I thought I was through censoring music around parents. I used to wear headphones, skip the naughty tracks, or just talk real loud if I felt like Warren G was about to go off or something. So I brought this record home over winter break and I’m trying to listen to it in my room. I keep falling asleep — it’s so fucking predictable: lightweight radio-friendly hip-hop with tired hooks and slow-motion wiener rap — so I have to crank it up loud enough that the bass is actually physically shaking me just to stay conscious. So I’m lying on my bed looking at the liner notes — three thousand pictures of this guy looking like a color-coordinated midget in his big brother’s jacket — and Juelz is dropping “niggas” here and “motherfuckers” there and I’m all like, “Oh shit, my mom’s folding laundry right next door I should turn this down.” But then I’m all, “You know what fuck it. I’m 21. She knows I curse. I curse at her sometimes. I’ll just fucking leave it.” So she comes in to drop off a pile of my folded underwear when Track 4 comes on. It’s a skit involving a guy pulling over for some road-head, getting the blowjob and having the girl throw up on his dick. And my mom is just standing there in my doorway with my underwear in her hands looking like a deer in headlights. Sweet. Thanks Juelz.