Black Men & White Wimmen

Dang, Cuz, I thought inwardly. Is that the best you can do?

 

I was sitting in my pickup truck @ Wal-Mart, watching people come in and out, and I observed a Black man with a scowl on his face. Nothing unusual there, for some brothers, a scowl is the default expression, kind of a Look #8, Don’t Mess With Me. What caught my attention was the woman walking behind him, too far to be really with him, but close enough to him to let anybody interested enough in them to know that they was together.

 

Anybody–Interested–Enough–In–Them…well, that would be…..me.

 

Yes, I am an Biracial Couple Inspector, or BiCI, for short, (pronounced “Bicky”). I have the lofty task of identifying and assessing BiC’s, and filing said information in the BiCDat (“Biracial Couple Database”), an important part of Black Culture.

 

One of the tenets of BC is the instant identification of those who purport to be a part of us.

Hey, we don’t mind you joining us, but we do have standards. Besides the idea of “keepin’ it real” has always been an important part of our heritage, and we don’t suffer perpetrators and imitators gladly. So all you trailer park Suzies with your straight-hair braids, you may sit down now. You’ve been identified and appropriately filed.

 

Under “wannabe”.

 

Anyway, the problem was, the heifer looked wider than the car she just stepped out of; I could hear the  little Kia Soul heave a sigh of relief.

 

Dang! How much this heifer weigh?

 

A fat joke is in order here.

 

Oh, don’t frown up @ me, I’m a fat man, and if I’m not offended, then neither are you!

 

This heifer was so fat…

 

(only got room for one, so it’s got to be funny)

 

…when she joined church, she had to go to Sea World to get baptized!

 

Aw, that’s mean! Let me pick another.

 

This heifer was so fat, her nickname was “Damn!”

 

Oh, okay, one more…This heifer so fat, she sat down in Wal-Mart and lowered the prices!

 

Haaa!

 

Anyway, as they walked towards the door, he turned around with Expression # 64, Hurry Your Azz Up, but she just shook her head; her ankles were under enough strain as it was without adding speed to the mix.

 

“I’m comin’, I’m comin’, chill out,” she muttered.

 

I kept my face straight, but I always marvel at how White gals pick up the Hood Rat Accent.

 

“C’mon, mane, I’m walkin’ fast as I kin,” she said, evicting Expression #16, Eye Roll With Sigh.

 

“This week, I sweah, yo’ azz goin’ on the track,” he replied.

 

A brief explanation is in order here, lest you misunderstand. He has absolutely no intention of making her go on the track, changing her diet, or doing anything that will promote weight loss.

 

None at all.

 

His purpose in saying that at this point is multifold.

 

Black wimmen, stop crooking your neck and pay attention! You might learn something!

 

One, he is establishing/maintaining control over this heifer.

Heifers must be controlled, otherwise you, well, lose control over them.

 

(Duh!)

 

Reminding White girls about their weight has been proven to be an effective means of control, better than chains, whips, or barbed-wire fences, as well as being obviously cheaper.

 

(To the Brother, “cheaper” is always better, unless of course he is attempting to show off his “Baller” status, but we won’t go into that here.)

 

Two, he is demonstrating to the Sisters the reason why he has chosen this particular White heifer, not for her looks, (unless she has some, which is always a good thing), or money (unless she has some, which is always a good thing), or family connections (unless she has some, which is always a good thing)…

 

See the pattern here?

 

Anyway, he is demonstrating to you the fact that this White gal will acquiesce to this kind of treatment, thereby demonstrating:

A–I don’t need you, and,

B–If you wanna hook up, holla @ ya boy, Blondie gonna look the other way! Sweet!

 

Three, he is holding out to this White girl that there is a chance, however small and minute, that there is a way to satisfy and please him, a hope, a light at the end of the tunnel, a place where somehow, someway, she can please this Black man and keep him happy and faithful….

 

I know, Blondie’s been hitting the pipe too often, poor thing. Crystal meth is not your friend.

 

What she has yet to realize, but you already know, Black Woman, is that any nigga who is so mentally/emotionally shallow as to need/want/desire a White woman to validate his Black manhood, no matter which of the several repositories for White girls (a.k.a. “trailer parks”) he has collected this particular specimen from, is no nigga you want to be involved with in the first place. Besides, some of them trailer parks got some strains of STD’s that’ll knock penicillin on its azz. You don’t want that schit in your bloodstream, trust me!

 

I feel you.

 

Let his momma, or his White heifer (a.k.a. “The Fellatio Fairy”) fool with his trifling azz.

0You got better things to do.

The last thing you need is some half-raised Negro eating all the food in the refrigerator, drinking up all the soda water, and then looking at you, talking about, “When we gonna get some grocery in this mo’ fo’? I’m hongry!”

 

No, you don’t need that.

 

Sisters, Matlock wants to encourage you.

 

Finish school.

 

Get your certification.

 

Tack on some alphabets behind your name.

 

Go to a museum. Learn a new skill.

 

Take a night course.

 

Buy a Rosetta Stone CD, and learn a new language.

 

Date a White man. There’s a whole world out there…..

 

Huh?!?

 

Yes, I said, “Date a White Man!”

 

It’s okay, they passed a law!

 

Revised Statutes # 72947-A says, and I quote:

 

“African-American women, formerly known as Black women, formerly known as Afro-American women, formerly known as Negro women, formerly known as Colored women, formerly known as Nigra women, formerly known as nigger wimmen, girl, gal, etc, etc, can now have interpersonal relationships that lead to intimacy with Caucasian, Anglo-Saxon, a.k.a. White men, up to and including marriage and/or long-term commitment.”

 

See?

 

From what I hear, they’ve been craving you for centuries.

 

Just make sure you get one that has the right motive in mind. Some of them want to date you because you in style right now. Enjoy it if you must, but don’t let it go to your head.

 

Triflin’ White boy is worse than a  triflin’ nigga….

 

Ha!

 

White People’s Children!

Okay, White people, this is a Public service announcement:

Raise your kids!!!

Wait, I may have been a bit vague. Let me restate:

White people, BEAT—YOUR—KIDS!!!

 

BEAT ‘EM!!!

 

Ahhhhhhhh!

Got that off my chest!

Some of you White people ought to be ashamed. Unruly, whiny White kids are one of my pet peeves.

Black kids, too, but that’s another topic.

Hood-rat-lettes make me want to believe in retroactive abortion. Wait until they’re about eleven years old, twelve, maybe. Give ‘em a chance to see if they gonna amount to anything. If so, fine, let ‘em stay.

If not…?

 

Take ‘em to the clinic. Tell ‘em they going to their Maw-Maw’s house, and drop ‘em off…….

 

“…Ray-Ray, if you don’t keep yo’ sticky-azz fangers outta my purse I swear, yo’ azz goin’ to the clinic! You aint made twelve yet! I’ll drop yo’ azz off in a heartbeat, you think I’m playin’? Stick a needle in yo’ azz, you’ll quit that schit, I bet!”

 

I was in Dollar Tree the other day, minding my own business, looking for some masculine products, you know, rim cleaner, tire black, clear coat wax…

 

Huh?

 

Hey, if you can say “feminine products,” I can say “masculine products.”

And I can use my stuff outside, you gotta sneak in the bathroom to use your schit, so be quiet!

Unless you want to trade off?

I wash yours, you wash mine…

 

I thought so! Now hush!

 

Anyway, (before I was so rudely interrupted), I’m walking in Dollar Tree, and suddenly I hear behind me, “Mommmmm—yyyyyyyy!!! I want a tooooyyyyyeeeeee!!!”

 

I turned, and, sure enough, a 5-year old White kid was pointing at some G.I. Joe-like toy that me and his momma both knew wouldn’t last 12 hours in his little masochistic hands, but, hey, it’s Dollar Tree.

Everything’s a dollar there.

 

Even a 5-year old White kid’s satisfaction and the resulting silence that, theoretically, was supposed to follow. So, she grabs it.

“Here,” she says, relieved that this whole episode was so easily resolved.

 

But, noooooo…..

 

“Mommmmmm—yyyyyy!!! Not thaaaaaaat oooonnneeee!!! Thiiiiissssssss one!”

“Grrrrr,” I said, to nobody in general.

The mother looked up at me, with Look # 77, I’m-A-White-Girl…Interested???

I responded with Look #15, You, Madame, Do Not Exist.

 

She smiled, and I knew I had to change aisles. Besides, Little White Kid wasn’t through just yet. “MOMM-MEEEEE! I SAID I WANT THISSSSSS ONNNEEEE!” he wailed.

 

It was time to move, before she could—

 

“Mister, can you reach that one?” she asked. “You know how children are,” she said brightly.

 

I gritted my teeth, and grabbed the little G.I. Joe off of the upper shelf.

 

“Not that one, Mister, that one!” He pointed.

 

“Kid,” I growled, “If you know like I know, you’ll take this one, and like it,” I said, giving him Look # 2, Don’t Push it, Little Bastid.

 

He opened his mouth to answer, but I growled, deeper this time, and he shut it.

“Take his azz to the check-out,” I said menacingly, in my best Shaft Just Left Africa, And He’s Highly Pissed Off voice, “and take him home and train him before you bring him back. Because if I ever hear him in this store again,“ I leaned closer, “I’m gonna eat him for breakfast, y’hear? Believe dat!”

“Oh!” she said, and grabbed his hand. “Come on, Trevor, let’s go!” She sprinted off, with him in tow, yelling, “Mommieeeee! He’s gonna eeeeeeeeeeaaaaaat meeeeee?”

 

I came to the check-out line, and noted with satisfaction the wide eyes of the clerk, a good-looking sister with dookie braids. “That was you who ran ‘em off?” she asked.

 

“Yep,” I answered proudly.

 

“I got three kids need man trainin’,” she said. “Interested?”

 

“Better call their pa,” I answered. “I done raised mine.”

 

She tore my receipt off, and scribbled her number on it. “Call me,” she said with a wink. I walked back to my truck, and handed my wife the receipt. “Your cousin said to call her when you get home,” I said.

 

Like I said, I raised mine….

 

Ha!

Bruno, the Rabbit-Hunting Poodle

“Ya hear ‘im? Bruno’s just found ‘im another rabbit!” Uncle Alfred was jubilant. He had bet Uncle Jack fifty dollars that Bruno could out-hunt Jack’s beagle Stumpy. We called him Stumpy, ‘cause once he had gotten his tail caught in a rattrap, and Uncle Jack had to end up cutting half his tail off. Stumpy warn’t half bad for rabbit hunting, as far as beagles go, but he couldn’t hold a candle to Bruno, not a-tall.

 

You see, Bruno was Muh’s pet poodle, and he was the best rabbit dog in the parish, bar none. I know what you’re thinking, poodles can’t hunt. But you’d be wrong, mighty wrong. Bruno was a rabbit hunting fool; he’d smell ‘em a mile off. Then he’d “Yip! Yip-yip!” and Uncle Alfred would say, “Go get ‘im, boy!”, and Bruno would take off, long, curly hair just a-flying. We trimmed his hair once, so he wouldn’t get all full of ticks and cockleburs from traipsin’ in the woods, but Muh got mad at us for that.

 

“Is y’all done lost y’alls minds? Look at my dog! Look at ‘im!” Muh was hot. “He’s a poodle, he supposed to have long hair! Y’all got him lookin’ like a plucked squirrelLook at ‘im!”

 

We both looked, ‘cause Muh was holdin’ a hatchet in her hand at the time, she had been choppin’ wood, and she had done worked up a good sweat. One of us, I forget who exactly, had borryed ol’ man Spencer’s hair clippers and went to work on Bruno. Alfred swore up and down it was me, but I said Mister Spencer wouldn’t-a lent his clippers to me, but Uncle Alfred said Spencer would lend me anything I ask for, ‘cause he was sweet on my Aunt Do. Aunt Do couldn’t stand him, said he was too ugly to fool with.

 

“Dat nigga so ugly, when he was born, the midwife put on a blindfold! Reached over and slapped his momma! I told her, ‘I done tole you, stop foolin’ with that mule!’ Humph! Tryin’ to date me? He so ugly, he can’t get a date offa calendar!”

 

Anyways, Muh was grippin’ that hatchet mighty hard, so we looked at po’ Bruno. We had shaved him mighty close, I had to admit. “What I wants to know,” Muh said, heistin’ that hatchet, “was whose bright ideer was this?”

 

Alfred gulped, real loud. I looked at him, ‘cause he sounded like he was swallowing concrete. “Uh, Mom, uh, it was my idea, trimmin’ Bruno, ‘cause, you know, runnin’ rabbits inna woods is kinda hard on a long-hair dog, so we trim ‘im to keep from havin’ to comb the cockleburs outta his hair.” He held up the sack of rabbits. “See? Ol’ Bruno hit his limit!” He grinned.

 

Muh put the hatchet down; a good sign. “I see,” she said. “When you clean ‘em, send half of ‘em here.”

 

Alfred opened his mouth to speak, and Muh leaned down towards her hatchet. “You was ‘bout to say somethin’?” she asked.

 

“No! Oh, no!” he answer real quick. “Me and the boy here gonna clean ‘em, and you get half of ‘em ‘fo the end of the day.”

 

Muh eyed him. “No, nigga you gonna clean ‘em, the boy gonna finish choppin’ my wood! Come here, Bruno!” She walked off, with Bruno close behind.

 

“You best get to cleanin’,” I said, laughing.

 

“You best get to choppin’,” he answered, grinning…

 

 

 

Anyways, Bruno was yip-yip-yippin’ a mile a minute, and Uncle Alfred was waiting.

“See, boy,” he told Uncle Jack, “That there dog ‘bout to show Stumpy how it’s done. Stand back, make yo’self useful, an’ hold my sack!” He pulled his .22 up, and waited.

 

“Yip! Yip!” Bruno was getting closer. Ten, fifteen more seconds, and Alfred could make his shot.

 

“Humph! Aint no poodle got no business huntin’ rabbits better’n a beagle,” Uncle Jack said. I could tell he was jealous, but what could he do? Stumpy wasn’t in the same class as Bruno, and we all knew it.

 

“Take dat dog back to Texas, nigga, teach ‘im how to roll over, play dead, fetch a newspaper. Dat’s all he good fo’.” Uncle Alfred grinned around his pipe.

Growwwllll!”A funny noise came outta the woods, a kinda deep noise.

 

“What the hell?” Alfred said. “Dat aint Bruno.”

 

I answer, real quick, “Dat aint no dog!”

 

We waited a second or two, not real sure what we ought’a do. “Yip! Yip!” Bruno was barkin’ his fool head off, and the “Grrrowwll!” noise was getting’ louder and louder.

 

All of a sudden, we saw the dangdest sight you ever wanna see in your life! A big ole black bear came crashin’ through the woods, just a-yellin’ and growlin’ to beat the band! That didn’t faze us none; we had seen our share of bears in them woods before. Funny thing about this one, though, was the little brown-and-white spot on his back, goin’ “Yip! Yip!” an’ holdin’ on for dear life.

 

Bruno had done jumped the bear, dead in the small of his back, and was bitin’ and scratchin’ and yippin’ that bear to a frazzle! Bear was twisting and turning, tryin’ to toss ol’ Bruno, but no soap. Bruno looked like a big fat tick on that bear’s back, ‘cept ticks don’t go “Yip! Yip!”

 

The bear shot by us, and I thought about makin’ a break for it, but since Jack an’ Alfred was stayin’ put, warn’t no need for me to run. I figgered if the bear started chasin’ us, I didn’t have to outrun the bear, just Alfred an’ Jack.

 

But that bear wasn’t studdyin’ n’ar one of us, he was just tryin’ to get rid of Bruno. Try as he might, tho’, Bruno was stuck on his back tighter than a fat lady’s drawers after Christmas dinner. “Yip! “Yip!” Bruno barked.

 

Grrrowwwlll!” the bear roared.

 

“Well, if dat don’t hairy-lip the buzzard,” Uncle Alfred said, sticking his pipe in his pocket. Jack didn’t say much of nothin’, for a minute, then he frowned.

 

“Where’s Stumpy?” he asked.

I didn’t answer right off, ‘cause we had a bigger problem to deal with. I figgered Stumpy was bein’ digested at the moment, but if we didn’t bring Bruno back home, Muh was gonna digest us.

 

But Bruno was doin’ pretty dang good with Brer Bear, diggin’ his claws in his back, yippin’ and bitin’ him, wasn’t hurtin’ him none, but being one helluva botheration an’ embarrassment. The bear climb up a tree, tryin’ to scratch Bruno off with one of the branches, but Bruno was too smart for that trick. He lay low, deep in the bear’s fur, steady yippin’ and biting, and the funny thing was, he looked like he was enjoyin’ hisself.

 

“I guess I need to put dat b’ar outta his misery,” Uncle Alfred said. He put his .22 down, and reached in his holster for his old mule leg, an antique .50 Navy Colt pistol Cousin Howard had brought back from the war. Or so he says. You caint believe much ‘a nothin’ come outta Howard’s mouth.

 

“Where’s po’ Stumpy?” Jack asked.

 

“Jack, I kin ask the b’ar, or I kin shoot ‘im. Which one ya wants?” Jack was plum mizable, but it couldn’t be helped. Stumpy was up a tree, in more ways than one.

“Yip! Grr! Yip! Yip!” Ol’ Bruno was havin’ hisself a time! Alfred hesitated a bit, and said, “Wanna shoot ‘im, Jack?”

 

I eyed Uncle Alfred. I ain’t never disrespected my uncles none, but I came close to cussin’ him, cuz he knowed dang good an’ well Uncle Jack had a shaky hand with a clear shot, and with Bruno carryin’ on, you could forget it. Besides, I didn’t trust Jack not to shoot Bruno, just outta spite.

 

“If you too scared to shoot ‘im, Alfred, hand me the gun,” I said, looking him straight in the eye.

 

“Sheet,” he answered, then he said, “If it warn’t for dat crazy-azz poodle, I’d let ya.” He raised the pistol, then dropped it. “Hell, that just aint sportin’,” he said, then turned the pistol upside-down, and braced it on his arm.

 

“Fifty bucks say you miss,” Jack say. I dug in my pocket. “I got ten o’ dat,” I said quick, before Jack got some sense and changed his mind. Besides, I knew he was just tryin’ to rattle Alfred, but he should’a knowed better’n that. Alfred could shoot the fly off a frog’s tongue at fifty feet, and never make him jump.

 

“Deal,” Alfred says, then: “Bruno!”

 

Bruno bit that bear one more time, then bailed offa that bear’s back, landed on the ground, then took off back in the woods. Alfred pulled the trigger, “BLAM!!”, and the bear swung for a minute, then hit the ground like a sack of bricks.

 

“Pay up, nigga,” Alfred says, and po’ Uncle Jack dug in his pocket and fished out some bills. “Go get yo’ truck, so we kin get this b’ar outta these woods befo’ the game warden catch you.”

 

“Me?” Uncle Jack stared at Alfred.

 

“I’m huntin’ rabbits, nigga,” Alfred answered, and bust out laughing. “Come on, Neph, let’s get that dog an’ go home.”

 

Well, a minute or so later, we could hear Bruno yippin’ and yappin’, along with an “Arroo-oooo!” every ten seconds or so. Then, we saw Stumpy walking slow, with Bruno nippin’ at his heels, just herding him along, til they make it back to us.

 

“He’s all right?” I asked.

 

“He fine,” Jack says, real slow, “He just shame, is all.”

 

 

 

 

Muh stood at the end of the driveway, hands on hips, a grim expression on her face.

 

“Okay, boys,” Alfred says. “Which one of us gonna tell Mom Zora what happened?”

 

I pointed at Bruno. “She might believe him,” I said. “Ya think?”

 

“Yip! Yip!” Bruno answered.