Tag: racism

They got Asian hobos now. Asians! Wouldn’t-a happened before

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

Tap-a-tap-tap, he snap-snackin’ on ya cash

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

In which Mr. Chow is described in an appropriate and respectful manner

Content

Portugal’s a fucked-up place

Lem got theories on why Italians was so awful, and he explainified them to Steel till Steel told him to get on with it.

Lem got theories on why Italians was so awful, and he explainified them to Steel till Steel told him to get on with it. Steel got no distruck with Italians. He could eat the fuck outta some pizza too, the Portuguese cooks on the rig make pizza, but they makes it weird as Chinese beards. It’s on like flatbread or something. And they don’t even put pepperoni on it! Portugal’s a fucked-up place. Anyway, Steel got no hate for Portuguese crackers, nor Italians, but Lem got reasons to hate on every race. Every reason was unique to that race, but he got a million of ’em. Lem was an anthopplist of stereotyping.

From Steel the Roughneck

Mistuh Gregarian is the one who’s payin’ me, and he dislike black folk more than he like you

“You wanna hear somethin’ racist, you tell Mistuh Gregarian ’bout that plan. You’ll hear somethin’ racist fo’ real.” He muttered through a derisive sneer as he backed the Jag out of its parking spot, “Laequan!…”

“Mistuh Gregarian is the one who’s payin’ me, and he dislike black folk more than he like you. If’n I tells him I ain’t let’cha go into some ghetto traphouse, he gonna give me a raise. You buyin’ drugs from a homeboy? No way.”
“Oh my god!”
“Did you just say homeboy? What decade are you from?! We’re currently now, in the present, okay?”
“Laequan’s no jive turkey, he’s a cool kat, daddy-o.”

“You ain’t buyin’ drugs from a homeboy named Laequan,” Buck said. He put the car in reverse. “You wanna hear somethin’ racist, you tell Mistuh Gregarian ’bout that plan. You’ll hear somethin’ racist fo’ real.” He muttered through a derisive sneer as he backed the Jag out of its parking spot, “Laequan!…”

From Simon and the Bouncers

Haitians

“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

On black fellers and persnickitiness

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.

From Fists, Men and Muscles