backyard crowing



I am in front of Freebird's on a Friday night. There sit two cars that have just collided in the middle of the street; one is red, the other, white. They obstruct two of the three lanes, and the road is 1960. One man stands, leaning against a sign advertisement and minding his own business. The other man, a hispanic guy, keeps his distance from the stander, pacing along the grass, and gessturing emphatically with tattooed arms to someone on his cellphone, someone who [does not benefit from his gesstures] can hear his gesstures.

Already I feel I know who caused this accident.

But that, my friend, is racism, and making an ASS out of U and ME (assuming).

I am fortunately located at a point where I can see the rubber neckers crystal clearly. Sadly, nearly every car's driver turns its pretty little head to better gape at the people's misfortune, and curse at their stupidity "Why don't these dipthongs move their cars?" they seem to ask, just like my mother did. Now a collision truck is parked directly behind me, so I cannot backup even two feet. Now I have someone to call dipthong, too.

6:39 pm - friday, august 11, 2006


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