Boyz ‘n’ the Hood

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The portal wherewith I gazed 'pon my adult destiny

Lil' Le Baptiste

Following on from the tantalising glimpse into one of the formative cinematic experiences that helped to make Banjo Fett the intergalactic bounty-hunting bluegrass minstrel he is today , I have decided to share the details of an early chapter from my cinematic autobiography. Indeed, when I last encountered  the analogue version of Mr Fett, dressed like Bo Peep and strangling little frogs down by the lagoon, he expressed the heartfelt wish that his entry would inaugurate a long series of ‘formative film experience’ entries from all hands on the AR.

I was 9 or 10 when first I lay my virginal peepers upon the sex ‘n’ gun-tastic romp that is Boyz ‘n’ the Hood. The film’s rating was 15 or 18, but I would not be deterred. I was determined to see what adulthood held in store for me, albeit a stylised version of adulthood specific to a gang-banging LA milieu, rather than the Brideshead Revisited-esque world of plums, teddy-bears and posh sexual ambiguity that my adult life has since proven to be. Anyway, here’s a poem about what happened when I watched Boyz ‘n’ the Hood:

When I grow up I’m going to get my gat

And gun your ass to the ground.

Then I’m going to sink up to my ears

In booty.

Ass booty gat. Bum bottom gun

Gat booty ass. Gun bottom bum.

Yo’ in the big leagues now lil’ Le Baptiste

With yo’ scabrous white knees and

Just William cheeks.

Scrumping in the orchards

Ain’t like pumping in the projects:

It don’t matter how many rosy Braeburns

You stole from Reverend Beckley’s parish garden

An’ it don’t matter if you stole

Wee-wee Jenkinson’s tuck

An’ made him weep onto his already

Soggy school shorts.

Yo’ in the big league now,

So shoot Fat F-Pups in his weak-ass jugs

And flip those hoes a fiddy.

Bitchslap that fag,

Fag-slap that bitch,

Gat that snitch, titch,

Get dead or die rich,

Or was it the other way round?

Yo’ in the big leagues now lil’ Le Baptiste

So say it after me:

Ass booty gat. Gun bottom bum.

I don’t like this game any more. I want me mum.

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4 Responses to “Boyz ‘n’ the Hood”

  1. Banjo Fett Says:

    My man. I applaud your unparallelled use of syncopated syllables, muthafucka.

    Such vibrant lingual imagery that I almost forgot I’m spending the afternoon sticking a tek-nine down this bitch-ass crackhead’s throat for tryna dodge a brutha onna street.

  2. johnlebaptiste Says:

    Tell that bitch-ass crackhead he’s still got my ‘Three Men in a Boat’ audio cassette and cheeseboard. Hang on, we are talking about the same bitch-ass crackhead aren’t we, i.e. Twitchy Crispin?

  3. Banjo Fett Says:

    Poochy McWhirter actually, that bitch-ass crackhead borrowed my Cole Porter 78s ages ago. If that skinny-ass dandy’s pawned them I’ll duff the blighter da fuck up, hombre.

  4. johnlebaptiste Says:

    Poochy McWhirter! His addiction to Tin Pan Alley artefacts almost matches his Herculean appetite for crack. What an arse!

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