A massive black Tahoe SUV was parked in front of the 7-11, in the handicapped space, though no handicapped tag or plate proclaimed that scowling, strutting driver to be impaired.

This scowling, brown beast stood six two and scaled a semi-fit, and very thick 320 pounds. If there was an WNFL draft. I could see her making the walk on squad, a regular Bob Sapp of the marginally feminine kind. Wearing spandex shorts and a black and silver striped mid-drift band around her breasts, this woman strutted like a plucked peacock in her bangled leather heels, her thick brows furled in a scowl under her greasy crew cut as she supervised the loading of a 20-pound bag of ice into her vehicle.

The porter of this majestically, ugly savage was well into her sixties, overweight by a reasonable margin, very docile and polite—and, as I found when she rung my order out—obviously learning impaired. The fact that this 30-year-old woman had bullied her out from behind the counter she serviced alone to carry a sack of ice with pomp and degradation to her 40K truck tasted more than wrong in the lizard brain of this observer.

Have a care, paleface, you too shall be called upon to serve your dark masters soon enough. As a prophet said to me on the bus after last year's riots and race purge, "Da tables turn... Night ovatake day."