I Ain't Scared of You by Bernie Mac

pass stupid shit on down to the kids. So the kids are in school and everybody hate the smart muh’fucka. They wanna beat him up on Friday. Muh’fucka done won the spelling bee. He spelled “philosophic,” and you wanna kick his teeth out.
    You remember those reading groups in school? It would be the first group, the kids who could do good. The second group was kids who were OK. Then there was that third group.
    The third group was that muh’fucka who had to put his fingers on the words. The teacher gotta read with that nigga so he can get through it:
    STUDENT: Uh, “He . . . s-s-s—”
    TEACHER: “Said!”
    STUDENT: Uh . . . “said . . . th-th—”
    TEACHER: “That!”
    STUDENT: Oh, yeah. “That.”
    Nigga, you got a fourth-grade education and you stutter! Butyou tellin’ your woman, “Heh-heh, our cheese is gonna come in, baby! Don’t worry ’bout it. I’m gettin’ mine.”
    But you puttin’ down the guy next door ’cause he talks proper: “Baby, l-l-l-listen to that muh’fucka. Ha ha. Ol’-ol’-ol’ white talkin’ m-m-m-muh’fucka.”
    Me? I was a pretty good student in school, and I wasn’t afraid to humbug with no muh’fucka. So the niggas got me, too, but it took more than one. I balled my fist up. That meant that four of them muh’fuckas would get my ass. They in school all tough until they know you’ll fight. That’s when niggas would be talkin’ that French shit:
“We
gon’ get this motherfucka.”
    Man, I’ll tell you: Niggas are funny. We go over the top with shit. Whatever is in, we gotta be trendy, too.
    Like these names nowadays. You look at the names from generation to generation. Our names used to be simple: “Betty,” “Cynthia,” “Lamont.”
    Then
Roots
came out, and niggas lost they mind. “Zaqueeda.”
    Now they tryin’ to be all superficial with names: “Paradise.” “Alize.” “Porsche.” “Lexus.” We get too buffoonish with that shit. You’ll fuck a kid’s head up with that bullshit.
    We go over the top with shit. Like with the tattoos and the earrings. I’m sick of tattoos! You know how some muh’fucka got a problem with smoking? I’m like that with tattoos.
    Niggas be havin’ tattoos on they throat and wrist, on they belly. Tongue pierced. Eyelid pierced. On the ankle. In the crack of they ass. Then your child has to say, “This is my mother.”
    Just over the top. Like these niggas with cell phones. Muh’fuckas got cellular phones and no education. Muh’fucka got no job, but he got a cell phone—for a month. He in the mall, at the show, talkin’ on that muh’fucka. I’ve even seen cats at
my
show on the phone.
    CONCERT GOER: Hello? Yeah, man, motherfucka onstage now. Yeah, he clean than a muh’fucka. What aisle you in?
    But one thing about black folks: We smart when it comes to some ol’ bullshit. Whatever man make, a nigga can break. Slick. Hustlers.
    We can’t take orders, though. On the job 9 to 5? We can’t work no 9 to 5. We come in late. You supposed to start at 6:30, but if you come in 6:37, to us, you ain’t late.
    BLACK EMPLOYEE: I
know
you ain’t tripping over 7 minutes.
    But you been coming in late for the last three months!
    Then you’ll tell on somebody else in a minute.
    BLACK EMPLOYEE: Ain’t this a bitch!? You gon’ trip on me, because I done came in late,
but your boy Sam over there
come in late every muthafucking time, and you don’t say nothin’!
    And we always talking about what we gon’ do on the job.
    BLACK EMPLOYEEE: I’ll blow this muthafucka up!
    You ain’t never known a black terrorist in your life! You ain’t never known no black man with no nitroglycerin or no dynamite. First of all, where they gon’ buy the dynamite from?