Last night, in the dug-out during our game against the Orioles, I made a comment about one of my favorite bands, Death Cab For Cutie. Melky overheard me and started laughing. When I asked what was so funny, he said I was “whiter than a Dear Abby column in a Vancouver paper.” A few people laughed, and I was humiliated!
ALRIGHT, MELK-MELK! You didn’t think I could sling some turkey talk? Well prep yo’self for some fo’real jiggety jive, sandpaper! You ‘bouts to get nine kinds ‘a serviced, and a ignorant fool best not worry on no gratuitah!
Ain’t you heard how long I been steppin’ slick? Straight conceived in the ‘Heights, bet yo ass momma don’ raise no friv’luss chile! Work my whole dam life, all de wile dat man be chippin’ at my self-esteems wid rock-hammas and shout-callin’! Corncobs and birch bark stingin’ mah ass if daddy stumble ‘troo da thresh-hole cross an’ liqueured!
Melk-Melk, when y’all was swaddlin’ round some ole playpen, I’se roundin’ up goofballs in da ‘hood, gamblin’ we ain’t gon’ find no preacher speachin’ from ole Vicar Jones, cuz Lord knows dat man be invokin’ apostles and communitah suhvice!
And dinna be turnin’ yer mouth whip-like with me, ya clype wanker! Ya airn’t a wee bairn, for feck’s sake, so dinna act like wan! A’dinnieken wherebouts ye fond yer clishmaclaiver, but I’m onta tinkin’ you’se tha kind o’skanker wid drink a red johnny’s piss onna cloot! Fie on yer slechered glazzies, and may Saint Peter curse yer clan!
Holy wow. I don’t know what just happened. I sort of went blank-minded while I wrote. I’m not going to read it over, though, because speaking jive is about obeying what comes from the heart. Congratulations on being schooled, Melky. I’ll expect your apology tonight.