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| I often find handy little critter signs around my environment that tell me you are a loud, abusive, crazy, chain-smoking drunk because I can mysteriously "read into" obvious cues like a stubbed-out cigarette butt (I don't smoke and when I did, it wasn't the "Ghetto Menthol" brand now made with even more harmful fiberglass, yo!) near the container made for plastic recyclables, because your broke ass is looking for bottle deposits to cash in. See, if you were legal, you could get a real job. In this case, I frightened away the crazy Hispanic female flipping the lid right next to my door in broad daylight by simply opening my door to let her know that I keep bottle deposits indoors to return myself because I understand that she's a sick illegal fuck haunting my 'hood. She chose to play the ever-handy "no habla ingles" routine followed by a wavering little smile delivered with the important casual shrug that lets me know she feels superior to me as a welfare queen picking through my fucking garbage. I don't see her around anymore. Huh. |
Much like Donald Trumps' wildly trumpeted assertions that capture this country's imaginations daily, New Yorkers learned a lonnng fucking time ago that if we want any of our real cultural interests, influences, and/or lifestyles accurately represented, we need to speak up. LOUDLY. That includes bad minstrel acts with broadly comedic bits included for the crowd living in the provinces: there's no time for subtlety when your cabbie speaks Urdu on his Bluetooth all day long to his family back home, with the backseat t.v. blaring away. "Turn right! NOW!" Yes. You do this now. In addition to a daily influx of every single language currently spoken on planet Earth (plus a few phased out that only our excellent scholars still know), we learned how to communicate with "other" perfectly well, with or without our elegantly beautiful and highly educated Shakespearean flourishes added in expertly spoken "High English"...because you don't understand it.
We even adapt our native language to your foreign-import cab business, is what I'm telling you today, because we understand concepts like "world" and "trade" and "capital" and "empire" like it's written on the backs of our hands, because it is. It's in our very DNA. Suffice to say, grunts newly arrived to our mostly peaceful shores signal our unique status back to us by aggressively shouting thickly-accented words like "money" at us rudely and repeatedly, usually accompanied by a greedy, grasping, grabbing hand gesture of "give now" that are somewhat lost on our more delicate sensibilities, which is also why we deliver curse words in regional accents so very well, like I do. You evil fuck! You can't give everyone you meet a cultural lesson with each and every transaction, though Lord knows we try.
We really do.
That's why Chinatown has signs in Mandarin and Cantonese, and Spanish Harlem is bilingual with ESL classes for your Hispanic son ("Spanish" in NYC, get it?), plus restaurant signs in Koreatown are....? Right! Crafted with signs designed by us in both Korean AND English, because we do notice that you are not quite like us, and that's OK. Not in North Korea, of course, where you come from, but here in America, you can be free to be you and me here, and no, this is not some advertisement made just for t.v., like the trashy shows you pretend are representative of us and our genuine, caring communities. It's called the "House of Representatives" in our government. Scary, isn't it?
So, when I tried in English and Espanol to tell the disordered people around me and my environs that recycling is the law, the natural response in "evil" and "crazy" is to openly pick through my trash right in front of me, or pretend not to understand "Ingles" on this particular day, like a bad actress from an overly exaggerated show on an equally lame Spanish soap opera, because that's abnormal to do in any country, using any human language. I know, because I also wrote about other like-minded Hispanics who live right next to their trash and love it (http://mariedoucette.blogspot.com/2015/08/hecho-en-mexico.html). They love it so much, they make "art" from their garbage for money!
But, we don't do that here, so adapt, you dumb-ass. Pick up your fucking trash, get a real job, or go home. You can do any one of those things here, because freedom really does mean "free", and not some perverted totalitarian version that you and your fucked up family pretend that it means, in your state-mandated history books. I understand that drones, minions, and slaves want someone to whip them in their dysfunction until they cringingly behave, like some horribly abusive slob in a weird S&M "scenario" that's been scripted with gay costumes and cues and special words and...wait, where the fuck are we?!
You're on my land, ass. You're living in New York and the Americas. Get with it, or get the fuck out. Simple, n'est-ce pas? If you like garbage so much that you want to live near a mountain of it, Paraguay has just what you need (http://www.landfillharmonicmovie.com/), and I am most definitely not some rich white businessman writing that to you today. It's all me, babies. This is all me and my values, plus all of yours, too, because in this Warrior of Nations, we fight for what we want, and that includes the right to recycle our own trash without funding your illegal move here and back from wherever the fuck you came from. We are a nation of immigrants. We know the routine. Trust me. We know every move you make. Twice!
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| As you can see in this case, a hood rat who managed to secure a very important government job picking up recycling (with a finely-paid full benefits package), decided it was okay to illegally hit me up around Christmas with a card meant to shake me down for extra "dinero". I sent him a very sincere holiday card back to him, taped to the inside of the paper receptacle where I found his card (mine has to be taped inside because people steal shit around here) thanking him for his service to the community and I meant it, because I do not hand out my favor lightly. This week, I decided to give him a beautiful travel brochure from a tour service that my family has used with great results, and some beautiful bookmarks from a woman's museum in our nations capital, to see if he was truly interested in "Americano". No, senorita. Huh. My mom loved the pretty bookmarks so much, she put them up on her well as part of a display (they are printed excellently as high-end color reproductions, which is a mark of quality to a refined mind, but I digress), and my father's family has visited many of the tours presented by our friends in Montana who book eco-friendly, one-of-a-kind tours all around the world (including Hispanica and its outlying areas), but they were obviously not good enough for Senor Correando, or "Eduardo the Recycle Guy", as he familiarly addressed himself to me in his Xmas card. I guess our real national treasures like beautiful bear cubs in Yellowstone Park, and our world-famous female artists (myself included) are simply not good enough for this superior recycler. Clearly that must be the case, because he carelessly flipped over the lid I prepared just for him, and left it out in the rain, making it soggy and no longer useful. Here's a handy tip for you: I AM NOT YOUR PERSONAL ATM. |
"Buenos dias, Eduardo!"
