Funniness Negates Wrongness
Friday, July 01, 2005
Fear and Racism in Gulfport
We were somewhere around Barstow, on the edge of the desert, when the
drugs began to take hold. Actually, that's not entirely true. In
fact, that's not true at all...those are the ramblings of crazy
ol'--and quite dead--Hunter S. Thompson.

Let me start over.

We were somewhere near Biloxi, on the edge of the Gulf, when I started
to wish there were drugs that would take hold.

That's better.

How did I get into this predicament? Fucking RV transmission. That's how.

We'd traveled to the Sunshine State--Florida. Hot sun and hotter
women. Topped off with a two-night cruise to the Bahamas.

On the way back, down the venerable Interstate 10, we started to run
into problems. The RV's transmission began complaining. We topped
off the transmission fluid, but it didn't fix the problem--only bought
us time. A second topping off didn't help. So we were stuck.
Gulfport, Mississippi. Or Mississip, as the old-time river captains
call it. Personally, I call it Hell. I needed to get back to Texas.
Back to that Lone Star State--she of towering pine trees, towering
skyscrapers and just-as-towering egos.

My options were limited. Can't rent any type of conveyance on
Sundays, though rather that's because of ignorance or Puritanical Blue
Laws, I don't know. And I didn't want to find out.

My only option was Greyhound. And not the kind that you find at race tracks.

I would never choose to ride a bus if a plane or private car would do,
but this time the choice was made for me. I've always suspected that
people who'd ride a bus somewhere would be at about the same social
caste as those that live in mobile homes. Upon climbing aboard that
bus, my suspicions were confirmed.


I was the only white on the bus. Meaning that I was the only one on
the bus who spoke English. And the only one not drinking orange soda.
The only good part about being the only white on the bus was that I got
the front all to myself.

Five hours later and I was still in Mississippi, heading north towards
the metropolis--and I use the term rather loosely--of Jackson, where
I'd change to a different coach heading west towards Dallas. I
decided to SMS Rifleman. Our SMS conversations are inevitably wrong.
I wasn't disappointed.

Longer Shank: Woo Hoo! I'm gonna be so damn bored.
Rifleman: Maybe there will be crazy people on the bus.
Longer Shank: That would be great!
Rifleman: Maybe a toothless negress will give you a handjob
Longer Shank: Yay!
Longer Shank: I just smoked a full one in less than a minute, i'm
still buzzed, and the only cracker on this bus
Longer Shank: Oh, sorry, the driver is white, does he count?
Rifleman: No, because he's doing a negro job
Longer Shank:Lol...Damn, i'm all alone
Rifleman: Aww...hugs
Longer Shank:Heh, only 13 more hours...
Rifleman:Sorry...i'd be dying
Rifleman: Great wat to end vacation
Longer Shank: No shit...