The 20 Worst Suburban Gangsta Fails — Aight?

What happens in the mind of a simpleton suburban boy to make him yearn for the prison-hardened street cred of an urban OG baller? Psychologists are puzzled, and we really don’t care. What we do know is that these moronic posers are straight up <a href="http://www.heavy.com/comedy/comedy-videos/funny-music-videos/2011/08/cartman-gets-in-the-hip-hop-game/" target="_blank">hilarious</a>, yo. Without a hint of irony, clueless sons of soccer moms grasp for a culture they can’t hope to understand—as if for the sole purpose of entertaining the rest of us. And so we bring you the 20 most ridiculous suburban home slices of the internet—with quotes from our heroes and some choice commentary.

“I’m a stone-cold killah! I’m ANGry about the onset of my adolescent boy boobs, yo! And I’ll cap yo ass if you come up in my crib!” (Or your baby brother’s crib, as it were. Nice balloon.)

“Welcome to Rikers Island, bitches. You in da prison yard now…” (Actually, that’s Parker Thompson’s parents’ backyard. You hang out there after school on Fridays. Above-ground pool, trampoline, gas grill.) “…You bow down or we’ll sandwich you with a shank, bee-yatch.” (Or Parker’s mom could just make you a nice sandwich. Miracle Whip?)

“It’s all about the Andrew Jacksons. I make bank slangin’ crack rock! Wu-Tang!” (Um, you sling sandwiches at Subway and save up your cash to buy more fake nunchucks.)

“Stand up and reco’nize, yo. We be J-Dawg & E-Skidizzle!” (Charming boys. Jimmy’s staying for dinner—Eric’s mom is making chicken and Stove Top.)

“What you lookin’ at?” (We are looking at you, fine young man, because you are an impeccable specimen of double-bandana-ed douchebaggery.)

“Get off our turf, yo. We done told you once, we own dis corner.” (It’s the local community park, fellas. Picnics, frisbees, hula hoops. Hey, can you guys watch my dog for a minute?)

“I love it when they call me Big Poppa.” (You love it when they call you anything other than "Hey, lard-ass!")

“I knows wha’s crackalackin’ and I be packin’!” (Yes. Packing three Twinkies and two containers of Lunchables in your bookbag. Now do your homework. Are you wearing pants?)

“South side, represent!” (More precisely, your jacket represents the South Glenlawn Junior High indoor track B team. Congratulations on that 6-yard shot-put throw. Personal best, right?)

“I’m an itty-bitty baller, yo! I’m so motherf***in’ tiny so I can crawl up your a** and take a sh** on your brain, bee-yatch!” (Adorable. This lil’ guy is so cute rolling down the street sipping on ginger ale and Juicy Juice with his mind on his mommy and his mommy on his mind.)

“No, we are not a motherf***ing synchronized swim team, yo! Dis some gang sh**!” (Uh-huh. Carry on, fellas. Bump and grind. But you’ve got lacrosse practice in 20 minutes.)

“Bling, blang, blung, bitches! Check my chainz!” (Impressive. Genuine shiny plastic. You must have spent your whole roll of George Washingtons at the dollar store.)

“[Says something about ‘the chronic’ in Russian.]” (Hokey doke. Everyone knows the baddest-ass suburban teen gangstas are the Ruskie Rastafarians with weed wristbands.)

“Shut the f*** up and give me the money before my Tweety Bird clock strikes noon, bee-yatch. Tick motherf***in’ tock!” (I tawt I taw the world’s youngest d-bag. I did, I did tee the world’s youngest d-bag.)

“I’m raw, dawg. I sleep in a motherf***in’ tent, yo. Sometimes.” (Can I borrow that nail polish?)

"I look kinda like Brendan Fraser! I have an unfortunate haircut! Thug 4 life! Word." (Oh, dear. This is just sad.)

“You in Slim’s penthouse, yo. Bow down.” (We’re in your parents’ refinished attic. They gave you the third-floor bedroom as a reward for making honor roll. Proud of you on that algebra, son.)

“Wal-Mart, bitch. Lowest motherf***in’ prices. Roll-down!” (Can’t argue with that. This guy actually has our respect.)

“Twilight, bee-yatch. What?” (Nothing. Nothing at all, sir. Is that a Leatherman?)