Every summer. Like clockwork. The neighborhood is infested with what I like to call “roaches”. These aren’t the typical roaches that invade your cereal boxes and kitchen sinks while the lights are off, then scurry about in a frenzy when spotted by an unsuspecting homeowner. These roaches reside in broken down neighborhoods and scurry through the streets – especially in warm months like Summer – picking fights with other roaches. These roaches invade your space. Litter your territory with their liquor bottles, extinquished Black & Mild blunt butts, empty Cheetos bags and loitering. They case your house while you and your children are off attending daycare and working 9-to-5 jobs. They break into your car while you’re sleeping, using your property as a vehicle for scavenger hunting.
In one of my older (now defunct) blogs, I referenced this type of behavior and environment in a joking manner. Now it’s not quite so funny anymore. Tonight is a perfect example of why I am beyond WONDERING if I and my family need to move. I already know. This engaging episode of Ghetto Masterpiece Theory began last night. We shall call this one “B!@ch, I’m Gon’ Kill You!”, Act One.
A house on our street, notorious for housing AN ENTIRE FAMILY of hooligans (mother, sisters, grandfather) is also infamous for starting fights with almost every female that walks the block. The scene always unfolds the same: taunting that turns to yelling, yelling to screaming from their front doors, from the front doors to the street, screaming from the street turns to fighting, fighting turns to stabbing, stabbing leads to gunshots. Where are the police in all this, you ask? Yeah. I ask, too. After a mangled carcass lies bloody and broken in the street from the mêlée, one… ONE black and white appears. Lights flashing. Sirens silent. Statements are taken. Lies are told. Witnesses are briefed. The black and whites disperse into the night to retrieve their coffee and donuts after a quick lecture about the dangers of hand-to-hand combat in residential areas, ushering the soldiers back in to their bunkers. But, like any good war, there is a moment of silence. Then it’s all stations manned as the local referee paces the street to make his professional announcement: “LET’S GET READY TO RUMBUUUUUUUUUULLLLLLLLLLL!” Adequate theater deserves an adoring crowd. Onlookers of Ghetto Masterpiece Theater have loge seats. On their front porches. With lawn chairs. Please don’t forget the lawn chairs.
Act two, “B!@ch, Bring Yo’ A$ Over Here And Say It To My Face!”, concluded this evening. Same scenario as before, sans black and whites. No need in bringing in useless stage props. They take away the raw animal magnetism of the ambiance. Tonight’s stage props were made of aluminum and are typically used by softball players. Because you never know when you’ll need to hit a b!@ch’s head out of the park. Not much fanfare this time. Since the intermission lasted overnight, I assume onlookers felt they’d seen it all before and deemed not to partake in a rerun. Maybe the stage direction was lacking, the lighting not quite right. One of the street lights was on the blink. The stage manager may need to be fired, I’m not really sure.