The Gangsta Bag
One of the dangers of observing the Gangsta Bag, aka Hip Hop Scrote, in their natural habitat is the off chance that you’re actually mocking a real life gun toting homie. As the designer brands and legit hoodlum looks converge, distinguishing between the various phases and stages of the douchebag impresarios and the real bust-a-cap-in-DB1’s-ass homies becomes an arduous task indeed.
Is this one of the many wannabe Miami Beachites cutting porn star patterns in their facial scruff and home-made alien landing strip acid wash clorox jeans in a desperate attempt to pull hottie tail with embellished stories of “Scarface” inspired drug deals on the south side? Or is this dude about to put a contract hit out on my family?
It’s hard to tell. When the various branches of douchebagus scrotae and gangsterus badassus converge, we are left only with chaos. We face confusion, anarchy and existential crisis left in our muddled wake.
The same goes for the heavily makeuped hottie. I can’t tell the hotties from the trannies anymore. I’m like Joe Buck lost on 42nd Street. Is she a sexy wild thing? Or a man, baby? Either way the matching furry bracelet and leggings are choice.
