I was walking between two places related to work today and a helicopter flew off behind me. I watched it like a six-year-old kid, taking off and mussing my hair, which is always mussed because I am not used to cutting my hair on the regular and force my wife to do it instead of paying some old ass white dude to do it. Then as I continued walking the half a mile to wear I am allowed to park near a hospital inside a medium-sized city, I passed a sexy woman, but her left arm was a stub right below the elbow. And right behind her was walking a man who looked like he would’ve been good friends with Philo Beddo. He had a button-down shirt, with a few buttons undone, and 1970s tough redneck white guy hair, and was wearing jeans, and he said, “morning” in passing with a husky voice that had seen a few broken knuckles before. (I assume he said “morning” though I guess maybe he was on some next level shit and just saying “mourning” to everybody he passed while dressed like a 1970s tough guy because his wife, the woman who saved him from a life of hardscrabble street tussles and endless struggles with her strong yet pliant ways – the same qualities a vagina has – and she saved him from this all, and now she’s in the hospital with brain cancer, and he is sad so just goes “mourning” all day long wandering the streets waiting for her to die so he can start teaching all these punks he sees a lesson or two.)
Anyways, I immediately thought, “Wow, what a great day to be an American.” When people talk about that melting pot shit, they all too often just think of foreigners and how black people can get rich if they stop being so street scary unless they can play sports but even then they are eventually tricked back out of their money by white devils (of which the Jewish are part of… well white people, not necessarily devils automatically though we all have that potential, do we not?), but the Great American Melting Pot where helicopters just take off and we have sexy cripples and 1970s people and a guy like me who doesn’t know how to cut his hair in an appropriate way consistently but can still get a decent job if he knows the right people. America.
(And actually, it might be my bad hair that made 1970s tough guy say “morning” to me in the first place. He probably thought I was walking over the diner on Cherry Avenue for a late breakfast of fried eggs over easy, corned beef hash, a jelly biscuit, and a cup of coffee that tastes like iron filings but that is perfect because that is what you get in one of those diners that still exist like that. I would have a thousand of those diners before I had even one fucking Applebees or TGIFridays. Strip mall chain stores are the eugenics of the Great American Melting Pot. I know that is not a popular opinion, but fuck popular opinions.
I bet 1970s guy and me could have a wonderful discussion about how you can’t work on new cars anymore and why, even though fake breasts are larger, you can’t really get the same use out of them like old school large breasts, while drinking our crappy coffee while Charlie Rich played on the radio sitting on a shelf behind the counter. Sexy cripple wouldn’t have set foot in that diner. In fact, sexy cripple is the perfect example of what is wrong with America – we attach ourselves far too strongly to our sexiness and try to pretend we aren’t inherently crippled.
STEAL "Man About Town"
NEXT UP: Yet more Boogie Brown beatitudes from underneath the Blue Globe!
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