Okay, White people, this is a Public service announcement:
Raise your kids!!!
Wait, I may have been a bit vague. Let me restate:
White people, BEAT—YOUR—KIDS!!!
BEAT ‘EM!!!
Ahhhhhhhh!
Got that off my chest!
Some of you White people ought to be ashamed. Unruly, whiny White kids are one of my pet peeves.
Black kids, too, but that’s another topic.
Hood-rat-lettes make me want to believe in retroactive abortion. Wait until they’re about eleven years old, twelve, maybe. Give ‘em a chance to see if they gonna amount to anything. If so, fine, let ‘em stay.
If not…?
Take ‘em to the clinic. Tell ‘em they going to their Maw-Maw’s house, and drop ‘em off…….
“…Ray-Ray, if you don’t keep yo’ sticky-azz fangers outta my purse I swear, yo’ azz goin’ to the clinic! You aint made twelve yet! I’ll drop yo’ azz off in a heartbeat, you think I’m playin’? Stick a needle in yo’ azz, you’ll quit that schit, I bet!”
I was in Dollar Tree the other day, minding my own business, looking for some masculine products, you know, rim cleaner, tire black, clear coat wax…
Huh?
Hey, if you can say “feminine products,” I can say “masculine products.”
And I can use my stuff outside, you gotta sneak in the bathroom to use your schit, so be quiet!
Unless you want to trade off?
I wash yours, you wash mine…
I thought so! Now hush!
Anyway, (before I was so rudely interrupted), I’m walking in Dollar Tree, and suddenly I hear behind me, “Mommmmm—yyyyyyyy!!! I want a tooooyyyyyeeeeee!!!”
I turned, and, sure enough, a 5-year old White kid was pointing at some G.I. Joe-like toy that me and his momma both knew wouldn’t last 12 hours in his little masochistic hands, but, hey, it’s Dollar Tree.
Everything’s a dollar there.
Even a 5-year old White kid’s satisfaction and the resulting silence that, theoretically, was supposed to follow. So, she grabs it.
“Here,” she says, relieved that this whole episode was so easily resolved.
But, noooooo…..
“Mommmmmm—yyyyyy!!! Not thaaaaaaat oooonnneeee!!! Thiiiiissssssss one!”
“Grrrrr,” I said, to nobody in general.
The mother looked up at me, with Look # 77, I’m-A-White-Girl…Interested???
I responded with Look #15, You, Madame, Do Not Exist.
She smiled, and I knew I had to change aisles. Besides, Little White Kid wasn’t through just yet. “MOMM-MEEEEE! I SAID I WANT THISSSSSS ONNNEEEE!” he wailed.
It was time to move, before she could—
“Mister, can you reach that one?” she asked. “You know how children are,” she said brightly.
I gritted my teeth, and grabbed the little G.I. Joe off of the upper shelf.
“Not that one, Mister, that one!” He pointed.
“Kid,” I growled, “If you know like I know, you’ll take this one, and like it,” I said, giving him Look # 2, Don’t Push it, Little Bastid.
He opened his mouth to answer, but I growled, deeper this time, and he shut it.
“Take his azz to the check-out,” I said menacingly, in my best Shaft Just Left Africa, And He’s Highly Pissed Off voice, “and take him home and train him before you bring him back. Because if I ever hear him in this store again,“ I leaned closer, “I’m gonna eat him for breakfast, y’hear? Believe dat!”
“Oh!” she said, and grabbed his hand. “Come on, Trevor, let’s go!” She sprinted off, with him in tow, yelling, “Mommieeeee! He’s gonna eeeeeeeeeeaaaaaat meeeeee?”
I came to the check-out line, and noted with satisfaction the wide eyes of the clerk, a good-looking sister with dookie braids. “That was you who ran ‘em off?” she asked.
“Yep,” I answered proudly.
“I got three kids need man trainin’,” she said. “Interested?”
“Better call their pa,” I answered. “I done raised mine.”
She tore my receipt off, and scribbled her number on it. “Call me,” she said with a wink. I walked back to my truck, and handed my wife the receipt. “Your cousin said to call her when you get home,” I said.
Like I said, I raised mine….
Ha!
African-American Culture 101 