This weekend, I went to my Alma Mater for an African Fashion Show held by an organization I used to be VP of. Afterward, me and some alums went to eat where we laughed ourselves into hurting vocal chords. Reminiscing is always a good time. So since we still wanted to hang, we somehow convinced ourselves that it would be a good idea to go to the Show’s Reggae Afterparty, which was at the school’s Union, and would be filled with Undergrads. I haven’t been to any of these Union parties since my sophomore year of college, when my desire to sweat like a marathoner from dancing so hard ended (And since that incident with the Ques where they threw me in the air over their heads. We shan’t rehash that right now though).
But our desire to
spend the next 3 hours irritated hang out and roast undergrads won us over, so we went. I will admit that I was expecting debauchery, but I guess not to the extent I saw. The moment we walked into that party, we felt so outta place. Me and the BFF O.N.E. stood with our arms crossed. We couldn’t help it because we remembered why it had been 5 years since we had been to such a party.
We walked into a Saturday night on Cinemax. Reggae + horny undergrads = Soft core porn in live action. I couldn’t see the faces of any girl because they were touching the floor while booty tooting, and dancing. They were doing something brash but there was no cash. All that strangeness came with no change. Even in my hottest Urban Youth days, I never touched the floor while dancing (I swear on frankincense, murrh and gold). People were basically having sex with clothes on. If sperm could travel through denim, 400 undergrads would have been impregnated.
I felt all icky for witnessing this on the sabbath (it was already after 12 so it was Sunday). Lawd forgive me for bearing witness to the foolery in this den of iniquity. I was standing there with a scowl on my face, looking like a chaperone at the high school homecoming dance. A couple of folks I knew were dancing so hard that I threatened to call their mamas. I even almost told one young man to pull up his pants because they were by his knees and all I could see were his drawers. Turrble! Then one girl who had no belt on was juking so hard that her pants were falling down and I could see her striped fruit of the looms. UGH! Folks were axting like they lacked home training. Shaming mamas and whatnot.
The coupla times I did dance, the DJ played some African music, and me and my cuzzo decided to act out a little. “She Got her Own” came on and since that is my JAM, I was twurking a little but after 3 minutes, I was done. When I was TRULY TRULY done was when the DJ started playing House Music. At a REGGAE party. I felt like I was at a house party in someone’s basement when folks started footworking. “Get down Lil Mama” and “Let me bang” played and it was a WRAP for any semblance of sense in that spot. Betwixt the girls who almost broke their backs from popping their booties so hard and the dudes who almost tripped and fell from over-footworking, iQuit.
Me and O.N.E. promptly got our long peacoats (as opposed to everyone else’s cropped bubble coats) and left the building. While exiting, I made the comment of “I do not miss these Union parties.” Despite the fact that it was said to no one in particular, one young fella decides that he would be offended by my statement and started looking at me sideways with this huge scowl on his face.
Me: “Umm… what is your problem? What’s with the look?”
He mumbled something and looks away and I say to O.N.E. “Is he mad because he still goes to school? Hmm…maybe he’s mad because he is rocking the fake Polo shirt”. His boys hear this and start cracking up, saying “Damnn dawg, she got ur ass!”. At which his ego got hurt and the following exchange ensues.
Stupid boy: “Hey, you in the curl. What did you say to me?”
O.N.E. (who has an afro): *with much attitude* “What? Who are you talking to?”
Stupidity epitomized: “The other one in the short curl”
Me: *with even MORE attitude* “You mean afro? A short curl is also called an afro”
Stupid Boy: “Yeah you, what did you say to me?”
O.N.E. & Me: *laughs at him and continue to walks away*
Stupid boy: *something unintelligible and laced with hurt feelings*
Me: *looks back* Hey, don’t be mad cuz I busted you out for your Fake polo. Besides, you need not talk to me, lest I slap you with my degree and buy your entire person with the swipe of a card. Dummy. Go read a book. IJOT!
Ol’ Napoleon complex having fool. Looking like Jermaine Dupri’s little brother. I’m typically a nice person, but once messed with, I can become an a**hole extraordinaire. Don’t be mad at me because you still need a Trapper Keeper (remember those?) #2 pencils and wide-ruled notebooks. Clearly, his vocabulary was so lacking he couldn’t even figure out the word “afro”. Jeebus be a thesaurus for some of these foolish people. He clearly doesn’t know that I’d roast him in 3 languages (Yoruba, English & French). Tu es très drôle. You’re dumb as hell. Ori e o da! Psht!
Moral of the story:
Don’t be mad cuz you’re short Undergrads are sinful. Lord I hope I wasn’t like that I’m too grown for everything I saw last night. I need to stay outta Chambana.