Think of it like this… those “wanna-geez” are going to have severe health problems in about twenty years or so.
For tha boyz: they will have no hearing due to their pumping SUV (or ghettoed-out Pinto) bass. Also, I think their hormones might be a little feminine after the exposure of the loud, thumping bass. It’s been proven that testosterone uptake increases around bass sounds, so I would venture humour in stating that the “boyz-in-the-hood” might run out of said hormone. Also, I am confident that the “gangstas” will “end up with a cap in they ass” due to the simple fact that running away with pants sagging in way of their legs in a pitiful attempt to gain respect where they’ve already displayed a lack thereof–they will fall flat on their flat-headed Neanderthal foreheads as a result. At an intersection with bass that rattles MY car, I will normally stick my hand out the window with the signature thumb and index finger expressing their one-inch length that they are lacking indeed. Those initiated into my finger actions (that do not display my 1 point I.Q. like I usually receive from “Wanna-Geez”), usually end up telling said “G” that he does in fact, have a one-inch penis. We must remember that due to the sloping shoulders and struts that so remind me so well of gorillas dragging their knuckles, consequential back and feet problems will occur! I am confident that many chiropractors and podiatrists will have a market in twenty years because these “burb-geez” wear shoes that are too big. Once again, it’s another attempt to show how big “they are” are in a very fixated attempt that has no basis in fact. For tha chickenheads: just stop. I can expect such behaviour from men as we’re generally territorial in thinking we have something to prove, but ladies… please.
Here’s my story:
I come from places that people have only begun to “style.” I respect the originator of the thread; I lived a bit in Flatbush and on the freeway side of the 101 in the City of Angels. Angels are in plenty in those towns. You have to watch your back in any city with desperate people wanting to feed themselves and their kids. What kind of Angels am I talking about you may ask… the ones that will kill you. I don’t laugh at these boys and girls that walk the streets out of sheer humour; I pity them. I grew up in those places and seeing people who use it as a lifestyle make their own chaos. It’s teenage angst at its best in these suburbs or these neighborhoods across the tracks. In cities like my current one, there are many places to work and get a better place of your own. What do these idiots do? They walk around my university and ask for MY money. I keep thinking that maybe I should go around to the local schools and talk to students who think it is cool to act “like a gangsta.” There is only one word from my time that I would love to scream at the majority of these fools: POSER! I have two scars under my eyes given to me from the East Side and the West Side… a knife fight gave those to me, ladies and gentlemen. I will always remember how I got them. It’s tough in a lot of areas, but many times, those posers don’t realize that it’s tougher elsewhere and they can get out of their situation like I did. With teenage angst and hormones, my words fall on deaf ears. Even in my former angst, I never thought I would consider educating these idiots. I thought they all deserved being killed off by their own. The street will teach you one of two things: how to get out or you get killed trying to get out. It’s street justice and it isn’t fair; however, you learn how to survive in a world that is already prepared for war at any moment. I hate the wars that we cause ourselves on the inner turmoil that causes us to have that rough rite of passage, and there certainly is no excuse for taking it out on others. I lost my people in my time because of pride. I often wonder what happened to them after I left, but I continue knowing that I can do better.
I was waiting for someone to challenge Happy’s assertion that he himself was tough. I was thinking it myself, until his line about working his ass off to get out of the ghetto. That I can relate to.
My black sheep older brother has
a. Shotgunned a rival into a colostomy bag for the rest of his life.
b. spent most of his teen years in juvie.
c. spent much of his twenties in county.
d. taken a bullet to the head that is still lodged in his skull (Thank God for Jheri Curls, I guess).
He dresses like an old man. Lots of loose fitting, comfortable clothing. T-shirts, jeans, workboots. Nary a brand name in sight. Completely innocuous, except for his 6’3", 320 lb pound frame. This is a bad man, in every sense of the word. The migraines at the slightest barometric pressure change. The bad knees from years of running on pavement. The hope that the metal in his head will someday move far enough from his brain that it may be surgically removed without harm. The fact that he will probably never be a productive member of society, all because of his ‘cool’ actions. This is what tough is. This is what tough becomes.
Not some kid afraid to get dirt on his $250 replica jersey.
** Gnomin ** and ** Myth ** have it exactly right. Nobody who has actually stepped in shit is anxious to broadcast it to the world.
Now, I don’t have any stories like theirs. That doesn’t make me less tough, it makes me more lucky.
I lived in a box of a room big enough for my twin bed and little else in a house right off Crescent Avenue in the Bronx. I commuted to Jackson Heights, Queens every day to pack books into boxes because it was the only job I could get, unless I could pick up a shift here or there working the door or cleaning up a local bar. I kept the two pairs of jeans and few shirts I owned as clean as I could so I could feel productive at work. Sometimes, walking home, I had to fight to keep whatever of the $220.00 I made weekly that happened to be in my pocket. Sometimes I got to keep my money and sometimes I didn’t. But instead of buying into some dumbass escalating-violence mindset, I figured that the best way to keep my money and my physical well-being would be to get another job and get my happy scrappy ass outta Dodge. Which I eventually did.
I also lived in a five-bedroom house with twenty other guys right off Governor Nicholls (on the unhappy side of St. Claude) In New Orleans. We got paid crap, we got paid biweekly, and sometimes the paychecks didn’t come on time. So I suppose I could have hit someone dressed nicer than me over the head with something heavy, but I didn’t. I moved back north and forced my way into the genteel workforce.
Is it the stuff of legend? Hell no. It happens all the damn time. It would make a piss-poor rap record. But I’m not selling my image to anyone. Anyone stupid enough to buy my image is welcome to have it for free.
It just really gets under my skin when some numskull falls asleep in front of MTV and wakes up with the urge to put on a costume and run outside wearing a big, baggy, “look-at-me-I’m-HARD” billboard.
Snap out of it, clown-shoes. Anyone that you run into in the neighborhood from which you pretend to be whould knock you out and strip you naked. To get the blingin’ outfit? Sweet fuck, no. To sell it for money to buy something legitimate, like milk and bread.
You are being worshipped from afar. Gnomin feels so incredibly validated right now. He’s dancing around in glee. He also knows exactly where you used to live since he used to live in Brooklyn (and Orange, NJ). As for me, I am a humble country SpazCat who knows nothing of your city ways.
I hope all those diaper-pantsed wanna-g’s trip over their own garments. In front of a big crowd of their peeps.
LOL, you’re welcome, I also liked the mental image someone else gave of them gathering their baggie pants, like ladies in full hoops of days gone by, and running from a small dog.
No kidding. I saw one today that sat me down in my bus laughing so hard. He had on a tank top, off white pants rolled up to the knees, knee high black socks (pulled all the way up) and sneakers. He was just a struttin down the street flashin his fingers at his buddies. Maybe the idea is that he can beat the shit outta me while I a rolling on the ground laughing!
