Not Your Bro
To the two white gentlemen who were walking behind me down First Street in Santa Ana last Tuesday: I'm not gonna sit here and talk about your terrible fashion sense (Dickies; spiked belt; uneven, probably self-cut faux-hawk; and god-awful tattoos—drawn by a racist 7-year-old?) or the fact that Axe body spray isn't an alternative to actually seeing what the inside of a shower looks like. But what I will talk about is the fact that you and your buddy thought it would be awesome to walk through a neighborhood at 3 in the afternoon calling any Hispanic who happened to cross your path whatever ignorant, hate-spewed babble your inbred father or sister-kissing uncles taught you. I even heard you tell a woman to go back where she came from. So imagine my delight when I turned the corner on Broadway and saw three very menacing-looking cholos; they loved my recap of your shitty views! I just hope they messed up that awesome haircut you so carefully flat-ironed that day. Or at the very least beat the everloving shit out of you. By the way, I was the pale, white, blond-and-blue-eyed man to whom you said, "Hey, brother, nice tats!"
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