Nothing in the world inspires me to talk about my random thoughts than a bunch of random *!&&*$ doing some random $!*$. This past weekend Crystal and I went to Charlotte to the Dub Magazine Car Show with another couple. I must admit I’m far from a car enthusiast (I’d rather watch things be blown up but I have issues.) but sometimes looking at shiny examples of conspicuous consumption can provide a nice day of escapism.
The trip up was as expected: I-26 was the usual gigantic cluster $%@* (that’s the status quo) but 77 was kind of quiet for the most part. So we made our way over to the other lovely couple’s house and we were on our way to Queen City. So we headed to the train station and hitched a ride to the Convention Center where the above mentioned car show was being held.(I do love the fact that you can park your car all day and use a train to get around downtown.)
Ah yes, the train. There is a theory called the “Butterfly Effect” which simply states that when a butterfly flaps its wings a specific set of events are set into motion. It would make more sense if it were called the “Ripple Effect” but butterflies are pretty.
Little did I know that when the four of us sat down on the train (For those of you at home who aren’t keeping up this would be the flapping of the pretty, pretty butterfly's wings.) a chain of the most niggerish events in recent history (Okay not in the recent history of the world but in my recent history. Meaning that day.) would be set in place.
So we begin our journey at the I-485 South stop on the train line and we settle in for the 15 ride down town. We chuckle at the conductor who boards the train walking with a pimp’s swagger and gives us a look that said “Yeah, you damn right I drive a train.” So two minutes later we pull into the next stop at Sharon Rd. and this is where fun starts. A brother gets on and takes a seat behind Crystal and me while the train starts moving again. Soon after we arrive at the next stop and the brother that sat behind us (who from this point on will be referred to as Random Cat # 1) approaches Crystal and I if we can give him four whole dollars for two dollars in quarters and two more dollars which were those stupid gold, one dollar coins that have that sellout Sacajawea on them. I answer for the both of us saying “No, I don’t have any dollars on me.” (People ask Crystal and me for change more often than you think. I’m not sure why because I’m really not that nice of a person. I’m not Joe Stalin or Hitler but I’m not exactly Fred Rogers either.)
Random Cat # 1 replies “You don’t need any change? Monday is coming.”
I’m still not exactly sure what he meant by “Monday is coming.” Or why I would need four dollars in change today either. (Maybe that’s another event set off by that pretty, pretty butterfly doing what it does.)
He then returned to his seat and says “Thank you.” This is also when the fun begins.
During our brief encounter about the change and dollar bills another random cat (Who will now be referred to as Random Cat # 2 or simply # 2) who got on the train that was looking kind of crackish started engaging Random Cat # 1 who asked for the change about “life.”
Random Cat # 2 begins pontificating, “Man you gotta make a clean living out here man. You just can’t go on day to day trying to get over on people.” Mind you at this point the first random cat, yes, the one who wanted the dollars is trying to no avail to ignore this guy. # 2 continued, “I just came from Atlanta and they sick down there! Every woman in Atlanta is a prostitute.” *If I may interject we all know that every woman in Atlanta is not a prostitute. Many of the fine young women in Atlanta are strippers. Y’all know that was funny.* As he moves this currently one-sided conversation along further he goes on to say “They all prostitutes… even the educated ones. Every time you approach a woman in Atlanta she wants to know what you bringing to the table. She just trying to get over.” (I thought this was particularly funny since this cat has obviously come to the conclusion that particular = prostitute.)
During this portion of the rant four women of an uncertain Central American origin boarded and sit directly in front of us. Then the super genius once again turns his attention the women of Atlanta, who as we all now know from his previous rants, are of ill-repute, to Mexican women. “I talked to one woman in Atlanta and she telling me not to mess with any Mexican women (as if they’d have him) because they dirty. Man I told her Mexican women are some good women—they work hard, take care of they kids, and they marry one man and stay with him.”
I’m not sure if the women of an uncertain Central American origin were Mexican or not but I do know that if they habla’d any English at all they had to have been mad uncomfortable at this point. Lucky for them and the guy who only wanted four whole dollars there stop came up.
At this point we are all trying not to die laughing or laugh out loud for that matter but things only get worse. As we all know there are a few steadfast rules in life and the fact that every male crack head has a female equal. After all Gator had Vivian didn’t he?
Some how during all of this madness a female who looked VERY crackish (who will no be referred to Random Crackish female) got onto the train looking like Moms Mably’s grand niece and low and behold she takes a seat right across from mister big-mouth.
Naturally they start chatting it up. You’d think two crackish individuals would talk about the things they have in common and the conversation would go like this.
“Do you like Wild Irish Roses out of the bottle or the cup?”
“Do they have the better rocks on Tryon or Betties Ford?” (Seriously if you know anything about Charlotte you know the answer to that one.)
“Who gives the best prices for stolen copper pipes?”
Unfortunately they did no such thing. The two idiots started arguing. Some how good ole # 2 started speaking on the state of black male manhood. This was his opening volley, “Everyone else in Atlanta is a faggot or a bull dagger. All the black men being brought up today are punks. They just soft!”
This is when Random Crackish Female starts to interject. “You right a lot of these boys are punks and I’ll tell you why. It’s there daddy’s fault a black woman don’t know how to raise a black man by herself. She can’t teach him how to be a man!”
# 2 strongly disagrees and to make a long story short a yelling match ensues. Harsh things were said and tempers flared.
“You ain’t nothing but a crack head prostitute.” Spouts # 2.
His female foil then returned fire with this gem “I may be a crack head but every body got a role in life. At least I know what I am and you ain’t $!%^! I’m too intelligent to talk to you. You making me look bad.” (Notice she did not deny either her crack head status or her prostitute status.)
With that last foray she manages to shut him down completely. After that massive embarrassment to the entire black race the conversation ends with a whimper and luckily we get off of the train.
I learned a lot in that 15 minute time span on the train. Number one don’t do crack and Number two don’t date chicks from Atlanta.
More Random Thoughts
A rapper named 2 Pistols was one of the opening acts and he may be the most horrible person on the face of the Earth. First he threw money into the crowd and got pissed when he was told to stop. He then asked the females in the audience if their “p@$$^$ were clean?” Initially I ignored that comment but I was informed later that some women in the audience actually answered. He was then asked to stop cursing so Mr. Pistols became irate and then decided to do what every quasi-thug rapper does while performing; he took off his shirt and continues to curse. 2 Pistols you sir are a coon and it’s no ones’ fault but your own. I would have rather seen Plies or Gucci Mane.
2 Pistols not only are you a horrible rapper but you are a horrible person. There is nothing good about who you are or what you do!
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