First comes cotton, a Bozoed afro, not to Harlem but the Bronx Zoo. Thirty one times the blind man with a pistol shoots his bouffanted, clenched fist thrust upward and outward. So black is beautiful but power below the belt infatuates. Picture an unpulped Jules (the Southside hitman), recodified and twice removed resurrecting Shaft as neofunkified Victor Mature isometrically parting steeled pillars.
Next follows the crouch, his Answer to the question of who the man be, helmet flopping off defiantly five- inched unaerodynamic coif. No watermelon man for the rightfield stands, only Geoffrey Cambridge bedecked as Coffin Ed jiving Clyde the Glide and Raymond St. Jacque nee Grave Digger Jones.
Always remember if inside, yank it; if outside, spank it; if down the middle, crank it. And get Christy Love because the downtown hardwood strutters still vex how Chocolate Thunder brought down World Be Free.