Hoodrats Like Water. A Lot.

Since NBA All Star in Dallas is this weekend, I've decided to revisit hoodrattedness. I'm slipping! If I'm gonna land a baller, I've gotta start craving bread and welcome a parched throat. That way I'll have enough belly room for all the water I'm gonna need to cure cotton mouth.

First, I need to step my swag up. I'm looking very Plane Jane. The look is too studious; I'm slipping. I'm in dire need of a neck tattoo, clear chunky heels and plastic multicolored bangles if I want to get noticed by a baller this weekend.

Second, I've got to get with the program. I've been studying every picture of Nicki Minaj I can get my hands on for outfit ideas. It's a must to perfect the lines, "What kinda car you drivin'?" "Your striped polo is the shit!" and "Uhun, I ain't basic, I'm a five-star bitch!!" while cracking my Bubblicious. And, I have to make sure I harass the bartenders to replace my adult beverages and then confidently not tip.

Last, the hangers-on, fringe homies are going to be my target entry point to bagging a baller. Along with bodyguards, bouncers and barbacks. The more I act like I need a glass of tap water (cus it's free and it looks like a vodka tonic if you put a lime in it, ho!), the more ounces of Ace of Spades that is going to flow from a VIP bottle into my mouth to quench my thirst. 

If all else fails and I can't get into the super exclusive lounge areas, I'll just hawk the entrance, pacing back and forth in my discount platform heels until I get noticed and asked to fufill someone's pseudo-publicist "request" via the "How Low Can You Go" method. Or get told to beat it. 

Yep, that's pretty much how it's gonna go down.