Authors help white girls find inner shawty

For better or for worse, I’ve always felt perfectly comfortable using hip-hop slang in everyday conversation. I believe I described the nap I took during my afternoon lecture yesterday as “crucial—fo’ real.”

If you’ve ever seen the uber-preppy pearl studs that are a fixture in my ear lobes, you probably know I’m kidding.

But suppose you are a fellow white girl without the gumption to utter “fo’ shizzle” in casual banter. Authors Albertina Rizzo and Amanda McCall, in their book Hold My Gold: a White Girl’s Guide to the Hip-Hop World, try to bridge the gap between “Crunktown” and Caucasian awkwardness. So swap your Amstel Light for Hypnotiq, don a Burrrrr-berry bikini or a throwback and stick a fat blunt between your lips. According to the experts, you’ll be mackin’ it with Lil Jon before sunset.

That’s a hefty claim from a skimpy paperback that probably hails from the Barnes & Noble checkout display (right between “Don’t Sweat the Small Stuff Part IV” and “100 Things You Learned From Your Cat”). In fact, “Hold My Gold” doesn’t quite make it past the kitsch stage. Funny? Sort of. Rizzo and McCall recommend gold spray-paint for all your white-girl jewelry—silver Elsa Peretti hearts included. And don’t forget to bling-ify your smile. “If you can’t afford to cap your teeth gold and you have a special event to go to, simply apply gold marker!” they write.

When a book prominently features instructions on becoming Lil’ Kim—three strategically placed bottle caps, string and an optional roll of double-sided tape are apparently all it takes to be Queen of the Obscene—claiming poor taste is probably a moot point. Yet some passages teeter on the brink of being downright, oh-no-she-didn’t offensive. Take this snippet from a section delineating what not to say on a date with a rapper: “I was a Women’s Studies major. What did you major in?”

Yeoow. Back up, shawty.

Word to Rizzo and McCall: Part of cultural identity means being comfortable and relaxed in your own skin, be it a “pasty, rhythmless shell” or otherwise. And when you try too hard to be something that you’re not—well, it’s as evident as a granny-pantyline showing through a pair of Parasucos. There’s still room for us all in Crunktown.