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I am a Los Angeles-based twentysomething. I have a profession, and I have a secret life in music, and this blog isn't about any of that. I like Blogger because I can't read what you're thinking.

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Monday, January 4   >>

DA ONLY RANK I GOT IS DA RANK I GOTS ON MY ALL-TIME SNOOD SCORE, MOTHAFUCKA

In the 9th grade, a bunch of cholos jumped me.

Well, sorta.

It was the day after my birthday and I had a whopping SEVENTY BIG DOLLARS in my wallet. I was walking home from school with old friends The Soza and The Mark when some cholos approached us menacingly. Mind you, we lived in the safest city in the 20 mile radius, so this was rather shocking to us.

We shit our pants because these es'ays had tattoos and they seemed to have an agenda. Let the record show this was just 10 minutes after school let out, in front of hundreds of other kids walking home.

One cholo looked at me right in the face and yelled, "YOU GOT RANK? YOU? GOT? RANK?"

To this day, I don't know what "rank" is, but it sure seemed REALLY FUCKING IMPORTANT at the time, so I said, "I DUNNO OH MY GOD I DUNNO...!"

The other cholos approached The Soza and The Mark and things seemed as if they were about to get ugly.

In all seriousness, I thought they were going to kill us in broad daylight. With knives.

What I wanted to tell them was, "Don't you and La Bamba have to see Mr. Escalante to study math right now or something?" but I wasn't that clever so all you could hear was the urine running down my leg.

Anyway, Lou Diamond Philips and his crew got frustrated that we had nothing (little did they know that I had SEVENTY BIG DOLLARS in my wallet!) so they left.

They left us shitting our pants in terror.

So I declared to my friends that we make a pact.

"Okay, guys. Don't tell anyone this happened. We don't talk about it ever again after this, you got it? Shut the fuck up and let's go home."

The Soza was the first to get home, second The Mark, third myself.

"HI MOM GOT HOMEWORK TALK TO YOU AT DINNER K BYE," and I ran into my room.

When The Mom came into my room, she asked, "So how was school today?"

"Fine."

"What'd you have for lunch?"

"Diabetes."

"...How was your walk home?"

"MOMITWASJUSTAFUCKINGWALKGETOFFMYBACKGAWWWWWWD."

The Soza had already told his mom before I even got home, and his mom had called my mom to tell her THAT WE WERE ALMOST MURDERED.

----

The next day, six parents and three ninth grade boys showed up to the local police department to file a report and find these bad, bad men.

The detective didn't look amused.

"So, what'd they look like?" he asked.

"Definitely hispanic. Tattoos on their hands," I said.

"What color was their car?"

I said, "Blue."

The Soza said, "Red."

The Mark said, "No, it was green."

The detective wasn't impressed.

He asked, "Did they touch you?"

"...no."

"Did they take anything?"

"...no."

"We can't really file a report since, well, nothing really happened."

Moral of the story: Our parents were fucking retarded.