Let’s Talk About Race in Two Different Americas

On November 21, 2015 By dancingpalmtreesIn 1%, Fuck, To the Manor Born, Trust Fund Babies32 Comments

This is another non-PC post dealing with racial attitudes. If you’re white this blog post is gonna Fuck with you to the utmost. I pull no punches and make no apologies for my words. If you don’t like it feel Free to Unsubscribe. I don’t give a flying Fuck.

Often my colleagues of Color and I will talk about the racist comments and insults we get on a daily basis while performing our jobs as Security Officers at the museum. One encounter by a Black co-worker who is a retired Marine Officer and who is multi-lingual especially sticks out. A white visitor told him he was an Uppity Nigger. His response, “I come from a long line of Uppity niggers and am proud of it.” I’m sure that white patron had no answer for that one.

Basically during my tenure at the museum patrons have cursed me in every language know to mankind and called me everything but a child of God.

Now let me back track to my encounter this past week with a dumb-ass old white woman who had the nerve, gall and audacity to come up to me and compare my beautiful cornrows to a Medusa sculpture. I was raised to respect my elders but there are times when you just want to slap the shit out of old white people whose minds are still stuck in the early 20th or 19th Centuries. Then there are the trust fund babies and wealthy white folks of privilege who have that “To The Manor Born” attitude to most workers of Color and especially Black workers.

Dear Folks of the Caucasian Persuasion. Do Not Touch my Hair. This is not a petting zoo. Do not ask me stupid questions like, “Do you comb your hair?” Do Not compare my braids, locs or cornrows to Medusa and I won’t say anything about your wrinkles, age spots or your open audacity and stupidity to think you can come up to any random Black person that you don’t know and just spew the first idiotic thing that issues forth from that pie hole in the middle of your face. And No you Do Not have the right to become offended if I call you out on your arrogance and foolishness. Keep your ignorant racist sexist dumb words and attitude to yourself! Don’t get it Twisted. Mammy and StepAndFetchIt are long gone. In fact do me a favor. Shut the Fuck Up and stop commenting on my appearance! Don’t Fuck with the African Goddess! I am a Proud Uppity Black Woman with Attitude. Don’t you forget it.

I don’t have too many problems with other working class whites. We are more or less sailing in the same ship but if you’re Black and you commit the smallest infraction of the rules we get thrown overboard. Most of the problem lies with the 1%. The “Beautiful People.” The Society Matrons. The Trust Fund Babies. Tea Partiers formerly known as the “Moral Majority.” You know them. The patrons who attempt to give you half chewed gum and candy or some sort of other garbage thinking you’re a fucking janitor. I tell them them the trash can is located in the nearest restroom.

Caucasian Americans let’s get re-educated. No I don’t look like another Black person you may know or see on TV, in the movies or in magazines. Black people have the most diversity of skin color, hair textures, and hues than any other race on earth. Unless that particular Black person is an identical twin there goes the notion that we all Look Alike.

If you don’t know me. Don’t touch me. Keep your hands to yourself. Hey you never know. The Black might rub off!

Yes I speak proper English and not Ebonics. Sure I can lapse into slang but only around my friends. Stop saying how you’re incredibly amazed at how “articulate” I am. That’s a back-handed compliment which is really an insult in disguise. Quit being so condescending.

No I absolutely Do Not take or sell drugs. Black does not equal drug addict. However it is obvious that you do since you seem to know so much about illicit drugs. No I’m not here to be your sex slave. Don’t even go there! For I will put your sorry ass out of my galleries. If we were out in the street my foot would be up your ass! You may have gotten away with raping my Great, Great, Great Grandmother back in slavery days but today I will not only knock you silly but cut off your minuscule package and shove it down your throat.

You insult me to my face and make snide remarks behind my back. You extend your hand in supposed friendship and support, with that phony shit-eating grin while telling me “I Voted for Obama!” Really. Oh joy! How white of you! You know what? I don’t want to be your friend. You would not survive a week No Not even a day in my Black skin. You need to back the Fuck up and get out of my face with your hypocrisy. My patience is gone and Love Don’t Live Here Anymore.

You May Now Kiss My Royal Black Ass!

Defiant DeBorah — Defiant precocious DeBorah

Juvenalia

On January 19, 2015 By dancingpalmtreesIn Backpacks, Clowns, Greasy grimy gopher guts, House of Order, Infantile prattle, Juvenalia, Kitsch, Samsonite, Sardonic vanity, Scions, Trust Fund Babies

Juvenalia

Up presented for your linguistic chatter platter: Greasy grimy gopher gut grits.

Funky stink body bad breath tourists’ words tumbling out of their mouths like some much infantile prattle. Sardonic vanity. Wealthy scions befoul the house of order.

Trust fund babies’ excursions into the working class world see the common woman/man as just another exhibit on the landscape. These be clowns who carry all their worldly possessions upon their backs yet seek even more material gains to pour into their voids.

Their kitsch gods shove more and more into Samsonite luggage’s to roll up the hill reaching the top only to feel the handle disengage whilst they watch their belongings speed down the mountain at the same time praising their empty successes.

Martin Luther King The Three Evils of Society

http://youtu.be/j8d-IYSM-08

The Urban Zompire’s Junkie Dilemma

On September 30, 2014March 11, 2017 By dancingpalmtreesIn Ambien, Craving, Vampires, Zompires

For your reading pleasure I present HalloReads in the Poetic form. Enjoy.

The Urban Zompire’s Junkie Dilemma

Pickled heroin methadone heart. Brains oozing oxycodone pus. Blood inferno tastes of road tar and gasoline fired up my internals causing me untold hours of nocturnal agonies. I am thrashing as flames roar through veins and arteries. Oh where is the pure sweet virgin blood that will wash away these LSD hallucinating fantasies that have me flying off twenty-six story buildings down in back alleys filled with Quaaludes, dirty needles, Crank, crack undead hunting, seeking, roaming searching……

The drugs have gotten nastier over the decades while I with a Claude Rains get-up travel as the Invisible Man prowling the underbelly of the city buried in a darkness so deep that nary a ray of solar has pierced it’s shades in over one hundred years. After feasting upon coke rattled users their blood coagulates and congeals before I can swallow. Feeling like something was gagging me and needed to be coughed up and expelled. In times that I was truly desperate and bereft of money and social graces I preyed on the homeless, walked the halls of neglected overworked City hospitals where no one questioned my presence the abandoned and unwanted were rancid, rotten, salty from IVs, antiseptic from disinfectants, but being ravenous with unchecked hunger I ignored their foul smells I drank my filling ending the useless meaningless lives faster than the diseases ravaging their corrupted bodies.

I reign as a leech, a mosquito seeking succulent prey. Sometimes I follow Catholics after Midnight Mass. The popists still use real wine so tender, so gentle that one can still detect hints of the grapes origins. Not like that Protestant grape juice shit that triggers the urge to regurgitate saccharine back onto my victims. Transients and one-stands, for I filled the trick-turners with sperm-less semen, were the worse for vomited tinged sweat oozed from the pores and every bodily orifice.

Crack houses of 1980s and 1990s recall in memory the squalid opium dens of 19th Century Sherlockian London. His Seven percent solution mellowed out by a good cocaine laced Vin Mariani. Exsanguinating the well-born dandies whose addictions to Legal opium, laudanum, cocaine and morphine well fueled by shots of Brandy and smooth Cognac produced a sweet umber warmth quenching my parched throat. There by night I’m the suave smooth sophisticate, the pompous dandy now called Metrosexual I float into the 21st Century luring gullible Trust Fund babies High Class Tarts into my Lair relieving them of not only their life essence but whatever monies and valuables I find within Glass and steel Luxury condos.

I especially enjoy emptying their medicine cabinets and secret bedroom chambers filled with Celexa, Lexapro, Paxil, Prozac, Zoloft, Xanax, Klonopin, Valium, and Ativan. With some Ambien thrown in for good measure. Makes it so easy to get the Stepford 1% Women to do my bidding. Wealthy but weak. No street smarts like the inner-city denizens. They are the filet mignon of human victims their blood tart, tangy, occasionally sour milk with a nutsy woodsy crisp flavor that I crave nightly. Their minds a blank slate easily led. Liberal on the outside, Tea Party on the inside their bones crack easily as I sucked bone marrow from femurs. Here I am well-nourished so here I will stay. The Fortune 500 are my personal cornucopia.