My house got robbed in New York. I didn't even call the police. I wanted to, but I couldn't. My crib is too nice. It's not that it's too nice, but it's too nice for me. You know how the police are in New York. Soon as I open the door, they'll be like, "He's still here! Open and shut case, Johnson. Apparently this black guy broke in and hung up pictures of his family everywhere. Never seen anything like it."
You can't get un-famous. You can get infamous, but you can't get un-famous.
A black man would never dream of talking to the police high. That's a waste of weed. I'm serious. I mean, I'd be scared to talk to the police when I'm sleepy.