White Suburban Moms Do Hip-Hop, Command Respect

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I forgive Chris Faraone for writing a Women Do story, because the man is a seismic word machine deeply in love with his source material. A sample:

As a prepubescent thug, I often complained about the audio rotation on my father's car stereo, which primarily consisted of a steady mix of Moody Blues and books on tape. In return, he'd ask how I would feel if he wore Starter jackets and picked me up at school with bass lines blaring out his windows: "Yo, Chris: get in the motherfucking whip, fool." He was right: I didn't want a hip-hop pops. The only thing worse would be a mom who sported door-knocker earrings and loose overalls with airbrushed backsides.

Now that I'm on the cusp of 30, though, I'm beginning to see things differently, as my enthusiasm for rap music is beyond latent; this past week I got a Wu-Tang Clan logo tattooed on my right forearm. All those jokes about us Gen-X dudes someday telling our grandchildren about how we met their nanas while "We Want Some Pussy" played in the background — that's going to be me. If I ever settle down, I'll be a white hip-hop parent — blunts, curse words, Timberlands, and all. In short: I'll be an embarrassment to all who bear my last name, which I'll have embroidered on my oversize Celtics jersey. But at least I won't be alone.