Well, then you can't be Tracy Morgan, then. The Cesspool is still undecided about whether Morgan's drinking-and-driving habit denigrates the overall Zen-koan-like importance of the question, "Have you ever broke a Puerto Rican dude's arm for sweatpants money?" Previous ruminations and entries here, here (with video clip) and here.
As you probably can tell, we've been thinking about the sweatpants-money question a lot around here lately. The obvious, reality-based answer is, "No, we have never broken a Puerto Rican dude's arm for sweatpants money." But we're the metaphorical type, probably because of our Catholic upbringing, in which the average kid is taught that he's probably breaking all 10 of the Ten Commandments at any given time, even when he's like, seven. "Adultery," for instance, is painted in broad strokes:
CESSPOOL: Bless me father, for I have sinned. It has been one week since my last confession.
PRIEST: (recites perfunctory preambles and opening statements) Go ahead.
CESSPOOL: Father, I committed adultery.
PRIEST: (snickering silently) Tell me about it.
CESSPOOL: I saw the cover of a dirty magazine.
PRIEST: Did you open the magazine?
CESSPOOL: No, I just saw the cover.
PRIEST: Very well. If you looked away, you did not sin. Do you have anything else to confess?
CESSPOOL: No, except that I found a nickel on the ground, and I kept it without offering it to the poor.
PRIEST: That's fine. Just put an extra nickel in the collection basket sometime. (recites closing prayers) Say one Our Father and two Hail Marys.
CESSPOOL: Thank you, father.
So I've been asking myself a lot lately, "Have you ever broke a Puerto Rican dude's arm for sweatpants money?" And the answer is, on all levels, "no." Have I coveted another man's sweatpants money? Most certainly. A cool pair of sweatpants is a wonderful thing. And for a time in the '80s, nothing was cooler than owning a cool pair of sweatpants. (And then the summer came along, and it was like, "ditch those sweatpants and get some Jams, nerd.") But on a deeper, more metaphorical level, I have definitely bullied others into coughing up material goods or positional superiority:
"Buy me a beer, motherfucker."
"I'm sitting on that end of the couch, and nobody else gets the remote."
"Please tell me that you're not going to eat that last slice of pizza."
"Nuh-uh, 'ho. I'm making this left turn, and you and your BMW will just have to wait."