It takes a no limit spiritual soulja to refuse to tolerate a life of one DREEP after another.

I don’t know whether humans born with penises should get to compete in sports against humans born without one. But I do know we should at least hear everyone out.

Dreep is an old Scottish word meaning “to lower oneself.” DREEP is an acronym I made up to help men rise to spiritual freeeeeeeeedom! And yes, Mel Gibson is an antisemite so I don’t rock with him, but Braveheart was a mega banger so I’m keeping the battle cry and leaving the dude.

Trump loves kicking around the R-word, so I looked up the definition and it turns out the shoe kinda fits.

I called in the spirit of my wise meathead best friend to help me deal with adversity, and the pretend version of him advised me to lean in to my roots.

I was a mid-high-flying lawyer who lost his mojo and couldn’t get a job that paid a living wage. Now I’m just grateful I can do paperwork again to feed my family—at least until the Trump administration selects me as the tribute from District 8.

It recently hit me that my fancy, estranged daughter—now a woman grown, whom I used to spend Thanksgiving with but haven’t seen in six years—thinks I’m out here livin’ that thug lyfe like ’Pac.

Three friends around my age died unexpectedly this past year, and it’s already been three years since Takeoff—from my favorite non–old-skool rap group, Migos—passed. Life moves pretty fast. If you don't stop and look around once in a while, you could miss it. 

As a Hamilton head, I was struck by an interview where documentarian Ken Burns argued the American Revolution was driven less by ideals and more by land and money. While Lin-Manuel Miranda may have taken some historical liberties in Hamilton, he understood a deeper truth: history doesn’t repeat—it rhymes.

Somewhere in the middle of our candid discussion about STIs, my teenage boys and I formed a pretend alt-rock band called Big J and the Burning Sensations.