"Diamonds & Wood" is an ongoing series in which music critic Shea Serrano breaks down the 5 hip-hop tracks you need to hear this week.

This is true. I wish it weren't.

Recently, my wife got on a bus and traveled to another city because she believes a lot in Christ. That's a sentence based on a bit of transitive logic that might need to be fleshed out more in other circumstances, but right now it only exists to explain why I was spending the weekend alone with my sons, twin five-year-olds.

We did some things together (eat, museum, exercised, etc.), but I'll only remember one in a month.

We went to a park near my house at 2:57. A guy that I know was supposed to be having a crawfish boil there at 3. When we arrived, he wasn't there. This wasn't entirely unexpected (he's fucking late to everything), but it certainly wasn't appreciated. The boys and I played for a bit to kill time.

A quick aside, It's clear already that Boy A will likely always be better than Boy B at almost everything—or, at least, as far as being interesting is concerned. Boy B seems more capable of operating life logically, but that won't be more outwardly beneficial than, say, running really fast until he's about 35. Right now, Boy A dominates. He moves smoother, falls less, is slightly more handsome, is more outgoing, is more competitive and is just generally more likable. I guess his current superiority isn't my fault, but I still feel bad that it's turning out this way.

Anyway, while running around, they came across two other boys (about 8-years-old) playing on a hill made of dirt and sand. I didn't see what happened between everyone because I can only force myself to play with my sons in ten minute intervals because that shit is deadening. I was sitting at a table on the other side of the park, which means I had only Boy A's version of the story, which is typically as reliable a version as a homeless man's account of something, but the gist seemed to be that a boy in a red shirt hit him on his arm.

Now, the boys have been in Tae Kwon Do for several months. They've sparred numerous times. They technically know how to fight technically technically. Still, they have gelatin skeletons. They simply do not like for other people to touch them. I will take full credit for this abnormality—even after 11 years, I still won't even let me wife get too close to my face. To Boy A, getting hit on the arm is tantamount to getting shot in the chest with an elephant gun.

He came running to me crying, sniffling, huffing, puffing. All of his words were complicated adventures.

"Dah-ah-ah-ah-dee-ee-ee-ee." Shit like that.

He explained what happened. It took two days.

I said, "Go over there, get the attention of the boy that hit you, and say, 'Please don't touch me again. I don't like it.' Take your brother."

Before I dismissed them, the other boy (the one that had not been accused of elephant gunplay) came over. He asked, "What happened?" I said, "My son said that your friend hit him." He responded, "Oh, yeah, Matthew is a little wild." I said, "Well, they're going to go talk to him about that."

I sat and watched them walk towards Matthew (Matthew is such a bitch name). They went. They tried to get his attention. But that motherfucker blew them off. I watched him nearly ignore them completely. And my blood turned black.

They came back and I said, "Go over there, get in his face so that he can't ignore you, and say, 'If you touch me again, I'm going to punch you in the goddamn face.' Do NOT come back here until you've done exactly that. If he tries to touch you again, come get me. I'll pull his arms off and beat him with them. Go."

I sat and watched them again. They went again. And they tried to get Matthew's attention again. Boy B, buoyed by the God King Daddy's backing, did the talking. I could see the firmness in his posture. He pointed and pursed his lips and, I'm assuming, delivered the message perfectly.

BUT THAT MOTHERFUCKER BLEW THEM OFF AGAIN. What's more, he started flipping sand around. Not specifically at them, but close enough.

I got up, said, "I'm about to fuck this bitch up" to no one because no one was near me, then walked over.

My feet were hot. My face was hot. Fucking everything was fuck, fuck, Fuck, Fuck, FUCK, FUCK, FUCKFUCKFUCKFUCK!

And then I got there.

And Matthew had Down syndrome.

My whole life.

1. Nas, "Accident Murderers," featuring Rick Ross

Organs and sporadic rat-a-tat snare snaps and Nas and Rick Ross trying, AND MUSIC NERDS ARE FALLING OVER THEMSELVES TO TWEET LYRICS.

p.s. Can we all stop pretending like Nas's "Daughters" was great? Thanks.

2. Project Pat's "Polo," featuring Juicy J and Nasty Mane

If Project Pat and his swampy Mississippi reductionist* charm had come out in 2012, rather than the beginning of the last decade, the Internet probably would've melted. Pitchfork would've given 1999's Ghetty Green a 30.8, for sure. Extra credit here for taking a 2 Chainz line from Kanye's "Mercy" and turning it into the hook.

*Here's a Project Pat song. I'm not wrong. It's not that long. Hit a bong. Doorbell; ding, ding, dong. Lots of girls wearing thongs, that's a sexy throng. Play some ping pong. Fake words: flong, hong, yong and zong. And that's a Project Pat song.

3. Asher Roth's "Good Morning"

I know, I know, I know. But for real, just listen to it. It's charming. And nearly perfectly done all the way around. Fuck those go-carts and larks and all that nonsense. Roth is back. Or here for the first real time. I don't know. Let's all start calling him Rock Roth though. Rock is a way better first name* than Asher. Asher is basically, like, the butterfly of boy names—similar to Matthew. Rock is the erection of boy names, duh. Dang it. Sorry. But still, #RockRothForLife.

*My wife is currently pregnant with our third son. I've been tossing names at her for the duration of the pregnancy and she's been sending them shits into the cheap seats like Barry Bonds. Some of the discarded offerings: Yolo Serrano (I mean, the baby's only gonna live once), Swag Serrano (if only because every time he pooped I could make a "he got that swag sauce, he's dripping swagu" joke), Maximus Serrano (Gladiator is that shit), Optimus Prime Serrano (NOBODY is fucking with a kid named Optimus) and #1 Stunna Serrano (a long shot going in, but worth a try nonetheless).

4. David Banner's "Who's That"

David Banner is ALWAYS aggravated. He's so uncontrollably intellectually and passionately aggressive here that there's no way to not like this song, despite its semi-preachy tone. Banner wins. He Hulk smashed it.

5. Delo's "Soda Water," featuring Paul Wall, Big Sant and E.S.G.

Proper riding music from the South. And probably the best song about soda water of the year.

Shea Serrano is a writer living in Houston, TX. His work has appeared in the Houston Press, LA Weekly, Village Voice, XXL, The Source, Grantland and more. You can follow him on twitter here.