Today I was delivering beer to a yacht club.
I know--la dee dah--I've always wanted to be a lady who lunched.
Anyway, I was wrestling with two 50L kegs on the dock (they each weigh about the same as me, so working together they had me outclassed) and this voice from behind me says:
A- "Hey, Boss, can I give you a hand?"
I turned to find that a young black fella was where the voice was coming from.
I was overjoyed to have the helping hand, but A kept calling me Boss the whole time.
A- "This handcart is broken, Boss."
A- "The weather shor' is nice, Boss."
A- "These kegs are heavy, Boss."
What the hell? Had I stepped into "Amos & Andy: Candid Camera!"?
I was starting to feel a little like Huckleberry Finn, but I didn't know how to say, "Hey, Midnight, ya' mind not callin' me Boss? I'm getting a little bit of white guilt over here."
I watched him work with the other guys from the kitchen, and he didn't call them Boss. He did most of the work, mind you--fucking slave drivers!--but he didn't call them Boss.
To me, Boss could be the dude that gets your ass fired, or the dude that rocks Jersey--I do not appear to be either in my torn vintage Corey Hart denim jacket. So I was left a little puzzled.
When I got back on shore, I heard the CBC report that Canadian Hate celebrity Wolfgang Droege--famed for trying to start a new GTA Klu Klux Klan Chapter in the 70's--had been shot dead in the Beach. How is it that my life manages to stay so topical all the time?
As a tailnote to the CBC link: what kind of shitty neighbourhood do you have to live in where police respond to "complaints of gunshots"? If people are only mildly put off by gunshots, do the police go back to planning their Ball? If people complain too much about gunshots, do they just roll their eyes and say, "Alright, Mrs. Fitzsimmons, alright. Where exactly did you hear the gunshots this time?" (in that condescending tone that some police have mastered when speaking to certain tax payers).
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