The Racist Is On


In the fictional city of Durban, the number one rule is: don’t talk about racism. Just kidding, Durban was a real place in South Africa.

“The fog moved in quickly,” she gesticulated wildly with rigid intense jazz hands. This was not the only indication that she was insane, for her eyes were as rabid as her overly unkempt hair full of incidental dreadlocks and foreign nits, as well as the miscellaneous fur of at least seventeen cats, eighteen if you count Boris The Hairless Cat. More revealing were her words, miscalculated gibberish or a random rant, it mattered not. She had the floor now, and she was about to abuse her powers as a seldom-tax-paying citizen.

She tried to lock her knees in place to prevent her from falling forward as she continued. “I think all of you know what I mean by the fog. In fact, if you take a good look around you, you will clearly see that part of the fog has settled in here.” She tried to make eye contact with every person in the room who shared her skin color, avoiding the one who did not. Many uncomfortable asses shifted in their seats.

This elevated the tension so much that Mr. Bachman had to speak out. “It would be best if you got to your point or leave.”

She sighed, nearly fell forward, and admitted, “My name is Janice Kopowski, and I am an alcoholic.”

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