As a scholar of the African American experience, I, T. Spoone Slickens, your educator, have spent many an hour researching shopping patterns. These include those shifty tricks that Whitey plays on the black community, like putting the word ‘Sunny’ on a plastic bottle of yellow-tinted sugar water and placing it in the orange juice case. With the Hebrew influence in the grocery business such shenanigans are to be expected.
I have taken some heat for this last statement. However, as a life-long grocer in Central Maryland, I can tell you that I was trained by Jews and men who were trained by Jews, and that the largest grocery operation in the Mid Atlantic Region was run by an outstanding example of Hebrew kind for near fifty years. Also, three secondary food store chains have been operated by the Sons of Moses, where only two were run by Italians—one to fail miserably, the other dying as I write. And, but two Baltimore area market chains were run by blacks, both now defunct. Say what you will about The Slickens, but he is no anti-Jewite. Indeed, my current scholarly activations are being underwritten by my employer, a newsstand owner who operates the adjacent jewelry store.
As well, the diligent scholar should expect the hard-headed members of the poorly excavated black community to institute their own five-fingered ‘reparations’ initiative. Although the best these fools can hope for is to not get caught and cause the prices in the local market to rise.
Shoplifting has ever been the bane of retail food managers. Baltimore, with its high level of addictions and entitlement, is a Mecca of petty thieves. They have traditionally come in four varieties:
1. The sneaks, who crumble when caught and go meekly
2. The runners—often crack heads—who make you chase them.
3. The fighters, the rare indignant shoplifter that insists he brought 73 boxes of Dove soap up into your store, and somehow still had a need to visit the soap section.
4. The freaks—often diseased—who will piss at you, squirt breast milk at you, and brandish syringes.
Beginning this spring, just before the riots—at the same time African cabbies were being stiffed for fares by threatening black men—a fifth kind of shoplifter has appeared: the Black Reparations Patriot! Rather than snagging this, that and the other over-priced thing on the down low, this knucklehead declares himself entitled to the unpaid for goods and marches right past—or even over—the manger or security guard, in the latter case, usually a black man himself.
Below are two examples from the second week of April, immediately following the Baltimore Riots of 2015.
Nutrina—I kid you not brother, that dumb ho mamma named her after a giant aquatic rat from South Bumfuck Brazil—was demanding a refund for an unsavory food item she claimed to have consumed, and for which she could not present a receipt.
Mister Fields, the sissy white man who manages that store, told this big girl flat out that she was not getting a refund. And, oh my, entirely against type, she laid his narrow ass flat out, like Queen Latifa whooping Gary Coleman!
Enter Scrimp Boy Sam, a fat slovenly example of Negro indigence, who enters the same store every day at about 3 p.m., and heads directly to the salad bar—which, in Maryland, often serves steamed shrimp spiced in the shell with Old Bay seasoning. Scrimp Boy Sam will take a handful of large "scrimps," meander on back to the men’s room—filthy by any standard applied to the human dinner table—stands at the urinal and urinates, with no hands to control his errant sprinkler system as those are ever busy peeling and eating "scrimps." He leaves the shells in the urinal to boot.
That was a dumb black man’s version of a petty crime. Now let us observe this same dumb black man’s version of slavery reparations.
Scrimp Boy Sam, having eaten his fill of his mispronounced delicacy, decided that some lucky lady was in need of a bouquet of flowers—roses—and sauntered over to the front end from the flower department, past the registers, and proudly toward the front door, where little narrow-assed Shane, Assistant Whiteman on Duty—kind of like their narrow-assed version of an *HNC—blocked his way.
Sam, over six foot and easily 300 pounds, stopped, before actually stepping upon Shane, and said, “Lille white man, you need to ged outta ma way.”
Our white hero then stood defiantly and declared, “You are not leaving with those flowers.”
Sam retorted, “I’m takin’ these flowers en you ain’t stoppin’ me, lille white man!”
Shane repeated that he would not permit the flowers to be removed from the premises without payment—not on his watch.
If I might digress, it is cute to the point of endearing how white folks will hold unto a long-tattered principal in the face of overwhelming odds.
Momentarily seeming to take pity on the little white assistant manager, Scrimp Boy Sam hesitated before walking over the man who was less than half his size, and in that instant of indecision lost the battle of wills, which Sly Little Whitey suddenly turned into a battle of wits—which is how they do—by reaching out and breaking the flowers in half, and saying, “Okay, now you can have the flowers.”
Technically speaking, this encounter was a draw, with the little white man’s brains making up for his lack of brawn. As pathetic a story as it is, the lesson should not be lost, that the black underclass no longer fears the police. As this trend continues expect Urban Reparations Patriots and the retailers they brazenly loot to up their game. Before this hardheaded year is out there will be a pitched battle somewhere, between a soft-headed white person who suffers from SWPS, and his staff, on one side, and the hardheaded black hoodlums that are now poised to overrun—in their own faux Napoleonic way—any shopkeeper who might defy them.
* HNC is an acronym meaning Head Negro in Charge.
“Mi’Shaka—watchyoudoin’ sleepin’ in my class!”
“Oh, so you thought Scrimp Boy was too stupid and Shane was too weak fo your rarified time!”
“Nigga, that was the entire point of the erection!”
“So now you wanna make amendments? I gotchyou hot-shot—Mister Walking Dead and runnin’ that shit. You wanna A on this semester, you need to do your extra credit. Moses, pass the extra credit on back to…there you go, son.”
“What Mi’Shaka?”
“Why, that would be your teacher’s address.”
“Well, you gonna cut the grass—a course!”
“Your mutha? Yo mutha gonna have some shit ta say ‘bout this?”
“What, she about thirty?”
“Twenty-seven? All the betta... Bring her along en we can disgust your ass up in the air conditioning while you earnin’ your extra credit in the yard.”
“Class dismissed early y’all—Mista Slickens gotz some extra credit fo hisself today.”
This unit will conclude with Donnell Weston’s Bitchegg Hotel. And, in the meantime, do not forget to tune on for the T. Spoone Slickens Interview with Stefan Molyneux, which should air in the second week of August, in this year of our Disappointed Lord, 2015.
