Nothing makes a ghetto person feel better than seeing someone with a worse situation. Why else do you think daytime talk and judge shows get such great ratings on the Fox, CW, and MyNetworkTV affiliates of the world?
When we heard that a woman gave birth to octuplets, surely we figured it was gonna be some brand new Jon and Kate + 8 situation. But oh, WERE WE IN FOR A LOVELY SURPRISE A WEEK LATER! Details come fast and furious of how trife the whole thing reeeeeeally was! And you know it’s all bad when your own mama is selling you down the river to reporters.
Damn woman already had six other kids, all under 8. Dashiki from Don’t Be A Menace come to life. And where was the father? WHERE WAS THE FATHER? The woman is bone single. No job. Living at home. Obsessed with poppin’ out babies (but apparently not raising the ones she already got…just like ghetto people when you think about it, wanting new toys because the old ones are played out). And greedy too, because she wanted ALLLLL the embryos dropped into her…waaaaait a minute! Yes. 14 kids. To a single, jobless woman. All from frozen embryos. Test tube babies. Their future classmates would have a field day in Robin Harris’s time.
Where did the money come from to do all this? Did she save up all the tooth fairy change from each of her kids already around?
She says she knows she’ll be able to take care of them soon as she finishes school. Word, really? Way to go, you ambitious little scamp! Need I remind you that you have 14 kids, not 14 junk cars you want to overhaul. Children require immediacy of income. But what is she doing right now? Chasing her 15 minutes of fame. Doin’ the interview thang in front of the camera, pallin’ around with Ann Curry and them. Yet she says she doesn’t want to exploit her children by doing a reality show. Hmmm, then why do the national television interview, genius? Talk about a brain in search of a clue. This from a woman who studied to be a psychiatric technician.
And the press dubbed her “Octo-Mom.” Surely that’s based on the fact her lips look like suction cups (Angelina Jolie indeed…Angelyne that drives the pink Corvette in Hollywood looks better than her). Nadya Suleman is the joke that writes itself.
She even gets death threats. We all know the single motherhood epidemic pisses people off, but never to the point we wanted to have one whacked. Maybe those people are who she got the fertility clinic money from?
Suddenly Laquita with four kids from five different dudes doesn’t feel as bad, even though she has to move every year once one of her kids breaks something in the apartment or does that naughty thing to their classmate at school. Compared to Our Miss Suleman, ghetto single moms are living the charmed life. Won’t have to drive a 15-passenger ex-probation department community service van the next 18 years. Maury and Judge Hatchett couldn’t provide better reassurance than that.
Posted in celebrity, family, ghetto, humor, in the news, people, society and community
Tagged babies, crazy, fame, mama, mother, Nadya Suleman, octuplets, pregnant, single
You hear it by every liquor store, every check cashing place, every chicken-and-chinese stand.
“Got them CDs, got them DVDs.”
The bootleg man got you when no one else does. Need that new Makaveli? It’s on deck. A fresh replacement copy of Soul Plane? It’s on deck. If it’s directed by Tyler Perry, starring Cube, or featuring T.I. or Cassie on the soundtrack, it’s on deck with the bootleg man.
Or there’s that other guy with the Econoline doors propped open….
“I got that Ed Hardy, that True Religion, that Prada…”
Don’t forget that crackhead who is a better salesman of furniture than anyone who ever worked for Levitz or Wickes. He also got those registration tags for your whip.
It’s a bazaar every single day in the hood. Whatever you want, for a limited time only, it’s yours if you think the price is right.
The guys that have all this fraudulent crap wouldn’t put in the work if it wasn’t so lucrative. Wouldn’t take the time to get that illicit editor’s copy, or sneak the video camera into the advanced screening, or buy in bulk from that warehouse…or ransack your neighbor’s property! Because somebody in the hood will take a flier on it. (And contribute to hood squalor in the process…but we know that don’t matter!)
Suckers and others line up to make sure they got the latest flick they ain’t tryna see in the theatre (more often than not a Black one) supporting piracy, and taking dollars away from the entertainers they obviously love enough to buy something featuring them in it, missing material and crappy sound and/or picture be damned. And we all know it’s the pits not being dipped, so ghetto corner-cutters would rather cut to the corner to have what they need to floss like a boss at the club on Friday (and drink real drinks, go figure) instead of recycling Black dollars a better way by supporting the store down the block that really needs the customers.
Keep this in mind when the “For Lease” sign goes up a week after the one that reads “Going Out Of Business.” Or your favorite entertainer is no longer a bankable star. Could have gone the extra mile and waited just a little bit longer for that legit product. But ghetto people don’t often worry about legit. No. They care about being up on the latest for as low a price as possible. Remember this when you see a fairly crispy pair of late-model Jordans on someone’s feet in colors you don’t remember Nike making, or the Lex on D’s you know damn well Pooky can’t afford. When they say they got the hookup, look for the fingers crossed behind their back! Or look for the smoker they got that deal on the Rolex from (then you’ll know who to blame for the receiving stolen property charges).
Posted in community, fashion, ghetto, life, money and economics, street
Tagged bootleg, CD, cheap, crackhead, DVD, fake, hip-hop, hood, hustling, liquor store, movies, rap, smoker
The heartbeat of hood America.
You’ll find ’em at lowrider shows, at sideshows, on street blocks, on cinder blocks, in front yards and impound yards.
Think of some of your favorite rap songs. Yung Joc letting it be known the Chevy has the butterfly doors. South Central putting Ice Cube to the test with 4 brothers in an SS. Tum Tum doing line dances with his crew as a tribute to the Caprice. These songs are art imitating life, because the hood luh dem some Chevrolets…the bigger, the V-8ier, the better!
Ghetto folks have a voracious appetite for GMs in general: Caddys, Regals, Cultlasses, you name it…but they salivate for the bowtie. Cheap to acquire, easy to find parts for (sometimes stolen), one is instantly official and ready to terrorize the strip. Do violent-sounding donuts against oncoming traffic to his heart’s content in the Camaro. Load up three or more deep for a smokeout in the illegally tinted Impala. Lean the Monte Carlo seat back too far for his own good. Run red lights at will like a bully in the Suburban. Let’s not even get started on El Caminos. Any highway douchebaggery you can think of, chances are any Chevrolet you bump into has logged a mile or two committing such an act.
Even if it’s ratty to death, the savvy (would-be) parking lot pimp can simply pretend it’s under construction. “Don’t worry, baby, the candy paint, dubs/Daytons/IROCs, Flowmasters, and sounds are forthcoming!” This big hoop dream of an investment on a hooptie nightmare of a throwaway, money pit Celebrity or Lumina that probably cost all of 400 bucks, crummy four-cylinder, flood damage, and all. The ultimate bucket. And you can’t tell them NUH-thin’!
What keeps ghetto twentysomethings lining up to get a piece of the action when that Chevy is likely to get them pulled over on numerous DWB raps? Ready to lift them on rims that are way too big down South or slam them with hydraulics on rims that are way too small in California? One wonders what the electric appeal could possibly stem from. Maybe it’s the pair of balls they never grew up with…who knows.
Posted in cars, community, gangsta, ghetto, life, society and community, street cred
Tagged box, bubble, cars, Chevy, donk, hood
Ghetto people have been enjoying ribs for many years. With its succulent and sweet sauce and its ability to make one tired from eating them, no wonder it’s been a popular (if not most popular) food of choice for Ghetto folks from coast to coast.
Whether it’s at a neighborhood block party, or at the local Applebee’s, Ghetto people have been ordering up the fare with reckless abandon. While there are two different animals that provide ribs (cow and pig) make no mistake the Ghetto folk never hesitate to take the pork over the beef.
As an added bonus, after the Ghetto person sucks off the sauce he or she can then fashion the seemingly useless bone into a shank or shiv, a perfect weapon for the upcoming domestic dispute with their baby mama, or perhaps in a prison brawl which will surely be in a Ghetto person’s future.
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…
Okay people here is the deal. Several folks have contacted me about taking over the website. Since I can’t decide who I want to take over the website, I will post the entries as they come. Based on the responses I will decide which person gets to take over the website. Enjoy this entry by Mr. Focus!
Let’s be honest: Tupac is the Elvis Presley for ghetto people.
Why? The man is dead as dead could be, but there are folks who pray to a Tupac altar in their house every day, keep an airbrushed shirt on their back, and look for all the subliminal instructions he left for them in his music as they wait with bated breath for Makaveli 10 to hit the bootleg man’s stock. Tupac is the rap Jesus ghetto people needed.
Once a conscious rapper of sorts, debuting with Digital Underground as a dancer, then rapping in African garb, Tupac Shakur morphed slowly but surely into the embodiment of all things hood. Tattoos in places that will have you rejected at job interviews. Wearing wifebeaters all the time with a bandana tied just so up front and the mustache lined to perfection. Brash, extremely vulgar, hypertense, with a fuse shorter than the circuit breaker in the back of a building on Martin Luther King Blvd.
And after “I Get Around,” ghetto people ate it up. Every Walkman, every radio and video show, every apartment, every Tercel and Tahoe had to get it in to the tune of three Pac songs an hour. He made you love your mama and keep an eye on your baby mama all at once. Catholic school girls were his groupies and guys who were nerds in middle school had their thug bars up in time for tenth grade with a Pac record as the textbook. There’s incense and energy drinks named after him and the whole shot. Tupac is a billion-dollar industry.
Not to mention think of how many fights and shootings broke out in house parties, classrooms, clubs, and on street corners across America. Over a damn rapper. Even if it was simply the mention of Biggie Smalls’ name when that rabid Tupac freak was in the room. You’re probably closing your closet door to hide your swap meet airbrushed, bedazzled Pac shirts right now as you read this. And you should, because it’s that shameful.
UPDATE: Thinking everything was just jokes about the 2Pac energy drinks, as I’m sure you were, it turns out one really exists, as told by this candid liquor store photo:
As Sade would ask, is it a crime?
Posted in celebrity, entertainment, gangsta, ghetto, music, people, society and community, street cred
Tagged 2pac, death, hip-hop, hood, idol, makaveli, pac, rap, tupac