Things I learned from hanging with my Little Brother this morning: Tupac Shakur isn’t really dead. He’s hiding in Jamaica, where he’s waiting for the statute of limitations to end for the faking of his own death. Then he’ll return, triumphant, to rule to hip-hop world. “He’s like Jesus,” my little bro said, “he’ll come back to life.” According to his impeccable Internet sources, Tupac’s autopsy photos were faked because they’re missing some of his tattoos, “plus the fake body they used was made of clay and you could tell in the photos.” (More Christian imagery!) If you could just trace the wire payments of Tupac’s mom around the world, you could figure out where Tupac is waiting. His “murder” in Vegas was faked in league with the local police, because if it was real, the police would have sent a helicopter out into the desert to follow the white Cadillac Tupac’s assailants were driving. Suge Knight was in on it all. Oh, and one more thing I learned: if you’re a Biggie Smalls fan, you suck.

(I still remember seeing some comic do standup on TV a few years ago, making fun of his mom trying to keep up with all things hip: “Dear, it was so sad when that Biggie Fries was killed.”)

30 April 2002

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