Wizdom
09-08-2005, 09:43 PM
Aint That A Bitch pt2
The last editorial went better than I expected so I though I’d give another crack at it.
My Crazy Dad pt1
*Disclaimer: this may contain explicit material that may gross out some people.
** Also I do not condone or recommend the actions taken place in the editorial below.
The setup:
My father is Jamaican and my mom is from the south. You can image the confusion as a child. My mom would say crazy country sayings like “scratch a lie, find a thief” and my father would say things like “ find a thief chop him with your machete!!”. To make matters worst I’m a city kid. I was born and raised in the inner city of New Haven. Which is soo close to the Bronx that most “inner city kids” act just as crazy as those Bronx cats. So basically I was raised with a lot of country ideology, Jamaican etiquette and street smarts. Meaning I was confused as hell!!
Life saving tip # 1
*Pay attention cause this will save your life!!
The facts:
Anyone who knows any Jamaican or any Caribbean person, knows the phrase “BOMBACLOT!” It also can be said as “ BLOODCOT!” or “RASCLOT”.
Any way you hear it, some shit is about to go down and you should avoid all contact.
Matter of fact if you hear the first part ie “BOMBA!!” , “WHAT THE BLOOD!!” or “RASS!!”, pack your shit and run, because its about to get crazy.
Anyone who knows any Jamaican or any Caribbean person will also know that to a Caribbean person a machete is his life. I swear they treat it like a Samurai would to their Katana. My father would sharpen his everyday and sheath it like it was Excalibur. But the funny thing is he would use it for everything. Chopping wood, splitting and serving a fruit, hell I once saw my father edge the lawn with his trusty machete.
Another thing about Jamaicans is that no matter how far from home they always want to bring the island with them. In my father’s case it was crops. My father would slave in the backyard all day long tending to his crops and when harvest time came dammit if he didn’t have ripe tomatoes, apples, lettuces, corn and “herbs”. It was like the damn supermarket in my backyard.
The last fact about Jamaicans is that they are master craftsmen. My father couldnt do shit inside the house as far as fixing stuff but outside he was damn near Bob Villa. He would make chairs and hammocks and stuff. When I was a kid he climbed a tree chopped off a limb (with his machete) and wilted it into the best dame sling shot I’ve every seen. It had sights and industrial strength rubber and leather for the sling. I wasn’t even strong enough to cock it back fully.
The Event:
So one day I’m playing in the front yard with my slingshot and my father is cutting the grass. He then walks to the backyard to check on his crops. I then hear an earth shattering “BOMBA!!!!!”
Now instead of doing what you should do and haul ass in the opposite direction, I ventured to the back to see what was up.
What I saw disturbed me greatly.
Some squirrels had saw my fathers crops and decided it was thanksgiving and sat down to feast. My father went bonkers. He quickly grabbed my sling shot and a rock. And just about the time the squirrels had finish saying grace and began to pig out on my father crops. My father took careful aim, cocked the sling as far as it could go and took the one of the squirrel tail clean off!! By the time my father had yelled another “BOMBA!!” the squirrels understood the true meaning of “ RUN like hell” and ran like a hooker out of church.
But as I said when you hear it you got to run the first time. My father began to pluck off their tails one by one. NOW mind you squirrels are damn fast and my father had to be 100 yards away. But he was as deadly as cancer and hit those squirrels like he was Sniper Wolf. The last squirrel thought he was safe because he was 200 yards away and on a telephone wire. But with a last battle cry of “RASS!” my father hit the squirrels tail off without even blinking’ and in a triumphant pose my father shouts “IRIE!!” with his fist pumping in the air.
Moral of the story is:
When you hear “BOMBA”:
RUN!!. Don’t wonder, sit and think, and don’t venture towards the battle cry.
RUN !! fuck the dumbshit and RUN!!.
The last editorial went better than I expected so I though I’d give another crack at it.
My Crazy Dad pt1
*Disclaimer: this may contain explicit material that may gross out some people.
** Also I do not condone or recommend the actions taken place in the editorial below.
The setup:
My father is Jamaican and my mom is from the south. You can image the confusion as a child. My mom would say crazy country sayings like “scratch a lie, find a thief” and my father would say things like “ find a thief chop him with your machete!!”. To make matters worst I’m a city kid. I was born and raised in the inner city of New Haven. Which is soo close to the Bronx that most “inner city kids” act just as crazy as those Bronx cats. So basically I was raised with a lot of country ideology, Jamaican etiquette and street smarts. Meaning I was confused as hell!!
Life saving tip # 1
*Pay attention cause this will save your life!!
The facts:
Anyone who knows any Jamaican or any Caribbean person, knows the phrase “BOMBACLOT!” It also can be said as “ BLOODCOT!” or “RASCLOT”.
Any way you hear it, some shit is about to go down and you should avoid all contact.
Matter of fact if you hear the first part ie “BOMBA!!” , “WHAT THE BLOOD!!” or “RASS!!”, pack your shit and run, because its about to get crazy.
Anyone who knows any Jamaican or any Caribbean person will also know that to a Caribbean person a machete is his life. I swear they treat it like a Samurai would to their Katana. My father would sharpen his everyday and sheath it like it was Excalibur. But the funny thing is he would use it for everything. Chopping wood, splitting and serving a fruit, hell I once saw my father edge the lawn with his trusty machete.
Another thing about Jamaicans is that no matter how far from home they always want to bring the island with them. In my father’s case it was crops. My father would slave in the backyard all day long tending to his crops and when harvest time came dammit if he didn’t have ripe tomatoes, apples, lettuces, corn and “herbs”. It was like the damn supermarket in my backyard.
The last fact about Jamaicans is that they are master craftsmen. My father couldnt do shit inside the house as far as fixing stuff but outside he was damn near Bob Villa. He would make chairs and hammocks and stuff. When I was a kid he climbed a tree chopped off a limb (with his machete) and wilted it into the best dame sling shot I’ve every seen. It had sights and industrial strength rubber and leather for the sling. I wasn’t even strong enough to cock it back fully.
The Event:
So one day I’m playing in the front yard with my slingshot and my father is cutting the grass. He then walks to the backyard to check on his crops. I then hear an earth shattering “BOMBA!!!!!”
Now instead of doing what you should do and haul ass in the opposite direction, I ventured to the back to see what was up.
What I saw disturbed me greatly.
Some squirrels had saw my fathers crops and decided it was thanksgiving and sat down to feast. My father went bonkers. He quickly grabbed my sling shot and a rock. And just about the time the squirrels had finish saying grace and began to pig out on my father crops. My father took careful aim, cocked the sling as far as it could go and took the one of the squirrel tail clean off!! By the time my father had yelled another “BOMBA!!” the squirrels understood the true meaning of “ RUN like hell” and ran like a hooker out of church.
But as I said when you hear it you got to run the first time. My father began to pluck off their tails one by one. NOW mind you squirrels are damn fast and my father had to be 100 yards away. But he was as deadly as cancer and hit those squirrels like he was Sniper Wolf. The last squirrel thought he was safe because he was 200 yards away and on a telephone wire. But with a last battle cry of “RASS!” my father hit the squirrels tail off without even blinking’ and in a triumphant pose my father shouts “IRIE!!” with his fist pumping in the air.
Moral of the story is:
When you hear “BOMBA”:
RUN!!. Don’t wonder, sit and think, and don’t venture towards the battle cry.
RUN !! fuck the dumbshit and RUN!!.