Jensen Karp - Kanye West Owes Me $300: And Other True Stories from a White Rapper Who Almost Made it Big

Everything youre about to read actually happened. A few small details have been changed to either build a little creative context or to keep someone anonymous, but even Melissa Joan Hart did that in her memoir, and whats good for MJH is good for me. Also, like Bill & Ted attempting to finish a term paper, I have manipulated time for storytelling purposes. In case any of these disclosures now has you questioning whether my book is worth your time, I asked my mom to write a paragraph in hopes of convincing you to make the commitment. Here that is:

Jensen is an incredibly loving son who has written a very enjoyable book. When he was three years old, on a trip to the petting zoo, he played the ears of a baby goat as if they were drums and then proceeded to ask the goat its name. Jensen waited a second, looked up at his dad and me, and explained in an excited tone, Oh rightBilly! He smacked his own forehead like it was the most obvious answer and it was just plain stupid to ask a goat such a question. This is the exact same way I feel about you second-guessing his book. Thank you.

Haroldine Gearhart, July 5, 2015

You heard the woman.

Enjoy the book, Billy.

You have three brain tumors, but Im really only concerned with one of them, the doctor said in his grimmest tone. The other two seem insignificant.

Like Destinys Child? I asked, proving I had no idea how to handle serious things.

No laugh.

I dont blame myself for making light of a critical medical moment. I still blame myself for thinking the doctor would understand the complexities of Destinys Child in the 2000s.

It had all started about a week earlier when, at twenty-nine years old, I woke up with a ringing in my ears that didnt disappear for six hours. Worried, I made an urgent appointment, and after a standard checkup, my doctor told me that a shot of cortisone would ease what he thought was just inflammation. I sighed with relief, ready for the next small physical ailment that would throw me into a tailspin. (A month earlier, I had Googled rickets when I thought my bones seemed tired.) Knowing my hypochondriac tendencies and my overall state of panic, my doctor suggested that the ear ringing might actually be a blessing. It meant that my insurance company would pay for an MRI/brain scan, which, he explained, was always a good thing. Why not get it? he asked. Its available to you, and theyre usually expensive. And although this theory would be awful when applied to many things (drugs, semiautomatic weapons, pet lions), I understood the logic.

Soon after the scan, when a nurse called to let me know the doctor wanted to go over the results, I halfheartedly said, Sure, put him through. She explained he was very busy and needed to set up a time for me to come into the office. And like a clueless third-grader who keeps asking questions about the stork even after he watches porn, I missed the point completely. Well, if hes so busy, lets make it even easier by doing it over the phone, I suggested. Her voice got lower, quickly revealing that things were about to suck, and the words Listen, you need to come in dragged out, seeping through the telephone line and into my ear. I said, Sure, hung up, and then somehow stopped myself from typing nearest cliff to jump off into MapQuest.

Once in the office, I watched the doctors mouth slowly move as he explained the three white spots hed found on my midbrain, a section in charge of sleeping, walking, and alertness, among other things. So, no big deal, just TOTALLY ESSENTIAL ACTIONS NEEDED TO LIVE. It all got rather blurry at this point, but I found out that the spots placement made them inoperable. If the surgeon strayed even a little, Id incur significant damage or become a vegetable. He suggested I see a neurologist, as if I were graduating to a new level of difficulty, like when you beat Super Mario Bros. 2 and start playing the one where Mario dresses up like a flying squirrel. But no matter what the doctor said, or how he sugarcoated it, all I heard was, Its time to go home and plan your funeral. (For the record, Id like to be carried into the service while WWE superstar The Undertakers music plays.)

I felt doomed, mostly because my family is riddled with cancer. In my immediate circle, we have just under a dozen cases, including my father, who passed away during his second bout. So if your office has a cancer pool, Im a good pick. (Also, you work with assholes.) My family is to cancer what the Kardashians are to black boyfriends.