Dial back your #ratchetassness

Yeah I said it… ratchetassness. For those not in the know, rachet describes an advanced form of raggedy married with FAIL and sprinkled with trifling to the 10^th power. It seems to me that ratchetassness is running rampant in the streets and it must be stopped. So those of you participating in the willful spread and perpetuation of ratchetassness… watch out. I'm coming for ya. Seek cover, weave and bob, Kevlar up.

Here's what I'm talking about…

1. Yesterday, a woman I know to be broke, seriously unhealthy and on her third marriage decided to call out people on my church chat for those exact same offenses. Umm, excuse me Ms. Lady, if you aren't the hottest thing in the streets, stop fronting on other women trying to get there. Constructive criticism is one thing, tearing other women down is something else altogether. How are you ragging on someone else's back yard when weeds are popping up all over your lawn? As a matter of fact, even if you think you are the baddest chick in the game I guar-an-damn-tee I can find a host of people (just ask the mass media) who think you're fat, angry, lonely and unlovable. So kindly, take the negativity and GTFOH.
   
   
   
2. Wannabe Media pundits: I'm afraid we've come to the point where I'm going to need to see your advanced degree in petroleum engineering before I listen to your argument on how Obama isn't doing enough to stop the oil pumping into the Gulf. What would you do? How would you do it? And how would you pay for it? Riddle me that and then we'll chat. Oh, and to you wannabe psychics who believe Obama should have seen this coming? I'll need proof of your time-travelling abilities and omniscience before we can talk as well. Don't worry, I'll wait.
   
   
   
3. Dude sent me a note about how he can't find a black woman "on his level"?! What level is that? From what you told me, you have a degree (good on ya), a mid-level management job (woo-hoo) and a condo with your name (and the bank's) on the title. You enjoy classical theater and symphony, wine-tastings and trips to exotic locales around the globe. You lamented that all the black women you meet listen to hip-hop, consider Tyler Perry plays akin to opera and a trip to Atlantic City fancy. So… do you not read this blog? Have you not heard me say that it's your responsibility to step up your woman game? Off the top of my head (without even checking), I know six single women on the East Coast who match (or beat all to hell) your minimum requirements. And yes they look good too. But let me say this… when you start going in about women "at your level" you've already shot yourself in the foot. Ain't nothing wrong with a little hip-hop. From the tone and tenor of your letter, I would ask you to pull your nose out of the stratosphere and get back down here to the real. Because right now, I wouldn't set up any one I know and care for with your pompous ass. There's bougie (which is love) and then there's bullshiggity (which is you). But good luck with that.
   
   
   
4. Sarah Palin. No explanation needed, she's the very definition of ratchetassness.
   
   
   
5. Mr. Puff Diddy? Dirty Daddy? P. Combs? Sean Money? Whatever you are calling yourself now… you are right on the edge of being that too old dude in the club. I've watched these past few months as you attempt the fifteenth re-invention of Bad Boy. The problem is (and always was) that you keep focusing on everything else instead of putting out consistently good product. The river filled with the legions of talented people whose careers you have torpedoed runs long, deep and wide. Stop making everybody dance, rap, model, vogue, sing and skip backwards all at the same time. Find good music, pair with good singers and leave it alone. And as for you, quit dancing. I'm begging you. I get that this is something you used to be good at but um… it's gone. The lazy sidewinding half step with thug bounce and black man head bop is not working anymore. I don't care how much leather you wear or Ciroc you pour. You lookin' kinda ratchet.
   
   
   
6. Ratchet co-signers. The problem with the co-sign (also known on Twitter as the RT or retweet) is that one assumes if you endorse some of a person's thoughts, you endorse them all. So when an idiot (who shall not be named) starts flapping his has-been lips about how the best thing about his bi-racial girlfriend is her white half (cuz black women ain't about ish apparently), you can't (YOU. CAN. NOT.) co-sign anything else he said in his ignorant rant. Who cares if he had one gem of pseudo-intelligence thrown in there? If there's a 5-carat diamond in the middle of a dungheap – you still have to dig through the shiggity to get to the diamond. And won't you always recall where you found it?
   

That. Is. All. Please share your current examples of ratchetassness rung amuck. Or comment on my musings. Or just say hi. The floor is yours.