Paid the Cost to Be the Boss

Look at me!
Know what you see?
You see a bad mutha.

If you've never heard this song, which is on the soundtrack of a blaxploitation film that I never saw, you haven't lived. I once sent the link to this video to a white friend on Facebook, urging him to tap into his "bad mutha" as he struggled to survive working at that horrible fashion house where we met. By the time I'd finally quit, I was trying to hold my bad mutha in check, hoping it wouldn't escape and get the revolution under way with a few pointed words, a dangerous head tilt and a massive afro sporting a Black Power afro comb perched precariously near the top of that perfect sphere.

A bad mutha is a bad mutha. It has nothing to do with skin color. That term transcends race, geography, gender or what have you.

Sometimes I feel like a bad mutha in the water. It's not often since that state of mind takes way too much energy. I need it in a crowd. Then again, I shy away from breaks with crowds large enough to bring out my bad mutha.

Cos you know what? My bad mutha doesn't surf as well as I do.

That bad mutha stuff isn't me. I know folks who don't know how to be anything but a bad mutha. You've got to befriend them if you can. Because.

The bad mutha doesn't step to friends.

However, the bad mutha will have your back when you need him.her.it.

In other news, it's been relatively flat.

That's a four-letter word, you know. You can quote me.