The Nappy Diatribe

HELLO, I'M HUMANITYCRITIC, AND I'M A SNITCH.

Posted 03/23/2007 at 10:59 PM  |  5 comment/s

Looking back on my 33-year existence, I'm not proud of too many of my actions. I once made sweet and tender love to a woman in the holy confines of a church pew. I once knocked out a 65-year-old man with a massive uppercut punch because he tried to welch on a 300 dollar bet. I once angered a priest so badly during a pick-up game of basketball due to my inappropriate clergy molestation humor, I forced a bona fide man of god to call me a "dirty cocksucker" in front of 20 onlookers. Shameful, I know - so shameful, in fact, that when I die, St. Peter and his co-workers will probably tease me in text message form as I wait in purgatory, emailing me cryptic "LOL" messages along with pictures of themselves giving me the holy finger. But the one thing I am proud of, outside of my being able to suck in my gut enough to see a rather unimpressive phallus that possibly only midget chicks view as "average," is the fact that I never subscribed to any sort of "guy code" in my entire life. You know, the kind of shit where I see my sister's boyfriend with another chick and I'm not supposed to say anything under the strict restrictions of the nonexistent document that is the "guy code." (Yeah, that one.) Well, I always rejected tom-foolery of that variety because it's my firm belief that there is no honor amongst thieves, so growing up I spent a great deal of my spare time ratting out the boyfriends of girls I wanted to penetrate in the worst and most deviant ways imaginable.

To be completely honest, if you weren't my friend or a blood relative, I didn't particularly have an issue with nakedly acquainting myself with the girlfriend of a guy I only knew in passing, drunkenly humping like a jackrabbit directly under the framed smiling visage of the "love of her life." Even though my porn collection has overtaken my habit of stealing women who already are spoken for over the last five years, I still buck a similar unwritten code that so-called men live by, that being the "no snitching" rule.

Listen, if you and I decide to rob a bank and my black ass is the one that gets caught - chubby guys with drinking problems aren't exactly the fleetest of foot - I definitely wouldn't snitch. But that's the only example I could give where I wouldn't snitch. Whether a murderer's whereabouts, the son of a bitch that stole Old lady Johnson's car last year, even the innocent-looking coke dealer who's only selling drugs to support her autistic child, I will draw the authorities an elaborate street map to the culprit's house equipped with bicycle paths and railroad crossings. Here's my long and illustrious history of snitching. Enjoy.

I once snitched in the name of Love: When I was in Junior high I was in love with a thick chocolate seductress named Carla, who by all accounts reciprocated that Love until this scumbag named Lamont entered the picture. Stolen glances that evolved into very indiscreet petting all but vanished when Lamont got placed into our Spanish class. Carla wasn't worried about me seeing her salivate over the "new guy." Something had to be done: this bastard is what stood between my chubby cheeks and her breasts that seemed like chocolate pastries that Shrek would eat. That's when I decided to take action. It was well-known that Lamont was the man to go to if you wanted to experience the best street horticulture this side of High School, so one sunny afternoon I decided to inform the principle of Lamont's business practices. Suffice it to say, a "random" locker search and one expulsion later, Carla and I went back to stolen glances and, by that point, pretty advanced petting. At least, until another new guy came in and stole my proverbial thunder - a fellow who didn't view Cheech and Chong as comic geniuses, unfortunately.

I once snitched for a parking space: Another example of drug snitchery, a neighbor that I had while I lived with an ex-girlfriend continuously parked in my designated spot. No matter how many times I told him to stop, he didn't give a shit, he'd still park his car in my spot like I wasn't going to do shit about it. Actually he was right - I'll fight anyone, but there were so many rumors about this particular drug kingpin and dismembered bodies that I knew not to overstep my boundaries. But him parking in my spot was rather troublesome, and I knew that if he kept doing it I'd be forced to beat his ass, but I didn't want to shit myself in front of my girlfriend as he put his gun barrel in my mouth as retaliation. So I did what any red-blooded American boy would: I informed a cop friend of mine about all the drug activity that happens a mere two doors down from me. A couple of days later I was awoken to a drug raid, and gun fire that resulted in the early demise of my drug-dealing neighbor. Yes, he died. Very sad, but fuck em'- I got my spot back, the motherfucker shouldn't have been selling poison to my people in the first place.

I still snitch for beer and lap-dance money: The best thing to come out of my town, outside of my self-deprecating humor and a few noteworthy Timbaland tracks, is this thing called "Crime Solvers." "Crime Solvers" is where they will show you random mugshots of criminals-at-large, usually on cable-access channels, where the viewer gets some proverbial phat cash if their snitching results in arrests. Some people might frown on this; I don't, since I have received thousands of dollars for my pedestrian police work, but I have been responsible for more than 25 arrests over the past decade or so. To quote Goodfellas: a guy that works at the local gas station is wanted for check fraud - "fuck you, pay me!!" - an ex-girlfriend that I was still on good terms with is wanted for drug possession - "fuck you, pay me!" - a cousin that I'm no longer on good terms with is wanted for something called "crimes against nature" - "Fuck you, pay me!!"

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