“When my husband and I were still in college, we travelled through Baltimore by train, back in the early eighties. I recall with some trepidation, laying there on the wooden bench with my head resting on my backpack. I was having bad cramps. As we waited in Penn Station there was this one police officer, a big, burly, beefy, in-shape, white cop, who swaggered with this slow menace by each and every one of us as if silently selecting a lamb to be removed from the fold for some terrible feast. I remember saying to myself, “What kind of place must this be?”
-Boston Resident on the train west
The following, is not, and does not represent the opinion of this author, but is transcribed on request at 5:00 PM 2/20/20 from the memory of a phone monologue heard from 3:50 to 4:10 PM that same afternoon. The speaker is a homeless veteran.
Sir, as I avoid other homeless folk—these bicycle people, all ex-cons who will kill you just to take what little you have—and consider the morning’s Christian soup kitchen breakfast, I cannot but help to give voice to my vitriol over the worst state in the Union, the People’s Mutherfucking Republic of Maryland. I know you know of what I speak.
At the soup kitchen there is a picture of an obviously Native American mixed breed, three shades darker than I, ten years younger, more muscular, with Asiatic facial structure, caught on camera steeling. And this old man, nudged the young Christian fellow that brought me in there and suggests I am that man. That’s all I need, to be wrongly identified and back into the system of control I get sucked. As I lit out for the tall grass all I could think of was the Maryland police: fucking tunnel cops, state pigs, Baltimore County Police, Harford County Sherriff’s Department and of course, America’s Vilest, the Baltimore City Police Department.
Sir, with all due respect—fuck them and fuck Maryland!
The Harford County pigs glory in beating up men of my pale complexion.
The tunnel cops will pull me over just for looking like a man who can defend himself—and they have.
The Baltimore County Cops—n&*%$# please! They ran me in over a dozen times over a 5 mile-per-hour fender bender! Why, so the homo negro cuffing you in the Towson Lockup can lovingly caress your groin before and after your court appearances!
And then, then! Those fucking BPD turds who locked me up in East Baltimore on some bullshit warrant and took such glee in my processing. You know, they chain your hands behind you in the paddy wagon and don’t secure you. Then that bald, ginny, motherfucker, child-molesting piece-of-shit behind the wheel takes me on a joy ride over median strips, rocking and sliding, pitching that wagon and jerking to a stop all in an attempt to slam my Irish head against the interior. Sir, thank my ancestors for imparting a thicker neck than Freddie Grey was bequeathed by the crack-addicted gazelles that mated to produce him! I gave it right back, cussing that—you know, I’ve got ta give it to the brothers for their foot speed. You know they do run like gazelles. I’m a fast white guy. But I saw this one boon running from the cops in Maryland and that fucker put on the afterburners, ran across six lanes of interstate without getting hit, cleared that fence and was off through the woods like David Duke was following him on a pale horse!
The point is—and perhaps, since you are not a driver this has passed you by—but as a working man who did my share of home improvement work, I have never been so angered, so enraged, so overtaken by my own rising vile and soaring vitriol, as when I’ve been on my way to finish a job—for which the old bitch might not pay for anyhow—and [I-]695, one of the busiest interstates in America, is closed for a police funeral! It didn’t matter if the piece-of-shit was shot, if he had a heart attack while smoking crack with his informant and banging some hideous ho or if he was actually culled by one of the heard. That I ever had to sit in traffic, unable to go to work, so that the rapist, thieving, child-molesting, cowardly police whose job it was to fuck with me, descended in force for a funeral—it irks even a jaded soul.
I hate Maryland with a passion. I hate it now from afar. I hated it once when I was gurgling in its grinding belly. I never really asked you to give voice to my… Sir, do you think you could do this rant justice, on the off chance that a Maryland Pig is a reader?
Toker continues into a dark digression about interracial rape, and the author throws out a stat intended to point out that it is a two-way-street…
“According to the FBI, in 2013 there were over 13,000 black on white rapes and 7 white on black rapes.”
And the Big House Tarzan, rather than being calmed by the fact that it’s a two-way street, dredged up more vitriol from his soul…
That I believe is a realistic proportion. The only thing I’m having trouble with was who are those seven degenerates? I mean, the baleful glare on the face of almost every one of those women is enough to make paint peel. Sure, I’m a bitch-hater. They are all subhuman or insane in my book. But their deflowering lacks meaning if nothing bloomed there worthy of appeal to begin with. If a woman has nothing to sully, she is bereft of all value. You know, that if a U.S. battleship were bearing down on your coastal position, all you would have to do is place a random picture of one of these women on a billboard and the barrels of the eighteen inch guns would melt and the paint would peel—the hull rusting and springing leaks almost…
This writer nearly injured himself laughing as he listened to the rant of a fellow Maryland expat on his Obama flip phone as he checked out the auto-magazines on the rack at the Portland Safeway, ignoring the automobiles in search of the cover girl layout and somehow failing to recommend the lady of color on the cover to his far-off friend…
