Shelby and I live on the corner of Nah Street and We Ain’t About You Boulevard, and I’m here to tell ya, it’s a fantastic way to live! See, we got motherfuckers in this city living straight up heinous and spreading awful, like the bubonic plague, to such a twisted and beyond fucked degree I can’t even wrap my head around it outside of saying: I ain’t about it, fuckin none of it, for all I give a fuck — you can nuke White Hipster Hell from orbit and be done with it. See, there’s an old South Town proverb that reads: “Life’s too short to associate yourself with pieces of shit,” and that, buster, holds more truth than all the holy books of yore rolled into one collection. Brand that shit on your brain, stay bladed and keep your eyes keen like a sniper on everyone and anyone who ain’t 100-percent true crew. And another thing, Stop Making Humans We Don’t Need!
Where do pieces of shit come from? They come from shitty parents, like yo. Fuck, a mom and a dad out here bringing more monsters into the world — what the fuck is wrong with y’all? We need more humans out here like we need more plastic bags in the fuckin’ ocean. I knew at the age of 16 I wasn’t gonna be nobody’s fuckin’ dad, absolutely not, nah, nopes and no fuckin’ way was I gonna give life to a potential hipster Ted Bundy or punk rock Gary Ridgeway.
It’s called being a responsible individual and a good steward who ain’t trying to bring terror into no one’s life.
I don’t believe in letting no parent off the goddamn hook either. You bring a worthless turd into this world, and it starts hurting other people — that’s your fault. You’re to blame because no one asked for your wretched progeny in the first place.
Like, think about it this way: Hate monger and living Garbage Pail Kid Richard Spencer is never born, Boom — a better world for one and all right there. But that’s not what went down, and now we’re in a real pickle with no solutions available. Like, try back again tomorrow, and then the next day, and then the next, and then… oops, sorry those services are no longer available. Please enjoy wandering the post-apocalyptic wasteland, all because two ill-equipped rich shit-heads decided they wanted to play house like every other bland couple and graced the world with Richard fuckin’ Spencer. Like, thanks for fuckin nothing, and please burn in hell, forever and ever amen.
But, then again, hey — maybe I’m just reading the tea leaves how I wanna see’em, because all my closest friends are living 100-percent kid free and 200-percent beautiful, from Gatt Nucleus, to Tracy Hi, Bad Boy LaGrange and Sarah Rose… we living all types of well and swell, like you can find me standing atop a table, a lobster tail in each hand as I sing Rihanna’s “Man Down,” and I’m gonna write it up as a “Tuesday,” balling the years away, drama free.
Aye Yo, Shelby! Keep the porch light on. I’m on my way home with a bag of piff so potent one puff would put Willie Nelson in his grave, a whole boat of tacos from El Molcajete and that new Wu Tang, and we’re gonna set it off right tonight, like we always do! Bon appétit. •