My boy Hans C

Today is in honor of my departed homie Hans Christian Andersen.

Ol' HC was da bomb because he liked to make tiny rocking chairs out of paper and give them to kids.

He kept it real by taking a length of rope with him everywhere so he could climb out a window to safety if his hotel burned down.

Hans C was from the hood, no joke, of Odense. This is pure ghetto, yo.  His mom was good for nothing and likely a whore. He said so in one of his fairy tales.

I'd like to give a shout out to tall dudes like Hans with crazy imaginations and a propensity for falling in love with opera singers and already engaged women.  He knew a honey when he saw one, even if they were unavailable.  And the brotha had style.  He could DRESS and he made sure the shutter caught him lookin' fly.

So RAISE da ROOF for HCA, who wrote more fairy tales, acted in more plays, travelled the world more, and was more afraid of the comittment of buying a bed than anyone I ever knew.

You are my BOY H Christian A. I know you believe in unicorns and that shit smells simultaneously. For this I am happy.