ReaL THuGz! I love the internet!!!The following is a 100% true and accurate account of a ReaL THuG on the streets of [your suburbia]. I apologize for the profanity. It’s merely a reflection of the tru street lyfe theez hardcore dudes live.

Enjoy.

Yeeeeaah. Yeeeeaah.

I’m a thug! Thizzz face, thizzz face.

You know you breezies want it. Damn I look good in FUBU. For Us By who? Whatever. For Us By thUgz. That’s me. Check out my fancy thug hat. I bought it at Hat Xchange at the Galleria. The homeless need to quit bitin’ my style. I’ll kill a homeless. Somebody test me! Fuckin’ wino muthafuckas.

Damn, pink looks good on real thugz.

Yeeeeaah. Take my picture with my brand new HP digital camera. I paid less than retail. I had a gift card. What?! Thug! Reggie, Ernie. Oh, shit, I mean E-tabz and Reg-eezyniggaluv. Get up in this biatch! Hey, we don’t spend too much time together, right? Do you guys have dates yet for the dance? Damn, me either.

Yeeeeaah. Watch this; I’m gonna flip off the camera. HAHA. Damn I’m funny. Ain’t no one thought of that. Hey, unknown viewer of this picture, FUCK … uh … FUCK SOMETHING!

Hold on Chelsea; don’t take our thug picture yet. My flip phone is ringing.

Wassup slut! Oh … damn Mom, why you gotta be hatin’. No, I’m not done with the Accord yet. Damn, I don’t care if I’m over the minutes on our family plan. I’m a thug! I know; don’t block in Dad’s Prius. Hey, did you get my prescriptions for me? Cool. Thanks. Latez! Biaaatch! HAHA. Now everyone knows I called my mom a biatch at the end there.

Ok Chelsea. We ready. Wait, check thizz out. I’ma throw up a hand sign for my thug family name. Vandercleet, bitches! Yeeeahh. Rememba the name!

Damn, where’s my Medic Alert bracelet? That shit ain’t listed on my HMO card.

Shit, why these dudes tryin’ to roll up on Vandercleet. Shit, I’m bout to throw down once I can get my arms free from this 3X Phat Farm sweater. What?! What, nigga?! I represent myself that’s who. Fuck ya’ll fake ass gangstas. Where did I put that pepper spray Dad gave me? You’re gonna be fucked and peppered up!

What?! What? Oh ... oh damn. Ouch! Hey, Reggie, help me out, man! Why are you getting back into your Xterra?! Oh shit, my teeth! Will my full dental coverage be able to save me? Where are the cops?! We need law enforcement! Oh damn! Ouch! I think I broke a rib falling down. Oh! Oh damn! Nah ... my wallet … That’s a Coach original! I have emergency numbers in there!

Why can’t I defend myself? [Ed. note: because you’re a total pussy.] Can you ghetto peeps stop whoopin’ the shit outta me? Oh shit, I think I see a gun. A REAL GUN! I carry the one I stole from my Dad with no bullets cuz that shit is dangerous. Why are these guys so reckless?

Oh … someone just kicked me in my perineum. Really hard. Twice. I want to go home and to the bathroom. I just did the latter. Both kinds. Good thing there’s so much space in these pants Mom bought me. I think I’m blacking out. [Ed. note: finally, your dream is realized!]

I’m going into a euphoric state. Damn, I just wish I was playing Peanut League Baseball with the Teddy and Bret and the whole gang. Oh … my Dunks … Aunt Samantha gave me those.

I think my nose is broken. My nose! Someone help! I need a towel and an ambulance. My suburban tears provide me no comfort.

Now let’s take a look at some “ReaL THuGz" who fit this description. Prepare for a shockfest of violence and antisocial behavior! I’d like to thank everyone who took the step of tilting their chin up all thug-like. It will make it easier for me to coldcock you in your homegrown face.
Without further adieu ...


ReaL THuGz !

Oh snap!

Loving friends!

Living feminine products

Happily shared a hotel room

Word!

MLK rolls over in grave

Thanks, douchebags!

People. I work. I can’t participate in your midday, weekday activities. I work, from Monday to Friday, from 9AM to 5PM. Some people call it the “9-to-5.” Apparently this isn’t sinking in. Let me coin a new phrase (suitable for backwards tattooing on your forehead or other visible area of epidermis).

I work the Ni-Fi-Mo-Fri. For the publicly educated, that’s pronounced “Nye-Figh-Moe-Fry.” Say it as quickly as possible whenever needed. You don’t have much time during your 15-minute coffee break.

This is a phrase sure to sweep the nation. It has much more specificity than the 9-to-5. But hey, why stop there? Indicate that you’re, in fact, not a seasonal farm worker. “I work the Ni-Fi-Mo-Fri-12-Mo.”

While we’re at it, why not make a remark about the state of Social Security? “I work the Ni-Fi-Mo-Fri-12-Mo-til-the-Day-I-Die.” This will indicate your availability for the next 50 years (unless if you’re weighty).

My new work schedule lingo is so catchy, it may reach a point of Jon Heder-ism. I’m sorry, that’s You’re-Not-Jon-Heder-ism. In other words, you may find the phrase so invasive that it has become a nuisance. You’ll know this has occurred when the malnourished fake techno-tool referenced in my other article is grinning like an idiot while wearing a shirt emblazoned with the phrase. “Oooh, I’m so ironic! Don’t you just love my wry humor?! Please, someone affirm my person. I’m so douchey and fragile!”

The preceding was an example of the t-shirt wearer’s inner monologue. Punch him in the face. It will only mean that he cries now rather than later that night in pitch darkness while listening to Bright Eyes.

Unless you live in Houston, you appreciate good zoning. This area is designated for housing. This area is designated for agriculture. And so forth. Not only does this reduce the chances of a head-on with a John Deere, it keeps things nicely divided. Otherwise, you’re cramming the apples into the butter tray and the 20-pound turkey into the crisper.

I elect this division of appropriate activity be extended to work. Nay. I demand. The break room is zoned for recreation. John’s desk is zoned for the John Zone (a nonstop 24/7 affair of unadulterated vigor). The desk of the “up-and-coming” worthless new-age technoshit is zoned for eating, sleeping, stupid horned-rimmed glasses, and secretly hating his life before he crawls back to his Jetta. The restroom is zoned for business and business only.

Yes, when I’m returning God’s call, I simply don’t want to speak to you. You may get a nod or a “hey,” but the niceties end there. If you hear a grunt, it’s not for you; it’s simply a matter of circumstance.

I don’t want to know how things are going as we stand three across at the urinals. This isn’t a bar. No one is serving me a brewskie. In fact, I’m vacating the remnants. Don’t tell me a joke. Don’t discuss politics, the weather, or your recent mole removal. Shut up and piss.

I rue the day I am once again subjected to a higher-up, hands-free at the urinal turning slightly to give me a “Hey, how’s it goin’?!” Better before I walked in. This is a business zone and it requires a concentrated hands-on approach lest anything spill over into leisure.

If you live in Houston, your neighborhood is likely zoned for cousins and nothing else.

Rob Reiner is in the news for reasons other than his days as Meathead. I have nicknamed him Egghead. Yet, there is a disconnect in the two nicknames. You see, Meathead was a reflection of his character on "All in the Family." Meathead was a few sandwiches short of a Turner Family Picnic. To be certain, his head wasn't shaped like a slab of cow or a pork chop. When I label him Egghead, don't put him in the same category as Bill Gates, Stephen Hawking, or Cher. I mean to say his head has morphed into the shape of an enclosed chicken fetus. Yes, this man has the perfect egg-shaped head. Let me explain how I arrived at this conclusion.

I was walking out of work recently to catch the bus. (As the Onion notes, public transportation is for poor people.) I cross the street and make a snide remark about a dark Crown Vic parked in the middle of a crosswalk. (Stars don't need our laws. Besides, pavement is only good if they can imprint their grease paws in it.) Then, about fifteen paces out, a giant egg floats by attached to a slightly bloated blue suit. Sweet Moses, that egg and suit is Marty fucking DiBergi!

Quick John, think of something. "Hey, this sidewalk goes to eleven!" or "Those were the days, am I right, Bobby?" No, these would have been marginally clever.

Instead ...
"Wow, his head really looked like an egg."

Stunning. I guess I was beside myself. It wasn't the first time. One day, while taking poor man's transit, I glanced out the window to catch an eyeful of Jeff Van Gundy. Yes, the Jeff Van Gundy. A man who constantly looks like someone just handed him divorce papers. Or, after a hard day of work, his dog doodied on the carpet before his eyes.

"Hey, that's Jeff Van Gundy!" I said. Yes, really. With excitement. Brilliant! Anyone within earshot was confused and taken aback. It was like yelling "Hey, that's Ernest Borgnine!" to a class of 3rd graders.

Why would Ernest be around an elementary school anyway? Maybe to drop off a great granddaughter. Or perhaps his relatives were parading his corpse through town. Or maybe, just maybe, he had a Code Brown in his trousers and needed the nearest washroom.

That's my take on an egg, a divorcee, and Ernie. Hey, everyone; shit sandwiches on Rob!

... because it's so crazee.