This past May, in the wake of the hood-rat uprisings that glazed the eyes of Sissy America with fear and womanly longing for a protector, I found myself at wits end. At sixty years I’m stretched a might thin.

There is the newsstand job working for Mister Goldman.

Then there is the janitorial work at the church, and my education of the young ones, who skip class at the phony government school and come to me for a real education in the unused church gymnasium.

And then there are the women pining for a real man, all of a sudden wondering what they will do when the ghetto belches forth its pitiless progeny once again.

Mrs. Schaffer is an example of one such concerned citizen of the motherly kind, who came to the janitorial closet after mass and asked me to accompany her up the side street, back into the neighborhood where she lives, behind the church. She was a big old white queen, half-dyke by the look of her beat-down husband, so I knew this was not going to be another, ‘Please Mister Slickens, walk me home, for I am afraid of those other negroes,’ request for protection.

Oh no. Mrs. Schaffer was of a mind to discover the root cause of the urban blight that has engulfed her once middle-class street, lined with large frame houses that could each seemingly accommodate a boxcar load of Mexicans.

My reason for writing this paper are the same as my reason for accompanying Mrs. Schaffer up her street, to describe the activities she was witnessing with a bemused eye for what they truly where, the natural life cycle of the Government Subsidized Urban American Negro.

Some of these houses are boarded up.

Some are dilapidated and uncared for, the elderly residents unable to cut the lawn and trim the bushes.

Though provided with raised concrete sidewalks, no man walks the street in a neighborly way. There is only the coming and going of the busy man, remaining in the light of the friendless day or the crime-ridden night for only so long as is required to turn the key to his front door.

Some houses, such as the Schaffer residence, are models of suburban Americana nestled in the city.

Some of the houses are ‘busted up’ [this being the local terminology] into rentals, three apartments to a house, with a range of mostly single adult tenants.

Then there are the problems—three to be exact.

There is the unspecified business on the corner of the main street, which rents out the top floor to two bachelors, who patronize the local prostitutes. These prostitutes buy their drugs from boys selling dope at the gas station across the street.

There is the halfway house, whose occupants are all drug-addicted subjects of the Maryland Corrections System, sentenced to live a period in this halfway house. This is a coed house, with men outnumbering women. The women prostitute themselves to the men for the money to buy drugs—you guessed it, white people—at the gas station. The residents are all temporary and tested weekly for drugs, which makes them very temporary. About half of these men patronize the drug dealers at the gas station. Of six men and two women residing here, both women and four of the men will return immediately to the drug-addicted life.

Servicing the dubious needs of the temporary residents of a troubled nature which the government has imported into this once viable neighborhood, are Donell Weston and the occupants of his bitchegg hotel.

Donell Weston is a slightly large man in his early thirties. He never puts hands on dope, but facilitates all dope distribution in this four block grid in Baltimore City. His work force consists of two men, four youths, and four children.

Donell and the men specialize in violent and intimidating solutions to the very foreseeable problems that beset his business model.

The four youths run drugs and collect money through a network of street dealers, who see each of these youths as the top of their little drug world, insulating Donell.

The four children are lookouts and messengers, and will one day rise to drug runner status.

Donell’s house is called a hotel, because neither he nor the majority of the residents actually reside their on a consistent basis. The primary residence for each of the three men is the government-subsided apartment of their primary baby’s mamma. There will be at least one secondary baby’s mamma, in another government-subsidized apartment, to provide a hiding spot or refuge.

The primary residence of each of the four youths is their mamma’s home, somewhere in the neighborhood. It is important for the exposed risk-takers among the crew to be residents of the neighborhood in which they deal. The reasons include knowledge of the area and a believable reason for being in the area. Most importantly, when arrested, these youth will be traced to their mamma’s address and not associated with the hotel.

The four children [really 3-6 depending on occupancy patterns at the hotel] do reside at the hotel. These children are the children of crack whores, welfare whores and wino bitches, and are fathered by men not associated with Donell. His relationships with these women are limited to impregnating them, so that they may earn additional government EBT cash and food credit, and hopefully qualify for their own government-subsidized residence. Their older children by other men serve Donell as lookouts and messengers for small gifts of money. Typically, after one of these impregnated whores ‘drops her bitchegg’ she will apply for section eight residency elsewhere, and move on when possible.

This reptilian family structure must have a nexus. For one thing, Donell, a convicted felon with no children carrying his name, no taxable income, and no work record, is in no position to rent this property. For this reason, the primary resident, who is the Lady Lord of this bitchegg hotel, is the Queen Bitch Up in Here. Only Donell, who is her exclusive paramour—as a Queen Bitch, though rarely having any two children by the same man, she generally practices fidelity for the term of her rule over this residency—will address this woman by her name. The children, women and lesser males will tend to address her as Mamma. Mamma, alone, will receive any of Donell’s significant cash income. She can get the house without him. She is the ‘maker breaker’ and he the ‘money maker.’ Together they become something of a mutated parody of man and wife.

Eventually, Donell may be killed or arrested. In which case, the hotel will devolve in upon itself as a stagnant nest of squalor, the boys raised therein taking up a life of crime, with Donell as their role model, and eventually, one day, possibly founding a bitchegg hotel of their own.

In the rare case that this crackhouse—which will have rooms for the halfway house people and other drug addicts to smoke their crack, shoot their dope and have their unseemly sex—is actually raided and shut down by the police, the Queen Bitch—arrested or not—will be unlikely to be able to maintain her residency and subsidized status at this location and will be forced to move on. This will effectively shut down the hotel, which will, gradually or abruptly, become vacant.

The business model behind the bitchegg hotel is simple: the criminal mates with a woman, who is married to the government, as he maintains a primary residence elsewhere. If said criminal is not astute, or if luck abandons him, as it often does in his chosen line of work, the bitchegg hotel may close within months. Normally, such arrangements endure for one to three years, with five years being the longest run I am aware of.

So there you have it, the African American Economy of Mrs. Schaffer’s side street, explained by an examination of its nexus, Donell Weston’s Bitchegg Hotel.

This discussion, titled The Truth About Black People, is scheduled to air on Tuesday, 8/18/15. You will be able to find the transcript here, exclusively at jameslafond.com on White Wednesday the 16th.