throwback thursday part ii

“chigga”. and i don’t mean the the little tick like bugs – although occasionally the resemblance can be a bit spooky. here’s what i submitted to the dictionary folk:

chigga (n) (chig-uh) – a latin american male who, in trying to give himself a false sense of street cred, tends to emulate the media-inspired stereotypical african-american rather than the stereotypical latin american. adj: chiggafied

no word back from webster’s on this one…

to use it in a sentence, just go up to someone who seems to have programmed their ghetto filter a shade too dark and say, “what’s up. my chigga?”.

what? you thought the only variation on the word was the “wigga” term pegged on idiotic white boys?

think again.

case in point, the situation at the gym earlier tonight. a chigga / wigga combo meal that almost sonic-sized itself into a sean led ass whooping. my fault for being TOO observant and TOO polite. which yes, believe it or not, can happen from time to time…

i was doing bench press when i noticed the phone between my bench and the bench next to me going off. now, there are certain places my phone DOESN’T go. weddings. funerals. movies. restaurants (unelss i’m waiting on someone who might call OR i’m sitting on the patio). these are all for courtesy reasons. add to the list concerts, if i’m not actually working the show, because i won’t be able to hear the person calling me anyway. and i don’t take it into the gym. why? because nobody needs to reach me THAT bad. but i digress…

so, i notice this guys phone going off, and i had my glasses on, so i could see the screen lighting up bright as a halogen bulb and the name “REN” coming up on the screen. the only time i’ve ever heard the name “REN” is in association with mc ren, of the rap group n.w.a. mc ren is a guy. so, i turn to the guys next to me (in fubu t-shirts, khakis, doo rags, the whole nine) and point down at the ground.

“that your phone?”, i ask.

“yeah, dog…why?”, i get fired back at me.

(i do a quick check for calum, buffy, and copper. no “dog” in sight. they have gotten out twice in the last couple of weeks…i thought maybe they had trailed me…)

“because your boy ‘ren’ just called you”, i reply.

“DAAAAAMMMMNNNN, NIGGA!!! he just said your BOYFRIEND called you. he’s calling you a FAGGOT, dawg!!!” said lil’ puppet’s friend, slim shady jr. (as in the white boy, i.e. ‘wigga’ hanging with the ‘chigga’ on the bench next to me.

(again, i look around. no pups in sight. but the rather large guy i know from dell, who’s about 50% bigger than me, and actually black, did notice the ‘n word’ that was screamed. and he didn’t look happy)

“you callin’ me some kind of faggot, homes?”, screamed el pendejo.

(ME, feel free to correct my spelling on that one in the comments section when you’re done laughing your ass off at this bit, okay?)

“no, you homophobe”, i calmly retort, (which admittedly my calmness was do in part to derek, my aforementioned xxl co-worker, who came over to see what the ruckus and mis-use of ghetto slang was all about). “i was simply saying…”

“yo, man (finally – a pronoun that almost described the boy…or at least might in another few years, if he lives that long), this mothafucka just called you a homo”, interjected vanilla ice.

“i heard him, bro”, the lifesized homie returned.

“no, fuckweed”, i interupted (i’d like to thank my other co-worker, matt, who was not at the gym, for introducing the term ‘fuckweed’ into my vocabulary) “i called you a homoPHOBE, not a homo. homophobe means that gay people scare you”.

this little bit of vocabulary education was taken as a challenge to this kid’s manhood. go figure…

“hey, are you saying that some faggot can kick my ass or something?”, he angrily spewed, starting to spit while he talked,

“well, i haven’t met every gay man on the planet”, i said, “but given the fact that you bench less than my sister, weight about a buck thirty, and are about six inches shorty than me, i think the smart cash is on ‘yes’ on that one”

(he started to step up to me, and kicked his phone in the process)

“now, before you do something stupid”, i continued, “grab your phone and check your missed calls.”

for some reason i SWEAR i saw a little birthday candle light up above this guys buzz cut skull. a glimmer of reason. some slight cranial activity. if i had bet on it, i’d owe someone a lincoln bill at this point. he grabbed his phone. one missed call. he hit the button, and saw the name come up on the screen.

“ren…”, he mumbled.

“exactly”, i responded, “as i said (and i spoke in an elevated slow tone for the rest of the sentence) YOUR BOY REN just called you”.

he just looked at the ground for a minute and walked off. snow follwed him. derek laughed his ass off.

and here i thought my dull-ass monday would yield no whore-worthy material.