I was heading into a branch of my bank, where my misbegotten millions are housed in tier upon tier in banded stacks of Indian killer notes…and the reverie broke before the door as I recalled that my bank had been acquired by another and that my deposit slips for the checking account I opened in 2000 were five addresses old…

Then I noticed a tall, handsome woman, some five years my senior walking up behind me, and jumping at the chance to show some courtesy despite my squalorous state, I opened the door for her and she thanked me with a bitter catch in her throat.

As I followed her, expecting to take the door in hand after her, she stepped aside by way of insistence that she hold the door for me and said snidely, “There you go,” as if returning an insult.

Then as I stepped through, she, acting like a maternal usher in some soulless version of Hel, said as sternly as her failing flesh could project, “Now you go first.”

I pushed back past her to the standing check desk where I had to fill out my deposit slip first and said, “I have things to fill out,” taking note in the cavern of my soul were that tiny wisp of courtesy still lingers to never again include this bitch in the human race.

When I made my way to the counter, greeted by a smiling chocolate drop named Kieshya, I was at least permitted by this smiling, helpful women to engage in ancient customs of courtesy that I had long ago observed my father conduct at the movie ticket counter, the deli counter and the beer tap at the Orioles games at old Memorial Stadium.

Meanwhile, I hear the bitch conducting business as if she owns one of her own and I recalled what a shame it was that Memorial Stadium has been paved over to make room for whores like this to ride stationary bikes at their exclusive community gym and that Orioles baseball is no longer televised. I live in a world calibrated to run according to the tortured will of such whores, where a working class man can no longer take his son to a ball game, a game that is now only visible via a paid TV network.

However, as I sit at a Manhattan pub composing this, as glorified video of baseball players screaming, yelling, stomping and fighting assault the dulled senses of a lifetime from the big screen before me, I reflect that even the most courteous of sports is now debased and that this is the natural course of Civilization. For Civilization is the home of the unarmed and therefore rude man, free to refine discourtesy to a rare art until finally he worships it from afar, forever shrinking inconsequentially within his dwindling self, hurried by the banshee bitch-song of such as she who made a nicety into an insult as a matter of considered malice.

And people wonder why I’m attracted to colored girls who smile and treat me like a man when the women of my own kind sneer and scold as if I’m a dog for the unforgivable crime of being a man?

The enemy of humanity is closer than you think.