I used to live with my godparents in a pretty shitty neighborhood. It definitely wasn’t a place where a chick should walk around by herself, but I’m the kind of person who’s always looking for a fight and it gives me this psycho gleam in my eye. People stay the hell away from me. As such I figured it was okay for me to go for the occasional jog. Lord knows I can’t fucking run. My running consists of sobbing and, like, chocolate cake. Jogging is serious business though.
On a particular jog around Shanty Neighborhood, I stopped for a breather, hands on my knees as I made whooping cough-like sounds. It sounds disgusting when I get like that. As luck would have it, an elderly gentleman was letting his dog out for a nice dump on the front lawn. I waved and coughed out a pleasantry of some sort because my mama provided me with a decent amount of home training.
I should’ve kept my mouth shut because this fuck had “old, racist ass wagon” written all over him. Hindsight 20/20, right? He walked up to his mailbox and said, “I don’t want no slant eyes around here.”
I was taken aback by his brazen manner. I mean, shit. That’s something to be almost envious of. I think I may have apologized before I walked down the sidewalk. I was about two houses down before I realized how sick the burn was.
I turned on my heel and crowed, “YOU BETTER NOT EVER LET YOUR DOG OUT BY ITSELF BECAUSE I’LL EAT THAT SUM BITCH! I KNOW WHERE YOU LIVE, MOTHER FUCKER!” And then I got the hell out of dodge. Fun fact: racist, old ass wagons usually pack heat and are often blessed with uncanny accuracy by the Deity of Crack Shots.
That day, running was serious business and consisted of laughing my ass off.