There is a specter haunting San Francisco.
Until recently, a clear and incontrovertible rule had been justly respected: female-gendered African-Americans between the ages of 30-45, and male-gendered Orientals (jovial appellation, not racism) between the ages of 45-60 years retained an unmitigated monopoly on the Bay Area’s bus driving circuit.
It rests exclusively within the province of these two marvelous racial categorizations to ensure my timely arrival at the location from where I conduct groundbreaking research.
No longer.
Last Saturday, as I boarded my bus, I was awestruck by the fact that a white male was piloting one of the city’s urban transport jalopies (71L to be precise). This evidenced a clear violation of the ordained ethnological stratification that has been maintained in San Francisco for decades. Or at least for as long as minorities have been allowed to navigate these insalubrious Marxist vessels.
To avoid being sent to an Auschwitz-like detention camp, I secreted my knowledge of his genuine constitution, knowing full well his capacity for rape and theft.
As an apostle of integrity, I am burdened with a profound obligation to expose neo-colonial stratagems wherever they are to be found. It is my devoir to expose the thieving of the modes of production! The pilfering of the proletariat to satiate the frothing appetites of the honkey bourgeoisie.
I will proceed immediately to the climax:
From Amistad to bus 71L, the slave-trading cracker is insatiable.
As the bus door squeegeed itself open, I lifted my gaze to the driver. Of course, based on my unparalleled knowledge of race relations in urban histories, I rightly expected to encounter a jubilant Nubian princess at the helm, perhaps named Shaquiqui, her nails bright as the sun, as long and sharp as pocketknives. Or quite possibly today would bring me Xiang, that cantankerous Canton, with his mole-whiskers and noxious body odor that smells of schadenfreude. Surely, you can appreciate the paralytic shock that possessed my being when I saw that 40-something year old Caucasian oppressor, likely a trafficker in humans, sitting in the seat normally reserved for those of more tender coloration.
“Good morning.” he said to me. Absurd! This imperial despot’s attempted bamboozlement, his attempt to appear benign, if not downright friendly, was evaded. It is widely known that bus-drivers do not acknowledge those they convoy. It is in the order of man.
To avoid being sent to an Auschwitz-like detention camp, I secreted my knowledge of his genuine constitution, knowing full well his capacity for rape and theft. I sat at the back of the bus – a locale usually reserved for connoisseurs of heavily polluted crack cocaine and individuals whom indulge in courageous research aimed at identifying the biological consequences of excessive libation.
Like my fellow riders, I pretended not to be perturbed by this sacrilege. We all clenched our buttocks to the urine-scented seats. There was a shared fear of the white devil shepherding us.
Not without miracle, I arrived at my destination without physical harm. The mental assailment, however, remains. Upon arriving at the office from which I disseminate my field(s) of expertise, I immediately transcribed a letter to our Mussolini-like bastard of a mayor. That noxious malefactor, Gavin Newsom.
Needless to say, my courageous ode of justice has yet to solicit any response. With great clarity and confidence I declare that the civic fascists running this city are indeed swastika-fondling overlords. And that a great wave of oppression has crashed across northern California!
What is next? Dare I even ask?
Will the people of Japan begin constructing my shawarma? What then, will the émigrés of Lebanon do? Will the Australians take over the Thai restaurants and happy ending massage parlors? How shall the great people of Siam acquire their sustenance? Will the Sri Lankans subsume the taxi industry? What of the Punjabi people? Will the Ecuadorians begin DJing trance music? What will the Dutch do?
I alone cannot answer such questions of allocation and role. So I ask you, my fanatical reader base, to answer them with me. Where do we stand with our categories of race and expectation in this age of Obama?
