Ghetto Talkin' Hip Hopper Pansy

It all started long, long ago....

I am driving to the courthouse with our office's newest employee: 18 year old Sexy Mexican. We have only met each other 4 hours earlier. It is her first day on the job and I am going to show her how to file papers at the court.

Suddenly a beat-to-shit tiny Toyota truck races by with "bling bling" written with duct tape across its cracked back window. Well, with my Incredible Instincts For Fine Pieces of Nonsense, I immediately know that "bling bling" means something, but being Hopelessly White I don't know WHAT it means. I'm still stuck back in the "bitchin" and "far out" era. I demand Sexy Mexican explain the phrase to me. She is for some reason horrified, embarrassed, whatever, but haltingly explains it to me. I laugh with gusto and then demand more of these foreign language lessons. Thus, began my relationship with my best friend who is also evidently my daughter by another mother.

She has spent years now learnin' me the street lingo. It all rolls SO fresh and effortlessly off my tongue. But I keep trying despite her rude laughing in my face and calling in people to "Listen to this! Okay, Pansy, say it!"

My first phrase was: "Peep this home chick, what's crackalacking."

Which works except for I keep enunciating too fucking clearly because I am Hopelessly White and I always mix the words up more like so:

"Keep...ummm...Crackalacking [yes!]....you, [rushing too fast and blurring the words together] peephome!"

Of course, it would help if these lessons didn't come at inopportune times like when we're halfway through that third pitcher of margaritas. Last night I learned: "Don't half-step it." Which I used on her husband because he was trying to shortchange me on the margaritas. But then the lesson got diverted when we (the husband and I) got sidetracked with me wanting to see his latest tattoos. The conversation went like this:

Pansy: Do you have any tattoos on your back?
Mr. Sexy Mexican: Just the one on my ass cheek that says Property Of Pansy.
Pansy: Yeh? So where's the red lips smoochie tattoo?
Him: It's on my ass crack, one lip on each side, so that when I fart your lips flap in the wind like they always are doing.
Pansy Shouts: What good does that do you? I know for a fucking fact my lips cannot be seen if you don't get that hairball ass waxed.
Him: This is not a good conversation.
Pansy: Well, it would go a lot fucking better if you wouldn't half-step me. Now give me the goddamm margarita, punk.

Meanwhile, way back when, at the courthouse that first day, Sexy Mexican and I are at the yellow line---behind which you MUST remain until you are called to the counter by the clerk.

Sexy Mexi: So, do they call you by name?
Pansy: Yes. They call me by name.
Sexy Mexi: Well, how do they know what to call me?
Pansy: You? They'll just say "hey bitch. over here."
Sexy Mexi: Dies of embarrassment because everyone hears this conversation.

Over the years the court clerks came to eventually call her: Hey, hella skinny support staff bitch. Over here. Now. Ya ho.

But I DO know every lyric to every rap song ever, ever, ever. Seriously. Here you go, free of charge:

fuckfuckfuckfuckmuthafuckerfuckfuckfuck
hofuck!ho. [long pause] FUCK!