Last weekend, after drinking with Dante, I met Megan at the mixed race sports bar and she ordered me a pitcher—a big one—and I was soon beyond taking notes. But, before running out of space on the back of the receipts in my wallet I managed to scrawl a portion of a stream of consciousness let loose by a tall dark lady of some 40 years.
“These bitches today is a disgrace—got to have they welfare—married to The Man, and layin’ up with some dope-slingin’ fool who dead in three years. Then it’s out to the salon to fix that mess on their head and up town to the club looking for another fool for their play money.
“Shit, I need a second job just to get my hair en nails done. If them bitches worked they might not look like some nappy headed wreck. Two jobs gets it done sista; one fo the kids en house, and one fo the man that cain’t care, en ain’t there!
[A nursing job is assumed based on her attire.] “These bitches today don’t got no grit. They come into the hospital and can’t eat peanut butter ‘cause they ‘allergic’. ‘Bitch, pop a Benadryl!’
“And deliverin’ a baby without an epidural—sheeit! Makes you wonder—the way they squeal—how they even took that dick in the first place. So that’s what I tell them, ‘Bitch, you took that dick didn’t you—now push!’”
The wisdom of the urban woman, such that it is, is an amazing thing to behold. I laughed all the way home after finishing that pitcher of beer, not alert in the least, but apparently insane, and untouched by this year’s crop of muggers, who seem disappointingly scrawny.
