Do you think Ice‑T ever comes home from a long day in the studio and says to his wife, Coco, “Hey, baby, check out this new record, this new song I worked on today”? And she’s just like, “I can’t right now, I have a million things going on. The grandkids are coming over, we have to watch Sophie, and we promised Uncle Jim—” Then her phone rings. She answers it, putting one finger up while tucking the phone into her shoulder. She turns back to Ice‑T. “Sorry, hun…”
She continues her conversation on the phone as she turns away from Ice‑T, her voice trailing off in the background. “We would stop by, and dinner’s almost ready… maybe later.” She glances back at him, mouthing, “I’m sure it’s great, hun,” barely audible as she disappears into the fog of the kitchen.
I bet they have one of those ’90s phones with a really long cord hooked to the wall—except this is the present day. And he’s just like, “Okay.” He turns his back and walks off in the opposite direction. But he’s actually kinda bummed because he really wanted her to hear it. How could she not wanna hear it. This song was a bout bitches and everybody luvs bitches. He walks away with his head lowered, her voice no longer reaching him.
He’s been married for, like, 30 years. I think that’s awesome. Can you imagine their 50th wedding anniversary? They invite a bunch of people over. It’s very formal. All the men gather in one room.
There’s a poster on either side of the walkway leading up to their house. On a stand on the left side is a blown‑up poster of the two of them—probably their senior prom picture from 1989 or something. And then, on the other side, there’s a more recent portrait. It’s a classic Sears‑style studio photo: Ice‑T sitting on a bench or a stool, Coco standing slightly behind him on a box or something, her hands folded neatly on his left shoulder. The background is black with neon lasers shooting through it, some stars, and probably a slight fog effect. It looks like you could roll it up towards the ceiling and swap it out for a different one. Maybe there’s even a plastic Roman marble column next to them with a big gold “50” on top.
That’s right—I’m describing their future anniversary photo. You thought I was still describing the one on the left, but no, I’m talking about the one on the right. The after. The one taken at a Sears studio during the year 2045. That’s right. I’m talking about the future.
And here’s the kicker—Sears Portrait Studio comes back. Ice‑T buys it. He becomes the CEO. He opens up 3,000,675 Sears stores nationwide and single‑handedly lowers inflation by pricing goods and services fairly. Regular people can afford to buy quality things again. Sears overtakes Walmart. His prices aren’t based entirely on corporate greed. Sears saves America. Ice‑T saves America.
I wonder if he ever does chores. Not in the future, but, like, now. Or does he just walk over to the couch, kick off his shoes, and sort of jump backward into it, landing in a relaxed, almost waterslide‑like position? His back pops, like, six times. He reaches for the remote. Can’t find it.
“This goddamn couch in my living room is 35 feet wide and 20 feet long. It’s made out of minks or something. Minks and eagles.”
He’s already lying down and doesn’t want to look for the remote. He strains his neck forward, scanning the coffee table. It’s a slab of 6,000‑year‑old tree bark, thawed out of a glacier. It’s covered in cereal bowls and random junk.
“Goddamn it,” he mutters.
He sighs, “Alexa, turn on my damn TV.”
She replies, “Okay, Ice‑T.”
And then, every TV in the house turns on at once.
“Fuck.”
A baby wakes up in the distance.
From another room, his wife yells, “Babe!”
He whispers to himself, “Goddamn it.”
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source https://www.reddit.com/r/hiphopheads/comments/1ipvzrt/ice_t/
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