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Dillon - Dillon Ain't Playin' - Album Review

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By: Joel Frieders
Our album review of Dillon Ain't Playin' from Atlanta-based user of oxygen Dillo
Album Rating:
9

Normally when I'm picking albums to review, I have to be more than 75% in love with the mother fucker to feel like I can give the album a proper blowjob. Fortunately, I'm closer to 93% gay for this fucking rappering rapper and rappering rapper rap album. It's only been 9 days and I'm addicted to this dude's flow, this dude's sense of humor and this dude's approach to the microphone thingy where he says his words and stuffs. Consider me a Dillon Gobbler.

I didn't know shit about Dillon last week, and this week I'm his girthiest and most vocal friend, and I'm trading mint Topps baseball cards just to get more of my asshole friends on his dick. His latest album Dillon Ain't Playin' highlights his quick flick tongue, nonchalant lyrical sassmanship and all around "what an angry cutie pie" likability. It's akin to watching an HBO television show and finding nothing about the protagonist you wouldn't want in a boyfriend, if you swung that way that is.

Dillon is like the raspy younger brother of an older brother everybody always thought would be successful, with his leather jacket and single gold canine tooth and exotic Peruvian girlfriend named Mariella, but as time went on the older brother fell heavy into Old Milwaukee while Dillon actually got fucking good because he was ignored and allowed to succeed out of spite. There's no question he's a likable cat, but his ability to ride inside and around a beat is fucking ridiculous. It's nearly impossible to recreate as a rap layman, but he makes this shit sound fucking easy.

Featuring guest producers like the adorable Paten Locke, the out of breath Willie Evans Jr., the horse cocked caucasian Batsauce, the cross-eyed Diamond D and the American Blackbottom Indian Supa Dave West, Dillon takes on the majority of the rap responsibilities himself, only allowing a pair of guest verses. Of course Willie Evans Jr. is fucking beastly, but it's Dillon's union with cinnamon gashed Boog Brown that has me shaking my head like a Jew on blow laced with borax.

Boog Brown is to hip hop, what media coverage of Princess Diana's fatal car crash was to the American public: you don't realize you're addicted until you start pausing and rewinding certain parts because of how fascinated you are. I not only want to go back in time and date her until she breaks up with me so I can be a subject of her future rap songz, I really want to have a matching lower back tattoo with her. Her flow, while large breasted and lady like, is fucking fierce. Not Sasha Fierce, but more respectable and less likely to bore me while I stare through a telescope into her boudoir from a hijacked construction crane.

If the way I feel about this album and this rapper guy Dillon continues to grow, I will either name my first born son after him (TOO LATE - but it's Dylan because we want him to get a good job someday, Dillon sounds so vegan) or introduce him to my parents just to watch them be like "who's this piece of shit?".

YOU KNOW WHO THIS PIECE OF shit IS DAD? IT'S ONE OF MY NEW FAVORITE RAPPERS WHO DOESN'T HAVE A GIMMICK OR CONSTANTLY ABUSE A HASHTAG THAT RHYMES WITH FAG.

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