Senseless Scribbling of an Idiot #8

31 cent scoop night at Baskin Robbins
All my closest friends know that I have an unnatural obsession for ice cream.  A friend of mine in Florida said of me and my sister, “You two are the ice cream eating-est people I have ever met.”  Someone else asked me, “How can you eat all that ice cream and not get sick of it?”

And it’s only certain ice cream I will eat.  I don’t keep ice cream in my freezer at home.  I hate grocery store ice cream, you know, in that tub or whatever.  Occasionally, I may buy a Ben & Jerry’s half pint, but you will never see me with a gigantic tub of Breyer’s.  Ugh.  Haagen Daas is okay.  Ben & Jerry’s is fine too.  But there is no better ice cream than Baskin Robbins.

Dairy Queen used to have hard ice cream called Queen’s Choice, and that was good, but they stopped selling it in the late ’90s.  I don’t like soft serve, frozen yoghurt, or any of that crap.

Anyway… Baskin Robbins is serving ice cream at 31 cent a scoop.  It’s for the kids.  No, for real, it’s charity or something.  Whatever it is, I got ten scoops of ice cream for three dollars.

Can’t beat that.  Like I told someone before, when Jesus invented ice cream, he had me in mind.

Damn Africans
I guess this sounds racist or whatever, but I have this serious problem with Africans.  Being African, it sounds even worse.  My birth father is from Ethiopia, but I guess I don’t really claim that since I have never been there, don’t plan on going there any time soon, nor do I even care about the plight of other Ethiopians.  My grandfather still keeps some traditions, but they aren’t really into the whole African thing either.  They are pressed about being American.  So I guess that is my mindset.

When you don’t grow up with Ethiopians or raised in your culture, it’s hard to relate.  I hate walking down the street and some African guy being like, “Are you from Ethiopia?”  I used to say no, but then it would open the door for some long drawn out conversation about how I look Ethiopian and blah blah blah.  So now, I say yes because I don’t really want to start a conversation.  But this sometimes backfires because everyone is always so shocked I don’t speak Amharic or any other Ethiopian tongue.  Why are you shocked?  I was born in the United States.  My parents were born in the United States.  I’ve never even been to Africa.  Why would I speak the mother tongue?  Even if I were “just out of the boat,” I would be as American as possible.  I like being American.  Actually, I wish I were really British, instead of just being affected.  My second choice would be American.

One Ethiopian girl I ran into was annoyed that I didn’t automatically say hi to her.  She said, “Whenever I see fellow Ethiopians I always try to say hi, because everyone is my sister.  Everyone is my brother.”

I’m glad for you.  How very international of you.

So anyway, my beef is with rude, pushy ass African men.  I don’t know what it’s like in Africa, except for the shit I see on TV.  I know there is a lot of hard times going on, and I know that in some countries there is a lot of wealth going on.  It’s hard to picture what it’s like in an African country since everywhere is so different.  It’s not the same as in Johannesburg as it is in Nairobi as it is in Dakkar as it is in some village in Lesotho, or whatever.

But it appears that every African man I meet has the same type of personality:  pushy, rude, arrogant, loud and cheap as hell.  Always trying to hustle you out of a dollar, trying to gyp you down on a price or something.  It’s frustrating and annoying.

But what really irks me to the highest level is the way they try to approach women.  I know women’s rights are very different in other countries, but when you are in America, you should be aware that we have rights in spades.  We can vote.  We can have jobs.  We can live alone.  We can do whatever the fuck we want.  So, please have some respect because you might get maced.

I dated this Liberian once.  Most of you all know the story of the incident at Crossroads.  I won’t go into it, but that pretty much told me that I could never date/marry/be serious about an African man who hasn’t been thoroughly Americanised.  Not only was this Liberian completely shocked that I said I didn’t want to have children, but he also tried to order for me and drive my car, citing, “Well, in my country the men drive.”  Glad for you.  When you start paying the note on this piece, I might consider it.  Until then, your ass is in the passenger seat.

I am in the thrift store around my way looking for those gay ass Harlequins.  I love those tawdry things.  They have an electronics section.  I don’t buy electronics from the thrift store, but it’s always random to see what they have.  They actually had a brand new ergonomic keyboard in the box.  I like those.  They had a radio playing with some Elton John song, and I was singing along, and this old ass African man was staring me down.

Uhm, can I help you?

He says, “Are you singing for me?”

I made the barf face.  Just in case you don’t know me personally, I have been told I have a very expressive face.  I may not say what I’m thinking but my face tells all.  When I don’t like something I usually make the barf face which pretty much says I would rather swallow my own vomit rather than do whatever it is that’s being suggested.

Usually when someone gives you a look like that, you keep moving, right?  I mean, if I tried to holla at a guy and he made a pukey face at me, I would turn the other way and act like nothing happened.

What does the African man do?

This man actually steps up to me, in my face and repeats his sordid question, “Are you singing for me?”

If the barf face don’t stop them…. “Ewww… get away from me.”

That should make a normal person leave.  But no!  “You’re not singing for me?”

“Hell, no.  Get lost.”

And still it continues, “Cuz you have a very beautiful voice.  I wish you were singing for me.”

“Well, I’m not.  Get the fuck out of my face before I hit you with this keyboard.”

I’m really saying this to this asshole and he still will not leave.  This old ass white lady in a wheel chair was trying to look at some shoes but she was enthralled by our conversation.  When she heard me tell him I was going to hit him with the keyboard her eyes got big.  I tried to move around the man but he kept following me.

“Keep singing!”

I don’t know what the fuck they do in Africa, or whatever, but in America single women do not like to be harassed by jackasses while they are shopping.  I gave him the barf face, I told him to leave, I cussed at him, and threatened him with violence and still he was like, “Sing for me!”

How about a song of death?

That made him stop.  The lady in the wheel chair wasn’t even looking at shoes anymore.  She looked back at the man to see what he would do next and he gave me this look and walked off.

It’s not even that he was African that first set me off.  It’s the fact that he was like 58 years old.  Paunchy.  Wearing sandals.  Gag.   I abhor men in sandals.  And African men always wear sandals and then their feet are always dry and ashy.  Cocoa butter!  Please, if your feet look like they’ve been soaking in glass shards and rusty nails, it’s time to break out a super action pumice stone immediately.  This man’s feet were so bad, he would have worn that pumice down like an eraser.

I had to bitch about Africans because earlier this week I was in Macy’s trying to shop when a contingent of African matrons stormed in with their 14 children, clicking and glottal-stopping up a storm in their native language.  Most African tongues are annoying in the first place.  They are not melodic like Romance languages, nor are they exotic like the Slavic or Semitic languages.

And I don’t care what anybody says.  I believe it is impossible for any African language to be spoken in a quiet voice.  Have you ever heard of a quiet African?  No, you  haven’t so don’t even lie.

Anyway, I’m for real done bitching now.  It was probably a terrible thing to say, but I really don’t care.  I told you before I hate everyone equally.  I had done a lot of white bashing earlier, so I guess it was time for me to swing back around to the mother land.

Next week I’ll probably talk about Asians and how they all think we’re trying to rob them.  Do I really need Li Kum Ho to follow me around the hair store?  Where am I going with a big ass blow dryer when you  have Jet Li standing by the door ready to drop kick me in the head at the slightest sign of shoplifting?

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