The White Retardo Strikes Again
Then there's the guy with the squeegee over at Westpark and 59. No, dude, I do NOT want you to clean my windshield with your squeegee that is in fact filthier than my windows, thankyouverymuch. If you need money so damn badly, what are you doing with those two Rottweiler puppies tied to a telephone pole? Puppies can only survive on yogurt and booze for so many weeks before they develop a serious case of the runs, which I'm sure you've been tending to with your all-purpose squeegee sponge. This guy will squeegee my windshield no matter WHAT I tell him.
"No thanks, I don't have any money."
"You smell like summer sausage and have ringworm on your face, go away."
"I have an uzi in the car. Put down the squeegee or else the puppies get it."
"I'll give you ten bucks and a dime sack NOT to ruin my wax job with your fecal contaminated squeegee filth."
"Venez plus étroitement et j'enlèverai vos testicules avec mes dents"
"Oops, my foot slipped. You're ok, walk it off."
I can say from personal experience that none of the above have any affect whatsoever on Squeegee Man. He will squeegee away with the skill and determination of a Special Olympic hurdler, and for that I have to give him props. I don't, however, have to give him money so I'll just continue to throw glass bottles. The way I see it, I'm doing him a favor. Those bad boys are worth $0.05 in MD! I hear they're hot commodities on the homeless black market.
For the most part, the homeless people that I pass on a daily basis are harmless, which is why I use them as innocent pawns in my global plan to torment and persecute persons of lesser means than myself. But driving home from work yesterday, I noticed a new victim languishing in the shade of a nearby bus stop surrounded by garbage bags full of valuables which, judging from the way he was attempting to shield them from any potentially wayward bullets with his body, must have included the Hope Diamond, the Mona Lisa and Al Capone's lifeless cadaver. In between fiercely guarding his Hefty (Cinch-Sack) fortune and smoking 16 cigarettes per minute, the man would glare at me and periodically hock lougies in my general direction. Then he stood up and began pacing, while still managing to smoke, spit, and sporadically rearrange the contents of his garbage bags. Finally, he started screaming, "You black mother fucker! Get away from here, you stupid son-of-a-bitch, you! If I see your black ass around here again, I'll kick the shit out of it! You heard me, negro! I SAID you'd bet not show your ugly face 'round here again!" The rest of what he said was unintelligible rambling, something along the lines of, "I'm not sloopy trans fusty! Clanpool toodie black ass fiduciary wingloser outta here, Blanchett!" It was clear that this dude meant business, and whichever black ass son-of-a-bitch wingloser he was speaking to had better get the fuck out of Dodge because there was no telling what kind of artillery devices were concealed under that pair of pantyhose stuffed with grapefruit. Besides, I wasn't in the mood to be contaminated with splattering body fluids or TB. Looking around, I noticed that there wasn't anyone else near us. It was just me and the psycho. I scanned the sidewalks on either side, glanced under the bus stop bench, searched for dead bodies in the nearby ditch, and checked the backseat of my car. Nope, no sons-of-bitches to speak of.
It seriously took me at least 2 minutes to realize that Sir Spits-A-Lot was talking to ME. I WAS THE BLACK MOTHER FUCKER. Now, I know just as well as yall do how slamming a couple 40 ounce bottles of malt liquor after seven days without food or sleep can dramatically alter one's perception of visual reality. I did go to college, after all. Yet, no matter how many times I partied myself into a K-hole, I am proud to say that I never killed enough brain cells to misjudge someone's race. Gender? Yes. Give a man some Jello snack packs, a Zima and a pair of Manolos and I challenge YOU to be able to tell the difference. But no matter how many bottles of Listerine you drank or clove cigarettes you smoked last night, a cracker-ass white girl such as myself should never, EVER, appear to be a black mother fucker, regardless of my gold dentata, hair extensions and fondness for gangsta rap.
So I sat there for another minute or so, listening to him ramble on and on, inching closer and closer, his spit landing just inches from my car. I kept staring at the light, willing it to turn green, wondering what he would do once he got close enough to get his hands on my fusty, and wishing that I had a taser gun. (TASER GUNS! They're like having epilepsy without the restrictions on your driver's license.) Eventually the light turned and I drove away, but not before rolling down my window and shouting, "Ninja, PLEASE. Don't make me bust out my gat and cap a couple shells off in yo ass!" I figured that would give him something to yell about for a least a few more hours, or least until he found a ride to the Methadone clinic, whichever came first.
Oh, and I made a blog today. YaY!
AK47, now n_____ stop that!
Spoony, come to my crib and we'll play Taser Tag. Twitchin' good times!
But later, when he's running away from filthy, shoeless crackwhores, he's all, "No way, she's scary!"