You got a motherfuckin' problem?
You in motherfuckin' debt, son?
You ain't happy witcha love-LIFE, SON?
You tired of that weak-ass Speed Dating shit?
Welcome to the new sound: that Militant sound: Militant Dating, homey.
First, you an yah crew (or is it “crue”?) jus gatter up, son. Only true ballas git in dis house. Don't want no frontin' niggas prowlin up in hea like Gotti blacksnakes; this ain't X's kingdom no mo', we gotta move on, brotha: we can't git no rights fightin no more. We gotta get us some rich White PUSSY, TONIGHT, SON.
Aight.
Aight.
Aight.
Militant Dating all goes down like dis, right?
First we gather up that finest rich ass from Atlanta, right? (SHOUTOUT TO MY A.T.L.). Some first class dick-suckin beret-wearin 30s-somethin' ho. Bitch knows tennis. Bitch knows how to smoke that dro, right? Bitch even knows dat ya need ya fuckin dick SUCKED. Holla!
So we stuff deez cunts in dis coldroom, right? We turn on some light, get em all fucked up with southside shit, ya know, that shit from H-Pie an' Rocket Rock (that motherfucka ya see on the MARTA looking like he's been dustin' too many erasers for too long ya know)? Then, we open up yo cage-bars, right? All and you niggas get ya choice. First nigga to that finest bitch pussy wet gets huh otha shit.
And if you worried about that third strike…Hell nigga! we got that fuckin' duct tape for a reason.
She can't charge you on shit; she can't even say “No,” and you got another 20 sober niggas in the room! Judge Parker can't make you suffa no mo'.
So think about this shit nigga.
Fuh further details, homey:
It's that 8th street City Police Station.
Or Call X-11.
That's X for Xzibit…not the number 9.