It’s Hip Hop, Son. You Wouldn’t Understand.

I raised you with the inherent hopes that you’d be popular, son. Sure, I never told you that I wanted you to be cool, but all of the things I taught you were meant to make you at least well liked. And look what you’ve done with it. You’ve pissed it all away in favor of a closet full of flannel and vests.

Do you own Jason Derulo’s latest album? No, I didn’t think so. But you have tons of Ella Fitgerald on vinyl, and let me ask you, who in your class listens to Ella Fitzgerald? On vinyl? Jesus, you’re so lame. It’s hip hop, son. But you wouldn’t understand, would you? You complained when the record store went out of business, and yesterday, you asked me if there was any place to buy a new needle for your record player. I’m not gonna tell you, because no one even uses a record player any more. Get with the program. I bought you an iPod, what, six years ago? And I’m sure that you could’ve fit a billion Sly & The Family Stone albums on it. Get with the times, bro. How in the hell am I related to you?

I’d like a grandchild one day, by the way, but instead of going to a party or a club and greasing the wheels that will eventually put that train in motion, you’re hanging out at that coffee shop again, growing your fancy beard out. Do you even know what it’s like to grind with a girl? All of your friends are trying out their pick up lines to the loud thump of a Pitbull remix and I watched you, I WATCHED YOU, ask a barista a few days ago if they knew for sure that it was Duke Ellington playing over the speakers. And then, five minutes later, you told me that Guardians of the Galaxy movie was gonna be good. I ought to toss you upside down into a trash can.

You’re just not hip enough, son. I wish I didn’t have to say this, but I’m really embarrassed to hang out with you. I remember, when I was a kid, I hated the idea of spending time with my parents but here you are, ON A SATURDAY NIGHT, reading a Wikipedia article about World War II tank warfare tactics. And are those loafers that you’re wearing? What about the shoes that I bought you with the neon green soles and the little checks on them? I saw a bunch of kids wearing those yesterday. Those kids seemed to be having fun with each other. Do you hate having fun? Am I getting close?

I’m shaking because of how angry you’re making me. What did I do wrong? Where did I mess up in your upbringing? This is ridiculous. Your mother actually woke me up last night because she was worried that you hadn’t had your first flaming Dr. Pepper yet, and would never get the chance to make out with a girl on a dance floor to the tune of “Turn Down For What.” I had to calm her down and say that you were just in a phase and that soon, you’d wear all those polo shirts that she bought you.

You better shape up, kid. I don’t want to have this conversation with you again.


2 responses to “It’s Hip Hop, Son. You Wouldn’t Understand.

  1. Funny, smart, all the usual. I am confused, though, about those polo shirts. Guess I haven’t kept up, for I would expect those on man your age who is interested in tank warfare tactics, along with a favorite pen he doesn’t let anyone touch. Ever! (Promoter of stereotypes? Moi?)

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