Exclusive Evil: Sorry For All That Racial Profiling
If you celebrate this holiday for some reason, I hope you enjoy it. For the rest of us, here’s something I thought of during a run. I haven’t sprinted into traffic yet, but don’t rule it out.
If you get endorphins, share it. If you don’t, warn others.
Most racial profiling is my fault. I jog at night, in Brooklyn, to a death metal soundtrack that gives me murder eyes. And Bay Ridge is eighty percent pale grandmas.
That’s a lot of heart attacks.
Crossing the street doesn’t bother me. It’s the ones that shrug and give up. Their faces say “Somehow, I always knew it would end like this. And Tucker tried to warn me. If only we hadn’t mixed the schools.” When I leave them be, they just assume the PCP’s worn off.
Naturally, they go home on edge. And tell their sons, who patrol on edge. Then a better-adjusted black guy jogging in broad daylight dies on my behalf. Cue marching, flamewars, and Shaun King scams.
Sorry about all that.
To patch up race relations, I should stop leaving survivors. Dead grandmothers tell no tales, and I live on the waterfront. The lack of raw meat would put Fox out of business before someone found the bodies.
Sadly, running leaves me too tired to catch anyone. If you think grandmas can’t book, try looking Jamaican after midnight. I could train for endurance, but that means more midnight running, more terrified geriatrics, and more Shaun King scams.
Guns aren’t an option. My vision’s worse than the grandmas, and stray bullets only make racial tension worse. I’d also have a gun weighing me down every jog, waiting to go off when I scratch my thigh. It’s a non-starter.
“Bring a friend,” you might think. Sure, if groups of black men wandering Republican districts decreased racial tension. And none of my Princeton loudmouths are discreet enough for grandma disposal. That’s a one-way ticket to President DeSantis.
I could contract the plague (again), and start coughing on grandmas. Vaccination rates here are dismal. But a cough’s range isn’t much better than a fist, and I’m more worried about fifty years of long COVID than thirty painful seconds of racial profiling. One day, I’d like to be a reactionary grandpa.
In my most desperate moments, I’ve considered a blowgun. Silent, distant, and accurate; I’d be a grandma-killing machine. But cribbing from Indiana Jones reinforces another genre of racism entirely.
Maybe I’ll try biking. Then I could chase anyone down.
Another free bonus! How magnanimous. Better yet, a long-awaited feature hits paid subscribers this Friday. Specifically, the first part of my guide to writing (beyond threatening innocent geriatrics).
Until then, thanks for reading.