“Mummy, put on Poppin’ Them Thangs. Frenulum and I are going to glare at the hos”
Well it’s Friday, which means that NRO has inflicted America’s Worst Mother™ on the world yet again and we see that Meghan has now chosen to inflict her children: Maisy, Cuthbert, Frenulum, and Pope Pius XIII on the surrounding downtown area.
When we last left Meghan and the kids, a lovely, if not overly pretentious, birthday party had gone horribly awry with a mob of sugar-crazed children assaulting Mr. Meghan like a slavering mob of starving tiny tot pit bulls, tearing and rending at his flesh with their small but razor-sharp primary teeth. Fortunately Meghan’s baby’s daddy was packing an aerosol can of Tot-B-Gone™ mace and was able to fight them off with only the loss of two fingers and a nipple. Realizing that he is no longer welcome to spend time in what used to be his home, he now lives in his office and bathes in the executive washroom sink. He doesn’t miss the squalor of home.
Now that she has become a single mother with four children, Meghan decides that the best way to protect her family is to go, as she calls it, “gangsta gangsta”. Donning their freshest bling bling and hoodies from the Sean John Garanimal collection they go for a ride:
Five minutes later, freshly be-socked, everyone is strapped in the car. Off we go to the pizza joint, I load the pies in beside Paris in the jump seat, and we proceed downtown. The noise inside the car is stupendous. I imagine pedestrians wincing as we drive by, thumping and pulsing, the way people do when a car goes by blasting hip-hop.
As you can see, all of the children are packing heat (“strapped”) as they cruise downtown, eating pizza and blasting crunk by hip hop artist, Raffi:
Boom-boom, ain’t it great to be.. crazy? Boom-boom, ain’t it great to be.. crazy?”
Although, I believe it’s actually spelt: cra-zee.
Anyway Meghan and the kids are out cruising down the street in their 6-4, jockin the freaks clocking the dough when they went to the park to get the scoop, knuckleheads out there cold shooting some hoops. Cuz the Gurdons n tha hood are always hard, you come talking that trash and they’ll pull your card. Which is what they start thinking when Cuthbert sees that Howard “Ghostface Gov’ner” Dean from the Eastside Maple Boyz has been tagging in their hood:
“Mummy, when is someone going to rip down all these Howard Dean signs?” Molly asks. “Can we pull them down?”
But Meghan (or Meghan G, as she now likes to known) tells the kids to chill. There is a time and a place for everything:
Oh, no.” I am in the midst of delivering a little homily about respecting other people’s right to express their political enthusiasms, especially for the frothing governors of small New England states, when she interrupts.
In the back of the Dodge Caravan, strapped into his booster seat, Pope Pius XIII, bored as hell and wanting to get ill, pulls out his Tec-9 and stares at the unsuspecting people on the street, his gold tooth glinting in the winter sun…
Next week–the minivan drive by.
(Thanks for the assist from my boyz in NWA…peace out)