Dear Gucci Mane,
What it do, Gucci? What's up? I hope this letter finds you well - cracking open bottles of Kristal, counting money stacks, holed up spitting in a recording booth, or perhaps adding to your no doubt breathtaking stable of candy-paint coated whips. You probably get a lot of letters from fans, and my guess is that most people want or need something from you: to have your baby, to carry your weed, to cop a guest verse, to slip you a homemade mixtape in a by-association bid for regional or Internet fame.
Me, on the other hand, I don't want any of those things! But I think we can help each other out. See, I live with my moms - I'm sort of between careers at the moment - and because I'm, well, I'm more Brokeahantus than blingin' (and yeah, you can steal that! I don't even want any credit, for real), I can't help out with rent or expenses. I can't even buy mom anything for her birthday next month. This is where you come in, because, see, mom fiends for Gucci shit, ya heard? The jackets, the bags, all of that.
And I mean, I don't know your life, but I've always imagined that Gucci Fed-Exes you big-ass care packages on the regular, just out of nowhere, just massive, duct-taped cardboard boxes stuffed with official, non-knockoff Gucci swag. Like, you get back from the studio or tour or whatever and the delivery guy's waiting in the driveway for you, and you give each other pounds, and he's all "Gucci" and you're all "Steve" and he's all "This here's your assemble-at-home Smart Car kit" and then you go "Steve, you on some bullshit, dawg, what you finna do" and then he laughs and says "Naw, man, just fuckin' with you, it's your weekly Gucci payload, initial here." Then y'all hit the strip clubs.
I'm sure you probably dole this stuff out to the women in your life and some of your homies too, because, really, how much Gucci paraphenilia does any one person need? But there have gotta be extras. So can you throw some of the excess in a box and send it to me? Nothing in life is free, and I'm broke, but I figured my advice might be worth a metric Gucci quarter-ton.
You're on your way to maybe becoming Lil Wayne famous, but I Google you from time to time, and you've gotta learn to look more famous. You should walk into a club and right away everybody knows you're somebody, and not just because your entourage could fill a VIP lounge! Like, your name is Gucci Mane; you need a mane, feel me? And I'm not saying you should grow your hair out then get a perm and dye it blonde or even cop a Marilyn Monroe wig, but, maybe an oversized Lion King Simba mane, or an Alex-from-Madagascar mane, or maybe just have an African lion smuggled in, scalp that fucker with a machete, wear its mane like it's yours, blood and viscera and all that. You know? Mane it up, mane it out, make it work for you. And you need more aliases, like how Jay-Z is Hova, or Young, or Young Hov, or Gray Hova, or how Ghostface Killah is Tony Starks, or Iron Man, or Pretty Tony. Mythology! Self-mythology, my homie. People should be calling you "The Gooch"! And "Chris Guccione" and, like, "Vince Ferrito." Also, do you watch Daisy of Love? Kind of a guilty pleasure for me, but you should make a video for "Wasted" with 12 Pack playing you, on some Kanye/"Can't Tell Me Nothing"/Galifianakis/Will Oldham shit, wandering through skate parks with a pack of clowns, lipsyncing to it! MTV would play the fuck out of that! No, no, don't thank me now - thank me with swag. Gucci!
Yours Truly,
Blaine Vancouver
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