Yo, my nigz, I done took a look at da federal budget, an I gotta tell y’all that this sorry ass document don’t do us no favours!
I gots three kids: Sammy, Jr., Eric, Jr. and little Junior, Jr. You thinkin I be livin wit any of their daddies like some Waltons shit? Hunh – cha, right! Sammy’s daddy got hisself a long jail term for smuggling kelp into da country. Who knew smuggling kelp was a crime? Eric’s dad got hisself shipped out to Afghanistan so’s he could keep us free by whackin drug dealers – I hope he comes back in one piece so’s I can kill him for signin up! And, Junior’s dad, well, he weren’t never right in the head, so I don’t trust him around no chilluns.
So, like, I gots to work three jobs so’s I can feed ‘em and shit. What am I supposed to do wit dem when I’m outta da partment? I leave em wit my momma when she…when she’s in her right mind and all, but dat don’t happen so often no mo. Most o da time, I leave Sammy, Jr. in charge. He a mature boy fo his age, and, well, as long as dere don be no emergencies, he do jus fine.
Day care? I would love to have da boys in day care. I’m on a waitin list. I spec I’ll get da boys in day care around da time I start collectin a pension – hah! We could use anudder space or two – know what I’m sayin? Instead, we be getting a allowance o twelve hunnert bucks a year per chile. Dat done be workin out ta fo dollars a day. Fo dollars a day? That done barely cover Junior, Jr.s diapers! I’m not complainin, zac’ly – that boy do need diapers. It’s jus…well, da solution don zac’ly address da problem, does it?
Tax cuts? You effin kiddin me? You know what Misses Whittington Whitebread’s gonna do wit her tax rebate? I clean up her house two afternoons a week – I hear her talk. She done bragging about it all da time. She in my face wit, like, “I’m gonna buy me a new Lexus!” and “I’m gonna buy me some new furs fo da summer season!” and shit like dat.
Bitch.
And, I don’ be talking no bee-otch or some such shit. What up wit dat? Some PG 13 swearin? I mean, it’s not like anybody can’t figure out what you’re sayin, know what I’m sayin? If you mean to say bitch, say bitch, bitch.
Anyway. Know what I’m’onna do wit my tax rebate? I’m’o buy me a box o Oreo cookies. And, none a dis vanilla Oreo shit, neither. I’m’onna get me a box o Oreo cookies wit chocolate on da outside and vanilla on da inside, jus like da Good Lord intended dem ta be. And, evytime I hear about some nig what votes for the sorry ass Conservative Party, I’m’onna eat me one. Yeah. And, if I have enough money, I might get me another box in six months or so. Yeah. That’s what I’m’onna do wit my tax rebate.
Mo money fo da army? I liked it better when we had a cheap-ass army, cause everybody know’d we couldn’t do a damn thing wid it! You start puttin mo money into a army, and afore you knows it, youse fightin wars all over da world, cause dat’s what armies do, yo.
Mo money for police? Know what? I’d almost be in favour o dat…if da money went to hirin mo cops what looked like me. Minority policing – dat’s what I’m talking bout. Puttin mo white boys in hoods like mine cain’t be makin tings better – don nobody in Ottawa ever watch CNN?
“Stimulus fo d’economy?” I don know nuttin bout dat. I know I gotta work three jobs now ta make da money I used ta be able to get from workin two jobs. Somehow, it jus don feel like progress ta me. “Good climate fo investors?” Well, shit. I guess dat makes it all hunky fuckin dorey, don it? If I could invest Junior, Jr.’s shit, I’d be raking in da big bucks, but, course, all’s I got is…you know.
You got da time? What? Shit! I’m’onna be late fo my job at Misses Whittington Whitebread’s. Can’t afford dat – da bitch already specs me o stealing sometin – some silver tray or some shit. Like I could do anytin wit a silver tray. Be cool, my nigz. And, hey, if you gotta moment, figure out a way you could run for Parliament. Cause dat be da only way we gonna git some serious help down here!