It was a four-car alarm, but much ado about nothing. We on the north side of the skreet, in the condos, are law-abiding citizens. Half are white, half are black, we fish together, barbecue together, go to church together.
Across the skreet are apartments. Mostly African-American. Things get frisky over there of a Saturday. It is generally two women, who get into unseemly screaming matchs, both with noobs upon their hips. Their menfolk let it escalate until they are nose to nose, then pull them back. Only to let it escalate again. It is the human equivalent of dog fighting.
Anywhats, I was sitting in the back yard when I heard the rumble begin. I filled my wine glass and strolled outside to watch the fireworks. As did my neighbors. It is one of those bonding things that brings us, of all colors and persuasions, together. He brings me a filthy bass he caught in a subdivision lake, which I promptly pitch over the fence, and I give him Ron Paul leaflets, which he promptly pitches over his.
My theory is you cannot appreciate The Other without mercilessly fucking with them first. And allowing them to fuck with you. Hey: some of those bass have phosphate boils on them. I know that he doesn't really want me to eat them, the black bastard. Nor will he read the Ron Paul tracts. I certainly haven't.
But: a rather normal Saturday anger session between two chicken-headed gals brought four squad cars. In the past our heckling has cleared the table. Now we have police, and with that the possibility of criminal records for the girls we love to watch fight.
Neighborman and I were compelled to intervene, and establish the chicken-headed womens' bona fides, so that the Po-lice might extricate themselves, and we might let the games re-begin.
I reckon if I distribute some Kraftwerk CD's amongst the hoi polloi I might gain some traction. But that is doubtful. Any gift from a white guy carries with it the stigma of Jerry Sandusky at this point. They know I'm white. God forbid they think I am a Yankee.