In which stereotypes are combatted

This cell ain’t big ’nuff fer four Mexicans and they back hair

She got tits like you wouldn’t believe, and it got Buck’s dingdong revving. Tits like s’mores, shit! Buck wanna rub his verga ‘tween ’em til the burros reach the summit!

Buck shifted to dangle his feetses beside his bunk, ready to jump down if’n need be. Miguel came to his own bunk, the bottom one, and he grabbed hisself the towel he stole from Limey. He kept his face trained away from Buck, like he was either upset or pissed off at him or sump’in, he be wrinkling his nose like a nnoyed chimichanga. Buck took a big bite offa his jerky. The three Mexicans looked at Buck like he was in a no-gringo parta the cell block, and Buck curled his lip at that. This cell ain’t big ’nuff fer four Mexicans and they back hair, Buck thunk, but he don’t say it yet cuz he dunno what’s going upon. A few rough-and-rowdy Spanish words came tumbling outta Miguel and the three strangers.
Buck held that bra catalogue and got distractified by the Spanish lady upon the fronta it. She got tits like you wouldn’t believe, and it got Buck’s dingdong revving. Tits like s’mores, shit! Buck wanna rub his verga ‘tween ’em til the burros reach the summit! Shit! She got kinduva sad face, but Spanish gals is always mad, as Buck do reckon, they got that fiery blood. Buck could calm her down. The bra catalogue don’t show her pussy, course, but Buck could practically smell it, and he do hope that smell ain’t the scent of bunchesa Mexican nutsacks that done shoot jizz all o’er the bra catalogue in his hand.

From Cellmates in the Dark

He was a scowling soybean, ticktocky voice like snapping chopsticks

B’fore’n the tussle ‘tween ’em could erupt, a hubbub commotioned itself behind ’em, and they both turned to see someone walk in. They both squared up.
Ain’t nobody allowed in they dead-end.
But it was Mistah Chow, the wonton-shape sunnyskin sumbitch who do run this oil rig. He was a scowling soybean, ticktocky voice like snapping chopsticks, and he looked down his nose at Lem fer being black and Buck fer being a hillbilly and the both them fer being American, trashy, ugly, dumb, hairy and barbaric. He do curl his lip. “You two, you go see medic, you have med-ic-aw fowms to do — you have vassinayshun, yes? You have done vassinayshun?” He stopped short on a frown like somebody spilled his rice when he seed the porno magazine in Lem’s hand. He grabbed it. “You haff po-no?”
“Aw, Mistah Chow-“
“No po-no! Is iwegaw!” Mistah Chow backed outta the dead-end, porno magazine in hand. “Go to med-ic to-night!” He was shouting like a Chinaman do, like a siren with a stutter, as he left the dead-end, and his words faded to machine-gunning echoes on all down the corridor.
A cathedral of silence spread thru the dead-end, and Buck and Lem exchanged knowing glances.

From Buck on Bottom

Chinese men shouldn’t have mustaches, but that’s another diversity, so Steel ain’t going there.

He ugly for a Chinaman, they usually pretty, but he ugly, and he got unfortunate but accurate views on bwack men.

Anyway, Steel stay urging Lem not to fight Jean and the other Haitians, cuz Steel don’t want the rig boss Mister Chow to twist his wontons about it. Steel don’t care, leave the Haitians to they voodoo, no skin off Steel’s pecker if they go to Hell.

Mister Chow gonna frown like a spilled wok at a stabbing. Mister Chow was like that, he a strict string bean. Not skinny though, he plump, real fat for a Chinaman, but you know, he sorta shaped like a bokchoy. An upside-down bokchoy with a sad mustache. He ugly for a Chinaman, they usually pretty, but he ugly, and he got unfortunate but accurate views on bwack men. Chinese men shouldn’t have mustaches, but that’s another diversity, so Steel ain’t going there.

The fight ended only when Mister Chow barreled in like a shouty rickshaw, bellowing out slantways commands that ain’t nobody understand cuz he talked like an angry Chinaman. Anyway, the no-fighting parta his commands was cweah as gwass, and the Haitians dismounted from they brawl. They handled things among they own, and they prolly made up, or maybe not, Steel don’t know and don’t care. They left the story at this point anyway, and Mister Chow did likewise, on his cute little dumpling legs, still glaring or maybe just looking at the Haitians who marched out afronta him.

From Winston Steel & the White Man

It proved Mister Chow don’t know nothing about black men. Or bwack men neither.

He poked out a line of incomprehensible syllables, and Steel and Lem nodded along like agreeable eggplants.

The rig bossman Mister Chow was half a dumpling high, but he shouted loud as soybeans, swear to God. He came rampaging like a Mongol into the corridor when a brawl went boom-a-boom-boom. Steel and Lem done throw down like a dogpound at some Haitian niggas, who got liquor they ain’t share. Lem proposed a transaction, and the Haitians was receptive, till the truck ‘tween them and he and him turnt truculent.

But only a paltry packa punches got dealt on both sides before Mister Chow chopsticked in like a miniature monsoon. He carried a cricket bat. “You bwack men-ooh you ooh-shoo choo-woo-moo-choo-” or some shit. Steel couldn’t understand Mister Chow when he wasn’t batting the butter outta Haitian booty and he damn sure ain’t catch a word now. He did pick up the oughty-notty that Mister Chow thought all the black men shouldn’t fight each other.
That had a certain logic to it, but it proved Mister Chow don’t know nothing about black men. Or bwack men neither.

Soon enough, Mister Chow arrived, furying up a storm of stewed plums. He jabbed his fat little fingers in the air, and he said buncha words that Steel ain’t quite catch — Mister Chow got one helluva Chinaman accent. He poked out a line of incomprehensible syllables, and Steel and Lem nodded along like agreeable eggplants.

From Steel the Roughneck

Hirrabirry

“Mistah Chow prolly mad as a steamed bun. Bap! Bap! Bap-bap-bappity-bap!”

“Hey, you on a broke-record, Buckums. Shut up, hillbilly. Hirrabirry.”
Finally Buck’s face softened and he laughed sheepish-like. Hirrabirry was how Mistah Chow said ‘hillbilly’, and it do make Buck laugh when he hear it. “Mistah Chow prolly mad as a steamed bun. Bap! Bap! Bap-bap-bappity-bap!”
“You is a hirrabirry, he right ’bout that, Buckums,” Lem said. “Mistah Chow tell it how it is.” He leggo Buck’s balls. “He tell it wit’ his Rs and his Ls mixed up, but othuh than that, he got yo’ hillbilly number.”

From Buck on the Oil Rig

He was a hands-off dumpling

He scolded Zon like a bossy noodle, but Zon ain’t understand a word of that ching-chong chatter, then Mistah Chow scurried back to his office.

By the time Mistah Chow strode in couple seconds later, Zon was nursing a bloody nose and ain’t no other combatants apparent. Nobody here was a snitch, and Mistah Chow ain’t care much anyways, as he was a hands-off dumpling. All he cared ’bout was that nobody got serious-hurt and that the scrap was o’er. He scolded Zon like a bossy noodle, but Zon ain’t understand a word of that ching-chong chatter, then Mistah Chow scurried back to his office.

From Buck on the Oil Rig