". . .yeah, but why -- in the 21st century -- are you wearing your BRITCHES below your stink butts, showing your stink underwear in public, as if after all these centuries you're still uncivilized?" They were five or six "CARBON-COPY" teenagers, SONS OF BRITCHES "hanging out" downtown on a crowded sidewalk in the business district. Men in suits and ties avoided them. Women -- some in dresses -- pretended not to see them.
"That's us -- who we is," one said.
They all wore baggy black BRITCHES and XL white T-shirts that hang to their knees, and ball caps were turned sideways on their heads.
"We lettin' the world know we hin'r, lak rap music," another said proudly.
"Yeah, show 'em we don' take no bullshit," another piped up.
"Straight up," another said. "It's our thang, our culture."
You could find SONS OF BRITCHES like them in all the cities of the United States. "After all the sacrificing for generations -- the 'shootin' 'n' lootin', burning and bleeding, marching and jailing, and lying and dying in the '60s -- this is the best your culture could come up with? -- you got jobs?"
"Jobs . . ?" one said, looking around at the others. "What's that?" He started giggling, and the others guffawed loudly in unison, turning and twisting and bending forward and slapping each other's palms -- even hopping up and down, as if putting on a show for passersby to notice them.
When they had subsided, one said, "We don't need to work, we lives wit' our folks."
"Ain't nothing cool 'bout working -- anybody can do that," another said. "We unique -- lak rap."
Who'd hire such SONS OF BRITCHES?
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