In keeping with my reputation as a race traitor, I thought I would leave no doubt as to my reviled status by profiling debased white men. It’s only fair, as I’m a virtual biographer of African American stupidity. Without further ado, I give you a man so lowly I never developed a pet moniker for him. Consider this series an indictment of those Caucasians unfit to bear the conqueror’s torch into the long night of our kind. After all, it would be politically incorrect for me to write only of our heroes, and I’m a sensitive fellow, you know. I understand that we men of European descent might prefer uplifting examples of European manliness. But I leave such confidence building exercises to the descendants of those people unlucky enough to have lost their world to our ass-kicking, name-taking ancestors.

In the spring of 1998 I was waiting for the #19 bus at about 8:30 a.m. at Light and Pratt Streets on a windy weekday morning. A crowd of people were walking along about a pace apart, not all shoulder rubbing like you see in video clips of a Manhattan sidewalk in documentaries on overcrowding.

A black woman, dressed to work in an office with a red dress, was walking toward me smoking a cigarette. A grungy white dude—not dirty or homeless, but dressed at about my level—was following off her shoulder, looking at her intently. I was wondering if I was going to clothesline this guy, ankle sweep him, or slap the snot out of him, but he never closed with her and did not have a bead on her purse.

As she neared me, and the stop, and prepared to cross at the light, she appeared to have a second thought about smoking while crossing the street and tossed the cigarette on the sidewalk. And that thirty-something white boy of about five ten and 160, with light brown hair parted in the middle and hanging to mid neck, darted after that half-smoked cigarette as it rolled smoking toward the curb, and then over the curb, and finally, into the gutter!

As our hero scampered like a marsupial under the feet of two mating Dinosaurs, the cigarette then took a bounce onto the asphalt!

No! Noooo!

As the hero of this little tale squatted, braced with one hand on the curb, and the other hand reaching out, as if for God’s spark, as depicted on the ceiling of a holy sanctuary, the spark cast down from heaven by his god did smolder ever so pathetically—as fallen angels go—before being blown back into the curb by the onrushing river of urban automotion.

The pious worthy then snagged the smoking morsel, held it just above the filter between two fingers, cupped it against the automotive wind, and blew slightly and reverently upon its smoldering tip. Then, suddenly sensual in his bearing, the acolyte of the black goddess licked the base of the filter, which only seconds before had been sucked between her thick red-painted lips, and then sucked upon the thing that represented their sacral bond, as she strode imperiously across the street, not even taking notice of her artifice-obsessed worshipper in all of his fawning decadence.

It is a normal aspect of my mental discipline to, in my mind’s eye, kill any strange man I sight out of doors. It’s a mental exercise that I generally conclude within a second or two in civil situations. But this guy died a hundred deaths over the course of the next twenty minutes. I think I even went rat fishing with a dangled eye and used his head to smash my sewer borne prey.