Guys, this isn’t some type of joke, this is a damn crime yet in the black community, no matter what your mother does, if you survive it then it is supposed to be funny and not something she should face any consequences over!

Even if you took the cocaine out of the situation what you will be left with is a 10 year old boy in the kitchen around a hot stove with hot grease and the black mother had no issue with this because while she was out being the next Nino Brown, it was her lil mans job to make sure he could fend for himself!

When you see these messed up black men always remember, there is a black hoodrat who raised him that way!

If you thought Bobby Brown detailing his sexual experience with a g-g-g-ghost was the most ridiculous story in his book, Every Little Step, guess again because it’s not. The distinction definitely goes to the tale about him finding out the hard way that his loving mother was also the neighborhood drug dealer.

It never occurred to Bobby Brown that his mom was peddling drugs to make ends meet. Not even when she had their Orchard Park projects apartment door replaced with a heavy, black metal one. According to the New Edition singer, he thought the replacement door was to keep Jehovah’s Witnesses from constantly pestering the family. “My little sister and I thought my parents were petrified of the Jehovah’s Witnesses because of how they scurried whenever the missionaries came knocking.” But no, it was because his mother, Carole Brown, was selling cocaine.

Brown came face to face with cocaine when he thought he would put his culinary skills to the test after being taught how to cook by his mom. One night, when both parents were away, a then 10-year-old Bobby thought it would be sweet to cook dinner for his family, specifically, fried chicken. That didn’t turn out so well when he accidentally used cocaine instead of flour to fry his chicken.

So I decided to use the large bag of flour I found in the freezer to make some fried chicken. I got the chicken parts out of the refrigerator and covered a bunch of pieces in the flour. Then I dropped them in a pan of sizzling oil. I was 10. So I didn’t realize the strangely pungent smell emanating from the pan. When the chicken pieces were nice and brown, I figured I was done. After I had taken a few bites and feeling weirder with each bite, my mother walked in the door. At first she was smiling at the idea that her little Bobby had made dinner. Then her gaze swept across the kitchen as she got hit with the full brunt of the scene, the smell, the mess, the powder. With horror, she realized what I had done. I fried chicken in her cocaine — a radical new addition to the family’s culinary offerings. Cocaine chicken.

Even though his mother never told him the “flour” he used to fry chicken was cocaine, Bobby was later able to put two and two together on his own. “It wasn’t until months later that I truly understood what was going on in my home and what my mother was selling through the heavy black door.”