I was taking the subway home from the whorehouse last night at 12:30 a.m. I was a little tired from all the fucking and was looking forward to a nice quiet 7-hour ride to Bumfuck Heights where I now live. Apparently the Universe was worried I would run out of ideas on which to write about and so she provided me with a doozy which was neither nice nor quiet.
In NYC there’s a lot more to do than have sex with prostitutes, although personally I haven’t explored outside of this pastime, and being a Friday night after midnight the first round of night activists were heading home for the evening and the subway was crowded, but not so crowded that I couldn’t get a seat. In my car there was a 350 lb. black woman with breasts as large as a Brontosaurus Rex shouting at the top of her lungs to a black man holding a Koran whose volume came a close second the Berthasaurus. She also had a couple of big fat black bookends that were her friends who periodically chimed in.
At first I didn’t think anything of it, figuring it was just like being in a black movie theater where in between dropping chicken bones and spitting watermelon seeds on the floor, everyone shouts their comments at the screen.
“DON’T GO INTO THE HOUSE, BITCH! HE’S WAITING FOR YOU WITH A KNIFE!”
“YOU DROPPED YOUR GUN, DUMMY! NOW WHAT ARE YOU GOING TO DO?”
But soon I saw the conversation was anything but pleasant and the fingers weren’t open and filled with chicken parts but instead clenched in fists.
My assessment was that they had been discussing religion in the way most people do: “You’re going to burn in Hell for eternity!” “Screw you and your God!” and things had escalated to the boiling point, once again not a reference to chicken which, as we all know, in the black community is only prepared fried.
Jesus, the prophet of peace and forgiveness and Islam, which literally translates as “Peace” seem to lead more people to anger and violence than inner serenity. The reason it leads them there is because they are not following the prophets but their own inner anger at their mother or father or last boyfriend or girlfriend or boss or the world and all they are doing is cutting and pasting words of prophets to justify their anger as a holy crusade. A Christian may lack money and because they are angry and jealous of someone who has money they will quote Jesus and say, “A camel has an easier chance of going through the eye of a needle than a rich man has of getting into Heaven.” A Muslim will have a constant raging hard-on and want to stare down every piece of ass that passes by, but because he has been conditioned into guilt for having a dick, he will quote the Koran and say, “The Prophet Muhammad, peace be upon him, said that women have to cover themselves up.” It would almost be comical how people cut and paste the words of inspired people and texts to justify their bad behavior if it weren’t so destructive to them and everyone around them.
Despite finding the whole scene a bit pathetic, Berthasaurus had a few funny lines that even made me laugh. At one time she grabbed her gargantuan breasts and said, “THESE GIRLS ARE MORE MAN THAN YOU EVER WILL BE!” This cracked the entire studio audience, including me.
In another incident of tragic comedy, Koran Carrier might have gotten to the deterioration of argumentation where he resorted to the, “Forget words, let’s duel with swords!” stratagem and called Berthasaurus a bitch. Louder than it would be if you were sitting in the front row of a Megadeth concert and stuck your head flush to the speaker, she shouted,“YOU’RE THE BITCH! YOU’RE NOT A MAN, YOU’RE A BITCH! EVERYONE SEES THAT YOU’RE THE BITCH ON THIS TRAIN!”
Now I grew up with the understanding that if a woman calls you a bitch then it’s fair game to backhand her offering-her-unwanted-opinion ass. But I guess the rules of engagement were created before there was a fast food restaurant on every street corner and some women grew in girth to the size where they now had their own zip code and men got wise that if they placed a hand on one of these triple-sized honeys, those crazy dames would eat you up—if not metaphorically than literally!
To add to the bizarrity of the event, there was a black man with a beard in a dirty light blue jumpsuit with the zipper opened to his belly and a rhinestone-studded belt wrapped around his waist. He looked like he could have been one of the Village People playing the part of the Flaming Garage Mechanic, which was short-lived and soon replaced by another icon of gay life in the West Village—an Indian Chief. Regardless of looking like he worked out at the “YMCA”and was getting ready to enlist “In The Navy” because he was a “Macho Man,” the words he spoke were the only ones that made sense to me.
Berthasaurus was bellowing out, “IS THERE ANY MAN HERE WHO WILL KNOCK THIS BITCH’S ASS TO THE GROUND?” The Village People Mechanic told the Koran Carrier to remain calm and disengage. He cautioned her that she was inciting violence. This didn’t stop the melee, which would continue as long as it took Moses and his peeps to cross the desert. I had grown tired of it and prayed to a god not of the Koran or the New Testament to make it end, seeing how useless those gods were in creating peace among their worshipers.
One passenger on the subway pulled out his little camera and started filming, for as we all know the world doesn’t need anymore messiahs or holy books but instead a few more well-crafted YouTube videos of people making asses of themselves. I actually started to pull out my new pocket camera and finally conceded that while I can be a douchebag, I didn’t want any physical proof that this was a real event and not a figment of my imagination. A 350 lb. black woman…a man in a light blue jumpsuit with a rhinestone-studded belt…a man who wasn’t a man but a bitch holding a Koran—I still can’t be certain that I didn’t dream the whole thing up like those pervert priests who wrote The Book of Revelations.
At one point Berthasaurus started bellowing a new mantra: “FUCK ALLAH! FUCK ALLAH! FUCK ALLAH!” I would have considered hiring her as a contract writer for my un-blog as she had started speaking my language but I knew her “Fuck Allah” was incomplete. If she shouted, “FUCK ALLAH! FUCK YAHWEH! FUCK JEHOVAH! FUCK ZEUS!” I would have hired her on the spot. But she was too unconscious to see that they were all just different names for the same thing. She was cursing the other guy’s Red Delicious apple while eating the same apple while calling it a Granny Smith.
Finally Berthasaurus stood up and charged the Koran Carrier, well, as fast as a fat cow like her could charge. She raised her hand and while most people just bark—that dog bit. She slapped Koran Carrier across the face. She then raised her bottle of Snapple in a threatening manner, indicating that if the solid glass didn’t kill him surely the sugar and artificial colors would.
I sat dumbfounded for a little but then jumped up and told that fat bitch to sit the fuck down. “That’s enough!” I said. She looked at me and again I said, “That’s enough.” She knew better than to talk back to me because I wasn’t a pussy like the Koran Carrier and I would have flattened her fat ass if she so much as opened her mouth to me and even a small whiff of her supersized fries and shakes and Quadruple Big Mac with the works had infiltrated my nostrils.
I assured Koran Carrier that I would see that no more violence would be directed at him. He said to me, “Then call the police.” I told him that I’m not getting any reception on my cel phone down here and if he keeps it up, I’ll be the one to knock his bitch ass to the ground. At this point the other two fat black card-carrying members of the Nation of Fast Food were chiming in their decibels. I was thinking of saying, “Can you fat bitches change the song to some ‘Praise Jesus’ choir piece?” Either that or, “I miss the days of slavery when we could just whip a nigger to death if she so much as cried out when we raped her.” I kept my mouth shut, for throwing blood to sharks only makes them more crazy.
Just like how one’s whole life supposedly flashes in front of his eyes before the hooker pulls out a blade and tells him,“How about I fuck YOU up the ass?” a scene played out in my mind in milliseconds that I wondered if enacted if it would turn this horror show into an educational film, or just an even more pathetic comedy.
I saw myself standing up and shouting, “ENOUGH OF THIS ALREADY! What is going on here? All you self-professed ‘religious’ people are showing the ugliest parts of humanity in the name of your so-called religions. I don’t care whether it is Jesus or Muhammad—does anyone really think that either one of these men, or prophets or gods or whatever you want to consider them, would condone this behavior as the highest expression of mankind? The Book of Genesis says God created Man in his own image. Is THIS the image of God? Jesus said that everything he did we could do and more. Is THIS the ‘more’ he was talking about?
I’m sorry, brother, I can’t quote the Koran. But even if I didn’t judge all the terrorist action and cries for bloodshed I see around the world as exemplary of Islam, is your behavior tonight any better an more representative? If these pieces of poisonous fruit offered from your mouths are the gifts of Jesus and Muhammad, I’d prefer to bite an apple from Eve before I accept anything from their hands.
“And you people sitting there and enjoying the show, do you feel proud of yourselves for being audience members to ‘Jerry Springer Live’? You read in your history books about the Roman Coliseum and how barbaric they were to making battles to the death entertainment and yet you sit back and watch a brother and a sister go at each other’s throats and cheer for more carnage. You are even more pathetic than these two, for violence leads to bloodshed but apathy leads to enslavement.
“Think, people. This is not a sit-com or a Shakespeare tragedy. This is real life with real humans. And real humans don’t bite into blood capsules; their blood comes from their veins. And real people don’t have make-up artists and catering and fan mail; they take care of their own blemishes, struggle to find their own food and if they have a spouse and kids who think them special they are considered lucky.
Why can’t we stop being entertainment for a second and start being authentic human beings? Why can’t we stop laughing at another’s distress and actually see if we could do something to lessen it? That requires caring. And no one really cares about a fiction. Because at the end of the day, the television set goes off and you are back to face your own life of the ‘Not So Rich And Famous.’ And then all we have is each other. And love is the force that makes us all equal in the ability to share our riches.
I will call you my brothers and sisters regardless of your behavior. But I much rather boast about you than laugh at you. Or scorn you. Jesus said that if you hurt the least among you, you hurt him just the same. Can’t you see how your behavior directed toward a single individual hurts us all? Is the pain inside so great that you need to witness human suffering in order to purge yourself of your own? Or rather mask it. Well you have to look no further for an example of suffering than me, for I am hurting here. I am saddened to be a part of this. And I seem to be standing alone. You people can’t even stand up to stop this garbage, how the hell are you going to stand up to take out your own trash?
I don’t want words from your so-called ‘holy books’ or your dead prophets. I want living humans saying simple words to express the simple idea that they care about their brothers and sisters more than they do a friggin’ book or twenty-minutes of entertainment in the form of suffering to distract them from their unhappy lives.”
The train ended up being held at a stop while the Koran Carrier asked someone to call the police like a little pussy. The cops ended up arriving and I told one of them that the woman did strike him. One of the two circus fat ladies said that the man was lying about Berthasaurus hitting him. I told the cop that she was the liar—and a fat and ugly one at that. The cop seemed nice enough but useless, acknowledging later in his own words that the whole situation was a “clusterfuck.” I told him that as a Mormon I didn’t appreciate his language and I would pray to Joseph Smith to save his Hell-bound ass.
When a train across the tracks came, the hoards of cockroaches rushed out of the stopped train and onto the other train; they liked to be entertained but it was late and if seeing justice done required missing a train, then they were out. I let the train go and talked to the other cops about what I witnessed.
They seemed dismissive of what I had to say and finally let the train with Berthasaurus and the two Fatasaurus sisters go without so much as a note in his prescription pad. I questioned this. “I don’t understand. She assaulted him and you just let her go without taking down her information?” They then proceeded to school me in cop philosophy that was a Bizarrro World version of a Zen koan. They told me that if a man is slapped in the forest and there is no cop to witness it, then it is not assault. I was like, “What the fu—?” My understanding of the law was that it was even considered Assault if you put your hands on someone against his will. The cops told me that if they didn’t witness it, it wasn’t, that at best it was Harassment.
Looking online, I found this as a Common Law definition of Assault, where they said that the Criminal Law definition is pretty much the same:
An intentional act by one person that creates an apprehension in another of an imminent harmful or offensive contact.
[http://legal-dictionary.thefreedictionary.com/assault]
Seems like what I saw was Assault. The cops told me that people complain about a million things and if they didn’t witness it, they can’t just arrest someone for the crime. They told me that unless the supposed victim was injured, as far as they concerned nothing illegal had occurred. I said, “So what happens if his cheek shows bruising tomorrow?” They said that then it might be considered assault—which was totally useless, as they had let the Jabba The Fatso Girls leave without any way to get in contact with them.
I can understand their dilemma—but I was a witness! I saw my arguments were falling on deaf ears and so I gave my business card to the Koran Carrier and told him to contact me if he needed my testimony and took the next train out of there.
Every time I want to let the world do whatever it will and just stay on the sidelines and watch it build or burn, it seems I am pulled back into the game. It is hard for me to see how far we have fallen and sit idly by, as hard as I try. God keeps asking me like he did Abraham about Sodom and Gomorrah, “Why shouldn’t I just destroy these entire cities of sin?” I don’t really have a good answer to give the Big Guy. All I can say is, “They are still my brothers and sisters and if you fuck with my family, you fuck with me.”
But I’d rather be able to boast about my family than try to save them from destroying themselves—which I can’t, as I am no savior, as in “save-your ass.” And even if I were, when you are unwilling to sacrifice the old patterns of behavior that no longer serve you or humanity, the only thing left to sacrifice is a savior and I’m not really down with that aspect of the job.
When I have more confidence in my family that they are willing to put away the scissors and glue for cutting and pasting other people’s words and take up the pen and paper for creating their own holy words, then I will step up and fight the good fight—no matter what the odds. Until then, I can only observe silently and periodically make sure they don’t play in traffic.
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