Give Me Your W-2's: A Lesson In Thuganomics

As I might have shared in an earlier post, my wife and I went to a special costume edition of Game Night. By the way, that was a hint to read my other story, "Things I Cannot Unsee". Go ahead, read it. I'll wait........

There you go, now you read it. So with my wife dressing up as Craig, the question was what I should dress up as. Being that I was raised in the mean streets of Colorado, I dressed up as the only thing I knew how to be. A Gangsta Jew. That's right, I sagged my shorts below my ass-cheeks, wore an under-sized tank top, and had a dew-rag perched atop my head. Of course, no gangsta is complete without their bling, so I had a big-ass fucking Star of David on a chain. And just like the gangstas from my hometown, my bling was fake as fuck. But it looked good, 'naw mean'? By the way, that was urban talk for saying, "Do you know what I mean?" On a related note, I realized that the only difference between what I wore for the costume, and what I wear when I am relaxing at home, is that I had a chain, dew rag, and my pants sagged. And let's be honest, if I am wearing gym shorts and I carry my phone/wallet/keys, they start to sag a bit low...I should probably improve my "casual" appearance. But I digress.

The key to my costume is that I was the Jewish thugsta. There were two people who came in, assuming I was trying to appropriate a more..."ethnic" persona. I immediately yelled at them, "You ain't about dat Tax Life! Give me your W-2's!!" Of course they immediately turned their attitude around and embraced me for the life I lead. I also talked mad shit to them for using that Turbo-Tax bullshit, when I could have easily gotten them some additional cash back. It also just so happens that I had a foot cramp when we were driving over, so I also had that ghetto strut.

Now I know what you're thinking. "How did you know how to act that way?" Well, I'll tell you. I did grow up in a rougher neighborhood. Some parts were nice, others were ghetto as shit. We liked to joke that one part of town had the rich people, the other part had the tranny hookers that may or may not rape you. And then their pimp would mug you for your money. Because that shit ain't free. When I graduated high school, some friends and I were hanging out in the park. This guy walked up to us, with a deep ghetto strut. He asked, "What the fuck y'all makin' this noise for!" I calmly replied, "We just fuckin' graduated!"

The guy then says that he recognized me from the graduation. On a side note, he recognized me because I was a valedictorian. We had 5 that year, because it was before they started using weighted GPA's. And yeah, I had a 4.0 GPA. Fuck you, I know shit. But I digress. The guy then started talking about how he never graduated from shit, but he knew how to turn a key (kilogram) into and eighth into $40. He then asked if we wanted any drugs or some alcohol from the convenience store. We said no, and he said "I know, I know, I'm just fuckin' wit y'all. But seriously...you want some?" We again declined and he pimp walked away.

It should also be noted that this was not an uncommon occurrence. I remember going to the local mall, and seeing an elderly man in a nice suit, an older man in jeans with a nice leather jacket, and a young kid in saggy jeans and a sports jersey. Three generations of ganstas/pimps, out for a Guy's Night out.

On a side note, I do not understand why thugstas wear their pants so low. I once saw a guy wearing baggy-ass pants, with a belt, hanging around his knees. Seeing that guy try to run and catch the bus was fucking hilarious! He kept grabbing at his pants, but the belt actually prevented him for keeping his pants up. I had half a mind to yell, "If you wore your pants like a normal person, you'd have caught that bus!" Of course, I told my wife this and she asked what would happen if he got pissed at me. I said, "Not a goddamn thing. The gangstas in my old neighborhood could afford bullets, or guns, but never both. And they didn't have enough intelligence to combine forces. Plus I tutored half those motherfuckers in algebra."

And let's be honest. It's not like the guy would be able to catch me. All I would have to do is walk at a normal pace, and I would out run him. Hell, if I crossed the street, it would have taken that dill-weed 10 minutes just to get back up the fucking curb. And heaven forbid he did catch me? One swift kick and he'd have fallen on his ass. For as strong as the gansta's are up top, I have yet to see a thug that doesn't skip leg day. Even Noelle commented that I had a lot more ass than the majority of the gangsta's she saw around town.

Moral of the Story: I know how to thug out when I need to, and I'm all about that W-2 life. Oh, and I need to update my "casual" wardrobe.

High School Reunions and Sneezing

Everyday, when I sit down to write, I have the same thoughts run through my head. Usually, its "I'm hungry....What am I going to write.....Did I already finish my coffee.......Why did I drink all my coffee.......why am I too lazy to make more coffee........What am I going to write.....Well, shit. I might as well start writing and hope something comes together.....Fuck it, let's go."

So what am I going to write about today? A whole lot of random shit. First of all, I love my wife. She is absolutely the best. And she always keeps me on my toes. The other day, we were watching a movie on the couch. She had a blanket, because the air conditioning was on. I was not under the blanket, because it's summer. Out of the blue, she takes the blanket and holds it over my head. I look over to her, while my head is under the blanket, waiting for her to remove it. The blanket has a big ass fish (Bass?) on it, so I imagine it looked like the fish was looking at her. When she takes the blanket off, I ask why she felt the need to hold the blanket over my head. Her response was, "Practice." I then realize that she was holding the blanket the same way one holds a pillow, before smothering a person. On an unrelated note, I have removed my wife as the beneficiary for when I die.

But speaking of my wife, she and I saw the movie Central Intelligence. I won't give details, except that it includes a High School reunion. This was interesting timing, because I just received the Facebook invite to be part of my high school reunion next year. Now, I don't want to go. I was talking to a friend, and we each agreed that the biggest reason to go is to see who is on drugs, in jail, or dead. Or how many people have kids, payments, and one or more ex-wives/husbands. And that's what I realized is the fucked up thing about high school reunions. Nobody ever goes to see how everyone else is doing. They go to see how fucked up everyone's life has become. Nobody goes back thinking, "Gosh, I can't wait to see Tom, and Sally, and Mike, and Sheri! I sure hope they fulfilled their potential!"

No. Fuck that. You go back to say, "Hey, Tom! Hey, Sally! Oh, you got a divorce? Mike is in jail? Sheri is a crack-whore?! You don't say! Well did you see that I have an awesome life with a shit-tonne of money and happiness? Good! That's right, fuck you d-bags for being assholes in high school." Next thing you know, Sheri is trying to trade party favors for some blow, and Mike is using his 5 minute phone call to call Sheri, telling her to score some extra money for bail. And all the while, you can't stop staring at Sheri and her crack teeth. I mean, seriously. You want an anti-drug commercial? Show what drugs do to a person's oral hygiene. Nobody likes meth mouth, nobody.

If I went to my reunion, I would want to do so from a observation deck. Knowing the people I went to school with, and knowing how some of them turned out, I would want a sneeze guard between us. You don't want to catch anything contagious. Especially if broken dreams and regret are contagious. And now I have an image in my head of an imaginary world. And in this world, you walk around with a shiny gold collar holding a thick-ass sneeze guard in front of your face. Because you don't want to catch the "Dumb". And then you have people talking, and someone sneezes. The first person goes and they sneeze and hit their head off the sneeze guard in front of your face. You are nice and clean, but that fella has a bruise. They then turn and sneeze, and it lands right in the second person's face. And just like that, they caught the "Dumb". Otherwise, they'd have been smart enough to bring the sneeze guard.

Speaking of sneezing, have you ever noticed how people sneeze? Or even worse, have you ever tried to change your sneeze? Some people sneeze and it comes out like a little squeak. Others sneeze, and they try to stop it, and you can visibly see the pain as the pressure floods into their head and the vein in their temples starts throbbing. Then you have the violent sneezers. You know the ones. They sneeze and they put all their weight into it. You can hear that sumbitch sneezing across town. And heaven help you if you are in the line of fire. They sneeze and everyone in front of the person gets a free shower. They sneeze with food in their mouth, and suddenly it looks like the Exorcism. Suddenly rice turns into buckshot. Sneeze inside a car and it looks like a shotgun went off. You spend your life picking the rice out of every vent, off the windows, steering wheel, everything.

But back to the reunion, I think my wife would like me to go to the high school reunion. Not because I would enjoy it, necessarily, but to show off how great she is. And to be fair, I did not date in high school. In fact, I'm guessing people questioned my orientation. It would be nice to be able to say, "Ha! See?! I did meet a girl. And not only that, but she's awesome! And smart! And look at her! You see? I'm not going to die alone. Fuck you, Tom and Sally. Suck it. No, not you Sheri. Don't touch me. Go back and visit Mike. He's probably lonely. Unless Tiny visited him, in which case he may be busy being the inside spoon."

Moral of the Story: My wife is practicing how to smother me, and I have a high school reunion next year.

High School Experiences: Sports

It should be noted that, in high school, I got the idea that I was going to be an athlete. Never mind the fact that I am a 5'6" tall, Jewish white boy. I was determined to find a sport that I could play, where I would not be terrible. It should be noted that in history, there have been great Jewish baseball players, football players, basketball players, etc. There are also great Jewish athlets in other sports. Israel won an Olympic medal in wind-surfing, not long ago. I say not long ago, but it was in the Summer Olympics from one or two games back. So really, it was like 10 years ago. But you know what? Israel still won. So suck-it. It should also be noted, however, that I am not great at any of those sports. As a result, I went with the only sport I could: Running.

Now this sport made sense to me. I was good at running. That big motherfucker that wanted to punch me in the face? Do you think I fought him? Fuck that. I ran. I ran and I went home. That's how I realized that I should do cross-country. After all, running track has you running in circles. You can't out run a grizzly bear on a track. It just has to wait for you to turn left again, and then BAM! You're competing against Leonardo DiCaprio for worst bear attack. 

So I ran cross-country. And I was not terrible. I wasn't great, but I was able to run 5 kilometers in less than 25 minutes. And that was when I didn't know about how to properly train. In Spring, however, and I was in trouble. All the sports were things that I cannot do well. Throw a ball? Please. Catch a ball? I have a better chance of it hitting me in the face. That's why I quit soccer camp as a kid. I got hit in the face with a ball. After I stopped crying, I got back in and got hit in the face again. That was it. I didn't need to play a sport if it meant that I was going to get hit in the face all the time. That's what that big motherfucker was for. 

Now that I was in high school sports, I had to figure something out. Then it hit me: Pole Vaulting. You know, you run, plant a stick in the ground, fly in the air, and then fall onto a mat. It was perfect! I could run very quickly for the short distance I had to travel. I could put a stick in the ground and fly in the air. And I had no qualms with falling from high elevations. So that was it. The only problem, is that the coach taught me the wrong technique. Instead of gracefully flying over the bar, I would be in the air, spinning around, and landing on my head. 

At one practice, these two guys kept asking if I was alright. I just laughed, grabbed the pole, and tried again. By the end of the day, they said I was the craziest person they had ever seen. Flash-forward a month, and I am at the "Cultural Awareness" event at school. Appropriately, I have my purple kilt on. Yes, I am Jewish. Yes I have Celtic blood in my veins. And yes I will wear a kilt and yarmulke at the same time. Do you know what that makes me? A melting-pot. Kinda like America. Suck-it. But I digress.

I am wearing my kilt, walking around with a friend, and he sees two guys walking towards me. One was from that practice, the other was some stranger. At this point I should elaborate to say that these two gentlemen were black, and very vocal about their gang relations. My friend automatically assumed that they were coming to give me shit about my kilt. The stranger asked why I was wearing a skirt. I immediately told him to get his shit straight, and that it was a kilt. The one who saw me at practice said, "Yo, you representin'?" When I responded "Hell yeah!", the guy turns to the stranger and says "Don't fuck with this guy. He is one crazy motherfucker." The guy from practice then did some sort of handshake with me, which I still do not understand, and they walked away. 

Moral of the Story: I am still not good at "conventional" sports, and I do not understand the fancy handshakes people do. Oh, and if you fly 15-20 feet in the air and land on your head, and then you get up and laugh, people think you're crazy and you get instant street cred. 

High School Experiences: Russians

So I mentioned before that I had an eclectic group of friends in high school. We would eat lunch, people would try to convert us, and we would laugh. You need to realize, however, that my school was very diverse. We had a demographic of: 30% Black, 30% White, 30% Latino, 10% Asian/everyone else. This made for great cultural learning, but it also made for some fucked up situations.

One other note, is that we had a growing population of Russian speakers. There were some from Ukraine, some from Russia, some from other places. Part of that is because the Jewish Community Center in the area would still accept/exchange rubles. And for those that don't know, rubles are the Russian currency are aren't worth dick in American dollars. That's a lie, they are actually worth 0.016 US Dollars. That's right, rubles are worth a penny. Perhaps that's why Russia can only really offer vodka, fail/crash videos, and mail-order brides. I joke, the mail-order brides are from Ukraine. I joke again. Or do I....?....!

(By the way, that fancy ass 50 Ruble bill? Worth 50 cents. And not the rapper. Last I heard, he filed for bankruptcy. That awkward moment when you aren't even worth the value of your name.)

Anyway, back to the story. Because of this mix of cultures, I got to meet a lot of different people. One of these people was a Latino fella name Pedro. That was not really his name, but I needed a name and that one fit. I didn't know Pedro well, but I knew he was from Mexico and good at soccer. And before people start talking "That's racist! How did you know he played soccer?!", it should be noted that he was on the soccer team. So suck it.

Around this time, I also knew a Russian kid named Ivan. Again, that's not his real name. I don't have a reason to give him a fake name, but fuck it. His name is Ivan, now. Ivan was hardcore. For those who don't know, there is a standard rule that you do not fuck with Russians. When a nation's top export was Vodka and Communism, you don't fuck around with those people.

Over the course of a semester, I started to notice that Ivan stopped coming to class. After the second week, I asked someone if they knew what happened. Come to find out that Ivan was transferred to a school for "troubled youth". When I asked what happened, I found out that Ivan stabbed Pedro with a mechanical pencil. That's right, with a fucking pencil. And not a sharp one, that could easily penetrate skin, but a dull-ass mechanical one. I don't know what Pedro did, or why Ivan wanted to give him graphite poisoning. All I know is that I never saw Ivan again.

Moral of the Story: Don't fuck with Russians. Their hardcore and their currency isn't worth shit in America. On a side note, I knew other Russians that were far less fucked up. But still, I wouldn't fuck with them.