My New Bike
Oh yes. The red bike. Fresh red leather covering the chrome spokes. Hand brakes, no more accidentally kicking the brakes on when your just trying to stand on the pedals. Life is good. Life is good.
You point it out to your mother. She frowns. "But Eric," she says, "the black one over there is the same model and yet it's thirty dollars cheaper. Wouldn't you like a nice black bike instead?""No, mommy!" you protest. "I want the red one. I don't like the black one!"
"Oh, you so you don't like blacks!? I've raised a racist son. Well, Mr. Racist, how about I go tell that African American salesperson over there that you don't want the 'nigger bike'." And at that, she marches off to do just that.Moments later she returns with the man in tow. You looks down at you with a disappointed look in his eyes. "Your mother here tells me you're a racist," he remarks in his deep, seductive voice.
"No sir," you stammer. "I just don't want the black bike. I want the red one." The man purses his lips. "What's wrong with the black one?" he continues interrogating you.
You shrug. "I just don't like it." "BECAUSE IT'S BLACK!?"
"Uh...ya." The man turns to your mom, his fists clenched and the veins in his neck bulging. "Ma'am, if your son wasn't so young I would whoop his ass on the spot."
Your mother yawns. "What's stopping you? The little shit could use an ass whooping or two. Teach him a lesson about judging blacks." "Fine!" you blurt. "I'll take the red one!"
Your mother shakes her head. "Too late for that, you little racist bastard." The man nods. "I'll take him out back and give him a sound whooping."
You point it out to your mother. She frowns. "But Eric," she says, "the black one over there is the same model and yet it's thirty dollars cheaper. Wouldn't you like a nice black bike instead?""No, mommy!" you protest. "I want the red one. I don't like the black one!"
"Oh, you so you don't like blacks!? I've raised a racist son. Well, Mr. Racist, how about I go tell that African American salesperson over there that you don't want the 'nigger bike'." And at that, she marches off to do just that.Moments later she returns with the man in tow. You looks down at you with a disappointed look in his eyes. "Your mother here tells me you're a racist," he remarks in his deep, seductive voice.
"No sir," you stammer. "I just don't want the black bike. I want the red one." The man purses his lips. "What's wrong with the black one?" he continues interrogating you.
You shrug. "I just don't like it." "BECAUSE IT'S BLACK!?"
"Uh...ya." The man turns to your mom, his fists clenched and the veins in his neck bulging. "Ma'am, if your son wasn't so young I would whoop his ass on the spot."
Your mother yawns. "What's stopping you? The little shit could use an ass whooping or two. Teach him a lesson about judging blacks." "Fine!" you blurt. "I'll take the red one!"
Your mother shakes her head. "Too late for that, you little racist bastard." The man nods. "I'll take him out back and give him a sound whooping."