Pieces of me

So the other day, my mother and I were in the car. And because I control the radio when I'm in the car and because I'm Black, I was listening to the hip-hop station.

On this particular day, that Ludacris was on the air. You know that song, "What's Your Fantasy?" The one where he and some random skank want like lick each other in non-sanitary areas and get really freaky in what I can only consider very uncomfortable places. I mean, really, on the 50-yard line when the Atlanta Falcons are playing? Bitches will get trampled!

Anyhoo, that song began to play when my mother exclaimed, "Ooh, I like this song!" and proceeds to turn up the volume.

*thud*

"What? What are you talking about? You can't like this song?"

"What?" she replied. "At least I know what they're talking about. Unlike your father."

(Side note: My father really likes that song 'Pony' by Ginuwine. He had no clue what it was about for years. Yeah, that's my family.)

"No, it's not," I cringed. "It's worse. You like a sex song. I'm dying. Is there blood coming out my ears?"

"Monica, please! How do you think you got here?"

"Shut up! I don't want to hear that."

She didn't say anything else. Just proceeded to dance her old lady car dance. I was too horrified to change the station. I think I died a little inside that day.