As I sat with my lady on the stoop of a suburban row home just outside of Baltimore, waiting for my youngest son to drive up and take me out to dinner for Father’s Day, we both spied a waddling brood across the street.
Two paleface wenches of about 30 years, but built like 60, unseemly lumps added childlike here and there with no sense of proportion or beauty. One walks in a green skirt and a ballooning blouse, cigarette hanging from her mouth. The other wears shorts and a short shirt exposing copious rolls of mid drift blubber as she pushes a black baby stroller. Three older children bounce along in various shades of brown, not similar enough to have come from the same father, I muse.
Lady: “Look, a mudshark parade!”
James: “They are out celebrating Baby’s Daddy Day.”
Lady: “And not a father in sight!”
James: “That is their nod to civility. Could you imagine getting together the five dudes that knocked those hos up and not having it turn into a brawl?”
Lady: “I hate this upside down world.”
James: “I love it. This is going to be the best Harm City year ever!”
The Hunt for Whitey
Recognizing and Surviving the Condition of Anarcho-Tyranny
