a much happier place and the bad stuff, like fast food, and wet socks, can generally be overlooked.

So, now that I've mentioned the "before" stuff and the "after" stuff, it's time to discuss the creamy center that is my life. Personally, I've always held that the era when I was alive is the most interesting period of time in recent human history. The "Great Rap-toration" is the oh-so-fitting name that my period in history has come to be known as. Personally I thought they should have called it the "Incredibly Great Years that the Mighty Chocolate Edward Clarence was Alive", but of course nobody bothers to ask my opinion about anything, and I'm still kind of miffed about the whole deal. My parents actually told me a few years ago that they had no intention of naming me Chocolate, but instead had hoped to name me after my great uncle Charles. Fortunately there was a little mix up when I was born, which was never corrected.

My personal theory on how I received my name goes like this: Late one night a hospital secretary with chocoholic tendencies was typing up my birth certificate. I don't really know if hospitals have secretaries, and if they do whether they actually have to type up each certificate, but that's beside the point. It was way passed closing time this particular night, and this particular secretary was in a hurry to go out and chill with his (or her) significant other. Right when my particular certificate was supposed to be filled out this birth-certificate-making-person started having a terrible craving for some chocolate pudding. After a brief trip to the local vending machine he (or she), returned to work rather preoccupied with the creamy treat on the desk. A small but important Freudian slip was all it took for my name to be changed from Charles to Chocolate. A few letters switched by the hand of fate, and the amazing events of my life had begun. What kept this mistake in my name from ever being discovered was that both of my parents were killed very shortly after my birth. Two stray bullets flew through the hospital window from who-knows-where (a drive by shooting or a poorly placed Boy Scout targeting range perhaps), and my parents never had the opportunity to complain about the hospital's shoddy record keeping. Three hours, two bullets, and one drive by later, I was an orphan with a rather memorable first name.

My foster parents later told me that they felt that they had no right to question my parents' taste in names, and I've got a suspicion that my name was actually a determining factor in my adoption. I believe my new parents chose me over the other kids in the adoption book, simply because they always found my name so darned amusing.

Whap! I stumbled while taking my fumbling first steps. Bam! I absorbed another fist from a horde of schoolyard bullies. Boom-shakalaka! I heard the first wonderful wisps of rap music from a car parked on my street. Again I found a palace of protective solitude, this time in the thrumming reverberations of street songs.

My first taste of rap music occurred when I was ten years old. I was instantly enamored with those hip-hop funkalishious harmonies and I immediately started saving up all of my money in order to buy up every album I could get my hands on. With an allowance of 1 dollar a week, it took me a long time to buy that first compact disc, but as time went on I built a mighty collection of just about every hip-hop, slow jam, old school, hard core and (of course) gangster rap album that was ever released. Classifications didn't matter to me. All I cared about was the body shakin' beats and the free spirited voices that played among them.

Soon I decided that listening wasn't nearly participatory enough for me, and that I in fact wanted to create my own block-rocking rhythms. I wanted to speak to the beats, and not just overhear their sweet conversation. I wanted to feel the words pour fourth from my own mouth rather than feel them dribble into my small ears. With this realization I did the first thing I could think of, which was to walk up to my parents and ask them for a million dollars to start up my own record label. They responded swiftly, saying something to the effect of "Hells no! Are you crazy or something?" So my next request was for two turn tables and a microphone. I guess that after the first question, this second one sounded much more reasonable, and they said, "Sure. Why not?" So, the next day, they proceeded to go out and buy a computer for the whole family... And adults always complain that kids have a talent for selective hearing! But something was better then nothing.

I think my parents must have truly thought I was crazy for listening to so much rap music. I had it on all day long, and even when I fell asleep at night my dreams where underscored by those thrumming melodies. But I never gave my parents reason to complain because I rarely turned the music up louder than a whisper. I hated it when the bouncing bass vibrations overpowered even a single note. If the speakers started to rattle, I would miss the subtle, nearly subliminal harmonies which where what really drew me to this harshly endearing music.

A few days after my 13th birthday I started mixing songs on the family computer. I had plenty of time to dedicate to my musical aspirations, because I had no friends and no other hobbies. Making music was the only thing I could really do by myself when my parents were both at work. In a short time I became a prolific musical talent. At first I created simple entertaining jingles, but eventually, as I grew older, I began searching out darker more sensitive emotional territory. I never sung about anything that wasn't deeply personal and I naturally adapted the words and musical tools that I had unconsciously absorbed in my childhood. My raps began as simple discussions of the intricacies of my life. They later grew to encompass more universal truths when I began to understand why I was such an object of ridicule. My themes adopted political overtones and an insightful social consciousness, as I became more globally aware.

Rap was so essential to me because as my words became more energized every part of my life, every part of the world, seemed fit together like a disjointed puzzle finding its groove! Rhyme was my key to tranquility and inner peace.

The next momentous step in my career took place when I began circulating my songs out through the electronic veins of the Internet. To hide my true identity I adopted the alias, Chocolate E. Clare, and I truly believe that this name was an essential factor in the propagation of my success. The public's insatiable craving for my next hit single was unbelievable. Chocolate was a household name, not only in the US but also throughout the world. No borders could contain the wave of popularity on which I rode. No walls could hold in my dark Chocolaty goodness. It was something so unimaginable that many people felt that there must have been some sort of divine hand pushing my career forward with blinding speed. God and Chocolate E. Clare were working together on something big.

Rat-a-tat-tat! There's someone at the door. Creak! My bones jingle as I slowly take the floor. Silence! The universal inhalation. The violence of mass revolution. The termination of one thought to be replaced by another. The human race decides to embrace the man before them. Their acceptance is comforting and I decide that now I can die.

It seems impossible that no one ever discovered my true identity. Like a superhero, I was too unassuming, too mild mannered, to be compared to the people's vivid preconceived mental images. When I finally stepped forward to take credit for my work, the questioning silence was shattering. No one believed that I could be the sole source of the music that had possessed the hearts of every human being on earth. Being 90 years old at the time that I finally revealed myself probably didn't make my appearance any easier to stomach.

Every year since my thirteenth birthday I had released another collection of songs, and each year my skill at rapping improved. My songs where more penetrating, and my lyrics were more insightful by the decade. The first simple, entertaining, mildly original rap tunes I wrote evolved into penetrating analyses of world culture. The only real difference between my career and those of other gifted musicians is simple. While other artists reached a plateau or peak in their talent, or were otherwise halted in their musical growth, my skills kept developing for 77 straight years. I kept improving and refining my talents as no other musician had ever been able to do, my mind seeming to have an infinite capacity for knowledge. The ultimate perfectionist, I, by nature, disallowed myself to slip into static complacency.

In my old age I began to grow curious of what might happen if people were to ever discover my true identity. How would people behave when they finally discovered the answer to (what was for a time) the most pressing mystery of the human race? Would there be television specials and commemorative action figures made in my honor? Or would they refuse to accept that any single person could have ever been so inspired and so productive in one lifetime? I thought that they might think me a media ploy, or part of some government conspiracy. I spent many days dreaming about the probable consequences. It was funny, that no one had ever thought to simply search through the archives of birth certificates or look up my address in the phone book. I was listed in both, but no one ever suspected that someone would actually name their child Chocolate Edward Clarence. Finally, when I realized that I had little time left to live, I decided to satisfy my curiosity.

I felt the crackling heat of the stage lights on my skin. I heard the snapping of camera shutters. The collected conscious spoke a single question, "Is this truly Chocolate E. Clare?" They were so slow in accepting the shriveled blind white man standing before them. But when they finally did I think they were all much happier for it. If I was the amazing Chocolate E. Clare, who was to say that they couldn't escape the social stigmas that had ruled them for so long? No one said anything, and they escaped one by one.