Yo, yo, yo, yo whassup mah homies? It’s me, the brain supreme, the P-funk gangsta’ special, the skinz-hittin’, fowty-sippin’ real-life thugsta.
Yeah, I knows y’all been waitin’ for Patch to bring it back propa-like, tellin’ reel stories from a hard-ass Kindergarten Killer. And believe me, my dogs, I gots lots of stories to tell since I talked to ya last Spring.
Dis summah, I was all about livin’ the high-life. Let’s just say I gots mah sticky fingas into a lotta whack sheeyit.
In a peanut shell, I gots my ass beat down by a bunch of hip-hop thugstas, I hit some booty, and I drank a heap of O.E. Not a bad summer by any means.
But there’s only one sto-ree I gots the time to tell. Let me flow.
So I’s peepin’ up on the University one Saturday night dis summer wit a couple o’mah fools, just chillin’, out fo’ some trouble.
We hit up Sal-town and tried to pimp. But, sheeyit, ain’t no hos up in that mix. All we found was ghetto-booty slizuts and some crazies reprazentin’ the dark side. They didn’t even have no O.E. Fowties.
But it was rainin’, you know, and I can’t be lettin’ my dreads get all whacked, so I’s all ’bout marinatin’ and gettin’ my drink on.
Next thing ya know, me and my boys musta’ gone thru like ten pitchers of Bud Diesel, cause I was real toe-down in a hurry, and sheeyit, the P-Funk don’t get faded that e-z.
So, ’bout that time, we was all thinkin’ bout bouncin’ cause, you know and we gots hos to pimp somewhere else. We don’t even give a shit ’bout gettin’ wet hair no mo.
I straight called our nasty waitress ova and told the bitch to put all ten of da pitchas up on my tab, cause I be makin’ phat bank at the stoodent papah.
Den, da Britney Spears wannabe starts disrespecktin’ the P-Funk straight-up — axin’ me all wide-eyed if “all dat was goin’ on the card.”
I told that ho she betta recognize, and ring that up on my pimp Dina’s Club plastik double-time.
Sheeyit, ten pitchas ain’t NO skin of my back. Damn.
Finally, we rolled out da bar, all tore-up, but we ain’t got no way home cause I broke my fly hoopty the week befo.
Yeah, sheeyit, that’s anotha sto-ree. I wrapped my ’92 Yellow Civic wit da ground effecks ’round my busta-ass neighba’s mailbox, and that was up in the shop.
Anyway, that’s why we started walkin’.
We was crusin’ tru da parkin’ lot all stumblin’ around, and soon we was up on the steps of some big barn-lookin’ building.
Mah numba one slinga Mizzark Myhre, got dis crazy-ass idea since he hate dem fools in college.
Mizzark was so messed that he stone-cold knocked out a light wit his bare knuckles. All he kept sayin,’ “For you Dave, I will do it. I will do anything for you,” in some cookie-cookie cracka accent.
My otha homies Luke “Lucky-D” Hagness and Big Willy-Style McLaughlin be lookin’ at me fo guidance, and I was like “sheeyit, just roll wit it.”
Finally, aftah all lights were busted up, we headed back to mah pimp palace fo’ a night of fowties and rollin’ ‘J’s.
But sheeyit, next thing you know, them pigs be creepin’ up on our mix. No doubt.
They squeezed out the squad and stepped to me and my krew. I knew we was down fo da count, Mike Tyson style.
We had no defense. Bloody knuckles and cloudy eyes told da sto-ree, and it wasn’t like we was no O.J. or Puff Daddy that could get away wit like dis. We was straight-trippin’ weekend pimps wit no college identity, prime suspects for pillagin’.
We gots da pleazsha of spendin’ da night at the Pokie with Ray-Ray and DeTron. Man, them two was straight born-da-be criminals.
They told us some straight-trippin’ bull sto-ree bout killin’ some pig.
Like hell if we was goin’ to believe dem, eitha, ’til we seen ’em up on the front page the next day. Sheeyit.
Brett “The Unibrower” Swanson and Jesse “The Feech” Nease didn’t get themselves caught up in the chase because they was all about goin’ to some bunk N’SYNC concert with their buddy Joe-Jo, but their gracious asses bailed us out, so I gots to give stoopid props to dem.
Man, it was off the hook, but me and mah krew escaped unscathed and is still pimpin’ today.
Anotha’ weekend, anotha’ dolla.
I guess a straight weekend pimp is one who knows how to play his cards right.
A smoove grill-daddy like mahself might get caught up with the po-po ev’ry now and den, but I neva get caught wit mah pants down.
And y’all need to know that I ain’t neva goin’ to be da next Lil’ Bow Wow. But I sho be tryin’.
P-Funk out.
Patch Vaginopolis welcomes comments and physical solicitations at Cosmodailytan.com