MN Manmacker's mansploitation
Mr. Gregarian wanted Thumper to accompany them cuz he don’t trust Cubans around his daughter or Spanish-speakers generally or young men at all.
Thumper done heard ’em talk about the country club, but he ain’t never go before Mistah Gregarian told him to take Miriam and her girlfriends.
They wanna play tennis, they said, but when they got there, they just sat out and sunbathed by the pool. The real reason they wanna go was to make eyes at the Cuban pool attendants, who was handsome as meerkats. Mr. Gregarian wanted Thumper to accompany them cuz he don’t trust Cubans around his daughter or Spanish-speakers generally or young men at all.
“Which one you lookin’ at?” Lem turned the magazine around, so now Steel was looking at the female Lem was looking at a second ago and vice versa. Lem sucked on his teeth. “This bitch got a played-out pussy. You can tell.”
“Which one you lookin’ at?” Lem turned the magazine around, so now Steel was looking at the female Lem was looking at a second ago and vice versa. Lem sucked on his teeth. “This bitch got a played-out pussy. You can tell.”
“Can’t even see her pussy, Lem-“
“A nigga can tell!” Lem snapped. He glared at Steel. “I’d still fuck her. But I’d hafta work at it to make her cum. I wouldn’t lick her pussy neither. Nuh-uh. Not a bitch like that.”
“I’ll lick any white bitch pussy,” Steel said.
Lem looked at him like he was crazy. “What the fuck is wrong wit’choo? You prolly got white-ho-pussy brain, cuz you ate out so many bitches you got a pussy in yo’ skull in place of the brain. You lick a ho pussy? You eat a nigga nut up!”
From Steel the Roughneck
“Girlshit on yo’ dingdong, whiteboy, you is so wrong!”
Soon as Buck got to relaxing — putting out ignore ’bout Lem’s nonsense — he got tired of sitting. He put on a clean paira tight-whites and got up to work out. He jogged in place some, then did couple burpees and went thru his routine, while Lem ranted like a old black man.
“Bet it was the Haitians. Bet it. Know that, Buckums! Reagan be lettin’ ’em in left ‘nd right, lettin’ ’em in like pants! Mark my words, them Haitians done touch all my shit. You don’t believe me? I got the receipts, homeboy!”
“I ain’t a homeboy. I believes ya, Lem, Hayshuns do that, they do be like that,” Buck said, voice jiggling up and down with the heft of his chest as he did his burpees — jumping up from the floor to the stool and back again. The pouch of his tight-whites flopped up and down, and his cock popped free. “They’s one of you’uns, you should tell ’em-” Buck grinned at Lem and kept on his burpees, despite his fatty shaft barrumphing up along with his movement. Lem done emphasize numerable times that ‘Haitians ain’t proper niggas’, and sh’ore ’nuff, Buck’s comment set him off once again.
“Girlshit on yo’ dingdong, whiteboy, you is so wrong! First of all, Haitians ain’t proper niggas, I done tol’ you that. Secondmostly, these Haitians in particular, on this rig, they done — they’s racist ‘gainst American niggas, Buckums, you know that. I know you know that! Lord ‘ave mercy! And fourthly or maybe fifthly, I dunno, them’s got knives — they come from a land of cannibals, Buckums — believe that, nigga! You believe that-” He wagged a finger at Buck, who was finishing his burpees. Then he cleared out some space ‘neath a pull-up bar. “They’s French niggas, that’s diff’rent ‘an American black fellahs. Them’s longskin, you know ’bout longskin niggas?”
“I don’t care, Lem.”
“They’s different from nightcheek niggas, you know.” Lem got a whole classifiction of homeboys — nightcheeks, longskins, redbones, high yellows, duckydoos. Buck got no time fer that.
Buck gripped the pull-up bar and lifted his feet off the floor. Buck was so tall he hadta angle his feet out in order to do any pull-ups. His damn near seven-foot-tall body nearabout reached the ceiling here.
“Lem, t’is my God-given right as a white man to not learn all the diff’rent kinds of black guys.” He did a couple pull-ups while Lem lit a cigarette and fumed.
“Firstly, Haitians do that voodoo shit-” Lem started counting off upon his fingers again, having forgetted he was already counting. “They do that, they sacrifice chickens an’ all.”
From Buck on the Oil Rig
One them said he was from Abba-dabba-doo, and that was from the fucking Flinstones. Lem know when a A-rab is pulling his leg, cuz it’s attached to this nigga brain.
It was Assif and couple them other Arab fellers — the Egyptians. They wasn’t actually all Egyptian, but Assif was and buncha others was, and Lem and Buck ain’t care about the particulars beyond that. One them said he was from Abba-dabba-doo, and that was from the fucking Flinstones. Lem know when a A-rab is pulling his leg, cuz it’s attached to this nigga brain.
From Buck on the Oil Rig
At least that prison cell ain’t got no honkies at that time.
Couple honkies did come later, and naturally they be stirring up all kinda conflict, as a honky do, Lord have mercy!
At least that prison cell ain’t got no honkies at that time.
Couple honkies did come later, and naturally they be stirring up all kinda conflict, as a honky do, Lord have mercy!
Buck do bug his mug about that. Yes, they do, honkies provoke fights, every time. Africa was the Garden of Eden till the white man came. All was perfection, then the Devil invented the white man in a cave in Ukraine. That’s in the Bible. Lem gotta wait for Buck to quit wigging out so Lem can finish his story proper-like.
From Buck on the Oil Rig
He expected Buck to calculate how many quarters-of-a-half-gallon could be combined with some number of five-eighths-of-a-liter to result in a fourteen-liter total volume.
“So you gotta add three of the bifenthrin to one,” Mr. Taggart said. He patted Buck on the back, one hand lingering there over his shoulder muscle. “That gives you nine.”
Buck had no idea what that meant, but it was how Mr. Taggart talked. It was confusing because he mixed up units of measure that he assumed Buck remembered — some pesticides were measured in liters, while others were measured in gallons, or fluid ounces, and some came already diluted or not at all, and further, some additives (like surfactants) were measured in milliliters or fractions of a pint or quart.
Regardless of the official formulas provided by the pesticide manufacturer, the tanks in the truck were built to measure their output in fractions of liters or gallons, depending on the tank. So when Mr. Taggart said, “fill that tank to the two over three, that’ll take ten of the other, then just one more is four, plus three of the surfactant”, what he actually meant was “use that tank that has lines measuring its fill in gallons, and fill it with ten liters of pesticide, which will equal two and two-thirds gallons, then dilute it with one and a third gallons of water to get near four gallons total, which requires three fluid ounces of surfactant”.
It was very confusing. Every time Buck thought he had a handle on it, Mr. Taggart would say something like, “okay, for mosquitoes we need nine five-eighths of the crimpoline mixed with three and a quarter half-gallons of the geraniolic acid”. Yes, that’s right, he measured a formula using “nine five-eighths” (meaning nine units each equal to five eighths of a liter) to mix it with a volume measured in quarters of a half-gallon. He expected Buck to calculate how many quarters-of-a-half-gallon could be combined with some number of five-eighths-of-a-liter to result in a fourteen-liter total volume.
To make matters even more confusing, the formula to calculate how much to spray for mosquitoes gave a result in fluid ounces of the undiluted pesticide. To be more precise, it gave a result in fluid ounces per square meter, so Buck had to calculate the acreage of each property in square meters then combine pesticides in gallons and liters to convert, using the diluted density, into an amount of pesticide per fluid ounce, modified with surfactants by the droplet surface area in cubic millimeters, in order to calculate how much to fill the tank with.
Buck had never really been a math guy in school. He hadn’t even graduated.
Kax stood up on a look like he don’t think there’s diff’rent kinds of homeboys or like he don’t think Buck should notice ’em.
Buck grabbed the likker with one hand, Lem’s ass with t’other. He pulled down Lem’s boxers and rammed the sealed bottle of likker into his butthole.
“Ackk! — Ah, shit!” Lem scampered off, while Buck’s chuckles turned to a holler-heavy guffaw. The bottle dropped onto the ground, and Lem chased it down, his boxers still round his ankles. Only the tip of the bottle went in his ass, but Lem shot Buck a curled lip — he drunk outta that tip.
Buck laughed at Lem’s snarling. This was not the first time Buck got a likker bottle in his ass. Lem was too persnickety to drink outta it or even pour it into a cup thru the tip, once it been in his ass. So’s now he gotsto spend all night wiping it down and warshing it clean.
Black fellers do be like that. Not Kax though, who be boofing and oofing as Buck punched his belly and told him this story. Kax weren’t the cleany, prissy sorta homeboy. Kax stood up on a look like he don’t think there’s diff’rent kinds of homeboys or like he don’t think Buck should notice ’em.
A good man’s code was ’bout defending women ‘gainst the fellers who ain’t got the good man’s code. Sometimes even the men who talked like they respected women was the ones who least respect ’em.
A good man’s code was ’bout defending women ‘gainst the fellers who ain’t got the good man’s code. Sometimes even the men who talked like they respected women was the ones who least respect ’em.
From Buck the Workin’ Man
“I been to prison, I was the only white guy in my cell-block, Lem. Believe me, I know ’bout the downlow. I seen it, I heared it, I smelled it, I had a bunk nexta it, usedta get splashed by the downlow on the reg’lar.”
“I been to prison, I was the only white guy in my cell-block, Lem. Believe me, I know ’bout the downlow. I seen it, I heared it, I smelled it, I had a bunk nexta it, usedta get splashed by the downlow on the reg’lar.”
From Buck on the Oil Rig