Pass Dat P****

son listens to rap music

Last night was awesome! I managed to score suite tickets for the second time in a week to see an OSU hockey game. I don’t even like hockey but if there is a suite involved, I’m game.

My youngest, C, became ill earlier in the day so my husband stayed home with him while I took our oldest P, to the game. Truthfully, this one-on-one time was better because I was really looking forward to an opportunity to spend some time with him. Essentially, I wanted time to bond.

2.5 hours and $38 in junk food later, we were on our way home from the hockey game. P kept saying how much fun he had, over and over again, and I know he truly meant it. I kept thinking to myself I wouldn’t forget this evening.

“Why don’t you turn on some tunes! Macklemore, how about Macklemore?” I said as we came upon the Columbus city skyline, which by the way is beautiful and it will never get old for me.

“Yeah totally!” He said and with a few taps of his IPhone, we were rockin’ out to Thriftshop, ogling over the city lights.

“Ok, your turn!” I said after it was over. We had a good 30 minutes left of our car ride and agreed to take turns on picking songs.

“Ok, I want to listen to Cinderella Man. Can we listen to the not clean version?”

Reluctantly, I agreed. We were having an amazing time and I just wanted to keep the momentum going.

“Ok, but don’t tell your dad! He’d kill me!” I said conspiratorially.

“Mom, you should hear some of my songs. They are so awesome but I don’t think you would like the language.”

P was opening up to me. As each day goes by in the nightmare that is middle school, along with ear buds and electronics, I sometimes feel like I’m loosing him.

“Go ahead! Play me one! Who’s it by?” I asked, like the cool mom I am.


I was totally relieved. I had heard his songs on the radio station, like Hotline Bling and One Dance. I found them slow and boring. Besides, what inappropriate song could he produce? He was a Canadian rapper with the first name- Aubrey. I am prejudice in the fact that the best rap is American. I mean, there’s a reason French rappers have never made it over here, but I digress.

Tap, tap, tap. The new Drake song started- Energy. He began rapping about having enemies. Ok fine. I piss people off too sometimes. Then the F bombs and N words began to drop.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa….those are horrible! I better never, ever hear you say those words.”

He smirked, “I know, I know. Trust me mom, I listen to much worse.”

I didn’t like where this was going. Here I was trying to bond with my son by showing interest in something he was interested in. I would now have to dig deeper into this sudden train wreck to find out what much worse, really meant.

“Play it,” I cringed.

“You sure?” He asked.

“Totally,” I lied.

The song began as usual. The first verse involved something along the lines of powder and mirrors. Note to self: we are talking about drugs right after this song. The next topic du choix was about strippers….all these strippers. I did what I always do when placed in awkward situations, I began to make awful jokes.

“Oh….they have strippers and poles. My, they are blessed,” I stated in a voice 3 octaves higher than normal.

Then the deal breaker of the song played and I was done. Bonding complete, do not pass go, do not collect $200…..

Pass dat pussy…I say pass dat pussy….

“Stop! Stop right now! Hard limit.” I said firmly, holding up my right hand to indicate I was done. I think I had been holding my breath the entire time because I exhaled dramatically. He quickly tapped his phone and the music stopped.

“I have a line and that song crossed it. You cannot, CANNOT listen to that song. The song before, not good either. Not good. Oh my God.”  I sounded like a cave woman with short phrases. I needed to listen to Party in the USA or something.

So yeah, my son enjoys hard-core, inappropriate rap. He can listen to rap till the cows come home but it can’t involve strippers, pussy, the n-word, violence, etc., etc. I mean Jesus, sweet 7 lb. newborn Jesus. See what I did there? I am feeling uncomfortable writing about this, thus the Talledaga Nights reference.



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