I’ve been called many things in my day: a smartalecky hipster, a ham-fisted typewriter banger, a pigment-deficient ginger — even an irresistible sex demon (the latter may have originated from me). But one nickname continues to elude me: French beatboxer. Two possible explanations for this. 1) Despite fifteen painful years of immersive language studies, I’m not French. And perhaps equally relevant is 2) I’m not a beatboxer. These are empirical facts; ones I’m unable to alter any more than I can change what I had for dinner last night (Frankenberry cereal and leftover sashimi).
Fortunately, the world has provided an actual French beatboxer in my stead. Not just an adequate one either: mon ami has abilities that soar above and beyond what anyone should reasonably expect from a fellow human being. These include a beatboxing speed of 160 bpm — a world record to be sure (so far as I know). Plus, he rocks a backwards ball-cap like nobody’s bidness. Respect!
