Pitchfork

What "to chunk up the deuce" doesn't mean: to total your car, to abort twins, to induce constipation. Instead it's the peace sign, transformed into a half-valedictory, half-rep-your-region Screwed Up Click gesture. That's considering violence fumes from the swampy hook: The defensive gangster's trigger-happy threats ("Boys talkin' down/ Don't make me pull out the choppa") looming over mentions of dental frippery ("I got them diamonds in my mouth"). A rags-to-riches micronarrative lurks in these couplets, thrusting the insecurities of a thug arriviste into light. It's downhill from here.

Paul Wall steps up for the first verse, rehearsing some guidelines for listeners who aren't hip to the argot-- i.e., the English language. "That's not an igloo, that's my watch," he clarifies. Keke's verse is less didactic, but still run-of-the-mill worship of Mammon: even the nay-sayers "cut the check", leaving Keke "rolling green like [he's] playin' golf"; he's "still earnin'" and admiring his diamond grill and ice, yet "still chasin' bucks." Clearly, Keke's head over heels for two things: legal tender and stale hoe/pimp tropes. The last verse, a candy-paint stroll down memory lane, follows suit as Pimp C and Bun B recall the near-tragedy that "pimpin' almost died in the 80s." Can you gasp and yawn at the same time?

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