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A Man Who Has Nothing In Particular To Recommend Him Discusses All Sorts of Subjects at Random as Though He Knew Everything

It’s Johannes Chrysostomus Wolfgangus Theophilus Mozart’s Birthday, Bitches

The Bobby Orr of music was born in Salzburg on January 27th, 1756. I see all you haters going on about Beethoven, the Wayne Gretzky of G clef, calling him the shizzle over Wolfie, but sheezy, a deaf piano player? Mozey had all the sick beats, and could bust rhymes to get all the fine dime brizzles.

Pure ballin. Admit it. If Schroeder had put a bust of Brahms on his piano you’d all be headsprung over Brahms Third Racket, not Beetlebrow. Gettin your beats from Peanuts? What’s next, learnin geopolitics from Family Circus? It’s Mozart, dawgs! And don’t gimme any of those musical Mahovlich brothers, you know, the Bach bunch. Ringo Starr married the only Bach worth mentioning.

I’m hooking you up with Lacrimosa — Old Skool.

That’s what I’m talkin about. Shit’s deck, is what I mean.

Wolfie was all about the beats. Let’s pour out a 40 for the playa that could pour out Symphony Number 40. Let’s drop it like it’s hot.

So pants at half mast for Chrysostomus’ sake today. Drink ten Red Bulls and try to keep up with Amadeus, like Heifetz done.

Off the hook, nomesayin?

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