June 17, 2013

Through it all rose the din of an even paler, fatter, and more exhausted-looking white woman with one leg in a cast who stood up near the counter, heckling the Indian clerk: “€œWhy you doin”€™ me like that? Why you doin”€™ me like that?”€ Apparently covered head to toe in the tattooed names of every gang member who”€™d ever had his way with her, she kept asking him why he was doing her like that, and I don”€™t think he understood her question.

After selecting my beverage”€”diet green tea if you must know”€”I made my way to the counter, only to be bumped out of place by the diminutive rugby player. He muttered something at me, I grumbled something back, and a genial middle-aged black man intervened to chide the midget for cutting ahead of me in line.

In my discomfited haste, I had unwittingly cut in front of the tattooed white woman, and when I apologized, she told me that it’s all good and she was only wondering why the Indian clerk was doing her like that.

At some point an elderly black man in a mobility scooter motored his way into the store, crowding it to the point where it all resembled an interracial ghetto version of the stateroom scene from A Night at the Opera.

I made my escape safely. The next day I drove 80 miles east to bask in the sun on rocks at Cummins Falls State Park. But even out there, tucked away in hillbilly country, the gas-station owners were Indians. It didn”€™t matter that they sold boiled Cajun peanuts and what were alleged to be fried chicken livers, although I suspect they may have been alligator testicles”€”they owned the place. The white hill folk who”€™d inhabited the area for centuries still couldn”€™t get it together enough to own a simple gas station. It reminded me of how in Georgia, all of the reputed “€œcountry buffet”€ restaurants seem to be owned by Asians. Even my downscale Nashville motel was helmed by Indian proprietors.

I can only imagine what these enterprising and disciplined Asian and Indian immigrants think of America’s white and black underclass. Not much, I”€™d presume. And seeing how what are now the “€œnatives”€ have devolved into one dysfunctional Jerry Springer nightmare super-blob, I can”€™t say I blame the invaders one bit.



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