"Rapping at Sigma Nu" (S&D)

by Dana Edwards

I was on the way to Sigma Nu with some friends. Sig Nu, as it turns out in my subconscious, is an island-style, thatched-roof cabana complex located on a tropical beach right by the shore. We were all barefoot, naturally, and we had to tread carefully to avoid the sharp-clawed crabs that were scattered around the sand like landmines. There was an extremely long, single-file line to get in to the party, and a huge linebacker-sized bouncer guarding the door.

Instead of the typical loud conversation and drunken debauchery outside the frat, everyone was silent, frantically scribbling notes on little pieces of paper. I asked a guy what was going on, and he replied, "Oh, you didn't know? Tonight is rap night. You have to write a few verses and then rap them in front of the whole crowd, while a hipster Asian DJ in high-top shoes and a tank top lays down the beat."

His response was somewhat offputting considering in this dream I had inherited a deathly fear of rapping and a sudden speech impediment that made me sound like Porky the Pig. I figured there must be some way around it, so I cut in near the front of the line to scope out the situation, and watched as the bouncer--accompanied on either side by two Sig Nu brothers--beatboxed for three smoking hot girls, and then turned them away because their rhymes weren't good enough. It was at this point that I realized how serious the Sigma Nu fraternity was about rapping. The bouncer and the two brothers served as a preliminary screening for the quality of the rhymes, and these guys were tough judges. They weren't even laughing, or at all happy. In fact, I think they were completely sober. They stared at the girls, and with cold, stone-faced stares, said, "Get the fuck out of here with those shitty rhymes."

It would have been logical for me, with my terrible speech impediment that had effectively silenced me for the last few minutes, to give up on the party and spare myself the inevitable humiliation. But by this point the only reason I wanted to go inside was to escape the sweltering tropical heat. It must've been at least 100 degrees, and humid to boot.

So I sat down in the sand, bummed a piece of paper, and used a live crab as a pen to transcribe the lyrics. Don't ask me how a crab works as a pen. It worked out fine at the time. After what seemed like hours crafting an awesome rap that was extremely nuanced and poked subtle, satirical fun at Sigma Nu and the ridiculousness of their rap obsession, my speech impediment had miraculously vanished, replaced by the exact voice of Jay-Z.

But it was too late. The night was over. The partygoers were exiting en masse, and I noticed that a few of the guys were carrying giant, Costco-sized cases of protein bars. "What's with the protein bars?" I said in my deep Jay-Z voice. One guy responded, "They gave these out as prizes for the best raps."

"Fuck that," I yelled angrily, "Those are my protein bars. I'm the king of rapping." So I grabbed the case of protein bars, and ran off into the night, not even caring about the crabs along the way, because now I was wearing high-top shoes.

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