"Jimmy—Nigga Down, nigga down, what a town! Your niggas up here are off the hook. Sunday night I'm late to work—got to call the man—your man Mike, and say, "Boss, there was a body in the middle of the street and the cops wouldn't let me pass," so I sat in the car for a half hour while they did their CSI stuff—tweezers to pickup shell casings just like on TV. So, you know, the only way the union will let you go—other than fighting or steeling is lateness—so I've got to call the man and get that shit expunged.

So, your Buddy tells me I have to call the bookkeeper and she's like, "Billy, I'm sick of these fucking animals. When are your people gonna stop killing each other?"

"I don't know, Miss Ella"—you know, keeping it cool, not telling her know that my people are hopeless—especially my people up in this joint.

Then get this, last night, not three hours ago, I get off the interstate, pull around the park, and there's a nigga down! Tell me this—violence genius—why do niggas have to get shot in the middle of the street when they don't even drive?

So, I told the cops "Hey ya'all 'bout ta get me fired. Could I have a receipt for this?"

Some people have no sense of humor. So here I am, with no receipt for Mister Yellow Sheet in my way, en since this nigga weren't shit, his ass won't even be in the paper. Miss Ella's just gonna love this!