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Just Off-Camera

"They respect you if you write. The dumber the world gets, the more the words matter." -Dan Jenkins

Thursday, December 16, 2004

An Open Letter To Snoop

Dear Snoop Dogg,

How are you? Alex here. First-time writer, long-time listener. Big fan. Huge fan. Doggystyle - one of the classic albums of all-time.

But I gotta say, Snoop, you've been coasting. You're mailing it in lately. You're just slapping "Snoop Dogg" on a record, hanging some "izzles" on the end of your words, and shipping it out to radio, and it gets spins because you're Snoop.

Please, Snoop, take a little more pride in your work. I know you are capable of returning to your former glory. Before you go into the studio for your next record, have a listen to "What's My Name?" or "Tha Shiznit." Think of your collaborations on "Dre Day," or even the recent remixes of "Welcome To Atlanta" or "P.I.M.P." That's the Snoop I, not to mention the rest of America, need to hear.

"Drop It Like It's Hot" is inexcusable for a rapper of your talents. I know Pharrell is capable of providing you with a better beat. Insist on it. "Backside," "left side," and "Crip side" aren't even close to rhyming, even if they do all end with the same word. And the hook - please, do something about that. Find Nate Dogg if you have to, and get him on your track. I know he's around, he even gave Eminem some love on his new CD. Give Dre a call. Hell, 2pac's still alive as far as I can tell. Hunt him down and record "2 Of Amerikaz Most Wanted, Part II."

What happened to the man who was acquitted of murder in 1996 and then rapped about it? Or the man who won awards in the porn industry for his efforts? Or the man who played the crippled dealer in Training Day? Or the man who came on stage for the Up In Smoke Tour following a video of himself shooting up a convenience store?

Has he been replaced by the host of the 2004 Video Game Awards and a shill for the Sidekick II, talking to Paris Hilton about fabric softener? In the name of all things gangsta, I hope not.

Snoop, consider this a plea from a fan's heart to bring back the Capital-S-oh-yes-so-fresh-N-double-O-P-D-O-double-G-Y-D-O-double-G-ya-see. Roll down the street once more. Smoke your indo, for old times' sake. Sip on gin and juice again. Bring us back to the days when you, somehow, some way, kept coming up with funky-ass s--- like every single day. Then perhaps the party will once again continue until the bitches in the living room leave at six a.m.