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Speculation behind Logic’s logistical phrase, “Like Woah…” is controversial at the water-cooler. Questioning his motive and instant gratification is unknownst to the world, until today! I spoke with hooligans, revolutionists, liberals, and idealists about this crucial topic. What makes you go, like woah?
Kay “The Developer” Pitt
I sat at a picnic table at my local brewery, enjoying time with family, friends, and my lager. A gust of wind blew throughout the establishment. I turned my head 40 degrees to my right to catch the cool air in my greasy beard. That’s when I saw it…
A couple, both in their let sixties, sharing a small table together and some brews. The older gent put his feet up on another chair, almost as if he was sunbathing outside. He was pulling out a pair of Apple headphones, and plugging them into his tablet. I caught him turning on a show for his viewing pleasure.
Across the table, his wife, mesmerized by her MacBook Pro. She had a pair of headphones created by that Dre fellow while typing away. The old woman nearly caught me starring as I said aloud: “Like woah!”
Cobin “Lucky” Lue
“Like woah!” The first thought that popped in my head when I saw this honey downtown. She had curves that would make doves weep, a doberman’s jaw drop, a cultist reconsider their idol. This ultra-fine lady is similar to that meter-maid. You know the one; Rita!
Before I knew it, my heart skipped every third beat, sweat started piercing my chest, and the hairs on my neck had a mind of their own. Luckily, nothing stirred below, nudge nudge, but my romantic instincts were kicking.
I’d take her to the park, make us a picnic featuring wine, exotic cheeses, expensive water table crackers; the whole 9 with everything on the line. My hand would inch closer to hers, and the first touch would be magical. Fireworks go off, fireflies circle around us, and then…
“Hello? Yeah, like woah, man! All I know is she was a dime piece with pie on the side. Nah man, I love food puns!” Sorry to cut this short, I have to go.
Tina “Bee” Hive
Remember the old bathrooms in middle school? The sink was just one giant oval with faucets all around. It always reminded me of the bathroom scene in Harry Potter, except this ghost haunts my life until this day.
It was last period, and I needed to use the restroom like no other. From the hallway, I smelled a strange scent. It made me cough, but I didn’t think any of it. I opened the door to the bathroom and see smoke. Instantly, I thought the bathroom was on fire, until a girl two grades older pushed me into the bathroom.
I’d never seen this girl before, and yet, I felt comfortable being pushed around. She yelled, “I brought the snacks! Now, who’s got the blunt.” “Blunt, oh shit!” I thought aloud, yet everyone heard me. The other four girls turned my way. Their eyes pierced my soul, the peer-pressure was real. All I wanted to do was go to the restroom, yet they had other intentions.
The smallest of the bunch comfortably says, “Ey Mami, here it is. However, we have a guest. Maybe she should take a hit. You are already in the thick.” My eyes jump around from girl to girl. All of them were motionless, emotionless, ready to pounce at my next move. Their bloodshot eyes scared me, but their demeanor appeased me.
In one of the stalls, I heard moaning. My ears rang with excitement and I didn’t know why. The oldest with the snacks takes the blunt, one deep puff, and holds it to the side; she reminded me of James Dean. She looked as if she was going to blow it in my face. We were face to face, her cheeks were red, and before I knew it, she blew smoke to the left of my ear. I felt aroused by the passing smoke, warming the side of my face.
“Nah, she’s good,” and the girl gave it to the next in line. She winked at me, and I blushed. I go to the restroom, the moaning was still relentless, and that’s when I knew I’d want to be with another woman for the rest of my life; like woah.
Devon “Rain” Mahn
Rain. Coming from all directions. Barely visible outside. Radio breaking up. The AM mentioned a tornado touched a few towns over. The drive is slow. I see hazards everywhere. People stopped. Waiting for it to pass. I continue forward.
A brief moment with zero rain. The clouds overhead moved fast. “Was this the end,” I thought. I saw birds. Flying backwards. The wind was over 50 kph. I could see the sun. In the distance. My mind waves to the birds. Urging them to be careful. I see a line of cars. Stopped. What was going on?
I get out of my truck. I run to a vehicle. Barefoot. I don’t wear shoes when I drive. I ask around what happened. Still running. Someone yelled an obscenity. My long hair was grungy. I could barely see. The hazards directed me. I found a toppled RV. Nearly one kilometer from me.
I arrive. The RV is on its right side. Glass everywhere. The top peeled back. It looked like it was thrown to the ground. There are three people. Waiting outside the RV. Crying. The mother tried to climb the RV. I pull her down without saying a word. Gas was spilling. Smoke clouds were rising. The rain picked back up.
I see the father. His leg was mangled. Tangled in the seat belt. His upper half was in the passenger side. Unconscious. Blood dripping down his nose. I try to unbuckle him. Carefully holding him up. I don’t want him to fall on glass shards. No use. The belt was stuck. Smoke began to thicken.
I needed a knife. The father wore a camo hat. It was thrown towards the bathroom. Sideways. I felt around his belt and pockets. He had to have a knife. Found one. I start cutting the belt. Carefully. Grab him around his pudgy belly. The knife breaks the belt. He weighed nearly two thirty. I pulled him up onto the side of RV where I came in. I heard his wife yell for joy. I was not done.
His mangled leg was tied up. The seat belt and shrapnel wouldn’t let go. I reach in the glove compartment. I find a pen. I go to the outside. I place it in his mouth to bite down. I hear yelling outside. The fire was getting bigger. The car rumbles. The wife climbed to the side. She understood what the pen was for. She held it in place.
I go to the father’s leg. I break it in two places. The ankle first. The father yells. He nearly broke the pen. Passes out instantly. I cut the piece of belt wrapped around his ankle. His leg pointed the wrong way. I placed it correctly. His knee popped loud. The kids yelled. They heard the pop. The father yells once more. The pen is no more. I finish cutting.
I push the father through the window. The wife helped him to the ground. The thud sounded brutal. The fire was spreading in the cabin. I climb out the window. I see sirens. I pass out. I wake up in the hospital. Surrounded by my new family. Like woah.
I hoped you enjoyed my fictional pieces that give different outlooks on the phrase, “Like woah.” This is easily my favorite song by Logic that speaks volumes to me, literally and metaphorically. It has the upbeat tempo, a witty lyrical flow unmatched by other artists, and a creative use of instrumentation.
The multiple meanings of “Like woah” is what I love about the phrase. This vagueness may not be enjoyed by everyone, but it’s a plague I know all too well with my own writing. This wonderful phrase can mean whatever you’d like; it’s up for interpretation. I like to interpret this phrase as a daily sediment for life. This phrase is an emotional rollercoaster that can be described as speechless, but with two words: Like woah.
To close this, please take a look at Logic’s short documentary that gives a glimpse into his genius.