I have some Black Muslim friends who are still waiting for the Mother Ship to dock above the pyramids and liberate them from their toilsome lot under the thumb of the feral white devils bred by Big-Headed Yakub on the island of Patmos some 5,700 years ago. However, in the meantime, one might choose to observe a more closely orbiting, but not so heavenly, body…

Shoplifting is an art, and when such a fool as Ham Slice Ebo screws it up to the extent that he did last Friday night, the Ghetto Grocer can only shake his head. Sure, shoplifters are the Ghetto Grocer’s foes. But it is foes that make the hero. How is a ghetto grocer to learn the finer points of foiling shoplifters when a fool like Ham Slice Ebo shows blatant disregard for shoplifting procedures and etiquette?

Last Saturday morning at 2:30, Ham Slice Ebo, at five feet tall and 170, wearing a white T and beige cargo shorts with white socks and sneakers, walks into Free Food For Fat F…s, with his black Obama flip phone to his ear, ranting and raving about ham slices with whoever is using him for a shopping drone on the other end.

This person directs Ebo by memory, across the store, up and down aisles—“No, da uda way Yo”—until finally, after many dozens of uses of the F-word and N-word, Ebo stands before the ham slice display at the end of the aisle where I work Mister John’s yogurt, in hopes that one chick who looks as if she eats yogurt instead of biscuits for breakfast actually walks in to buy some.

For five minutes Ebo debates Ham Slice pricing, weight, packaging, and possible side dishes such as ‘Yeay, dat good tastin’ shit’ with The Voice of the Midnight Shopping Oz.

Finally, on the verge actually selecting a ham slice, Ebo shouts into the phone, “Oh I need ta ged me some hot pockets Yo.”

Midnight Shopping Oz—now on speaker—objects vociferously, but our hero forges on to frozen food. He soon returns with two boxes of breakfast pockets, wanders around in front of the ham slice case, and then asks me, “Where da batroom at Yo?”

I point out the ‘batroom’ and he ducks into the stockroom with his hot pockets.

Ebo enters the bathroom where Trent is using the urinal, takes the hot pockets into the stall, makes some tearing noises, and exits the stall.

Our villain, Trent, sly scheming snitch that he is, takes the boxes up front to Zach while Ebo returns to the ham slice case—pockets bulging—and continues his ham slice debate with Midnight Shopping Oz, still on speaker.

I head up front to buy a drink. As I am checking out and returning to Mister John’s yogurt case, Ebo passes me, still discussing ham slices with his remote master. Zack confronts him with the boxes and says, “Empty your pockets and pay for these hot pockets and you can go.”

This is where smart shoplifters break open their wallet and give you some bullshit story about being allergic to frozen food packaging, pay up, and get the hell out of Dodge. Not Ebo. “Oh, I ain’t got no hot pockets!”

Ebo then returns to the ham slice case, resumes his conversation, and peruses the hams, looking for an opportunity to dump the hot pockets. Trent, however, snitch for The Man [whose real name is Mister John], continues his ham slice discussion with Oz.

Five minutes later, Oz and Ebo are still discussing ham slices as Trent tries not to fall asleep standing behind him, and I cut in the new tangerine Greek yogurt, which will hopefully bring the Ravens’ Cheerleaders flocking to my workstation…

Did I mention that a squad of cops were stationed on the lot guarding against a gang of rampaging hoodlums, and that Ebo walked past them coming into the store?

Finally, a towering, middle-aged, redneck cop arrives, heel of hand on his Batman utility belt. He stands next to Ebo and says, “What’s up?” which Ebo’s multi-lingual device hanging from the chain around his neck—what else could it be?—should have translated as, ‘Please run so I can slam your stubby ass to the floor.’

Ebo ignores the cop.

The cop repeats himself.

Ebo talks to Oz some more.

Another, younger, cop arrives.

He talks to Ebo.

Ebo mills around looking for his mouse hole and cannot find it.

The cop tells him to hand the phone over and he does. Oz has grown silent. He then searches Ebo and finds various things, among them hot pockets. His cargo shorts no longer look like special operations fatigues with blowout patches and spare ammo clips jammed in them.

Finally, hanging his head in childlike dismay, not understanding how his master plan unraveled, Ebo was taken away. Wherever Ebo was taken to, he will surly occupy the bottom notch on the food chain.

Yes, Ebo may seem pathetic. However, I have witnessed the proper handling of his type as an auxiliary shoplifter before. Perhaps Oz was training him, directing him on a remote dry run. You see, if Ebo had no outstanding warrants, and his hot pockets were worth less than $300 retail, he will be let go with a citation. Apparently he had a warrant, as the cops took him away.

That morning, on my way to training, Miss Ezz, one of my West Side connections, called me with a mother ship report. You see, a mother ship in shoplifting is a person in a wheel chair, or powered handicapped conveyance. They are only effective when they have runners like Ebo working with them. [You war gaming nerds recall how important it is to have infantry accompanying your panzers into Stalingrad...] But when they are effective, they strike it rich. If Ebo had been properly utilized by pairing him with a mother ship, the pilot of said blockade runner would have been able to make her escape as Ebo was occupying security with his boisterous incompetence.

Miss Ezz, take it:

“You would not believe the ghetto shit I’m looking at right now. Mind you, we have a security guard, a city cop—uniformed—and an LP detective on the premises. They’re ready because food stamps just dried up. They’re trying to haul this fat bitch up into the paddy wagon now. She’s missing part of one leg and is in a wheel chair. They just caught her cruising out the door with over three-hundred dollars worth of Tide, bar soap, body wash—all stuff for resale.

“Can you believe this shit? I suppose after they chop the other foot off from her food stamp-induced diabetes she’ll be able to haul more shit out of here. Don’t get me wrong. I like my job. But sometimes, you think to yourself, ‘Just drop a bomb already!’”