WRITING AS TRACY MORGAN AKA SCOOPY GILES, FONDLING FATHER OF HYPE-HOPE

Click here to watch DUMPLIN' BUTTS, the musical videoid referenced in the following text, which was commissioned by VH-1 but never saw limelight, as it was determined too [__] to show to Mr. Morgan for him to sign off on. - LK

As pertains to how y’all keep axin why he keep comin back, you think dat all it take? You think dat’s why VH1 keep axin Tracy to host the Hi-Pop Honors? Huhgh? right: “The Hip Op Honors of VH1,” whateva, you want the plug, people, I pulled it from my butt & shovacyed it right in there. Baker’s dozen right here, Tracy Morgan butt plugs, come get em. I be spinnin history, baby, Tracy Morgan be setting the record straight on some shit. See Tracy ain’t always be a laugh machine. Tracy ain’t even always be Tracy. I’m talking way back before the kappucini mob started TIVO-izin’ the Morganator on Saturday night. Back in the day the true fingerlikkas wuz hyphin to my AKA: Scoopy Giles. FACT: Tracy Morgan wuz Scoopy Giles. FACT: Scoopy Giles invented hip-op. Scoopy Giles wuz RAP™ all in one man & serious as a Afghan bar-mitzvah when it cum to layin the rap. When Tracy was Scoopy he could go a entire year without smilin. Y’all don’t remember me cuz I jizzed you with my special sauce in ’97, some Scoopy Memory Block to clear some room in your minds for my descendants but I wuz pretty much the fifth Beatle of hip-hop, I was like the whole town of Liverpool all in one OG. Cred dis: Scoopy Giles was Da King O’Hip-Hop! Siddown, Jay-hova—dat’s right I said SIT DOWN. If you didn’t know, now you do, boy. Scoopy didn’t have to seize no crown neither, was a battle-free coup due to the natural kingatude dat flowed from his every oreofice. Scoopy Nation, scan? I OWN hip-hop cuz I AM hip-hop cuz I made myself PREGNANT with hip-hop cuz I had myself insuperated with THE DNA OF RAP, which I invented in my bedroom. laboratory where I conducted top-secret experiments for the Bambagon in the late 1970s, epiphenomigal investigations into the nature of rhythm, lotta side effects in doodoopampers. TRUE STORY: I didn’t know it was the DNA of RAP at first. I always talk during my experiments, rag? Lemme pour a little more a dis in here, now I gonna tap it & see if it change color, ONE two three, ONE two three, cuz dat be what a man DO, be a essence of experimentin—well, Scoopy talked especial cuz see he had dis condition back then, Tyrett’s Syndrome, dat one when you keep yappin, you say anything? You lose your inner network exec. But you NEVER curse, it’s one of the worst diseases. Like speaking in tongues very politely, but I was already 411 in tongue & Rated for Pervasive Language & whatnot & sometimes when I wuz under da influence of Tyrett’s I would hear myself say something so unbearingly intelligent dat I was like Definitely, Mr. Giles but I be so excited I couldn’t pronounce it, come out DefDefDef for a whole afternoon like a stuck CD, DefDefDefDefDefDefDef till finally, only thing dat shut me up, I Jam a multipurpose sock right in there. So I got used to these syllables adjacent, see? How dat happened. Duck into a telephone booth, Frederick! I got the name! He like: “Russell won’t like it.” But all dat came later…So rag I was lyin there with my baby in sublime post-ejakillary confab, my tongue waggin, everything waggin, she like Scoopy I ain’t finished baby: which be MUSIC to Scoopy Giles ears so one thing go into another & but then the Tyrett’s come on and uh-oh. Be sweet for awhile, the coochie all ears, Scoopy be namin the presidents in avuncular order, recitin the Dickleration of Indempants, the Ohmanstipation Proctolation and RAS cept the whole time polluted with the most polite language but still I access dat fuzzfish and hook dat thing and reel it—but by now my lips is sideways doin the phone booth from memory & she like shut up scoopy you know I hate math, we be at it doggie, she turn her head & BITE my neck & now I’m singing TV theme songs against my will but I’m still on it, pumpin real good & she all freakin shut up/gimme dat/shut up/gimme dat & now Scoopy start rappin backward, right, dis happen sometimes in  extreme Tyrett’s, sometime it good, some shit sound good both ways but I’m in overdrive & you try “Here’s The Story Of A Man Named Brady” backward without autotune and see how your rep do in beaverville. She like shut the fuck up I kill you/gimme dem scoopy-scoops & STILL Commando Pipe be in full combat gear seein light at the end of the tunnel—but then—At The EXACT Moment I’m demonstratin how I got the name Scoopy, always a very important moment in Scoopy’s lovingoopness, she like SCOOPITY-DOOPITY-GLOOPITY, it be like full Tyrett’s for both of us & all a sudden I hear my mouth shouting Harpo Harpo Harpo—and she like: WHAT???? And I was like: “Tahw?” Was like the Bombable Snowman took a giant ice dump on the mattress, she go from ninety to zero in one stroke, didn’t talk to me for a whole year after dat, my one true b-girl. Next thing Scoopy know he unconscious. Them wuz dangerous experiments, you, sirens wailin, next thing Scoopy be in ER on a trolley all woozy & shit. I was woozy but I could still hear. Doctor like THERE’S NOTHING WRONG WITH THIS MAN. Nurse like He got some kinda erectoid. Should we save it for science? Scoops like “No way, dat’s wid me, you leave it alone and it won’t slap you” but see my mouth was all pharmatized & it come out like “opliopipopalopaparooni.” Doctor polishing his scalpel, I CANNOT UNDERSTAND WHAT YOU ARE SAYING, SIR, BUT IT SURE HAS A CATCHY BEAT, me like “no please/no please/please please no” & the nurse is dancin to my babblin, bouncing off the sterilized walls & shit! Doctor lookin at me, his head boppin & suddenly I’m thinkin: dis dude look familiar. He look like Scoopy’s father! So I’m tryin very hard to say hello but now the doctor’s also breakin & shakin Scoopy’s hand: YOU’VE JUST INVENTED HIP-HOP, MY GOOD MAN & me just tryin to say hi, pop. Anyways my  Tyrett’s Simptons was cured. All a sudden I could be quiet for many minutes at a time. But I knew I had to keep rappin. Once the DNA of Rap get in you, you its bitch . . . See, Mr. Z, I just sometimes get irritated with mouths talkin like “Baby’s Got Back” was the first jawn on the bliss of big ass. I mean it was a thick moment in bootyvid but dat track sprung from Scoop. (dat’s with a “c,” bro.) Scoopy Giles’s “Dumplin Butts” by Scoopy Giles, baby got backstory: Dawg daze of ’91. Scoopy  in da noodle house deep in da hood, grease so rude you think you got swine flu kind of joint & maybe you do cuz there wuz a lotta pork in there, lotta duck sauce & not just Chinese, dis was high-test polyghetto, Donny Hathascoop metasturized, democritude before dey had a name for it, finest won-tons east of Scores. Racked & backed so thick we called them two-tons. Used to scarf these chocolate fortune cookies with salsa, mm-mmm. Used to eat twenty meals a day in there. Paradise by the paper lanterns! But all behind the counter, see? In these giant display windows. I know you be frettin: “But how did Scoopy make it past the bulletproof glass to dunk a bone in dat hot’n’sour?” Scoopy Giles blog true: It was all in the way he slurped dat chow mein and suckled them wings. He go in there first time and order the biggest stinkiest bowl of crazy on the menu, chokfulla animal organs and gristly shit & sit at my table and turn into a human beatbox how I ate, slubbin & slushin & chewin in time yo, burp & gruntin in rhyme like a rice jockey gone ya yo. No chopsticks, no napkin, just Scoopy Giles having lunch, dat’s it. Whole families get up from dey meals to party wid Scoopy Giles. My beats was like one a them sculptures termites construct to entice termite bitches to crib. I’d build a house too if I could meet a woman with six legs. Waitress run backstage, You gotsa hear dis nigga feast and them dumplings ahind the counter was sweatin under dey aprons. dey was like When you thru chowin, come on back here for some dessert! & before you know it Scoopy has hisself a lifetime pass to the walk-in meat cooler. Ain’t none a them buns could resist a dish of Scoopy in the cooler. But dey never paid the electricity, right, so the joint be more like a grill. After fifteen minutes the best douche-job smell like a Doberman Pinscher stuffed with government cheese. Trust me, dat some real life shit right there. And when Scoopy was through scoopin? Inhale once afta dat, you see God. And you take his words down. dat’s right, Scoopy wrote “Dumplin Butts” while livin it. Some niggas never even go to a Chinese restaurant! Came to me in a vision, these great big meat dumplings in the sky gone Districk 9 over my Johannisclot, woke up smellin soy sauce & I know right away it more than a groundbreaking track. Into the phone booth to R&R: I ain’t just a rapper! I’m a arteest!  Arteests make music videos! dey wuz all “Huh?” but when da King speak exettera & da result is “Dumplin Butts.” I seriously hope you enjoy dis timeless classic cuz if you don’t you a fool & dey ain’t no place for you in Scoopy Town. True story dat. You worldrocked I know, you coldcocked with a hot rod off a phat—oops there I go provin, happens sometimes when I go down on memory lane. Little bitta Scoopy in my bowl. Method Man be a Method Actor next to my downtown. Where would we be today without Scoopy? Mars or some shit. Bartholomizzy  Manizzilow concerts. In da beginning dey was light and it be Scoopy Giles. What next for dis mofo? Alvin gawn chimpunk me next week I hear. Also gotta book out under my MC Tracy cloak: (Be dat all da promos?) All will be testified. Here be Scoops bloggin out, peace & true, Tracy