wreckless lemonaid

Took half a day off to attend another all too predictable job interview with the state. The job wasn’t gas cylinders as I thought but underground fuel storage tanks. I could learn this job easily – the challenge would be in dealing with tank owners just as volatile as their illegal tanks. Dairy inspection offers the same thrills. The most attractive offer thus far is the job dissecting sheep.

I suppose the only truly memorable experience gleaned today was my 7 PM bike ride.

I’d decided to go south and had gotten to the first oasis, a water fountain just outside the local school for the blind. Three ceramic obelisks marked the spot, the tile inserts commemorating tactile testaments to those students past and present. To me, the scratchy scrawl and pockmarked cutouts seemed lame attempts to appeal to a sighted audience. What caught my attention were the cancerous lumps of clay haphazardly scratched with chaotic lines. This indeed was blind art, something to be appreciated through ones fingertips.

As I approached this site, three young Nubians had just arrived, bursting with piss and vinegar. The standard response of any upstanding honkey, white motherfucker would be to just peddle my ass away from there as fast as I could to a jeering cacophony of insults.

I needed a rest and just stopped and sat down.

Realizing the fact more than two niggers in a group wasn’t enough to intimidate some white dude decked out in stinking rags when he should have been wrapped in spandex, the natives got restless and began chanting the sardonic lyrics of their favorite rap tunes.

I was tempted to ask what their favorite album was, but only made fleeting eye contact with what must have been boss crow Jr.

Apparently just as racially blind as the obelisk I was now gazing at, my hosts dealt their best hand by attempting to appeal to my supposedly lily white, puritanical squeamishness. Boss Jr. commenting he had to take a leak, he whipped out his fledgling manhood and proceeded to water the sightless brush.

I was utterly cool with this just so long as I wasn’t the recipient of the golden shower.

Monkey see, monkey do – monkey number two emulated the boss, eliciting comments from the rest of the troop. Perhaps they ought to be showing off the family jewels to whatever female happened to stroll down the path. I suppose this was their trump card, supposed to fan the flames of misogyny deep within my bleached breast.

I ignored them.

Some crew cut, muscle bound marine then arrived on the scene and my simian hosts quieted down substantially. Neither mocking nor provoking them, I waited for GI Joe to go and crept awkwardly back atop my bike. As I peddled off, I overheard Boss Crow Jr. croak,

“Bye, pal”

I doubt it was as salutary as it seemed, but I think those fledglings will remember the old baboon who didn’t flinch even once, despite a lot of monkey business.