BLACK RAGE: PART II
I swear I don't think I'm black.
My family is fucking hardcore. Allow me to provide a little background into this statement before I jump into the events of this weekend.
My dad moved to my hometown during a time when they were just discovering black people in that area. This made him one of about eight other black residents in the entire state of Colorado. He's also a really funny, loud guy, so when he went out, he drew the same kind of attention a hunchback with a high powered rifle and a time traveling scooter would have. He was also a stone cold player. For some reason, white America has an inborn fear of the mere thought of black guys sleeping with white women. They don't even have to know said woman, but he'll be damned if some nigger is going to touch her! Anyway, a lot of people chose to express this conflict of interests in a violent, non-diplomatic way. My dad was only too happy to oblige because he was, in addition to his other traits, a total fucking war machine. Many white boys lost their pride and teeth in those days, but some of them just didn't learn their lesson from this dark harbinger of ass whoopin'. They became consumed with the dream of seeing this uppity jiggaboo put in his place. So they decided to (snicker) hire outside help. They pulled this fucking deutsche bag in from New York because living there during the seventies was suppose to have made him totally unstoppable. They even called him Nick from New York. So this dumbass follows my dad all night, catches up with him, introduces himself, and proceeds to get. Fucking. Destroyed. My dad called us to come pick him up while this was happening, and when we got there, he was dragging Mr. New York through the parking lot by his hair, covered in imported New York blood. He walks up to my mom with 250 lbs of idiot in his hand and says "Oh, don't worry, this isn't my blood." Then he leans down to Nick and yells "Which car is yours, mother fucker?!" Nick kindly points it out and my dad proceeds to annihilate it with a makeshift club. That night, a message was sent out to the men, women, and children of CO: I don't care where you're from! If pushed too far, this bad mother fucker will punch your car in the face!
Fast forward to Halloween, 2003. My brother is walking through Woodside Apartments at night. He overhears one of the local gang members (N.F.0. - No Fair Ones) say something about him not being from the hood* and needs to be shown what's up. Whatever. He keeps walking. Later that night, on his way home while talking on his cell phone, he gets clubbed in the back of the head and taken to the ground. Calling on five generations of raw country nigga', my brother immediately recovers and turns his would be attacker over. As soon as he starts pummling the new victim, a second person hits him in the back of the head with a homemade black-jack. One other guy gets in on the mix, and they try their best to lure my brother off the poor asshole who tried to fuck with a legacy of brutality. Someone eventually came by and broke it up, and when it was over, the instigators tried to convince my brother that they were only messing around and there was no reason for him to get all serious and shit. Good try fuckers, but just because you're from a major city, doesn't mean every person from out of town is going to roll over for your knowledge of the streets. You're just lucky you don't have a car, other wise my brother might have used it to practice his Harlem shake.
*Fun Fact - Did you know racial stereotyping isn't just for white people anymore?! The 'hood' brought into question by the young wanna be thugs is actually a very nice apartment complex, thus perpetuating the belief that a high concentration of African-Americans = ghetto. Way to go young black kids! Keep reaching for the stars!
I swear I don't think I'm black.
My family is fucking hardcore. Allow me to provide a little background into this statement before I jump into the events of this weekend.
My dad moved to my hometown during a time when they were just discovering black people in that area. This made him one of about eight other black residents in the entire state of Colorado. He's also a really funny, loud guy, so when he went out, he drew the same kind of attention a hunchback with a high powered rifle and a time traveling scooter would have. He was also a stone cold player. For some reason, white America has an inborn fear of the mere thought of black guys sleeping with white women. They don't even have to know said woman, but he'll be damned if some nigger is going to touch her! Anyway, a lot of people chose to express this conflict of interests in a violent, non-diplomatic way. My dad was only too happy to oblige because he was, in addition to his other traits, a total fucking war machine. Many white boys lost their pride and teeth in those days, but some of them just didn't learn their lesson from this dark harbinger of ass whoopin'. They became consumed with the dream of seeing this uppity jiggaboo put in his place. So they decided to (snicker) hire outside help. They pulled this fucking deutsche bag in from New York because living there during the seventies was suppose to have made him totally unstoppable. They even called him Nick from New York. So this dumbass follows my dad all night, catches up with him, introduces himself, and proceeds to get. Fucking. Destroyed. My dad called us to come pick him up while this was happening, and when we got there, he was dragging Mr. New York through the parking lot by his hair, covered in imported New York blood. He walks up to my mom with 250 lbs of idiot in his hand and says "Oh, don't worry, this isn't my blood." Then he leans down to Nick and yells "Which car is yours, mother fucker?!" Nick kindly points it out and my dad proceeds to annihilate it with a makeshift club. That night, a message was sent out to the men, women, and children of CO: I don't care where you're from! If pushed too far, this bad mother fucker will punch your car in the face!
Fast forward to Halloween, 2003. My brother is walking through Woodside Apartments at night. He overhears one of the local gang members (N.F.0. - No Fair Ones) say something about him not being from the hood* and needs to be shown what's up. Whatever. He keeps walking. Later that night, on his way home while talking on his cell phone, he gets clubbed in the back of the head and taken to the ground. Calling on five generations of raw country nigga', my brother immediately recovers and turns his would be attacker over. As soon as he starts pummling the new victim, a second person hits him in the back of the head with a homemade black-jack. One other guy gets in on the mix, and they try their best to lure my brother off the poor asshole who tried to fuck with a legacy of brutality. Someone eventually came by and broke it up, and when it was over, the instigators tried to convince my brother that they were only messing around and there was no reason for him to get all serious and shit. Good try fuckers, but just because you're from a major city, doesn't mean every person from out of town is going to roll over for your knowledge of the streets. You're just lucky you don't have a car, other wise my brother might have used it to practice his Harlem shake.
*Fun Fact - Did you know racial stereotyping isn't just for white people anymore?! The 'hood' brought into question by the young wanna be thugs is actually a very nice apartment complex, thus perpetuating the belief that a high concentration of African-Americans = ghetto. Way to go young black kids! Keep reaching for the stars!
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Dads RULE!
Or something.