Last night I arrived at work at five minutes two midnight, and noticed that Office Manfriendly—the bald prick that harassed me in 2011 Officer ManFriendly—and a pretty blonde lady cop were interviewing witnesses amidst trash strewn at parcel pickup.

Five thugs leaned on the entrance and mumbled threats at the cops, including this one that I heard from a half-Mexican half-black thug with dreadlocks, "If dey gonna arrest anybody up in hea’ dey gonna be a purge up in dis bitch.”

I shouldered my way through these punks, who I was certain I could crush in a fight, and they spread as easily as black pussy on Saturday night.

I walked by Bubba to clock in and he grinned, “Shorty Short was in here raising hell—God I hate people!”

I spoke to the night captain and found out that the trash was from Shorty Short throwing the trash bins over the railing after he made her leave. She also destroyed two shopping carts*, tearing the wheels off of one and snapping off the welds with chimpanzee quality retard strength as she rampaged across the front walk calling clerks, customers, thugs and cops “Motherfuckers and bitches.”

*I examined the carts and found that the welds were snapped. I have done this when breaking down old carts for scrap salvage, and I required my gloved hands and work boots to snap the welds.

She had been cussing out and assaulting employees using the handicapped scooter cart as a ram while her stoned mother followed listlessly behind on foot, nodding out and drooling.

The police refused to arrest the mother or the child. They knew the pair from the hospital where the one pig does outreach work. The pigs wrote a note to the social services counselor, itemizing all of the misbehavior, and handed the note to the mother, who is virtually the terrorized slave of this maniacal child.

The night captain said to me, his eyes wet with unshed tears, “I really do think these people need help. And they are just being referred to the very people who have not been helping them. That woman is not just stoned. She is mentally handicapped. What is a matter with this country? This is not the country I was born and raised in—it’s like some sick animated movie!”

I responded, “There is a third person we are not seeing—a father probably. Somebody got that retarded mother hooked on drugs, and she learned the sex, violence and profanity from somebody other than her zombie mother.”

He shook his head in abject sadness and mumbled, “I tell my father this stuff and he says I need to move to South Carolina with him—that every city is getting like this.”

I was thrilled, personally, to come face to face with another sign of the End Times, when everything falls apart and I might get the opportunity to defend myself against my attackers, my hunters, without fear of the hated pigs taking me down.

I walked by Steevo, who Shorty Short previously rammed with a shopping cart, and he shook his head darkly and snarled, “They ought to have their pussies cut out. I’m sick of these welfare bitches running our lives. This has got to stop.”

I counseled, “Don’t complain too loudly. The people we work for pay big lobbying bucks to make sure welfare stays as it is, large lump sums of money for unspecified purchases in the hands of those least able to wisely mange it. As a retailer, we benefit from the impulsive dollar. Supermarkets in upscale neighborhoods are run on skeleton crews because those people make smart purchasing decisions and there is nothing left for payroll.”

He groused back, “You ought to go cheer Zach up. He’s having a bad day—was on the bus stop with that bitch.”

“That bitch,” who we nicknamed Shorty Short, is a mixed race female who leads her twenty-something mother around like the Princess of some bizarre kingdom followed by a weeping lackey. She is just over four feet tall and weighs perhaps 70 pounds. We have guessed her age as anywhere between 9 and 12. She has not even begun puberty, has not a bud on her, not a curve to her sluttily attired body. The mixed-race group of thugs who had been supporting her against the cops—who she also cussed out and threw stuff at—ranged in age from 12-40 and was of a more politically correct three-race mixture in various phases of miscegenation.

I got my pad and pen out for Zach, who was depressed and tearful, feeling like he was all of a sudden the citizen of a pointlessly sick world.

“Dude, I was on the bus stop with those two for thirty-five minutes. She was dancing, stripping and offering her body. She said to every one of us men there stuff like, ‘Wanna put some dick in this ass? Wanna bust a nut in this ass. Do you like drunk bitches? I’ll get drunk for you. I’ll suck your dicks like they’ve never been sucked!’

"—I don’t want to repeat it anymore man, it’s making me sick."

“Seriously man, it ruined my week. This was down in my neighborhood on the other end of the line [Dundalk Center]. You know I want to get married, have kids—but how, in a world like this? To make things worse, when this older lady began to scold her and she froze up for a second, this black dude took her side. I suppose he’s a customer. And there was this white dude there with his daughter, and he let her hang with this girl and his daughter was imitating her!”

I left Zach alone as he was truly upset.

Readers, I give you the future Queen of America, a bi-racial hellion violently acting out with the support of menacing black men, under the noses of limp-wristed police and with the blessings of Liberal social services employees. The Liberal attack on the American family has finally born its rancid fruit. By the time Shorty Short is 13 she will be pregnant. At 20 she will have five children, receive $2,500 dollars a month in cash and food stamps, and live in a suburban townhome for $100 per month.

The best part about this utopia is the karmic aspect. Just as all of those disgusting Liberal Baby Boomers—who have turned the greatest nation in history into an overwhelmed mental health ward—are confined to scooter chairs, our most recent generation of hyper-violent, legally immune and comprehensively entitled youth will be thoroughly conditioned to prey upon the remnants of our Worst Generation.

May these fiends feast on the wrinkled remains of the Woodstock Degeneration.