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A couple years ago, I was playing poker full-time during a gap year in college. I'm from Jersey (grew up like 15 minutes away from Anna, apparently - took the SAT's at her old high school) and was mainly grinding at Parx outside Philly and Borgata in AC when I wasn't playing online (thank god it's legal here, fuck Sheldon Adelson - wishing death on decrepit old Jews like Kissinger who have receded into the shadows long after their damage has been done is usually weak shit, but I'd laugh if Adelson caught one in the dome), but I was pretty active in the Central Jersey home game scene. One of my good friends was a home game dealer at the time and started working at this juicy game consisting solely of ex-convicts who met up twice a week to lose their drug money to each other. He'd gotten the gig through a connection with one of the game runners who he'd been selling stolen iPhone parts at Rutgers for and told me to drop by since they were always looking for new players. He said the game was "shady" and told me to bring as little cash as possible as there'd be a non-zero chance I got robbed but gave me no details beyond that.
I show up to the game for the first time, hosted in the upstairs of run-down chiropractic office off Route 1, and "fish out of water" doesn't quite do it justice. I'm a sandy-haired twink, 135 pounds soaking wet, and I waltz into this place where everyone has done 5+ years (verbalized by at least three of them, my friend told me pretty much everyone had a record, usually narcotics charges with some domestic abuse sprinkled in) wearing salmon shorts and a button-down. Still, everyone was very cordial, happy to see a new player. Among the cast of characters playing was one of the hosts, an ex-DI defensive tackle who wore the same barbecue sauce-stained wife beater to every game while draped in what looked like 20 pounds of diamond jewelry and rolled up each night in a different Audi A6. There was also "Shorty", a wicked nice guy who'd been wheelchair-bound for over 20 years after taking 5 shots from a Tec-9 for saving his little cousin from getting his shit pushed in (whenever he was dealt 9 5 in Hold' em, after the hand he'd go "man, '95. The year my daughter was born and the year I got shot." which I got him to elaborate on that first night). There was Bri, a woman in her late 30's with an awful weave who'd lose exactly $300 every game in quick $50 increments, always seething on her bustout hand, cursing out the dealer and occasionally throwing chips at them (didn't know why they let her back every game since she brought so little to the game, but it was a very Snot Boogie-esque moment, if you're into The Wire). The only other white person there outside of my friend was "Big D," a paunchy woman in her 40's who'd gone to jail for beating her cheating husband with a baseball bat (omg queeeeeeen slayyyyyy).
I started going most Wednesdays since the casinos were usually slow that night and the Omaha game they ran was very fat. I didn't speak much, and I was mostly known for being a "serious player" and for my ability to snarf down a penne vodka tray faster than "Big Anthony" despite having the effete physique of a John Singer Sargent portrait subject. One night, I'm a few Millers deep (people tolerate you draining thousands from their game better if you're not stone sober all the time) and they started bumping some tunes, not super common at home games but the host was in the mood for it. As I'm sitting there stimming with my chips, my ears perk up when I hear the ethereal melody of "Life's a Bitch" fade in. As an autistic backpacker proto-fantanofag whose music taste was birthed out of the annals of 2011 /mu/, all those Illmatic verses are practically etched into my hippocampus.
I start mouthing the conversation between Nas and AZ at the beginning, and Shorty sees me as I say "cause we spendin' these Jacksons, the Washingtons go to wifey, you know how that go" and tells the table "yo, look." AZ's legendary verse begins and I drill it. 'Visualizing the realism of life in actuality / fuck who's the baddest, a person's status depend on salary..." and the rest seamlessly leaks out of my grapefruit. The whole room erupts out of bewilderment that this skinny nerd just nailed such an immaculate verse, and they're saying "keep going, keep going" during the chorus. I do a clean run of Nas' oft-overlooked second verse and the host is out of his seat yelling at this point as Olu Dara's cornet gently glides us to the end of the track. He goes "let's see him do another one" and the game is de facto paused at this point (very rare as it stops the collection of rake) and turns on "The World Is Yours," very fitting as the next track on the album.
We collectively sing the chorus and then I'm solo when the first verse hits - "I sip the Dom P watchin' Gandhi 'til I'm charged, then / Writin' in my book of rhymes, all the words past the margin" powerful enough lines to carry me through the rest of it. When we get to the third verse, Shorty notices me skip a word in "I need a new nigga for this black cloud to follow / ‘Cause while it's over me it's too dark to see tomorrow" (Jesus, who hasn't felt that at some point?) and at the end of the track, gets his hand on my shoulder and gives the proclamation "anybody who can spit Nas like that can say nigga." The game restarts and I'm asked for an encore, so I do "N.Y. State of Mind", a fortunate ordering since it has by far the highest n-word density of the three. I briefly stumble over "45’s and gauges, MAC's in fact / Same niggas will catch you back-to-back, snatchin' your cracks and black," a difficult string of exact rhymes, but they're equally impressed. The light-skinned drink runner grabs me another Miller and they transition to listening to All Eyez On Me, disappointed I don't have the same proficiency in Pac.
Stopped going to the game when I went back to school. Hope they're still drinking and throwing cards around, they were some cool people.
TL; DR: I can say the n-word because the Dionysian transcends all cultural boundaries.