When I’m done cleaning the dining room, I go outside for a smoke and reflect on what I overheard as those kids were chattering to each other.
I mean, it used to be “brother.” Then it was “bro.” I’ve used both myself. Now, though? Now it’s “bruh,” like they can’t even summon up the energy to see the verbal shorthand all the way through. They begin to struggle only two letters in, succumbing to the pull of lethargy as they hit the almighty vowel.
My train of thought is interrupted as the door flies open.
“Ugly ass muthafuka, smoking a cigarette,” he barks aggressively my way as he exits the door.
This guy is obviously the spokesperson for those unruly pack of pre-teens that undoubtedly just got kicked out of the store.
I don’t respond. I don’t even bother looking up from my cell phone, as a matter of fact, and not only because I refuse to give him what he wants and bark back with either sharp words or a piercing glance, but because I find it difficult to argue against his on-point narration.
I am curious as to why he feels compelled to speak it out loud, though. I mean, why not share the fruits of those keen, observational skills with a broader audience by mentally vomiting them on the internet, infecting others with his utter nonsense and littering the walls of social media with more mindless graffiti?
You know, like this ugly ass muthafuka.
Chronicles of a Madman. 