(Alert: Serious ****’s used in this post. But, really, I’m “****”ing someone else’s words. Whaa? Huh? Oh, just skip it if you’re offended by ****’s. S’everyone clear?)
Okay, all you cupcakes. Say you’re minding your own business at the mall. You’re quietly basking in that rapacious radiance that comes only from shopping. Deep in glowy reverie, you surely decide: Yes. Mankind just might be worth it after all. Wandering, happy with yourself, happy with everyone, you fail to see that young fellow sidling up to you. You hear before you see, and what you hear sounds like some sort of sleazy gangsta ad for Campbell’s soup:
“Mm-mm-mmm! You are one bad mother****er!”
You whirl around and see Mr. Mm-mm-mmm-er. You stare at him because … well, because you’re sure you heard him wrong. And because if you heard him right, you certainly don’t know what to say to that.
Because … is this a hip-hopper’s compliment, requiring a bewildered “thank you”? An insult needing some snappy retort or, failing that, an old-fashioned, but perhaps woefully unwise, slap? Or is this an assault-about-to-become-a-battery, demanding a fleet-footed retreat?
But, you see. You are greedy. You are dumb. You don’t know.
So you do nothing.
Luckily, your pitiful little poet keeps moving, muttering. Away from you. You eye him warily until that last inch of baggy pants trips around the corner. You and your courage are alone at last.
And now you can set your li’l feet to shopping like the “bad mother****er” you are!