I’ve had it with skateboard punk yolo teens. Sure, they seem pretty harmless and adorable, but they are a menace. Up and down my neighborhood and in the park, they “street-ride” their “street-boards” and do moves called “street kick-lifts” or “180 degree street-spins.” I’ve had enough. They have finally caused me to take action — and that action is documenting some of the altercations I have had with these hooligans.
I’ll never forget this day. This was one of my first interactions with these rapscallions. I would not have been as upset if it weren’t for the Spaghetti-O spillage. UNCALLED FOR.
Again with the crotch. Why do they always aim for my precious crotch? Also, I gave them the benefit of the doubt because they were freestyle rap battle singing and they were outside of my favorite restaurant, PF Chang’s. As far as my rap-singing skills? I assure you they are, and were, top-notch. Perhaps these skateboard punk yolo teens were intimated by my “flow.” And then this happened:
Hurt me, but don’t mess with my spice garden. These were the first times I was called “Ratchet,” but they certainly were not the last. To this day, I still do not know what the word means.
They were not confrontational, but this was just bizarre. Junk in my trunk? I don’t get it. I’ll admit, at first I was confused as to what kind of b-holes would torment me like this, but I let it go. I got over it. At times, I even tried to relate to them:
Things heated up a bit after this incident. People aren’t supposed to spit in another person’s face. I was trying to actually be supportive, but that proved futile. Then these instances happened, often when I began going to the park for my various activities:
See what I mean? At times they seemed to be rather harmless, but other times seemed to have a blood-lust for me. Or a urine-lust. On a couple occasions, I tried to match them through the art of #swag:
I was so proud of myself for standing my ground and, through the timeless art of swag, back them off. These moments were few and far between. I was pretty sure they were on pot most of the time:
Most of the time, these skateboard punk teens were JUST PLAIN MEAN. They seemed to have no problem taking my possessions or ruining them time and time again:
I hated being a “snitch” or “bitch ass” as many of them called me, but I had to inform the police at some point:
And then I was able to get away with a few small victories or, at the very least, outsmart the ruffians:
The joke WAS on them. The joke was all over them. The joke was practically IN them. In retrospect, this may have angered the bitter punks to the point of no return.
I can’t explain this one. I think I may have ingested one too many meditation peyote buttons and had a fever dream.
In fairness, these skateboard punk yolo teens have made me a local celebrity, especially at the park. No lie, I’ve been able to pick up a few chicks because of their antics. Numerous slacks have been ruined. My genitals have been badly bruised. I have cried enough tears to fill the fountain at the park one-third of the way. And yet, reminiscing about these skateboard punk yolo teens has somehow endeared them to me.
I think I’ll grab my harmonica and head on over to the park. Fingers crossed!