As I hefted my Pitbull Skewering Umbrella and strode down the walk, my hips feeling good and my person up to handling the low-grade hoodrat threats offered by the Baltimore County night, I heard the buzz-saw growl of the raging beast, running rampant on the delicately manicure lawn of a neat, brownstone cottage—coming my way—the beast, that for me, heralds the fall of this sissy civilization: a toy Yorkie.
Prancing behind the sissy creature which threatened war on my boot laces, was a towering giantess of the African American kind, dressed in hipsterette casual dinner dress, calling after her "Tea Cup" and saying, "Good evening to you, sir, Tea Cup is on patrol."
As I shook my head to regain my sense of social equilibrium, her husband pulled up to the curb in a burgundy polo shirt, a well-groomed designer dog of a breed I could not spell if I could recall it sitting on his pudgy belly, its two paws at 10 and 11 o'clock on the wheel, as he pretended to teach the dog how to park his Beamer.
Then the woman exclaimed to her tiny creature, "Look, Tea Cup, Daddy is home! It's almost movie time!"
No! my mind screamed, the blacks are turning into, into—it can't be—into hipsters!
That's it, we're done for—the planet of the Lotus Eaters is just around the next bend in the degenerate road to Sissydom.
To my mind, a sure sign of the End Time creeping nigh is the advent of African American Hipsterdom.
You heard the prophecy here first.
Happily Ever Under: The History of the Sexes According to Jack and Jill
