I was accosted by a Negro gentleman last fortnight (888 hits)
Category: NoneRating: 1.83 on 8 reviews (Rate this item) (V)
Submitted by Foonbo (View user info) at 2005-12-17 12:52:55 EST
Hog Butcher for the World,
Tool Maker, Stacker of Wheat,
Player with Railroads and the Nation's Freight Handler;
Stormy, husky, brawling,
City of the Big Shoulders:
They tell me you are wicked and I believe them, for I
have seen your painted women under the gas lamps
luring the farm boys.
And they tell me you are crooked and I answer: Yes, it
is true I have seen the gunman kill and go free to
kill again.
And they tell me you are brutal and my reply is: On the
faces of women and children I have seen the marks
of wanton hunger.
And having answered so I turn once more to those who
sneer at this my city, and I give them back the sneer
and say to them:
Come and show me another city with lifted head singing
so proud to be alive and coarse and strong and cunning.
Flinging magnetic curses amid the toil of piling job on
job, here is a tall bold slugger set vivid against the
little soft cities;
Fierce as a dog with tongue lapping for action, cunning
as a savage pitted against the wilderness,
Bareheaded,
Shoveling,
Wrecking,
Planning,
Building, breaking, rebuilding,
Under the smoke, dust all over his mouth, laughing with
white teeth,
Under the terrible burden of destiny laughing as a young
man laughs,
Laughing even as an ignorant fighter laughs who has
never lost a battle,
Bragging and laughing that under his wrist is the pulse.
and under his ribs the heart of the people,
Laughing!
Laughing the stormy, husky, brawling laughter of
Youth, half-naked, sweating, proud to be Hog
Butcher, Tool Maker, Stacker of Wheat, Player with
Railroads and Freight Handler to the Nation.
--Carl Sandburg, "Chicago"
A typical Saturday night for me almost always goes as follows: hit the bars on Western Ave. around 8-9ish, drink profusely, go to White Castle around 5am, come home and suck down fries, chicken rings, and Sliders, make obscene phone calls to women who have wronged me, pass out reeking of sweat-onions, spend the Sabbath hating myself and diarrhea (vodka and Sliders are a cruel mistress). Last Saturday was going no different up until the "come home" part. It was about 5am as I parked my truck on the street in front of my house. I live in a predominantly white-Irish neighborhood on the Southwest Side of the city, so the black man walking down the sidewalk perpendicular to me as I walked up my driveway to my house was slightly unusual, but not a once-in-a-blue-moon thing.
"Yo, brutha, you got da time?" he asked.
"Uh, yeah, sure, bro," I slurred as I fumbled with my keys and sack o' Whiteys to get my phone out of my pocket. "It's five-oh-eight," and as I looked up, my brutha was pointing a .22 at me from the side of his hip.
"Gimme da money, man," he said in a tone quite polar to the one he used to get me to look at my phone.
"Oh, fuck, this motherfucker is gonna steal my fucking food," was the first thing I thought--shit you not. I wasn't worried about my money, keys, phone, the life-threatening situation--no, I was worried about $6 worth of salty, greasy food-sex I was hoping to have. I went to my back pocket for my wallet, and it wasn't there. "Oh, fuck yeah, I left it in my truck" I remembered (which had over $100 in it).
"Yo, dude, I ain't got a wallet on me," I told my brutha.
I barely got "wallet" out before this guy was in and out of my front pockets with the stealth and speed of a mongoose. My pockets were inside out, and my phone, keys, and about thirty bucks were lying in the snow. My brutha snatched up the cash quickly and jogged leisurely away--I mean like he was doing it for the excercise--no, fear of me going after him. I picked up my phone and keys, thankfully, and as he was far enough away for me to talk shit without him coming back before I could make it to my door, I yelled, "HOW'S Q'S BROTHER DOING, MOTHERFUCKER!"
NBA star Quentin Richardson's brother was shot and killed recently near my 'hood and the cops caught the culprits a few blocks from my house after a decent car chase.
"FUCK YOU, WHITE MUTHAFUCKA!" my brutha called back without turning around. As he reached the corner of the block, a car with its lights off pulled up out of nowhere, and my brutha jumped in and sped away.
I'm not a racist. I won't indict all black people for this one shithead. I've personally known more "good" ones than "bad" ones. I even look on the bright side and hope he was stealing cash to buy his kids some Christmas presents. I doubt it, but whatever. But had he gone for my Whiteys, we'd have had a serious misunderstanding and I'd have beat that fucking monkey cold.
User Reviews
Submitted by MistressFist (user info) at 2005-12-20 16:00:28 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
No Comment
Submitted by Foonbo (user info) at 2005-12-20 15:12:03 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
Not enough people read this.
Submitted by simple_catalyst (user info) at 2005-12-18 22:40:45 EST (#)
Ranking: 1
yeah.
Submitted by HighVoltage900 (user info) at 2005-12-17 20:18:53 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
+2 for the story.
+347 for the title.
Jolly good show.
Submitted by Dante_Alighieri (user info) at 2005-12-17 19:50:59 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
Funny.
Submitted by AlexorGM (user info) at 2005-12-17 19:33:34 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
No Comment
Submitted by nate (user info) at 2005-12-17 13:32:36 EST (#)
Ranking: -2
NSFW!
Submitted by Deconstruction (user info) at 2005-12-17 13:17:19 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
For the title.
...fortnight. Haha.