This is a public service announcement for the privileged few who deserve to be called White and a forewarning to those blessed few who deserve to be called Southern.
Warning - This article contains 'Afro Track' language.
"Take the train Jim," said me old lady. "Relive your youth," she said, "recapture that feeling you told us about when you rode across the country, back in the fifties."
Well begorra, I went to Washington on the train. It wasn't a fifties' train, oh no, it was a "hell train!" I went to hell on "the train from hell."
You lied to me, Mr. Dante Alighieri, hell is not a blue-blazing, sulfuric, pit of fire. Hell is a coach seat on the Am-Track train! I spent two days, and at me delicate age two days are a grave sacrifice, listening to casual fartings and foul back-alley, Afro-argot flowing throughout this black-hole-of-a-train.
The first thing I determined was that this government-run choo-choo was misnamed. They call it Am-Track but it, most definitely, should be renamed "Af-Track."
I know the difference between 'people of color' and drugged-up, foul-mouth, gang member, alley niggers, but there were too many of the latter and precious few of the former!
Yes, Mike King, I tried me best to judge these people by their character rather than the color of their skin, but the farts and foul language were a real obstacle to any such mother-fucking, sister-fucking, shit, judgments!
So there I stood, 10:30 at night, in the smoking lounge, enveloped in the tender breath of African excrement, listening to a young hoe telling five other gang members why she was going to Birmingham. Vulgarly and vulgarly loud she told her story;
"I had to leave New York because of a mother-fucking money argument, you know what I'm saying? The brothers ought not be arguing over no mother-fucking-shit drug money, you know what I'm saying? This is my life and we got to stick-together against The mother-fucking Man who done this to us, you know what I'm saying? I'm going down to Birmingham, them dumb-ass mother-fucking, niggers down there don't know nothing about nothing, you know what I'm saying?
And on and on she chanted with her arms up and her fingers pointing down and her natty head jerking from side to side. It seemed as if, somewhere inside her sick mind, she could hear the rappers pushing her onward;
"A fight, a fight, a nigger and a white,
if the nigger don't win
then we all jump in. . . .
smoking all America's white boys";
Thank you, AOL/Time-Warner
They spat on the floor. There were miniature whiskey bottles and cigarette butts all over the lounge and the toilet was as filthy as their obscene operetta.
I am totally convinced that Am-Track, aka Af-Track, should have never been a part of the Transportation Department, contrariwise, it should take its rightful place among the myriad of other welfare programs. This operation is a make-work project designed to employ marginally literate blacks and furnish low cost, subsidized train tickets to the rest of 'um.
It is, truly, the Hood on wheels.
Somewhere, there is a nice family, a beautiful White family, considering a trip on the train. They innocent, you know what Im saying? And this train ain't for no mother-fucking, pasty-white-ass, family! You know what I'm saying?
Notes and thoughts --
Yes I told the big, black, man in charge. He say he would take care of it. Well, he didn't, and by the time they reached Birmingham, all the black male employees were flirting with the hoe.
A hoe on the train, oh, how things have changed. Southern men and boys, during the 1890 depression, would grab their hoes and hop a train. They rode all over the country looking for farm work. They called them "hoe boys" which later became, simply, ho-bo. Dear, sweet Lord, I felt like ho-bo, not a paying customer.
I went to and returned from Alexandria Virginia. I was told, by a black from ticket information, to have the agent stamp my ticket before boarding for the ride home, so I arrived thirty minutes early and got in line with five blacks.
It took the black woman twenty-five minutes to process five people. "My sweet lord in heaven," me said, "I'm sorry lady, but I've seen dead people move faster than you're moving!" I shouldn't have said that -- she charged me an extra thirty dollars (which another black, at their office, has agreed to return, but I doubt it).
I'll write me Congressmen and Senators, naw, they don't ride no trains, and they want the black hoe vote! Oh, Jimmy me lad they will jump on you for telling the story. You will be the racist ogre, yet again.
I must have looked like the Pope as I knelt and kissed the clean, warm soil of Cullman County. "Who was driving the train," asked me old lady? "Shut-up woman; some things are best left unknown."
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