04 Oct I’m not Samoan. I’m just a snitch with a Blood-Lust.
I should have called this policeman’s number instead.
I dialed the emergency number the other night. For the first time in my life ever. I felt very bad. Like I was a big fat tattle-tale. A snitch of the worst kind.I had to hide in a dark corner to do it.
I hung up the phone and thought about how much I loathe brown people who get drunk and go psycho in public. They make all the rest of us brown people look bad.
And then I waited. And waited. While hoodlums smashed each other some more. The swearing was really getting on my nerves. If I’d had a sniper rifle, I would have picked them off one by one. The police were taking aaaaages to show up. The idiots got tired of beating each other up and started meandering away down the road. Leaving behind one wild fool who stood in the middle of the road shouting for them to come back and fight him. They ignored him and disappeared. (Hopefully to fall over into a ditch somewhere and drown in a puddle.)
But the lone fool wasnt done yet. He started taking all his clothes off. Shoes, shirt, pants. All waved around and thrown on the road. Thank goodness he stopped at the underwear. But even so, it wasnt a pretty sight. (He was definitely NOT Sonny Bill Williams contender material.) He stood there in his semi-naked glory screaming about how much he wanted to ‘F*** everybody up. Come here so I can kill you!’ It was so tiresome I wished I could go fight him myself. I was sorely tempted to get the Fab Five out of bed for an impromptu cautionary lesson, “You see that fool children? Naked in the middle of the street and screaming his head off? That’s what happens when you drink alcohol and do drugs. That could be you one day. So remember this pitiful sight and just say NO.”
The police finally showed up. They brought a lock up van, three squad cars and at least ten officers in bullet proof vests. I guess they reeeally wanted to be ready for a rumble with a pack of drunken Samoans. And all they found was one lone nutcase missing his clothes. I was gleeful. I wanted to see them take him out with a WWF style body slam. Maybe zap him a little with a tazer. I was hoping he would resist arrest. Swear at a fist-happy cop. Ok, I confess, I really wanted to see this fool suffer. But that didnt happen. Because as soon as the police showed up, the fool started crying. “They beat me up…they ripped off my clothes…I was so scared…”
Ohmigosh. His acting was worthy of an Academy Award. Right up there next to the Springbok Brussow. So instead of getting the treatment he deserved, the police were somewhat nice to the idiot. They calmed him down. Gathered up his clothes. Helped him get dressed. Graciously opened the squad car door for him. And then drove off. They didn’t hear me calling out. Nooooooo! I want you to smash him! Beat him up a little. Pleeease?! I was so mad that he didnt undergo a bit of police brutality. And again, I wished I had thrown rocks at him myself.
Now in the cold light of day, I’m a little ashamed of my lust for blood and violence.(Just a teensie bit. Not enough to ask for divine forgiveness though.) But I am stockpiling some rocks. For the next hoodlum get-together.
So, people – what brings out the bloodlust in you? What gets YOU all riled up?
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