#34: Police issues

Ghetto people spend a lot of their days hating, fearing and/or complaining about police.

Now to keep it funky, there’s much grist for the mill of police hatred. A true blue ’bout it, ready-to-set-it police hater would have been a good friend to have in the 50s, when a lot of the police in many cities were racist white Southerners who gave police the reputation they have to this day. A reputation constantly worsened by modern incidents like that one that happened on New Year’s in Oakland, as well as Amadou Diallo and Sean Bell in New York, mishaps with the special needs kid and numerous shootings in Inglewood, the recent endings of chases in El Monte, CA and Birmingham, AL, and so many others, rightfully giving your friendly neighborhood police hater some ammo.

And these incidents need to be bravely challenged, exposed early and often. The police may police us, but we police them too. We give them power.

Generally, however, let’s face it. Your average police hater is the type of cat that loves to do things he frankly shouldn’t be doing. And on top of that, ain’t even doin’ big illegal thangs. Just a loser doing a bunch of petty loser activities wasting time. Many of the police constantly poppin’ them are simply doing their jobs and probably wouldn’t even be interested in said loser’s funky *ss but for whatever law is on the books. Real talk, not that I advocate or condone crime, but if you gon’ hate police, hate them because you have penitentiary chances to take and they’re what’s standing in your way. Hate ‘em for some real sh*t, not because you were dumb enough to blaze and drink in public when you know damn well that’s asking for trouble.

Not all po-pos are the kind bashing in the heads of Black and Latino males who happen to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. While it does go down, to think that is what will happen guaranteed in any encounter with police, and that that is all police are good for, amounts to sensationalism. Of course, you can’t tell many ghetto people NUH-thin’ because they’re convinced it’s crazy sexy cool and politically correct to hate police for livin’. It’s so bad you have some silly bastards who are quick to yell “F.T.P.” at the top of their lungs, but hide the fact that the boys were who they called when the Caprice or their place got broken into. Wild as hell.

Even wilder is that it isn’t like a ghetto person is guaranteed to be shut out from being one. I mean hey, they’re always hiring, it’s a ticket to having one’s sh*t together, and there’s some power to be had in that profession. Street cred, not so much….

Trust, I’m no right wing douchebag who thinks police are all good all the time. Plenty of them are scumbags, and I hate that douchey, bristled mustache a lot of them have. But hating police just because they’re police officers? Even if a relative or good friend happened to be one? Something ain’t right with a person that has that feeling. Those folks are more often than not armed to play themselves right into getting f*cked with by the boys when they really don’t have to (like these idiots here):
Plain and simple, the hood needs to take a holistic approach towards the idea of police and the police need to take a holistic approach towards how they treat the hood. Both need to exercise some empathy and dead the assumption that the other is up to no good at all times, because that assumption has them making asses out of one another.

Speaking of chicken…

Sometimes the hood brings the pain in embarrassing fashion.

Kentucky had a promotion today where they were giving away a piece of their Grilled Chicken in order to jump start people paying for some. So your esteemed author figured to swing over to one after the morning business was wrapped up.

I walk in, there’s a line six deep, and I figured I was gonna need to grab a Snickers as I would be in for a long campaign. But that was the pick-up line. The order line was clear. Cool! So I order a couple of Snackers and ask for a free thigh, pay and wait, figuring things would be straightforward.

Not 60 seconds later, a line snakes in back of me ordering with the rush of someone who’s been smokin’ that water. Should be neither here nor there, one would think. You think?

Five minutes pass, day laborer types were taking back pieces of chicken that were exposed to the dining area, and the workers were putting them right back under the lamps! (Suspect much? They gave those same pieces out to unsuspecting folks in the drive-thru.) Suddenly this furious pack of old ladies and county broads gets worked to a rich lather…and me with my hurt back listening out for the new material.

“Why don’t they just give us the chicken?!?”
“What are y’all doing back there?”
“At another Kentucky, they would just make a box and pass it out!”

All the loudmouth foolishness you can handle in one afternoon.

One woman sees a Latino cat given three sodas and immediately assumes “Look at them, see? They givin’ they people the hook up.”

OK, cut the crap, lady. Are you seriously assuming they would pull something like so blatant? You think Latinos are incapable of ordering and paying for something? Nah, they’re just randomly dropping free Pepsis on their own kind to stick it to you. Gotta love how the racism comes out when folks get angry.

(As I write this, what’s up with Leonardo DiCaprio with a Grambling cap on his head at the Laker game? Plus, Denver whacks New Orleans 121-63. Goddamn Bizarro World in the NBA…but I digress….)

Five more minutes pass and at that point, they were about ready to break out pitch forks and torches. One twentysomething brother (see guy pointing, top pic) finally goes off, rushes the order counter, yelling “F*ck that! I want my money back! F*ck this sh*t!” I had to call him on that, just as I did the aforementioned civil rights activist.

“There’s babies in here, money. Watch your mouth.”

Of course he didn’t care. And neither did the rest of the mob, so wrapped up in needing their chicken fix that all sense of decency went by the boards.

How about going off like this at the city council meeting to get things done? Where’s this anger about the local gang making trouble or about Black-on-Black crime?

But nah, save that anger…for when goddamn chicken isn’t in your hands fast enough. Preying on people that are doing their jobs as fast as they possibly can. At a place you’ll continue to patronize at that. Not to mention being ungrateful for something that’s free and really isn’t that important in the bigger picture.

All seriousness, the hood is at once a beautiful, vibrant place and its own worst enemy.

Bet tomorrow it’ll be like that at El Pollo Loco too.

And the new product? It’s decent, nothing to write home about.

Anyways, any of you experience similar incidents?

#17: Black and Milds by Mr. Focus

Another post by Mr. Focus:

I remember first seeing a friend of a friend puff on one of these dark brown tip cigars in ‘97. He didn’t even seem like the cigar type (at least not the type that wasn’t rolled into a blunt), but he was enjoying it. I had one with a quart of brew (NOT malt liquor!), and while it was decent enough, I didn’t taste or feel where it would spark this explosive appeal that followed.

Out of nowhere, the craze just swept a nation of ghetto people. A smoke that smelled so sweet, yet left its hood users with breath that reeked of pure. D. Doodoo. Plenty of occassions with my boy, I had to pop the Doublemint on him as if it was Wolverine’s claws. Even with that, so many among us, males and females, from ugly to fine, make sure they hit the liq store or the gas station everyday to get it in, to this day! That’s right, Black & Milds.

The average Joe or Jane will chuck a cigarette with the quickness, Same people that will turn up their nose at a square, or even weed, like they’re doing something will run thru these like fried chicken wings at a Home Town Buffet. And go out of their way to keep that Black ready to spark. Keep the plastic wrapper to sheath the Black in like a sword, even though their pocket (or the top of their ears) will be hummin’ from the already burned tobacco. Fiend so hard, these are often smoked right into the plastic tip on the reg. Black and Mild smokers are inhaling plastic smoke!! Might be the next link to autism in some years (save the hate mail).

Some will even put in all this work to “freak” the Black, so that they can take out the layered inner paper (called the “cancer paper”) most cheap cigars have. Yeah, pal, you just saved your life, by putting extreme effort, just a touch of love, into a 75 cent cigar that you inhale like a cigarette. Gotta love purpose-defeating ghetto priorities.

Just like beadies in ‘94, I cram to understand…

#12: Being Part Cherokee by Guest Author Leosha

When a ghetto person starts dating, there is one pivotal question that will make or break their chances of finding a suitor: What you mixed with? The answer to this life altering inquiry is important to both ghetto males and females. If Marquiana emerges from the pool looking like a black flame engulfed her head, or Le’Quan cannot get curls without a box of texturizer and some Soul Glo, the relationship will go downhill. This plagues ghetto people because they do not want their kids to look like extras from Roots.  (Or Celie from The Color Purple.)

That terrifying scenario is the principal reason why ghetto people love to announce to the world that they are part Cherokee.* Even if he or she has no knowledge of their genealogy, or is simply lying, claiming that their great great grandfather was Cherokee will make them appear more datable and exotic. Ghetto people love to feel exotic. Because many people have not even seen an actual Native American before, it is the most easy race to use. The perks are infinite. Suitors will flock and potential baby’s mothers/fathers can rest assured that their future children will probably be cute with “good hair.” Even the least attractive ghetto person can come at least 2 points closer to being a 10, if they say they are part Cherokee.

Another perk that comes along with mixedness? Once the entire hood has been informed, a part Cherokee ghetto person can partake in exclusive activities such as wearing a jet black, bone straight, waist length weave, or adopting a screen name like PokAho69 or mochaHontas10. These actions are only acceptable when a ghetto person says they are part Cherokee.

Although many people really do have a tenth of Cherokee in their blood**, ghetto people will go to great lengths to assert their mixedness. These include, but are not limited to: claiming the texture of their permed/texturized hair is natural, using profuse amounts of ProStyle to achieve the “wet & wavy” look, breaking out childhood photographs and exclaiming “See how long my hair was?”, and the most popular, “My hair fell out because I swam a lot/cut it/got braids.”

Do not assume that only black ghetto people participate in this phenomenon. Numerous other ethnic groups jump onto the bandwagon to appear more exotic as well. In every ghetto, at least 75% of all non-black ghetto people will list five responses i.e. Puerto Rican, Creole, Danish, Namibian, and Martian, to prove their mixedness to potential suitors. If you would like to befriend a ghetto person, start by asking what they are mixed with. They will shine with glee because they love to tell people that they are mixed with any and everything; however, claiming to be part Cherokee is by far the most popular.***

 
*Can be interchanged with any other Native American group
**The Cherokee tribe owned African slaves, just as Europeans did.
***Puerto Rican comes in at a close second