Last weekend, I was with a few friends at Butter, having a few drinks, dancing like an idiot, and talking all kinds of shit. I think at one point, I was going up to girls and saying the most random shit like:
“SEE GIRL, IF I HAD ON A SANTA SUIT LIKE THESE OTHA MOTHAFUCAKS, MY POCKETS BE CLEAN SO YALL CAN FEEL MY SHIT.”
There was context to this, I swear, I just can’t remember what it was.
But I was outclassed by a certain guy who camped out next to the bathroom. As my friend’s girl walked out from the water closet, she was greeted with:
“EY! EY GIRL! FO ONE FIVE, FIVE FO TWO, THREE FO SIX NINE.”
To which my friend said:
“Dude, did that guy just give you his number?”
To which I imagined that guy saying to his friends:
“The fuck have yall been doin? I just gave my number out to FIFTY BITCHES.”
There’s something to be said about some of the homeless people in the Tenderloin. While they’re notorious for shitting on the sidewalk and singing crackhead spirituals outside my window at 2 in the morning, they’ll never come into your face and pull you into their world.
I can’t say the same for the homeless in SoMa.
The other day, I was walking along 4th Street on my way to work, while I saw a punk-rock homeless girl twerk with her tallboy can. She made licking motions, tongue almost brushing against the silver sheen of a Colt .45. All the while, pumping her hips up and down like a piston and beaming her gaze on all who were unlucky enough to wander their eyes in her direction.
People say that Miley Cyrus has ruined twerking. After this episode, I strongly disagree.
With all due respect to Little Steve, I did find it hilarious that I was commissioned to burn the funeral mix with three emotionally charged slow jams and a finale of Boss Tycoon by Mac Dre and Yukmouth. I remember the CD playing full blast from someone’s trunk at the graveyard, with people frantically rushing back and forth to skip over that hyphy madness and continue the somber mood…only relenting when it was only us and the rest of the hoods standing watch over our dearly departed homie.
Despite the natural humor in playing hyphy at a funeral, hearing that slap really did underline the sense of loss when it came to the kind of people we were and the kind of person Little Steve was.
FUCK WHAT IT COST. I’M A BOSS. TYCOON.
Always saluting you, young boss.
You know what’s always good for a cheap laugh? Trying to translate English songs into Korean. This especially works for Bruno Mars songs.
I should’ve bought you 꽃…and held your 손.
I learned this from an older friend.
The more subtle way to compliment a stranger’s badunkadunk is to mouth the ditty of 2 Live Kru’s – Hoochie Mama. Notes and melodies may not have definitions and context like words and sentences, but I think the DUNGADUNGADUNG DUNGADUNGADUNG intro is a universal way to communicate your amazement at dat ass.
Whether you’re straight, gay, man, or woman, feel free to sing the anthem of a nice booty with a nice dungadungadung. The stranger won’t feel accosted and you’ll properly alert your friends to marvel at God’s work.
Sidenote: This may seem misogynistic/misandristic, but can’t we all be adult enough to know that everyone checks each other out in public? Beauty is something to be enjoyed in a tasteful and subtle manner. By the way girl, your dungadungadung is ridiculous.