The Hostile Negress Defines: "Craccent" (or Crackcent if you're nasty!)

CRACCENT (or CRACKCENT in northern regions): Refers to the dry, crackly, echo-filled, husk of a voice of a former crackhead which lingers regardless of how long the person has been clean. Think of a person gargling with glass, smoking a box of Black-n-Milds, going to sleep for eight hours, waking up and then immediately yelling through a megaphone in backwards Romanian. Often carries a vaguely echo-like quality (think Wizard of Oz) resulting from the user having smoked their entire lung setup clean away and a scratchiness reminscent of speaking on a really bad cell phone or a Bluetooth. Subject may last have smoked in the 1970s, since giving their life to jaysus, snatching up a job at the local clinic and sporting a side part and sensible slingbacks. Yet the moment the person opens their mouth you know they spent some time gettin' "beamed up" if you know what I mean. Often incomprehensible and always loud.

Well-known craccent sufferers include Samuel L. Jackson, Frankie Cole and Jim Jones' moms. See video.

The Hostile Negress Defines: Heirloom Weave (I'm going there. Today.)

HEIRLOOM WEAVE (Also: Hairloom Weave): An attachment of fake, wanna be Beyonce weave hair, typically matted, gnarled, dingy, involuntarily loc’ing or otherwise mangled, which has seen better days or possibly better centuries, yet continues to be the centerpiece of a female’s hair wardrobe; commonly seen among “ratchet” females and typically attached with bond glue. So-called because, like a treasured locket, a family Bible or Grammy’s quilt, this wet and wavy weave has been vacuum sealed and handed down through several generations of ratchet women until it landed on the present dome. Occasionally spotted on Antiques Scalawag Roadshow.

Example of its use:

Takwisha: Well you know, I mean, Foxy Boog’s hair isn’t really that bad if you look at it really fast, during sunset.

Aisha: Girl stop your lies! I believe in antiquing and I am SO glad her Nana stored that wet and wavy weave in her hope chest for all those years, but it’s time to let the Josephine Baker-era yaki go far, far away!

This was brought to you by the letter H. For Hostile. But you already knew that.

*humming and rocking* I said I wasn't gonna tellllll noobodddddddyyyyy!!!