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Please don’t get it twisted, y’all. I may have made the move to the city, but your boy hasn’t changed. Yeah, you can take me outta the #burbs, but you can’t take the #burbs outta me. Nah.
Just because you saw me stumbling around downtown yesterday after brunching hard as fuck doesn’t mean I’ve forgotten what I am, and what I’m about. Sure, I dropped a cool sixty-five on caramelized banana pecan pancakes at Max’s Wine Dive, coffee, and a mimosa-sangria double-fist combo that left me unable to fully comprehend how real shit got on Game of Thrones last night (JON SNOW BRINGING HEAT), but in my heart, I was crushing a Triple D at Chili’s. That’s just me.
I hope you doubt me, and you see me out sometime and try to catch me slippin’. I can’t even explain to you how much I wish you would. You think because I now walk to the nearby mom and pop grocer for cage free eggs and produce that I’m not capable of riding slow, loud, and bangin’ in my mid-size SUV to the neighborhood Walmart? You are sadly mistaken, and you might find out the hard way what happens to those who test my #burb credentials. I shouldn’t have to say it, but I’ve got a #burbpass, and I’m good in every residential community within a reasonable commuting distance of your city.
And don’t think I didn’t notice you and your boys talking mad shit about me at my nephew’s soccer game last week. I know you thought I was gone for good, but as I’ve already mentioned, I’m welcome in every #burb, so get used to it. You might see me out in Westlake crushing burbaritas on a patio while checking emails on my iPhone. Maybe I’ll be dominating a client lunch out in Grosse Pointe. Who knows? Holler at me in Buckhead if you wanna grab a ‘burbon and coke. I’m DFW.
It’s funny, man. You change zip codes, and all of a sudden everyone acts like you never existed. Katy, Texas? Ask about me. Plano, Texas? Ask about me. Ladue, Missouri? They still tell stories about me. You think I like eating pricey dinners in a renovated house located in a trendy part of town that’s a four-dollar Uber ride away? Psssh. I’m about that strip mall Tex-Mex life, dude. Give me $7.95 sour cream chicken enchiladas and a 24-hour dry cleaner located directly next door, please.
Do I have the option of riding my mountain bike to the office these days? Probably, but I’m not talking about sweating in my Mizzen and Main. Hell no. Don’t let that convenient bullshit fool you, though. I might fuck around and hop up in rush hour just for fun. I downloaded the Waze app just in case I wanna jump back into the commute game. Say I won’t.
All I’m saying is you might see me hitting gainers off the big boy board at the community pool this weekend. I could be walking my golden retriever, Beau, around your neighborhood as you read this. I am the burbs..
Image via Shutterstock
Respond
I skimmed over this. I’m regretting having given it that much time.
#MargLife > #BurbLife
Bruh.
I don’t know about your being the burbs, but you’re definitely annoying on this one.
I feel like the topic could have had potential, but you tried way to hard on this one.
A swing and a miss
Oh, alright.
Guess I just burbed a little too hard this weekend.
Sometimes the Burbs just take over a man’s soul.
Not your best work.
Did the “#burbs” give you your writing skills too?
Given you referenced Grosse Pointe, I’m guessing you live in Detroit. Honestly, I’m shocked that anybody will voluntarily live in Detroit. But hey, you do you.
PS: How ’bout em Tigers?