I'm on my way back to the classroom from a lame-ass professional development meeting. I decide to hit the head on the way. Competing Crips and Bloods grafittoes, downed ceiling tiles, a paper towel roll in the urinal and yellow with piss.
Somebody in the stall is saying "I'm a slap you with it, bitch, I'm a slap you with it." I'm washing my hands in the sink under the DO NOT DRINK sign when the kid comes out of the stall. A seventh grader. He's carrying a wad of twenties rubber-banded together. He runs out the door yelling "I'm a bitch-slap you with my G-stack! I'm a bitch-slap you with my G-stack, muthafucka!" He keeps shouting it all the way down the hall, waving the bills above his head.
He flashes that kind of money in the halls I guarantee he's going to get jacked up. Perhaps by the hall monitor or school police, or perhaps by an armed peer. Best to keep your G-stack under wraps or you'll lose it for sure.
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