The True Bane of Suburbia: Teenage Wannabe Gangstas

Beware their 8 Mile lingo, t-shirts with moderately offensive sayings and fro-yo addiction. They're hoodlums alright. Well, they wear hoodies and they live in the hood, well, the suburban gated neighbor'hood.

So the last two days I've taken my son to the skate park at the Kirshberg YMCA in middle/upper class USA.

"Be careful with the bigger kids," I warned my son, I don't know if they're so good."

"What, those kids are bad? How do you know?"

"Well, for one, none of them are wearing helmets or pads. Oh, aaaaand I saw one of them smoking!"

"No way. Someone was smoking?" my little innocent said, aghast. (It's nice to see how anti-smoking kids are these days. If only they knew what chimneys their grandparents were.)

"Yo G, I got the iPhone 5," one of the older kids yelled to the others.

"No way, Siri is my bitch, yo," another yelled back... through his braces.

Wow, you know who thinks these kids are baaad? They do. I mean, really? Is this what happens when you're so bored of suburbia? Can their parents stop laughing long enough to tell them how ridiculous they sound?

"WHAT'S UP WITH ALL THE LITTLE KIDS?" inquired one of the white suburbanites, who got dropped off in his momma's Beamer.

"I know, yo. Is that one on a ripstick?" The one wearing the unfortunate fashion statement of a t-shirt proclaiming "Smell my Bag" asked... referring to MY little kid.

My ears perked up, ready to jump in with something like, "You got a problem with my son biatch???" Oh, I can do "thug wannabe" just as good as these. Plus, I've actually lived in a city, that's street cred, G... Props.

"Shit, that kid is badass, that's hard to do." One marveled.

Phew, he's lucky he called my kid "bad ass," 'cause homie was about to get a beat down. Plus, he IS bad ass. I wonder if he knows it?

"Mom, mom watch me do this... mooooooooommmm watch! Are you watching???" Jake yelled.

Well, that answered that question.

Frankly, Jake had no problem with these boys. He climbed up to the highest ramp and chilled at the top, as all the suburban gangstas tried to decide where to go next. (Hollister, Starbucks, Jamba Juice?) I know, you wouldn't want to run into them in a dark alley, right?

"Yo bro, where do you think you're going, BIATCH?"

"Umm, I was going to Abercrombie, but take what you want..."

"F*ck that, we were going there too! I got a sick coupon on Living Social, G."

As I contemplated the irony of this scene a new playa' walked up to me and asked, "Are my eyes ridiculously dilated?"

Oh, this one's the real deal, huh? Doing drugs at the park and flippant enough to ask an adult about his "tells"?

"Um. yep, kinda." I answered, "Why do you wanna know?" I followed. Look, if he's insolent enough to ask, I get to ask back.

"Oh, because I just went to Dr. Rothberg. You know, the ophthalmologist? He did those drops and I don't know if I should skate in the sun before they wear off." He replied like a kid debating whether to wait the full half hour after eating to go into the pool.

"Well sure, not a great idea." I said, trying to squelch my laughter.

"Ok then," he said as if I had given him sound parental advice. Then he walked into the ramped-up hockey rink and yelled to his boyz, "F*ck this shit, I'm gonna get a f*cking smoothie, yo."

"Yeah f*ck this, let's get smoothies," Smell my Bag concurred.

"No way, bro, I want fro yo, yo," piped another...

And they were gone, those crazy hooligans, arguing off into the sunset about toppings and calorie counts and spoiling their appetites.

F*ckin' thugs.

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