Island Boys

There are a pair of rappers who call themselves “The Island Boys”. Find videos of them of you enjoy tackiness-induced mental discomfort. They cause me to cringe. I think about them a lot. Their hair annoys me. Their tattoos (including on their faces) drive me up the wall. Everything about them. Their boney bodies and diamond teeth. Diamond belt buckles.

In one of their music videos a grandmother is preparing to cook some sausages and she makes a phone call. One of The Island Boys answer the phone, “abuela!” They have a short argument where she insists that they come home and quit wasting time. They protest and resolve with bro-fists to continue wasting time on some little island in a harbor. They get a friend to make a video with a cellphone of them freestyle rapping about their lifestyle. I can’t get enough of this shit. What is wrong with me? Will I become a fan and follow these annoying duchebags around on tour? What if I become one of them?

Watching them produces an irritation that is similar to how I feel when I hear Justin Trudeau’s soft authoritarian voice. At least The Island Boys don’t stutter and when they humm and haw, it is groovy and deliberate. The mumble quite a bit, but their message is simple and direct, whereas listening to Trudeau is like being a passenger in a car driven by a nervous crack head.

If you’ve discovered The Island Boys and hate me because of it, that is understandable. They are like a violent car accident; it is hard to look away.

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