MN Manmacker's mansploitation
They can join the list of body parts that don’t work. His heart, his “bladder neck”, his left shoulder, his sinuses, some kinda flap in his throat, his knees and elbows, ankles, fingers, ears.
Goddamn the sun was bright. Did it always usedta be that bright? It ain’t seem like it when Thumper was young and got knees and elbows that worked. Maybe his eyes got old too. They can join the list of body parts that don’t work. His heart, his “bladder neck”, his left shoulder, his sinuses, some kinda flap in his throat, his knees and elbows, ankles, fingers, ears. He need a niggaectomy.
To Rocky, it still felt like he got outta prison last night, like everything since then was a dream. He was unsure he’d ever acclimate to the outside world. He’d spent five years in there, and all five of those years clung to him still like a fragrant armpit
To Rocky, it still felt like he got outta prison last night, like everything since then was a dream. He was unsure he’d ever acclimate to the outside world. He’d spent five years in there, and all five of those years clung to him still like a fragrant armpit.
From Rocky the Ex-Con
Thumper smoked weed on the reg, did lines of coke now and then, snorted heroin once when he thought it was coke, and he did something unpleasant called salvia that caused reality to ooze and twist like funnel-cake batter in hot oil.
In his early years in prison, Thumper smoked weed on the reg, did lines of coke now and then, snorted heroin once when he thought it was coke, and he did something unpleasant called salvia that caused reality to ooze and twist like funnel-cake batter in hot oil. Once he got out though, he ain’t give none that no mind. The outside world was crazy enough for him.
They got Asian hobos now. Asians! Wouldn’t-a happened before. Bill looked at Thumper like a racist telescope when he pointed that out to him.
From Thumper on Parole
Kids was phone-bullying other kids into stabbing they grandmas, lazy-eyed niggas was buying Russian wives on the phone, cauliflowery whiteboys be stealing the treasury on they phone and burning down schools, it happens, shit, look it up!
Thumper scanned books and told customers to swipe or insert they card. Two ways to pay: swipe or insert. Or cash, but ain’t a soul pay in cash all morning. Thumper thought paying with a plastic card was paltry shit. A proper nigga paid in cash. Cards was like a wheelchair for your wallet.
There’s cards you don’t even gotta swipe or insert. You just tap it around, and it goes ding. You could walk by a nigga, and he be dinging your card. Tap-a-tap-tap, he snap-snackin’ on ya cash. Bullshit. When Thumper told this one high-faluting ruddynut honky to swipe his card or insert it if he prefer, the honky said, “Nah, I’mma tap it, you trashy tapless nigger coming outta prison ign’ant and shit, I don’t swipe or insert, I tap, you don’t know nuffin, oughta put you back in a bitch-nigger cage to learn how to tap yo’ thing on the other thing”. He ain’t say that exactly, but what he said he said like Thumper was a piss-poor nigga for not guessing he was the kinda honky who tap steada swipe or insert.
You can pay with your phone now too. Swipe, insert, tap or phone.
Thumper don’t know how to put money into his phone, and he ain’t wanna axe, cuz they’d treat him a lost puppy and show him how and it’d take like a hundred steps, buncha passwords to forget, prolly gotto talk to a gravelchin nigga on the phone. Thumper don’t got time for that nonsense. He like having real cash he can count in reality like a real nigga living in real-time and real-space. One sunnyskin man did it though, hovering his phone around like a hypnotized helicopter, till eventually there was bunchesa buzzes and beeps and boops and the phone vibrated, and then the cash register said “approved”.
Ain’t even a real cash register, it was really a li’l computer that was really a big phone that was really just a monitor, but to the Puffin Books bitches it was a register. Everything was a phone nowadays. You best believe Thumper disapproved of that, disapproved hearty as stew.
The morning drifted on like time was a chore. Thumper’s mind wandered back to prison, where at least you paid in cash or like ramen noodle packets or something. That was better. Thumper wished the world would go back to barter. Like, I’ll trade you a cow for maybe… a thousand apples. But then what would you do with a thousand apples at once? Make cider maybe.
And cider’s delicious, so that’s fine.
World was going in the other direction though. Everything was more abstract, ain’t nothing physical to hold onto. News was on the phone and mainly talked about what people was typing into they phones — seriously, they do whole things on the news about what bunchesa nobodies said, like a serious-looking racially ambiguous reporter get up there and say “somebody named buttmama called for peace in the Congo, but then a non-somebody named noodlesucker said Congo niggas can go fuck a duck”, and then the news is over, and Thumper still ain’t got a update from Congo since Ali won the Rumble in the Jungle.
Kids was phone-bullying other kids into stabbing they grandmas, lazy-eyed niggas was buying Russian wives on the phone, cauliflowery whiteboys be stealing the treasury on they phone and burning down schools, it happens, shit, look it up!
Young folk don’t even smoke weed proper no more. They vape it. It’s like weed and email got combined. They done optimize smoking weed till there ain’t nothing left, you just look at this little doodad that lights up, exhale smoke that smells like sleeping by yourself for the resta your life, and you done. Don’t get high, don’t laugh at nothing, don’t run from the cops. Shit’s bullshit, nigga.
From Thumper on Parole
Paychecks is on the phone too. Tap, zoooooop, boom, there it goes, paycheck gets emailed to the bank, taxes go out, money all gone. You don’t even gotta spend it.
“You said I gotta have a job. I got a job. It ain’t illegal. I do what I is told. I pay taxes, got a bank account and e’rrything.” Thumper phoned out to show Mr. Perry the bank app. “The bank is on my phone, swear to God, Mistuh Perry, it’s real. Rajesh showed me how. You just tap on it. Paychecks is on the phone too. Tap, zoooooop, boom, there it goes, paycheck gets emailed to the bank, taxes go out, money all gone. You don’t even gotta spend it. You know strippers get paid by phone too? You can text a eggplant to a pussy. Modern world is bullshit, suh.”
Thumper microwaved a brick of frozen broccoli and cheese, cuz he was pretending to like broccoli, cuz the world was like that these days, cuz Obama ain’t do nothing!
Thumper went up to his apartment on the second floor. He got a shower and a snack. Thumper microwaved a brick of frozen broccoli and cheese, cuz he was pretending to like broccoli, cuz the world was like that these days, cuz Obama ain’t do nothing! Then he laid his weary head down on his bed. Moonlight shined through the window, and Thumper was glad to bask in the nighttime’s rays without trying to slumber.
Whiteboys don’t listen to funk no more, you know that? It got took from the whiteboy curriculum.
And he liked that Yammy appreciated the Fatback. Whiteboys don’t listen to funk no more, you know that? It got took from the whiteboy curriculum. Whiteboy quality gone way down while Thumper was inside.
From Thumper the Mover
You know they don’t got jungle gyms no more? That shit do emboggle a nigga’s brain. They ain’t even a thing. Put ’em in your phone and what comes up? Brazilian niggas lifting weights with sloths. Shit’s bullshit, nigga.
You know they don’t got jungle gyms no more? That shit do emboggle a nigga’s brain. They ain’t even a thing. Put ’em in your phone and what comes up? Brazilian niggas lifting weights with sloths. Shit’s bullshit, nigga.
From Thumper the Mover
Though he ain’t want nobody to know it, Thumper looked forward to work, and the dawn couldn’t come early enough.
Ain’t nobody got time to text a notiony nigga like Thumper, he thought as he stretched hisself home silent as samurai on his lumpy feet. Lingering moonlight bathed his booty in both fog and dim. His brain felt old, but Baltimore was older. The city smelled like the past at night. It smelled like the future during the day, but at night, Thumper recognized streets he grew up on and windows he walked past back when, and he recollected names and faces that done drain away. Nighttime smelled of asphalt and history.
He was glad to go home alone. Them two Jaekwel and Deon smelled like clean knees, but parta Thumper’s noggin craved the nigga-heavy nights of a crowded cell, and he steady checked his phone before finally slipping into a solofied slumber.
Though he ain’t want nobody to know it, Thumper looked forward to work, and the dawn couldn’t come early enough.
From Thumper the Mover
Thumper ain’t yet figure out how to listen to good, old music.
On the way, Thumper ain’t play no music in the truck, and Mr. Gregarian was okay with that, or at least he ain’t complain. Thumper liked the sound of the engine and the wind cracking past like gusts of freedom. Thumper ain’t yet figure out how to listen to good, old music — every music-listening method required multiple steps he’d have to look up how to do. How did every part of music get worse while he was locked up?