Today I come to you, O Lord, and humbly as I know how. In fact, I come to you so humbly that I will admit that I don’t know whether or not to pronounce the “h” in “humble.” I mean, I can see the letter right there at the beginning of the words, but members of my church choir used to sing a song on special occasions like pastor anniversaries, and they pronounced it “umble,” so I don’t know.
I’m sure I could have Googled it, thou precious lamb, but I’m sure you know better than the Google algorithm, dear Lord. Plus, there’s a silent “h” in the word “hour,” and sometimes I don’t know why English has to be so hard, but they say you move in mysterious ways, Your Honor. Let’s just agree that I’m humble as a motherfuc—
Forgive me, Master. You know my heart.
But that’s not why I come to you today in prayer. I’m here to ask for blessings for the rapper Post Malone. I know you are the creator of all things—even this man who looks like the result of Pippi Longstocking fucking a semidomesticated billy goat. I read an article today about him in GQ where he was asked, “Do you, Post Malone, ever feel anxious about working in a primarily black-identified genre of music?”
The writer, Bijan Stephen, even noted his own feelings about Malone’s hypocrisy when he wrote: “I’m black. I’m young. I’ve been put off by some of the things he’s said about distancing himself from rap, from R&B, from anything, really, that’s musically black-identified.”
Stephen went on to explain: “I enjoy Post’s music, but I’m skeptical: What’s worse than appropriating a black sound without giving appropriate credit is doing that and not realizing why that might be wrong.”
But, Lord, you are the alpha and omega, and being that you are the only one in heaven or on earth who pledged two fraternities, I’m sure you already knew this, our bright and morning star. In your omnipotence, I’m sure you are aware of Post Malone’s response, but Imma just type it out so the copyedit team won’t ask me for the quote, Almighty One. Oh, ye Giver of Life, Death and Krispy Kreme doughnuts, Post Malone said:
I definitely feel like there’s a struggle being a white rapper. But I don’t want to be a rapper. I just want to be a person that makes music. I make music that I like and I think that kicks ass, that I think the people who fuck with me as a person and as an artist will like.
Oh, Lord, I need you right now!
I need you to still this slapping spirit that is rising in my heart and tingling in my palms! Quench this desire to ask, “What the fuck did he just say?” I know it ain’t nothing but the devil trying to work his way into my mind like that time Satan made me renege on the spades table and I ran a Boston in the last hand and told First Lady Chambers to get her bitch ass off my table! I felt the same thing when I read that quote from Post Malone, and I need you to eject this reneging spirit from my soul, Most High!
But most of all, Big Poppa (yes, I’ve heard the gospel hymn when you said you love it when we call you that), take Post Malone’s hand and guide him through the misery of being a millionaire and being white. I know it must be hard for him to exist in a world where he has every societal advantage that comes with whiteness while simultaneously getting to wade in the pool of black culture.
I imagine it tastes like fruit from the Tree of Knowledge of Good, Evil and White Privilege. Yea, though Post Malone walks through the valley of the shadow of cultural appropriation, comfort him with your rod and staff. Or beat him.
Please beat him.
And forgive him, Your Highness.
Forgive him, for he knows not what he’s doing when he makes millions from an art form created by black people while distancing himself from the individuals and the struggle that birthed the art by stiff-arming anything remotely related to blackness.
Forgive him for dabbling in the outlaw-thug stereotype while not recognizing the privilege of not having every aspect of himself associated with the oppression and danger that goes along with his inverted shucking and jiving.
Oh, my Good & Plenty higher power, I know some will say that he is not guilty of cultural appropriation, but if hip-hop is a culture, and the definition of appropriation is “the deliberate reworking of images and styles from earlier, well-known works of art” without attribution or acknowledgment, and Malone doesn’t even acknowledge that he is a rapper, then I don’t know what else to call him, dear Lord. A rap gentrifier? A rhyme colonialist? Motherfucker? (Forgive me for that, thou divine one.)
But most of all, ye magnificent with the sensational style, forgive Post Malone for his tone-deaf, oblivious whining about the paper-cut-deep criticism he receives for his third-grade-level lyrical, gold-front blackface as if he couldn’t stop rapping tomorrow, waltz his ass back to the suburbs, and become the one thing in the world that is greater and exponentially more precious than being a young, famous, millionaire musician:
A white man.
In this, and all things, we ask your blessings.