BY CLIFF MCCOLLUM
FOR THE OBSERVER
OPINION — Admittedly, I may still be a bit confused about what exactly happened last Saturday night in front of the old Auburn Mall. Part of me still suspects I should have kept my mouth shut.
However, I do believe that I engaged in a rap battle in the drive-thru line at the Krispy Kreme. Even more shockingly, I may have actually won said rap battle in a TKO.
Somewhere between pulling up to the squawkbox and inching toward the window, a low-stakes regional rap skirmish began. It involved a polite teenager and the following phrases:
“I’ll give you an extra doughnut if you listen to my rap.” This was followed by a slight pause and a more metered recital.
“I work up at the Krispy Kreme.”
Then came the dead air. Nothing. Zilch. Nada. Bupkis.
If you are going to open with that line, even my painfully Caucasian personage knows you are inviting engagement. That is a soft toss over the plate. That is a layup. That is a line gift-wrapped by Candy Spelling herself in her famous gift-wrapping room. I do not make the rules, but I do know that English majors are legally required to take that swing.
I am an English major who attended the Wu-Tang Clan’s reunion in Atlanta last summer. The whole Clan was there, minus the late, great ODB. It was the first time they were together in decades. At that concert, Ghostface Killah wiped sweat from his brow with a small, gray washrag. He didn’t pretend to jump around the stage.
That moment had power because I had a similar rag in my back pocket. It was the same color and size. It was intended for the same purpose.
Once I reached the window, the young lyrical samurai still had no further lines for his opener. I briefly wondered if he was setting me up for some jape or a TikTok prank. But he seemed sincere. It was now certain that words must be exchanged. This had to be done respectfully and rhythmically.
Nobody’s mother was insulted. Nobody’s chain was snatched. But, dear readers, I grew up on the “crime side, New York Times side, stayin’ alive was no jive.” This young one needed to know to whom he was speaking.
I slang a few easily rhymed lines using “extreme,” “scream” and “dream.” His jaw dropped. He offered a quick response: “I got you.”
Something shifted in the cosmic balance. When the box was handed to me, it was heavier than expected. It was suspiciously heavier, spiritually heavier.
Friends, I ordered three doughnuts. I received a hot-and-ready 12.
I do not know the official scoring system for a Krispy Kreme drive-thru rap battle.
I venture that the spiritual judges would include the Notorious B.I.G., Heavy D, Fat Joe, Big Pun and possibly Biz Markie.
I assume there is a rubric with sections for flow, confidence and commitment.
But the only metric that matters is the doughnut-to-rhyme ratio. And by that standard, this was a landslide. It was an electoral map soaked in glaze. It was Reagan in ‘84 with a side of chocolate milk.
This raises several questions.
First: did I win a rap battle at a doughnut store? I believe the answer is a decisive yes. It is possibly the only sort of rap battle an almost forty-year-old white guy could hope to win.
Second: is this the most on-brand thing that could ever happen to me? Also, a resounding yes. Having grown up here, those who know me would agree. To the new folks joining us: believe me when I tell you that if you told me 10 years ago I would someday talk my way into extra pastries through wordplay, I would have nodded solemnly and said, “Yes, that tracks.”
Third (and hardest to answer): at what point does this become a problem?
Once you realize that words can be weaponized to acquire doughnuts, you have entered dangerous territory.
This is how empires fall. This is why the Wu-Tang Clan was right about protecting your neck… because you don’t want the back of it to look like a pack of hot dogs from the doughnut-induced weight gain.
I drove away in a sugar haze. I knew this would never happen again, but I also knew I would spend the rest of my life chasing the high of unsolicited bonus doughnuts.
Even now, I can feel the story improving and the moment shrinking. There are worse legacies.
Somewhere in Lee County, there is a Krispy Kreme employee who learned a lesson about lyrical preparedness, especially if his sparring partner looks like a feral Oliver Platt.
And somewhere else in this delightful paradise, an old English major learned this — the universe does not ask, nor does it negotiate. Sometimes, it just nods, hands you nine extra doughnuts and sends you on your way.
