My Pet Peeve

And it’s finally finished – (Take no offense to what I say)

My Pet Peeve
I used to sit three rows down from an amazingly, gorgeous, Nubian goddess
She was the hottest…

She had long flowing hair – 18 inches to be exact, lacefronted beautifully from her forehead down to her back
And as I leaned back to put down my mack…
My ears resonated with was was already going on within…
This was the heffa, the entire semester that had the affinity for clicking pens

You might as well have pushed her tapeline back and gave her bucked teeth
Because had I known the entire time that it was her terrettes thumb that was bothering me…
I would have cut her eyelids off and gave her sleeping pills and watched her try to fall asleep!

Now maybe I’m being a little extreme…
I mean
People looove feeding my Pet Peeve

Like the white chick that sits behind me with her pasty bare feet –
Curling her toes on the basket under my desk,
I CAN FEEL THAT YOU IDIOT!

Or maybe I should twitpic your baby toe
You know –
The one with no nail that you somehow still keep painted
Maybe then you’ll become the best pet peeve food in the world

Or little girls who wear plastic shoes and take purpose with
EACH
And EVERY step
Running down EACH
And EVERY isle
Of the supermarket
I ABHOR you…

And for women who have text message response anxiety because I have not texted you back within 3 minutes
I wish…I could…ignore you

But now I can’t because when you BBM me,
The little ‘R’ icon is all the ammunition you need for your enraged attention like,
“I KNOW YOU READ MY MESSAGES!”
Well maybe I don’t have a response yet

And for you idiots
Who think They’re, Their, and There are synonyms
I imagine giving them a table spoon of cinnamon and stabbing them with epinephrine just so I can see them squirm
Maybe then they’ll learn that –
THEY’RE not going to change THEIR meaning just because you put them THERE

And just because you decided to go natural
Doesn’t mean you can just be naturally, nasty nappy
I need you to wash it, comb it, pick it, style it, or dred it
Just don’t you wake up and forget it or I will slap you hard enough to perm that bunch of balled up Christmas lights you call a hairstyle…

Don’t be afraid to open up your chips in class –
No one’s going to kill you…
But you carefully trying to free open a bag of potato crisps for 15 minutes during the quietest part of the class time WILL MAKE ME HURT YOU

Dear Pringles…
I am a grown man
And consequentially, I have grown man hands
That can’t fit inside your can of bliss
So please fix this before I come and blow up your cowboy-horse-seat-potato-chip-making plant in the ABYSS

And for you devastating divas of Delta Sigma Theta
Just the ones who are just TOO HOOD to be collegiate…
I hope that the next time you duck walk in a dress
We’ll find out that Victoria isn’t the only one with a secret

And for you bourgeoisie ladies of AKA who won’t date any brother that makes under six figures
You’ll be hence now and forever more be called our Miss Black …&…Gold DIGGER

And to my sisters who keep putting us in the category with ain’t ish niggers
I will be forced
To load my nerf gun
Aiming at close range
And I will not hesitate to pull the trigger

And to my brothers who use pause and no homo as commas and periods to constipate your sentences
I will stab you in the neck with a knife
And keep giving it to you OVER and OVER and OVER and OVER again…
(Pause)

But you know what I hate most of all?
I hate that the revolution will no longer be televised
Because now-a-days, the television is more powerful ad potent than street corner poets
They feel it, more than the conscious lyricist

So the next time you go to an open mic –
Do me a favor
Tell these poets to stop leaving the revolution on paper!
Stop writing words on lines and asking people to read between them
Because EMPTY words and clean, UNcallused hands have never beared a fruitful season
So give me a reason to keep believing that what you SAY is what you DO…
Otherwise…
I’ll put you in a poem…
And you’ll be my pet peeve too