Category Archives: family

#55: Raising bad kids

Something about ghetto people and raising bad *ss kids. Off the hook *ss kids…some with hook heads. Throwing things at the teachers, cussin’ around town, running around the f*ckin’ store treating it like it’s an Olympic track meet where they can win free Kool-Aid for a year. (Who else resists the urge to trip one?) Since when was a Kmart run a day at the park? If the kids need a place to play, take them to Chuck E. Cheese. Repeat, Chuck E. Cheese, not Cheesecake Factory. This author wants to enjoy the herb-crusted salmon in peace.

Is it that being bad as a child is believed to make you tough enough to handle the real world? Is the parent that burnt out to do any serious child rearing (meaning child development in community college was a waste of financial aid and she may as well have taken cosmetology)? Does mama need her Newport or Black & Mild–or blunt–to cope anymore? (Who knows where daddy is–probably ran away because he knew going in it was no use even tryin’.) Ghetto parents let their kids do just off the wall things. As much sugary bullsh*t as they’re allowed to eat, it’s no wonder these kids just go a million miles an hour tearing up toys, knocking down the glass furniture, making a big mess, and making a parent think of selling them on the black market like Shaniya Davis’s mother (never too soon).

And there is no “it takes a village to raise a child,” because ghetto parents ain’t having anyone say sh*t to their precious jewel of a child. No matter what they did. So of course you can forget about a ghetto child knowing the meaning of accountability, because they’ve been taught they’re bigger than society. There should be a law where you’re allowed to intervene under the right conditions and circumstances, allowed one exception a year of “going chimp” on someone when they’re just doing too much at your expense. OK, maybe not go chimp, because that leaves pretty ugly results, but you should be allowed to dish out a good sound beating like Mister once in a while. Or just flick one like Superman did those beer nuts in Superman III.

Nope, can’t go there, times have changed, so you’re just *ss out like we all are. The kids will be bully-footing their schoolmates and everyone else in the vicinity. Girls hella fast getting knocked up at 13, boys will always itch to wanna do some dirt, drinking and smoking way too young, something illegal or else all isn’t right with the world. This is how they get tried as adults. They may as well be the adults because we’ve turned the world over to them, spoil them, let ‘em do whatever the f*ck they want. After all, at the month of this writing, parents ghetto or not ghetto are out breaking themselves to get their kids the latest expensive gadget or a jacket they’ll get too fat for in a few weeks or a toy they won’t give a sh*t about by MLK’s birthday, all for the sake of holiday spirit. Rewards their ADD-having behinds won’t appreciate because they weren’t taught to.

The babies are not the greatest because instead of teaching them to be, we’re teaching them they already are…and getting results like every douche on My Super Sweet Sixteen.

This could go a billion directions…so could ghetto kids if this author had a 32 oz. Louisville Slugger at his disposal.

#49: Loving Mom and hating Dad

lovemomshatepopsLet this author frame the following for you in a way that ghetto folks understand.

In the hood, the boys are known to go back and forth with really incendiary jokes about their opponent’s relatives. Ghetto people all know (or at least are convinced) they pops ain’t sh*t, so baggin’ on dads doesn’t rate because it ain’t that effective. But baggin’ on moms is where you can get some laughs and do some real damage. Those sessions get charged like hemi Dodges.

Not to mention note the difference in attendance at buffet restaurants close to the hood for the Champagne brunch on the second Sunday in May versus the third Sunday in June. If pops is there on Father’s Day, it’s likely he’s paying his and everyone else’s way. Whereas moms on Mother’s Day probably has a brand new Lexus with that douchey red bow on top in the parking lot when she comes back out…with an LCD TV, Coach bag, shoes from Aldo, and that damn basket gift wrapped in the trunk! All of this chipped in for by her doting offspring, as if she made them by all by herself.

It’s just something about mothers with ghetto people. They can do ZERO wrong in one’s eyes. Have kids with mad multiple different dudes (that their man-sweatin’ *sses give priority over said children), end up in prison on credit card scams (even ruining their own kids credit so they can’t finance a car or house in the future), beg for help from the kids the rest of their triflin’ lives using the “dirty diapers” trump card for pacification, and be an otherwise complete bastard to them…and they still hold momdukes on a pedestal.

Pops could give a kid a little less money than he was able to earn that week, and he’s the worst! Person! In the worrrrrrrrld! Ghetto people have daddy issues arguably worse than they do police issues. Yeah, we all know of the deadbeat dudes who only care about chasing new draws and bolt at the first sign that old girl is with child. But ghetto society got so jaded from even hearing about those guys that dudes that are out to do right can’t catch a break. Can’t win custody in court or nothin’…even when the punk *ss mama is literally a meth and crack addict on the stroll 16 hours a day.

And you wonder why muthaf*ckas wanna get married less and less each passing year…

#40: 24/7 Alcoholism

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You know how you see somebody and you just KNOW they been drekkin’? You know know how you SMELL somebody and you just know they been drekkin’?

Times ain’t that hard and it ain’t always a party. It is ghetto to be drinking, drunk, or have liquor breath if you’re not painting the town red, watching the game, doing champagne brunch, in the studio or casino, chilling with some skins, or simply meditating by self-medicating at the end a long hard day. There’s a time and a place for getting it in, and until then, gotta be about that self-control.

Something ain’t right about the cat having the alcohol dragon behind you in the checkout at the supermarket…at 9 in the frickin’ morning. Something ain’t right if you’re drinking before driving the kids to school, then having them drive you to the store to reload the clip on the way home so you don’t catch a DUI rap. Dude tryna mack up a freak at the bus stop when his eyes are dim and watery should be shot down by her. And ladies, y’all are douchebags if you’re drinking between the invite over a man’s rest and your arrival, then having the nerve to demand respect when you don’t respect yourself or him enough to come correct with the presentation. theseeyes

This author sees you who was invited to hang out, got in the car immmediately fiending for a drink way too early in the day, and when the decision is made to play along, cop some drink and make lemons into the lemonade of laughs, you pass on sharing brew, wine, even Hennessy, in favor of satisfying your suspect Cisco fetish. Cisco, known to the hood faithful as crack juice! Your flipping the script and suddenly needing a drop-off immediately afterward to go babysit your friend’s child was addition by subtraction.

Matter of fact, calling these drinking situations ghetto is an insult to the term “ghetto.” Nah, it’s just flat out trifling.

And I don’t buy that one is expanding his mind when he’s doing dummy moves to begin with (the drink of choice being Thunderbird spiked with a Kool-Aid packet doesn’t help his case). That person is just bad at life. May as well smoke crill.

Author’s note: This entry coming up as #40 was purely coincidental….or not.

#39: The 4th of July

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Those who know the hood well know ghetto people get up for July 4th.

Why is July 4th so special? For patriotic reasons? Probably not (unless a family member’s in the military). Not many in the hood really care to appropriate the idea of Independence Day. But hey, why not enjoy the day off, and the excuse to get up with good people?

But again, why is July 4th so special? One can barbecue or grill on Memorial Day and Labor Day weekends just fine…or any day in the summer.

So why is July 4th so special to ghetto people?

FIREWORKS.PIC-0211

The whole damn week leading to July 4th, the hood is awash with the report of shock and awe inducing illegal fireworks. There’s always that guy that has the M80s and cherry bombs and bottle rockets on deck, and ghetto people find that guy and get that hook-up.

Because safe and sane stuff like cone fountains and Piccolo Petes just don’t cut it. City ordinances are worth scoffing at since the police basically WILL look the other way (not hating, just telling the real). So those illegal fireworks are getting lit and put in the air like spliffs. It’s not a celebrashonnnnnn without ‘em!

And the culmination on the night of the 4th (when everyone exhausts their stash and drivers have to swerve out of the way of fireworks in the middle of the street like mines) is like a day in Afghanistan. Literally for some, because there will be likely gunfire in the mix too (not like New Year’s, but it happens).

Author’s note: Yeah, the holiday just passed over the weekend, but the relevance was too much to wait till next year for.

#37: Naming kids after products

bentleyYou can tell who the clubhoppers and carhoppers were by the names their kids have.

Lexus. Alize. Remy (on a girl). Mercedes is a traditional name, but ghetto folks think of the car brand. Same inspiration behind Porscha, derived from when folks would pronounce the car company Porsche like Portia (of Julius Caesar and Ellen’s wifey fame). It’s a surprise no one has seriously named a child Cadillac or Hpnotiq.

Girls tend to be the victims of such names and are doomed to be turned down out of hand for legit gigs and forced onto the stripper pole or into the porno industry, with the only bright side being no need to invent a handle.

The comedian Renee Hicks once clowned the mentality behind it with the example of a then-popular Volkswagen slogan. “Fahrvergnugen…that’s a pretty name. Fahrvergnugen Rashawn Johnson!”

There’s nothing pretty, classy, or exotic about it at all. Chlamydia sounds exotic too but should it be a baby name? Waaaaait a minute!

And A-list celebrities aren’t much better in this regard either. Gwyneth Paltrow and Coldplay’s Chris Martin named their daughter Apple. They must have laughs about it in retrospect. Apple Martin? Imagine the Spanish pronunciation of the last name. Musician Frank Zappa named a child Moon Unit…sounds like the shape of a deuce dropped in the toilet.

Far be it from this author to tell parents what to name their children, or to discourage originality with the snobbery of the corporate world in mind, but how much foresight blurring does it take to sign these names onto the birth certificate? It’s like my rule on tattoos: will whatever you get etched into your body at 20 represent you at 60? If not, you the responsible party get the punishment you deserve.

For example, the guy who had his love of watching ESPN in mind when he named his son needs to be drawn and quartered by his head, arms and balls.

#29: Special occasion corner vending

PIC-0131We all know the hood loves hustling…and we all know the hood loves hustlers.  This might be what allows a certain breed of hustlers to turn on a dime.  A brother once told this author that hustling is about finding what the people want or need and providing it for them.

Easily this is what’s going on when those damn tents get set up on every block during weekends, holidays, big concerts, event sports, and such.  Team car flags, the bootleg T-shirt of the month with the name of the ghetto hit song on the front, weird throw rugs, umbrellas when it rains, what have you.  Back after the September 11th attacks happened, these folks were literally on it the very next day with American flags.  One would swear there’s an all-purpose corner hustle warehouse all the street vendors converge on where the aforementioned is available along with the usual oils, incense, and fake Jordans.

I even once saw this Mexican cat selling boxing and martial arts equipment (because ya never know when someone passing by was thinking of training with a heavy bag for their living room).  As said in a past post, it’s a bazaar every single day in the hood.

But by far this author’s favorite is when the people pop up with them funky *ss gift baskets (AKA ghetto grab bags).  Without fail, every Valentine’s, Easter, Father’s Day, and especially Mother’s Day weekend, there they are…sometimes one on all four corners of an intersection.

PIC-0132And what’s in these baskets?  Myriad bullsh*t, basically.  One could probably slap together baskets with Smarties left over from Halloween, used panties, a jar of styling gel, dried-out incense, old condoms they got from the free clinic, bootleg DVDs they’re done watching, a pair of earrings that gave their previous owner keloids in her nose (!), and a stuck-together copy of King magazine, with a bed of dead grass clipped from their front yard, wrapped up in a see-thru trash bag and make a killing.

Since no two are alike, surely there’s some ghetto woman tacky enough to have a basket collection in her house akin to some nerdy fanboy who collects Transformers. Probably wants the hypothetical gift basket I just described.  And some shrew(d) of a hustler was just given the idea to sell it to her.

Hell, there’s probably some cornball parent who bought one to stash away for the daughter’s prom gift…

#26: Jesus

jesus_fingerYou need Jesus.

According to the average ghetto person, we all need Jesus.

Ghetto people LOVE to evoke Jesus.

If a ghetto person graduates, eats food, gets some skins, their team wins a title, just bought a new car, finds out he’s not the father, and so on and so on and so on…they’re thanking Jesus as if they just grew a Rams jersey and quantum leaped into Kurt Warner’s body.

All the good in a ghetto person’s life wasn’t just how things happened to shake out, wasn’t even by their own design. Nope, Jesus had something to do with it…he pulled the trigger on it, goddammit, and there’s no point in arguing with one who’s convinced, because they’ll likely cut you! They ride for Jesus like Crips, Bloods, Folks, and Peoples ride for the set.

That’s what’s up. It’s like riding for the local gang because it’s the safe bet. It’s traditionnnnnn….TRADITION! The whole block goes to the same church. Mama and Grandma raise the babies with guns to their head in their house of the Lawd to make dead sure that to Jesus goes the glory (but all things bad are their own fault, go figure). The offspring play along lest they end up “on punishment” (the hood term for “grounded”), beat with Hot Wheels tracks, or kicked out of the house. And once they come into their own, they generally embrace Jesus, due in no small part to such immersion.

Never mind that a lot of Christian teachings aren’t even really adhered to (“What do you mean don’t eat pork?!? I ain’t Moooooze-lum!”). Never mind that most aren’t that religious in daily life and only go to the “good Christian” card when it’s convenient (e.g. the one who pays the bills is in the hospital, or the jury is deliberating the verdict). Jesus is their homeboy when it’s time for him to be…and he’s not here to defend himelf, so they get away with using his name in vain.

This was written on a Sunday, the day after many church goers just finished a good six days of sin, capped by a wild night at the bar, rent money spent on drinks, glittery tiddys* out, and the whole shot.
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Disclaimer: Not written to take a position on religion…gotta disclaim this lest this author incur of the wrath of the likes of this guy:
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*spelling on purpose