ME: Tiki, my friend, it's been too long.
HUT: Nah, mon. It be Chickee. You always losing ya history flow cause the tasty spliff.
ME: Um, sure. I don't know what that means. But I'm glad to hear you're doing well?
HUT: Chickee mon, Chickee. How great Lion Jah made me.
ME: Wait, I'm confused. Again. You mean you're not a Tiki hut?
HUT: Yahmon.
ME: What's Chickee?
HUT: Chickee is my true name for livication. From de Seminole Indians dat built me up, all love and respect irie.
ME: Um... wait, I mean, Umm.
HUT: Praise Jah.
ME: Yeah. Ok. So all you guys we call Tiki huts are actually Chickee huts? Thatch roof and all?
HUT: Yahmon.
ME: Ok, that's cool I guess, so we've all been wrong all this time. But why are you speaking Rasta?
HUT: Now you overstanding. I converted. Jah help me see da light.
ME: The light?
HUT: Yahmon. I was bein downpressed.
ME: You mean oppressed?
HUT: Nah. Downpressed. By the white mon, all love and respect. He was keeping me down, requiring a building permit for me to just be. So I claim my right heritage as Seminole and he have to let me be built wit no building permit.
ME: So wait. Seminole culture and Rasta roots in Jamaican culture have absolutely nothing to do with eachother. Excpet both being near Florida. Ok, I see. Wait.
HUT: Jah showin you da light?
ME: Seminole Indians, such that exist, can build Chickee huts without a building permit as some sort of cultural heritage right?
HUT: Yahmon.
ME: What about my cultural heritage?
HUT: How you mean, brotha?
ME: I grew up in a "culture" where I didn't have to have my dog on a leash, or I could light a fire any ol' place I wanted, or where I could have a cigar inside, or take the last of the mashed potatoes when everyone else looked done, or didn't have to dance around to keep everybody in this over-litigious politically correct world happy. I'm entitled to my culture.
HUT: Nah mon. You the downpressor.
ME: Oh.
HUT: Jah be praised. You overstand.
ME: Less and less, everyday. Can I get a toke?
