MN Manmacker's mansploitation
The driver was a reflective-vest redbone with bleached hair, a shiny grill, steel rods in his eyebrows and a center-of-his-nose ring. That nigga was presenting like a tinfoil supervillain.
What was up with them homeboys with bleached hair? Thumper pontificated to hisself on on that topic when a recycling truck rattled down the road — there ain’t never was recycling trucks before neither — the driver was a reflective-vest redbone with bleached hair, a shiny grill, steel rods in his eyebrows and a center-of-his-nose ring. That nigga was presenting like a tinfoil supervillain.
Nowadays, in the free outside present-day here-and-now of the real world, early rising got niggas tripping, looking at Thumper like sad question marks when he said he got up at six.
He got up just after dawn. It ain’t feel early to him. In prison, he be getting up at the north side of dawn. Nowadays, in the free outside present-day here-and-now of the real world, early rising got niggas tripping, looking at Thumper like sad question marks when he said he got up at six. Lazy-ass punks all over.
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
“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 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
Steel said he had to come along because “occupational conventions are the devil’s pot roast”. Avery had never thought about pot roast like that.
Steel said he had to come along because “occupational conventions are the devil’s pot roast”. Avery had never thought about pot roast like that.
That’s yo’ addiction layin’ its toll on yo’ mind, like a toll road on yo’ mind, chargin’ a toll… in yo’ mind. Yo’ mind is both the road and the destination. And the toll.
“You gonna be,” he said. “Is it makin’ you sick? Real work sickenin’ you? That’s yo’ addiction layin’ its toll on yo’ mind, like a toll road on yo’ mind, chargin’ a toll… in yo’ mind. Yo’ mind is both the road and the destination. And the toll. You still gotta puke. Prolly got booze in yo’ belly still, and it’s brewing up a pot of lazy liver. It’s tellin’ you you don’t gotta improve yo’self, you just fine the way you is.” Steel clapped his hands, so high-energy now that spittle flecked his lips.
Avery quaked about it and shrank away from him, no longer even trying to lift the bar. Steel kept looking down at him and moved up the bench press to stay alongside him. “It’s wrong! You ain’t fine — life is a struggle to remain on the Christian road, you feel me? A struggle of brotherhood is another good, y’all! If you ain’t workin’ on improvement, you drifting off the foredained road.” He paused. “Foetained? Foretained. The foretained road.” He scrunched up his eyes. “The frodained road?”
He flapped his hands at his ears — presumably his impression of a fish’s gills — Avery suspected Steel did not know what gills were.
“You like a fish denying water is real, and you gonna keep denying it till you finally flop onto land and find yo’ gills don’t work no mo’,” Steel said. He flapped his hands at his ears — presumably his impression of a fish’s gills — Avery suspected Steel did not know what gills were. “You look queasy. You gonna go pukey-ookey, whiteboy?!”