Gangsta's Paradise

The sun was out at lunch, it was seven degrees warm and I took a walk to my bank on my lunch hour. I strolled the streets of downtown Edmonton, taking in the sights. Hoo boy, there were sights. I saw a douche in a suit with those pointy dressy elf shoes who was smoking a flavoured cigarillo. It smelled like cherries. Douche. I saw a lot of sleeveless shirts. I saw some sandals. I saw a lot of goose bumps. I also saw a girl who was wearing a skirt that barely covered her ass, bare legs and platform flip flops. The skirt was so short if she took a big stride I am pretty sure I would see her hoo-haw. Silly child, I thought to myself as I passed her and this guy she was with. He was pure, mother-f*cking gangsta. How do I know he was gangsta? The guy bobbed back and forth while talking, gesticulated a lot, and grabbed his crotch more than once. Oh. And he yelled at her: “Yo, shut the f*ck up, ho.” Very gangsta, indeed. Except this gangsta was very small. He might have been about 5'6 and maybe a buck twenty if he was naked. To me, if you’re going to be a gangsta, you need to be big and formidable. I want to look up at you in fear, not down at you as if you were a mosquito with cornrows. I want a big-ass thug – think the big black guy from Green Mile – and not some dwarf with a dirty mouth. After La Thug barked his orders to his ladyfriend, my mouth gaped open. Then I closed it quick and walked faster, sort of afraid what the wee gangsta might do if he saw my horror. Then I realized that he is so frigging puny, I could probably toss him into traffic with a toss of my hip. If a 35 year old government worker who writes speeches all day, loves her crock pot, her husband and a Wallander mystery book has a good chance at whooping your ass, then you, L'il Wayne, are no gangsta. S'up Ho-ingly Yours, xoxoSallyS