Profanity And The Missing Daddies 11.3.98
M didn't even see the sidewalk poetry, she was put out with S before that, the capper being his cackling laughter as he tortured a neighborhood boy.
"Fuck the police, fuck the bitches, fuck the hores, Dumaine Thugs," and then the listing of several neighborhood names.
On Sunday, "No you can't go with us."
"Why not?"
"Because you misspelled 'whore...'"
"Thats the way M told me to spell it..."
"And you wrote all kinds of stupid shit on the sidewalk, and you made it sound like there's a gang called the Dumaine Thugs, which is like advertising--I'm a gangster, I'm an idiot, come arrest me, my name is S, and these are the names of my accomplices. Big C and Big S ought to whip your ass for including their names."
"Okay."
Later on Sunday in the middle bedroom through the open window I hear this chanting and this crying, and more chanting and more crying. It doesn't stop so I get up and look out the front door and F is hunched over the hood on one side of Beulah's car, chanting, and T is on the other side, crying.
F: (singsongy) You a crybaby and you daddy kiss booty, you a crybaby and you daddy kiss booty, you a crybaby and you daddy kiss booty.
T: (loudly)--(Cries.)
F: (singsongy) You a crybaby and you daddy kiss booty, you a crybaby and you daddy kiss booty.
T: (loudly)--(Cries.)
That's just part of being low man on the totem pole at Mama D's. T will have to learn to take some of that.
Today after the big boys kicked the little kids off the basketball court, Preston runs off down the sidewalk as Erica watches him go, and when he's about twenty feet away two things happened at exactly the same moment. Erica
pointed her finger and said "flip," and young Preston executed a front somersault/cartwheel looking flip, then kept on running, without looking back.
Kids are weird.
Coming back from the movies yesterday with L riding shotgun. A second line parade, just passed, is causing havoc with the traffic, so I turn right on Ursulines, and shortly come to a stop at Broad.
L said, "There go your daddy, F."
F ignores him.
"That's your daddy though, ain't it, F?"
F mumbles and slumps down in the back seat.
Never seen F's daddy. All the same, I did not rubberneck.
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M didn't even see the sidewalk poetry, she was put out with S before that, the capper being his cackling laughter as he tortured a neighborhood boy.
"Fuck the police, fuck the bitches, fuck the hores, Dumaine Thugs," and then the listing of several neighborhood names.
On Sunday, "No you can't go with us."
"Why not?"
"Because you misspelled 'whore...'"
"Thats the way M told me to spell it..."
"And you wrote all kinds of stupid shit on the sidewalk, and you made it sound like there's a gang called the Dumaine Thugs, which is like advertising--I'm a gangster, I'm an idiot, come arrest me, my name is S, and these are the names of my accomplices. Big C and Big S ought to whip your ass for including their names."
"Okay."
Later on Sunday in the middle bedroom through the open window I hear this chanting and this crying, and more chanting and more crying. It doesn't stop so I get up and look out the front door and F is hunched over the hood on one side of Beulah's car, chanting, and T is on the other side, crying.
F: (singsongy) You a crybaby and you daddy kiss booty, you a crybaby and you daddy kiss booty, you a crybaby and you daddy kiss booty.
T: (loudly)--(Cries.)
F: (singsongy) You a crybaby and you daddy kiss booty, you a crybaby and you daddy kiss booty.
T: (loudly)--(Cries.)
That's just part of being low man on the totem pole at Mama D's. T will have to learn to take some of that.
Today after the big boys kicked the little kids off the basketball court, Preston runs off down the sidewalk as Erica watches him go, and when he's about twenty feet away two things happened at exactly the same moment. Erica
pointed her finger and said "flip," and young Preston executed a front somersault/cartwheel looking flip, then kept on running, without looking back.
Kids are weird.
Coming back from the movies yesterday with L riding shotgun. A second line parade, just passed, is causing havoc with the traffic, so I turn right on Ursulines, and shortly come to a stop at Broad.
L said, "There go your daddy, F."
F ignores him.
"That's your daddy though, ain't it, F?"
F mumbles and slumps down in the back seat.
Never seen F's daddy. All the same, I did not rubberneck.
- jimlouis 12-14-2002 5:50 pm