Whassup dogs? Yo, check this sh*t out, it’s me again, the P-Funk, gangsta’ supreme, big peeamp, the ladies’ choice. I must be gettin’ referrals from da’ cop shop or sompthin’ ’cause lately they’ve been on my track propa-like. It’s like I be the Big Pun an’ sh*t, ‘cept I ain’t be weighin’ like 700 pounds.
So, I gots a story for y’all about my weekend as a big peeampin’ thug gangsta.
Yesterday, I got off work early to check some of my bitches, but afta I got home, I remembah that they all gots the late shift and sh*t.
But damn, I ain’t about to go back to work, and I gots the whole weekend in front of me, so I said ‘f&@k it’ and chilled on my porch smokin’ and drinkin’ by mahself. Thank God foe that Seven-Eleven on mah block that sells O.E. fowties foe like, two bones, and Getto Packs of Cigarettes foe fitty cents. I ain’t even be waitin’ foe pay day on that note. Word is bond.
Things was all cool, you know, just kickin’ it, bumpin’ some tunes, and then sheeyat, that fat-ass bitch from next door be clownin’ on my dope tracks. She be runnin’ out the door sayin’ sompthin’ ’bout my Biggy Smalls tape be blastin’ into her bedroom or some sh*t.
So I looks at her and pull out my piece and tell her there’s no way my little ghetto-ass speakas be bumpin’ into her pad. Stoopid-ass bitch.
She screamed and went freak-nasty on her doorknob tryin’ to get in. Finally the fat ho’ disappeared, so I continued to bump to B.I.G. with my fowty and GPCs.
Next thing you know, the Po-lice be creepin’ down mah street, flashin’ red cherries and all. I was like “Sheeyit, can’t a brutha relax aftah a long week of writin’ at the stoodent paper without bein’ fronted on by a buncha pigs? Sheeyit.”
They busted out the car and come to my door with guns in hand and sh*t, tellin’ me to put my hands on my head. I damn near sh*t myself — and my whole fowty spilt all ovah my new loungin’ lawn chair. Damn.
They axed me if I was packin’ heat, and I says “hell no.” So they took me out the house and dug thru all mah shit. The pigs found my UZI-471 Watergun and confiscated it. Sh*t, I just paid like 20 dollahs foe that Kindergarten Killah.
Then they axed me all dees questions ’bout guns and knives an’ sh*t, so I told ’em, “Y’all ain’t got a right to be f&@kin’ with my flow ’cause I just be chillin’, pig. So get yo’ candy-asses off my porch and find some bakery to bust or some sh*t. Damn!”
That’s when all hell broke loose. The bigger pig, who really smelled like ass, smashed my face up against his car and told me not to be f&@kin’ wit’ the man, and was talkin’ all this sh*t ’bout gettin’ my ass kicked like I was some Matt “Fatty” Arbuckle. And sheeyit, who the f&@k is Arbuckle anyway?
So I chilled and told ’em I was no hybrid Arbuckle or whateva so the stoopid [email protected]&kas wrote me up on noise violation and went back to the gotdamn bakery. Suckas.
I took my $50 ticket and glanced next door, and there that fat bitch was, just smilin’ and lookin’ at me like she’s some sort of Queen Sh*t or sompthin’. I told her never to mess wit’ da’ P-Funk again, or I’ll buss out my mad skeelz and my numbchucks and go kung-fu on her ass. Bitch betta recognize.
Finally, I returned to my fly lawn lounger, and cracked a new fowty. Damn it feels good to be a gangsta. I illed for a while be-fo my bitches got off work.
About two minutes latah, Rhonda, the J-Dog and Smitch-Nasty rolled up in their fly hoopty — a ’92 Honda Civic wit yellow effecks and brass rims. Sheeyit, it was time foe me to get bizzy.
My boyz Big Baby Luke, The Unibrower, Big Johnny John, Boo-Lo, Gooby and De-Tron rolled up right behind with a case of fowties and two oh-zees of the finest elixer in the ‘hood.
Sheeyit, I wadn’t about to let the Po-po get in my way for the weekend smoke-out. Yeah, and speakin’ of which, it was time to get one goin’.
Yeah, I gots to give mad props to mahself foe throwin’ one of the dopest parties in the suburbs, but you gots to recognize that no fat-ass, corn-fed suburbanite white boyz be invited to my pad.
My neighbas Jim Esterly, Herbert Tharaldson and Warren Wog is always showin’ up tryin’ to get in on the action, but the P-Funk ain’t about to allow no corporate stiffs up in dis mix — my pawties is foe smokahs only.
Anyway, the P-Funk and my respective krew was stone-cold supastars for da rest of da night, and no five-ohs showed up eitha. Yeah, all ’cause I told that trick-ass bitch ’bout my numbchucks.
So that was mah Friday, the newspaper man livin’ in the suburbs tryin’ to reprazent. Peace to y’all, but for those white-boy corporate posers, don’t eva think you can kick it wit’ my posse. And fo my fat-ass neighbah — you best sleep witch yo’ eyes open ’cause baby I gots yo numbah. P-Funk PEACIN’ OUT. Word.
Patch Vaginopolis is a reporter for a student newspaper in Suburbia, America. He lives and dies the thug-life.