Archive for March 27th, 2008
The day I got jacked for my girl scout cookies (another painful childhood memory)
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.
I sold ‘em once. In the 4th grade.
The kids ain’t the ones who actually sell the 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.
Nope. They had to drop me off at the school closest to my crib.
So I had to walk 4 blocks home with a huge box of Girl Scout cookies.
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 7th or 8th graders.
I sped up my pace. Two blocks down. Two more to go.
And I’d be home. Safe.
I can’t remember if it was a kick. Or if I got tackled.
Nonetheless, my box fell to the ground.
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.
