Author’s note: Facebook banned me for posting this.
I was there. At the Bowling Green Massacre. Make fun of Kellyanne Conway, you make fun of me. I was settin’ on my porch swing, listening to the women folk make the lunch, when I seed this group of Arab-lookin’ camel jockeys walkin’ on the sidewalk like they owned it.
So, I went inside and reached for Old Bark, my .12 gauge, and I came back out and watched them brown boys. One of them had a satchel-like. It was bulgin’. First thing come to my mind, thanks to my neighbor Rand Paul, was a noocklar weapon. Old Randy, he told us be alert on account of Fort Knox and such. You see a bulgin’ satchel, he said, odds are good it’s noocklar, don’t call the po-po’s with their teeny revolvers. Get yuh guns and go! So, Kentucky Wildcat I am, I followed them sum bitches.
Damn if they didn’t walk into the Tasty Freeze down the street. The smudge with the satchel put it on table, and with white women and whiter children lookin’ on . . . them brownies-bro’s went up and ordered them some frozen yogurt. Chocolate, I bet.
I did not hesitate. I saw this old boy and his buds comin’ my way, takin’ off their robes and hoods, and I waved Old Bark and give the international terrorist sign for nookclar weapons, and they reached under their shirts and come up with .357’s, Glocks, a derringer, couple of Bowie knives.
We waited just long enough for each white man to call or text his sweetheart and say I love you, the End of Days is here, I am goin’ to kill me some turban heads.
We peered into that Tasty Freeze, and we saw the owner with his hands in the air. Later, some fake news reporter said the owner was just showin’ the flavors on the sign above his head. No, Nellie. He was terrified them towel boys. He musta seen us through the window, armed to the teeth, and he started shakin’ his head, like: Don’t do it boys, don’t risk your lives for me. Liberty was callin’.
Wellsir, I led the charge through the front door and I fired Old Bark at the noocklar weapon, callin’ the name of Jusus, and that satchel blew to smithereens, looked like running shoes and gym stuff. I musta hit the safety device, because the bomb did not go off.
And the warriors of God behind me formed a line and started firin’, and the customers and the darkie terrorists fell to the floor, the manager and his kid help ducked behind the cash registers, and we blew them yogurt machines to hell. No terrorist goin’ to have him chocolate yogurt today—no, sir!
Then the shot-blasted yogurt started comin’ out the blowed-up machines like snot from a giant nose, all colors of the rainbow, and the mass of yogurt poured out over the counter like a landslide, and it covered them beaners in two foot of thick goo. This cat come out from behind the counter and started lickin’ them.
Then the po-po’s drove up and screamed us to drop our weapons. The patriot with the derringer, he shouted: “You can take my derringer from my cold, dead hands!” They shot him. No matter: he went straight line to White Jesus in Heaven.
I told the boys, drop your guns, they’ll pin medals on us when they know the truth. So, we showed the po-po’s the noocklar weapon, the manager shoutin’ at us that we had ruint him, the customers surfin’ on yogurt out the door, the tender white teen girls their legs bathed in yogurt, bless them.
Damn if them hummus eaters wasn’t foreign exchange students on scholarships to Bowling Green University.
This country turnin’ brown. Ever’where, brown, from the shithouse to the White House. Wellsir, we made our stand, the Bowling Green Five we come to be called, one dead, four in the pokey with the po-po’s. Kellyanne Conway, she called us and thanked us on behalf of a grateful nation.
We get out in 2022, which our pastor told us is code for 666.
We happy few, we band of brothers, stood together at the Bowling Green Massacre. I hear they’re puttin’ up a plaque for us in front of Walmart.
