Yo.

Dawg. 

So I was three bites into my 7 layer burrito at Taco Bell yesterday when my cell phone rang. The woman identified herself as the assistant principal of the 8th grade at my son's middle school. "I've got Dylan here in my office with me and I thought I should give you a call. He was sent to my office for wearing gang-related clothing."

The guacamole jumped in my throat. "Huh?" was the most articulate thing I could sputter, my mind otherwise becoming occupied with an attempt to remember what he'd worn to school.

"He's wearing a black t-shirt," she offered. "It has a skull on the front...and on the BACK!" 

Holy shit--what was going on? Did she really have MY Nirvana-loving, oh-so-painfully-not-a-gangsta son with her? The one who looks as though he is the product of a secret night shared between Axl Rose and Kurt Cobain? The one who so very recently confessed to square dancing to rap music at a school dance? Then I remembered the shirt...was it the toursity one from San Francisco, given to him by some friends who'd gone to California on vacation? The one that's so very Pirates of the Caribbean-y that it surprises me every single time I see him wearing it? "Do you mean the San Francisco one?"

"Yes," she quickly said, seemingly relieved that I was willing to admit the moral degeneration of my son. "And he's got a hoodie...he can't wear it either...we do have a policy that bans gang-related clothing. It's in the school....."

"His hoodie?" I spoke slowly, as if by doing so, she'd realize how ridiculous she was being. "His Black... Label...Society...hoodie?"

"Yes," she hissed, her moral superiority spitting through the phone.

I laughed. Out loud. I didn't really mean any disrespect, but I just couldn't help myself. "You consider a Black Label Society hoodie to be gang-related clothing? Please--I implore you--Google them and, I assure you, you'll understand why this is so funny. I'm not sure how you could possibly be more off the mark on this one..."

But this woman was of the jaded variety, one of those veteran educators who has seen it all and, at this point in her career, is surely incapable of considering that she's just flat-out wrong, the type who, with little thought, concludes that parents who disagree with her are simply in denial regarding the moral depravity of their children.  

So I'll play her game--I'll assume she's right, that my little moral reprobate is also my lil' pimp daddy. Knowing that Dylan was born west of the ATL, and coupled with his San Francisco shirt, I'm guessing my lil' gangsta is West Coast. And his high-priced orthodontia--grillz. And his ride, it's bringing shame down on him. We gotta pimp it out, but I am honestly going to have a hard time coming up with enough Benjamins to put some nasty-ass rims on school bus #49.

And finally, since communiciation is the key to being a good parent, I don't want to have anything standing in our way when we talk to one another. So I went to a website where you can get yoself a true gangsta name.

"Mom, I can't call the assistant principal 'Rank Dirty Skull Cruncha.'"

"Sure you can--it's on the website. It's her name. And stop calling me 'Mom.' I'm 'Janky Fish' to you."

He rolled his eyes and continued to protest. "And if I put 'Secret Stank Ho' on all of my work at school, they'll give someone else the credit."

Word.