Von

I know it’s hard to believe, but I actually got punked quite a bit in my youth.

No joke.
 

Dog, I grew up in the ‘hood. It was real every day on the cold, hard streets of Chicago’s west side. I wasn’t duckin’ bullets or nothin’ crazy like that, but it was kinda rough at times. Gangs, hoodlums, all that shyt.

 

Back in “grammar school” the kids would constantly pick on me.

In the schoolyard. At recess. After school.

They’d steal my sandwich and Capri-Sun juice box from my lunchbox when I wasn’t around.

Away from school, a dude stole my bike in broad daylight—as I chased him yelling repeatedly, “That’s my bike!” (like dude was gon’ hear that and say, “My bad, homie. I was gon’ take yo’ shyt till you said that.”).

It was sad times, dog.

But the climax of my days of getting punked had be when those chumps jumped me for my Girl Scout cookies.

My mom took the forms to work and harassed folks there. It’s really a hassle to solicit co-workers to buy shyt. My mom went through a lot to help me out.

 

A couple weeks later, a big-ass box arrives at school.
My order. Full of the cookies my family and all of my mom’s co-workers bought.
With their hard-earned cash.

Destination home.

 

 

 

As I struggled carrying my box, I noticed a gathering of thugs on the opposite corner.
Had to be 3, possibly 4 of ’em.
They were older, maybe 7^th or 8^th graders.

 

 

 

In football, we call that a fumble!

 

 

 

 

As I struggled to get up, I noticed people on their porches looking at me.

No one did anything. Some were even laughing.

With my pride and dignity gone, I took the walk of shame home (while the Price Is Right loser’s horn played in the background)—where I proceeded to cry my eyes out in front of my mom (I’ll be she was like, “I busted my ass to sell those cookies so you could get punked like this? Is this the man I’m raising you to be?”)

The only positive thing about that horrific event is that it shaped me into the man I am today. A dude who don’t take shyt from NOBODY (well, except for the bytch-ass muhfukkas at DirecTv. And ol’ boy who slid me his number on the train that day).Nowadays, ain’t no way I’m lettin’ some chump take what’s mine.

Even if they got a gun pointed at me.

So, to those cowards who took my girl scout cookies—don’t let me catch y’all chumps on the street (not that I hang out on the corner or anything).

’Cause I ain’t the same dude y’all jacked back in the day.

I opened it and read the first line in bold letters: VEHICLE SEIZURE NOTICE.

Nah, it wasn’t really from the US government (but I did get one from them about sending me a check for up to $600 ’cause our president fukked up the economy so bad. Nice goin’, dikkhead!).

It was from the clowns at The City of Chicago Department of Revenue.

 

Apparently, I have three outstanding tickets that I ain’t pay.

Two of them came for parking illegally in “residential permit parking.”
The other one is from running a red light (I didn’t get pulled over, but in Chicago some traffic lights have cameras that take pictures of your car if you run a light).

The next line says: PAYMENT IS DUE.

380 dollars.
Says if I don’t pay, they’re gon’ send their henchmen to put a boot on my car (like they did last time).

So, I guess I have two options:
A) Pay them and avoid getting my car immobilized with that big-ass yellow boot.

OR

B) Tell those fools to kiss my black ass!

Guess which one I’m goin’ with?
Yup, against all sound logic and reason I choose B. I’ll be damned if I pay those vultures another red cent of my hard-earned money.

It was bad enough when I came home from out of town to see my car booted in the airport parking lot.
It was bad enough when they booted my car on a hot summer night last year.
And it was bad enough when they tricked me into parking in a two zone and got my car on a bone-chilling winter night.

You think I’d get it through my thick skull to just pay those dikkheads and avoid further embarrassments.

Nah, dog. It’s the principalities of the matter. You mean to tell me that it’s reasonable to charge me $100 for parking in the wrong spot? It’s practical to make me pay $180 for being a split second late in crossing the median? Fukk that, dog. I refuse to be a part of the city of Chicago’s grand scheme of making money off of good, law-abiding citizens such as myself. I work hard for my money and I’ve got too many other things to pay for (bills, rent, high-ass gas prices, my shopping addiction, etc) for me to waste another dollar on those jackasses.

Which brings me to the obvious question: What am I gonna do when they boot for not paying?

Well, I don’t technically live in Chicago. I live in the suburb right outside of the city. And these are Chicago tickets—meaning they can’t touch me outside of the city. And I rarely drive into the city (I take the train to work every day).

So those pigs can’t touch me…unless they catch my car parked in the city of Chicago.

So next time I venture into the city to go to a restaurant, movie theater, or to hang out with the fellas—I gotta watch my back, keep my head on a swivel, and hope I don’t come back to a booted car.

But I’d rather do that than contribute to the city’s immoral money making schemes one more time.

Power to the people!