Saturday, February 19, 2011

Da Boyz in the Suburbs

I'm not sure if anyone said anything above and beyond the call of stupidity today. To be honest, I woke up with the girlfriend and saw her out the door around 4:30 am, drank a cup of coffee, tooled around on facebook for a bit and drug my ass back to bed until around noon. I did some light cleaning, ran to the liquor store for a bottle of wine for the girlfriend, grabbed a bottle of irish cream for myself and returned home where I sat watching the clock with a feeling of disgust and anxiety until it was time for work.

At work, I spent the majority of my shift wearing a fake smile like cops wear a bulletproof vest and only interacted with the three or four people I can routinely count on to understand my above-junior-highschool level sense of humor. With one notable exception.

Somehow, I have become the unofficial trainer for our kitchen. Whatever plebe they hire to man any station that requires no actual cooking skill gets tossed my way. So, basically, we're talking about a group of 25-40 year old rejects whose names I don't even attempt to remember until they've managed to stay there a month. These guys work the french fryers and chicken broasters, they fill in for the dishwasher in the event of a call-off and you get the feeling that most of them view this as the best job they've ever had, because it isn't fast food. If you've had any exposure to the food service industry, you already know the kind of guy I'm talking about. They only come in one variety; hardcore gangsta.

They wear their pants below their asses, just in case you wondered what color boxers they opted for that day, their hats have uncurved brims with the holographic sticker still attached (and for some reason, their hats never seem to be worn facing to the front), their shoes cost more than they'll make in a month, their shirts hang almost to their knees, except in the back because you still really need to see their underwear and their oral hygiene is more disturbing than pregnancy porn. And everyone of them is whiter than Casper.

But, the thing about these guys that pisses me off the most has little to do with their fashion sense. Its the way they talk. They prefix every sentence out of their pie-holes with phrases like; "I'm sayin...", "I mean...", "You tryin' to..." Heard that...". They frequently pause in mid-sentence to refer to you as: Son, Cuz, and Holmes. And they end their sentences just the same. "...know what I mean?", "...true, right?"  In fact, these homeboyz can't seem to end a sentence in any fashion other than a query. Maybe thats because they are utterly confused about their racial origins and gender identities.

I'm over it. This whole hip-hop, gangsta wanna-be, Yo MTV Raps, wigger culture has been done to death. Seriously.

A few weeks back, I'm at the gas station. I found myself in that awkward moment of entering the building and the guy approaching being just far enough away from the door that I could slide through without being rude, or waiting with the door propped open for him to enter. Being that my mother raised decent children in her home, I elected to wait. If you need a description of the kid I held the door for, reread above... As he walks through the door I've waited (waited!) to hold for him, he grabs his dick, gives me a reverse nod and states, "Good look, cuz." Its a wonder my girlfriend didn't have to bail me out of jail.

Now, my problem with this whole scenario isn't racially motivated. Or, it is, but in a reverse manner.

You aren't gangsta. You're a white kid from the suburbs. I'm sure life is 'hard' as you sit on your wrap around porch, drinking aquafina with your crew because moms won't let you take the Jag for a cruise. When you're buying your crunk with your allowance, it's pretty hard to be legit. You love to quote lyrics from songs you can't sing in front of your friends that are only your friend because it's super cool to hang with black people, but they would kick the living shit out of you for using the word: nigger. When you pour the first sip of your Forty on to the ground, you're just wasting beer. None of your 'homies' are fallen. Cops aren't pulling you over for driving a car that is 'too expensive' for you to own, and no one has ever referred to you as 'you people'.

And personally, you guys piss me off because you make it hard for me to buy jeans. I want to be able to walk into a store and just fucking find a pair of white guy jeans. They hang on your hips, they don't drag on the ground, there is nothing bedazzled or written on the back pockets...

Maybe its me. I don't buy into any type of media/cultural identification. I can wear a pair of jeans, plain old tennis shoes and a shirt that isn't emblazoned with a logo and still manage to stand out in a crowd. My identity isn't defined by what I'm wearing and who I am emulating. In other words, my life isn't a parody.

Most intelligent quote of the day goes to a guy who didn't serve in Vietnam, but his moustache sure as fuck did. Seriously, this guy has a 'stache that would make Sam Elliot want to shave out of jealousy...

"Don't talk to me like I'm a child."

If you've ever not been the top rung of the ladder where you work, this has happened to you. For some unkown reason, people in a position of authority feel the need to try and dumb things down when talking to their subordinates. Especially when they are mad that said underling made a mistake that could be traced back to their own ineptitude.

I once got into a verbal altercation with a district manager who felt the need to lean forward and speak very slowly in my face. I responded brightly with: "I'm not an idiot, Joe. I have a multi-syllabic vocabulary."

"A what?"


The fact that I don't have a string of letters following my name doesn't make me a moron. Just because my personal circumstances made a higher education an impossibility for me doesn't mean you're smarter than me. My brother and I enlisted in the Marine Corps after highschool. Our recruiters took one look at our ASVAB scores and dubbed us Rocket Scientists 1 & 2. One of them pulled us to the side to ensure we didn't want to back out and go to college.

If you want to talk to me like a child, I'll be sure to start acting like one. Now...takers on changing my shitty diaper?

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