It’s funny how people go bad when they look like the fancy people on TV.

Where I live now, out in the county, with all the rich white people in their big houses watching their soap opries and Netflix—with hardly ever a cооn in sight—the white women treat you like shit, talk to you like a dog while you’re ringing out their order for ten dollars an hour. Most of the men are fine. But once women get money, no matter what their race is, they seem to turn into those evil bitches on the TV. The only women who treat me decent in the rich white area is the older black ladies—I have three of them, regulars, sweet as can be.

But down in the city, the way those people treated me it’s enough to make you go offs—and I did, got fired for it, thank God, ‘cause I didn’t have the balls to quit. Speaking of that, the next time you talk to your Mountain Man friend…Ishmael—thank him again for sending that money and helping my daughter and granddaughter and me out. I didn’t think there were still people in the world like that.

So there I was, sweating my ass off, bra strap digging into my back, hauling those three-liter sody pops by the dozen across the belt, scanning those 40 pound cases of chicken that those lazy niցցers wouldn’t hand to you—you had to pull it out of the cart and scan it yourself because the boss was too cheap to buy handhelds… The job alone was enough to burn a broke-ass bitch up!

I’ve been called a white bitch more often than I’ve been called my name. They would just come up to you and call you a bitch, or a white bitch, for no reason. I remember this one particular man with his hat, an older man, maybe sixty who called me “Snakey.”

Now that wasn’t as bad as bitch or white bitch, but I had to ask. He called me “Snakey” while I was counting out his change and I said, “Excuse me, sir?”

He says, “Ain’ no excuse fo yer snakey self. You people have them snakey eyes, cain’t be trusted, snakey eyes, snakey mind, so I’m watchin’ yo ass, Snakey Girl!”

“Whatever, sir!”

I counted his money out loud into his hand, and he came to me every time, the only white bitch at the register, and would comment on my snakey eyes while I counted out his change. And that’s just one asshole. Try dozens a day. After a while, when they told me something was no charge and I’d page the manager up front and it wasn’t a manager give away—what the fuck is that, right?—they would call me a lyin’ bitch to my face and I’d tell them, “I might be a bitch, but I’m not the one lying!”

Of course, the boss wants all that food stamp money, so you have to be reserved, can never say what you are thinking. I had a soft spot for the kids though. Mamma and her Manz are using that child’s food stamps to eat crab leg clusters, steaks, scrimps and top line lunch meats and those poor kids are eating the same shit I am, hotdogs and ramen noodles!

So when my daughter comes home from college and tells me about white privilege about all this privilege I supposedly had while I was the slave to these niցցers with their thousand dollar food stamp balances, calling me a “white bitch,” a “cracker whore” and even “Snakey” I just can’t hold back. So now I’m a racist in my own house for reminding my daughter that I raised her on scraps slaving away in a fat black city where everyone was privileged except for this broke-ass Polish bitch and the other white suckers like her.

White privilege?

Look at my hands!

I use a bottle of lotion a day and these look like lumber jack paws and when these fat young girls bring their free-loading boyfriends through the line to buy their snacks and sody pop, those whores and their boy toys all have hands as soft as my granddaughter’s bottom.

White privilege?

If you can find mine, just shove it up your asses, ‘cause it’s too late for me. The bosses and the niցցers used me all up.

-Megan