In case you are not aware, this Twitter exchange is in response the ghetto news story that saw Teddy Riley—umm—discipline his child(ren) with a Guitar Hero controller. Basically, the nigga went Quick Draw McGraw/El Kabong on at least one of his babies. I’m not going to say this type of behavior is right, but as I said on my podcast yesterday, I’ve seen and gotten worse in my day. Look how awesome I turned out.
[Blogger's Note: Thanks, Don McCaine.]
With that said, going upside your baby’s face with a large plastic controller is not the way. Nevermind the fact that his “baby” is legally an adult and can press charges. The assault has been so widely publicized that the matter may now be out of both of their hands, which brings me to two points.
First, if this is all a publicity stunt on the part of Riley’s daughter, the shit can backfire miserably. I only bring this up as a possibility because her tweets have such a strange tone… and the fact that this shit is playing out on Twitter instead of in-house. From a logistical standpoint, you can’t blackmail, extort or otherwise leverage a nigga on the basis of preventing jail time when the local D.A. takes over the case. Not only does he then have zero incentive to pay you, but you’ve weakened his ability to do so if he wanted to. She’d have been better off getting pregnant by him and suckering him into child support.
Shit, didn’t that kinda happen already in her life? Wait a minute. I see what this is. She’s 18 and the child support checks stopped coming. Aha! I mean, a Riley child can’t be the only one on the block without the Space Jam Jordans, right?
In all seriousness, she very well may have been assaulted. I’m actually kind of appalled at the pervasive sentiment throughout comments sections on negro websites suggesting that she should roll with the abuse because her dad can provide for her. It’s as if black people will trade every shred of dignity for money and the basic level of attention that can come with it.
What’s that? They will? Okay. Nevermind. Scratch all that, then.
As for Teddy, there really is no reason to beat your kids like that. What could they have possibly done that is worth catching a grown-man case? If anything, you make them beat their feet back to the hood. This oldest one is grown. You can cut her shit off if she disrespects you. What worse punishment could there be than having them experience life as a poor kid without the virtues of lifelong poverty? They make riches-to-rags movies all the time. They’re even starting to happen in real life. Guitar Hero welts heal. Fully-grown monsters—which you may or may not have created—don’t better themselves as a result of physical violence. This situation actually reminds me of an anecdote I alluded to yesterday.
Mama Mexico would often have to lay the smack down on her niglets. My little brother Ricky and I were the primary recipients until Tameka got older and more bad-ass. One time Ricky went through mom’s jewelry case and my comic book collection in the same hour. I was mad as hell, but figured instead of getting into a fistfight and including myself in the asswhoopin, I’d just wait until Mama got home. She’d handle that shit since her custom name-plated ring, chain and doorknockers were involved. Nigga was gonna get his, so I didn’t even trip. I later discovered Mama was exceptionally mad because that’s where she would hide her weed. Mama immediately noticed that her shit was amiss and asked, “Who went through my shit?”
Ricky and I were playing Nintendo at the time. I don’t know if any of you remember a game called Jackal, but we got it for $19.99 with our Christmas Toys ‘R Us money and played it religiously. No matter how pissed off we were at each other, we would set our differences aside and play Jackal, even after we could end the game in one sitting. It was something to do besides sell crack, I guess.
Mama knew it was Ricky who done done the deed. Ronnie wouldn’t do some stupid shit like that. Not only was Ricky the blacker sheep, but I had that look on my face that was like… “You know Ricky did that shit. Stop fucking around and put this asswhoopin down so we can beat this level.”
“Ricky. Were you going through my shit?” Mama asked coldly.
This nigga started crying before the smackdown came. Except, this time it was far from a smackdown. I knew shit was delving into uncharted territory when Mama picked up the orange Nintendo Zapper gun we used for Duck Hunt. I felt like the dog who jumps out and laughs at you when you miss until she grabbed that shit by the barrel. My jaw dropped. She reared her medieval torture device back. I wanted to turn away, but couldn’t. I had to see if she was really gonna do this shit. Ricky looked like he wanted to run, but I can imagine he was paralyzed with fear.
I knew Mama Mexico had to be a hard motherfucker raising 3-5 kids on her own in Harlem back when it was still grimy. But did she have to pistol whip a 10-year-old like he had just stolen an ounce of cocaine from her stash house? Probably not. That’s how you know Riley is from the old school. Maybe there’s something in the water over by St. Nick projects—aside from lead traces, of course.
What’s my point? Ummm… I guess that my upbringing has shaped my philosophy on child rearing. I don’t have any kids. I know some of you do. If yours are the ones I see in the supermarket cursing you out and opening boxes of Alpha Bits as you calmly plead with them to behave, I want you to know that I have visions of employing dual Captain N justice on the both of you. You should have been spanking that baby incrementally so I don’t have to gun butt him with a video game relic one day. I think kids are pulling more shit today because they don’t subconsciously fear that mom—or, pop if you’re not black—might fuck ‘em the fuck up one day. Of course, this should not even be close to the top of the list of reasons why your children behave. But, it should be there somewhere as part of a complete breakfast. Otherwise, these morally corrupt assholes we call chillens—who are being raised by Lauren Conrad and Snookie or Frankie and Neffe if they’re colored—are only going to look for new ways to get over on everyone as they serendipitously float through life without consequence.
In a perfect sitcom home, children can learn consequence and respect without receiving physical discipline. It’s really hard to spare the rod without delving into intricate methods of psychological torture. I’d love to know your thoughts on this matter. I know Teddy fucked up regardless, but where should we draw the line?
Questions? Comments? Requests? And you can New Jack Swing on my nuts. email@example.com
Oh, yes. Happy New Year, bitches. My only resolution for 2010 is to dole out tougher love.
[Update: Riley now denies the allegations of physical abuse, despite having admitted to his thuggery on Twitter.]
And I expect the Teddy Riley lyric puns to continue. Do not disappoint me. Check, baby. Check, baby. 1-2-3-4…