If I were an inner city teen, I’d for sure be in a bad street gang.
The Blips or The Cruds, whatever, because that’s the only way you can survive on the street, you see what I’m saying? I’d shave my head and wear some baggy clothes, too, with a nine in my pants and a knife in my sock, just to be safe. If they put metal detectors in school, well, then I would just stop going to school, because school is for losers, and I’d rather hang with my boyz anyway.
I’d be one bad dude. Fuck with me, man, look out.
But if my teacher were Michelle Pfeiffer, I’d be good to her. No backtalk, no lip. I’d smack down any of the other guys in the class who gave her a hard time, too. She’d just be a good, honest chick tryin’ to make the world a better place for guys like me. Oh, sure, she’d be hopelessly wrong about her chances. I mean, homies don’t turn nobody in to the cops, man. You’re marked for death, no matter how stupid the reason, you go out like a man, man.
But when you have those soft pink lips like Miss Pfeiffer, it makes dudes like me want to study Shakespeare, man. You see what I’m saying? And when you’re all sincere like she is in her intentions of educating me so I can do something positive with my life, like get a good job in the United States Army or even MacDonald’s, well, I just wouldn’t be able to resist her, you know what I’m talking about?
Shit. You know what I mean. I would learn long division and memorize fag poems because I would know, like I could just smell it, that under that denim shirt and that bullshit granny dress she wears to school, she got this: