This week, as food stamps peak and a blizzard is predicted for Central Maryland, it has been a tough day at the office for the Ghetto Grocer. Just after midnight a new EBT group came in, immensely fat military age white men riding in handy capped carts spending government EBT disbursements, black drug dealers and their snow bunnies, white dope fiends and zombie crack whores, malformed mud sharks with their little brown babies, wearing pajamas and dirty socks, insane white spinsters buying cat food, cat litter, cat toys and organic gluten free food…

There was one intact family unit, and they were a black teenage couple of perhaps 16, with their two-year old baby, both of them already dropped out of school, her on welfare, him doing whatever he does to afford the two-wheeled standup device he is driving his toddler around on, as she stands between his feet on the platform, pressing her little hands to the inside of his knees as he zooms by me while I kneel in front of the sour cream case cleaning the vents…

This morning an upscale set of white parasites, fifty-year-old government retirees, discussing their vacations, homes, automobiles and children’s college tuition paid for by grunts like me, chatted about their good fortune while I stocked yogurt. It no longer hurts though, for I have pared down my earnings so far that the only taxes I pay is the $1,000 annual fine for not having free health care.

In all of this insanity over the past 24 hours I have only recorded two acts of aggression, and these acts were, as usual, perpetrated by the most entitled class of people in our society, black women and unemployed white women, who aspire to the heights of ebony womanhood in all of its glory, though they don’t carry that foodstamp induced weight gain as well and their little lottery tickets are not of the rich chocolate hue they would prefer.

Two white welfare skanks, who seemed to be in their early twenties, though they had forty-year-old faces, and seemed to have been designed by God to carry between 100-120 pounds on their frames, which were now saddled with about 350 pounds each, began cussing out Steevo in the aisle for being in their way. They had already threatened a deli person for not being able to magically generate sliced cheese that comes out to exactly two dollars, not cutting her the slack for not being able to calculate the weight of a slice of cheese [which varies from type to type], that they had cut themselves, by demanding an exact dollar amount for their cheese purchase, rather than asking for a pound or fraction thereof.

I was in the stockroom, next to the woman’s room [the only space available] unloading a pallet of freight, when Betty and Steevo came back to cool off, and gripe, as us lowly peasants may not speak up to our masters and mistresses, who live freely upon our labor.

Steevo moaned, “I can’t even afford a pizza for the wife and kid on Friday night, and these fat whores have a thousand dollars on their EBT card just for spreading their legs and laying fucking milkdud eggs. I had to come back here. I can’t have some whore screaming at me for doing my job. I mean, back in the day, getting beat up by the pigs, having them use the phone book on you, I got that. Sure, they were dicks. But I was a dick too for selling dope and running from them. But this, having to be the slave to some fat hog who is buying her shit with my taxes dollars, fuck that! Doesn’t it bother you, Bro?”

“No, man. I think its great. I live down in the city where the thugs that were spawned by three generations of welfare whores try to rob me or whack me any chance they get. Now, thanks to Mamma Mud Shark, when you’re my age, her three whigger babies will be coming for you in their hoodies and fitted hats! Welcome to the ghetto, Bro—we deliver!”

Steevo walked away in even more pain, having been ministered to by a Doctor of the Retail Food Arts. Betty just rolled her eyes and peeled off with him.

Then, as I hit the orange juice at the bottom of the pallet and put on my gut brace, Karma, in the form of Mamma Mud Shark, whose pudendum had a double chin and her face a triple, waddled back to the woman’s room—the door of which does not shut properly, much to my disgust—and I began heaving 32-pound cases as fast as my splitting gut would allow. Sure enough, within minutes, as I hit wood and tilted the pallet up to push it to the dock, I heard her scream/growl from her fetid seat, “You cheap muvafuckers! What is this, packing paper? Get me some muvafuckin’ Charmin!”

I all of a sudden remembered I had to check the drains under the frozen food cases and veered off into the peasant’s first and last refuge, work.

Later this morning, Monique, a French-speaking Spanish babe, who I once won over with the following line, “I don’t always work in supermarkets, but when I do, I work here,” came to me breathless, excited about a close call on the street driving to the local ghetto grocer for her morning yogurt and banana before heading off to work in White Breadistan. Since becoming a jameslafond.com reader, Monique has become a big Tommy Sotomayor fan, which should help you understand the following.

“You would have been proud of me, Mister Violence Guy! I was about to turn down Eastern Avenue off the highway when I noticed it was hazardous. Then, from behind me this BT-one-thousand, in her giant SUV, began beeping at me and telling me to go. I have always thought that was my decision to make. But apparently not, so I flipped her off. Then I noticed her pulling up beside me and saw how big she was, and thought, wow, that may be a BT-twelve-hundred, and I zoomed out of there.”

“Was it a silverback?”

“I really couldn’t tell. The SUV was so big it might have skewed my sense of proportions.”

“Look, I don’t know what you’re driving, but if you don’t date a drug dealer it’s probably not an Escalade or a Tahoe. I guarantee you that a silver back BT-one-thousand—even an eight-hundred—could get right through the window. You should not flip off a Black Terminatrix. Remember, it does not feel pity or remorse, and will not stop, ever!”

She smiled and made off with her groceries waving, “Thank you!”

This all was kind of fun as conversations go, but Steevo, Patty and Monique were all noticeably upset after their run-ins with aggressively entitled females, parasites of the most vile sort, deliberately generated by our masters, to drain us of our dignity and resolve, and to spawn the next generation of violent criminals, who shall cause us to beg our masters for more laws, and more police to enforce them, because the police we have are there to protect the criminals from us, so that we have to take it.

The Insane Welfare Whore Alliance does not exist just to support drug dealers. In fact, their primary purpose is to erode the moral fabric of human society by producing criminals to justify the growth of the Police State, the State that in reality polices us more effectively than them.

Let the next bitch-egg hatch, so that we might beg for a new, improved morality.