|
Club Sam
by Marc Moran
If you haven't been to Sam's Club, by all means go. There's a lot more to be
had than a twenty-pound bag of frozen scallops, believe you me. And if you
are even slightly curious as to what it will be like when Whites
heterosexuals are a minority, you don't have to wait until 2050.
This past weekend my wife and son and I made the 50-mile drive to my
mother's home in order to "stock up," as she puts it, on the necessities.
You know what I mean, gallons of peanut butter, skids of toilet paper, a
kayak.
I am not a big fan of big stores and never have been. I know that most
Americans love the big box concept, the phalanx of shopping carts and the
world's oldest man wearing a weightlifter belt/suspenders combination
because somebody once upon a time threw their back out stocking Ramen. I
find it unnatural that you can buy avocados and thong panties in the same
place, but that's me.
The draw for me is watching the barbarians inside the gates. You know the
ones I'm talking about, the family of Peruvians that travel in groups of
fifteen or twenty, not one of them over four feet tall wearing a mix of
Adidas and serapes, their vacant chocolate-colored eyes scanning the wealth
of our nation with a mix of awe and pure unadulterated ignorance that makes
them appear more ant-like than human. They always seem to be carrying
industrial size boxes of Pampers and fifty-pound bags of tortillas in their
carts to go along with their vacant stares.
There were a couple of lesbians walking around together. Not the kind you
keep reading about in the tabloids or watch on Springer. I am sure that out
there in the Soho / Melrose neighborhoods there are scads of pouty-lipped,
implant having, blond-haired, blue-eyed 10's lip-locking each other with the
zeal of patriots, but they don't shop at Sam's.
The ones I saw were the garden-variety, baggy-assed, chino wearing shlubs
that look like the female version of Fred Flintstone. And what's with their
lesbi-obsession with mullet haircuts? Ladies, they don't look good on a
redneck, what are you guys thinking? I keep hearing how lesbians fall into
two categories, femmes and dykes. How is it that it that they always manage
to pair up as dykes and dykes? By the way, if facial expressions are any
indication, gay is about the worst choice of word to reflect their
lifestyle. I say we take the word gay back and give them cranky instead.
These women, despite their lawn doctor couture, look like they receive bad
news perpetually. Nary a grin crosses their brutish features lest it be
smacked off by each other's "life-partner". Of course if I had to sleep with
one of them, I'd be pissed off too.
The gay men we saw were far more feminine in both their dress and mannerisms
so I can only assume that nature tries to find a balance regardless of how
hard we try and pry it from its moorings.
Then there was the two-toned couple and their one-toned off sprung.
Miscegenation bothers me because I am, well for lack of a better term, pure
bred. Whatever my ancestors were up to a couple of hundred thousand years
ago, my parents managed to do the same thing themselves. I like people who
look like my people because it doesn't require me to tell lies to myself.
Yeah, yeah, I know, we all bleed red. So do squirrels but I'm not about to
hitch my star to Rocky. Personally I look forward to hearing people telling
me that my son looks like me. It makes me feel good and it embarrasses my
boy and that's all a father could ever ask for. And while we're at it, if
"diversity is our greatest strength," why the big rush to breed it out of
existence? The worst part is the poor kid. What does he/she grow up to
think it is? Dumb question, I know. In this case it's Black because say what
you want about genetics, it's not kind to Whites when they mix it up with
Blacks. The father was a handsome looking White guy and his wife had that
Xera in "Planet of the Apes" thing going on. The poor child was, well, a mix
of all the mismatched parts. Tight kinky curly slightly blond hair and
caramel colored skin with flat nose and big lips defined the future of that
child. Destined for an academy award if you ask me. There was, however, no
chance whatsoever of anyone other than this guy's wife telling him that the
kid looked like him other than the two arms, two legs, one head kind of
comparison, which if you ask me, doesn't cut the mustard.
By the time we were ready to check out our barge load of supplies, I noticed
that we were being flanked by an oriental family that was deeply involved in
line cutting using that inscrutable Asiatic swarm technique perfected by
Attilla the Hun a couple of years back. I notice this behavior in Asians
more than in any other group. The concept of standing in a line and waiting
your turn is as abhorrent to them as scalding stray cats for lunch is to a
Caucasian. They see you standing in line, exhibiting Teutonic patience, they
just don't give a damn. They slowly sidle up to where you are standing after
having waited forty minutes for Tenesha to "P'ice Chek!" a guava, and begin
to force their metal cart into your fragile children with the single-minded
focus of an insect. If you think "Camp of the Saints" is fiction, you've got
another think coming.
"Excuse me" used to be my favorite response to these invaders until I
realized that there is no equivalent term in their native tongue. I have
long since begun to say things like, "What about that Enola Gay?" or my
favorite, "Immigration!" Of course that one tends to thin the ranks of the
check out corps, but it puts the yellow hordes back where they belong, in
line or on the next container ship back to Haiphong.
We stood there watching the rest of the huddled masses yearning to see us
gone. There was the Sikh with his little dagger and his elaborate headgear
that more than likely concealed a dirty bomb and a box cutter (and have you
ever noticed that while their religion requires such diverse accoutrements
as special skivvies, funny hats and veils, their God always seems to make an
allowance for driving a Subaru Outback? Go figure.) There were dozens of
extremely fat Black mothers with their swarms of surly, equally overweight,
multi-hued chilluns looking so much like a mismatched sock drawer, while
above us all the blackened orbs of security cameras watched every single
multi-cultural, sexually oriented, kumbaya moment, recorded, I imagine, in
living color to be watched at a later date by living coloreds.
And so we managed to make it to the finish line, finally, shoveling our
ill-gotten goods into our oversized carts to begin the exodus into a parking
lot filled with equal numbers of SUV's and low riding Toyotas equipped with
the little chrome chains wrapped around the license plates, and back to our,
still, as yet, all White, heterosexual home on the edge of the empire.
If this is the Multi Cultural world of the future, it's a diver-shitty way
to live.
Tell Sam I'm quitting the club.
MARC MORAN
|