September 27th, 2002



At my brother's wedding, on a farm in Western Illinois, we spent a spell playing badminton. We had 4 players, and only 4 rackets, but this little kid kept wanting to join us. I think he was bored; there weren't enough kids his age at the party. Mostly, he was very whiny and annoying.

So we let him play for a bit, in an effort to shut him up. He couldn't serve to save his life, but he kept trying to.

C commented on his inability to hit the birdie, and the kid mumbled, "Your mom."

"My mom? What the heck does that mean?" C asked him.

"Oh, leave him alone," I said, as I realized: "He just isn't very good at trash-talking yet."

Everybody laughed, and my sister said to him, "No, you're supposed to say it yo'mama!"

C said, "She knows what she's talking about. She's from Dee-troit!"

Okay, so maybe we grew up in the suburbs. Maybe we can't really trash-talk our way through a basketball game, much less do a reverse slam-dunk. But we still grasp the essence of trash-talking...much better than this young fellow did!