Of Frozen Coke and Nazis…
On Sunday, I looked terrible. Truly awful. I was wearing a bulky black t-shirt with the neckline cut out. The shirt says, “What happens under the mistletoe, stays under the mistletoe”. I had on blue leggings which never leave the house as I don’t believe in sharing that much of my cellulite with the world. My hair was a frizzy disaster pulled back in a pony nub and I hadn’t brushed my teeth.
Hubs decided that we needed frozen cokes (or as we call it in the Mitchell household, “froke”). Needless to say, there was much whining, tussling, thumb wrestling and various threats to both of our tenderest bits as we tried to foist the task of driving to the store onto the other person. In good time, we resolved it like the grown ups we are by playing Rock Paper Scissors. Which I lost.
Halfway to the gas station, I realized that I was almost out of gas. Fan-fucking-tastic. Now I had to actually stand outside for five minutes looking like rumpled, frizzy death with morning breath (at three in the afternoon). Now I’m the living, breathing stereotype of trashy America. So there I was, living the dream in my mismatched, ill fitting clothes, with bad hair and greasy skin, buying junk food at the Speedway, like every person I’ve ever judged. It made me wonder if some of the people I’ve looked askance at, were also just running out to get frozen beverages because their spouses are lazy fucks—and because they suck at Rock Paper Scissors too.
While I was thinking these deep thoughts, a roar of motorcycles filled the air and the gas station filled with craggy, tattooed bikers. Now my mother is a biker and I’ve been around them for years. Bikers don’t scare me because at the end of the day, they are pretty much like everyone else, except that they drink and drink AND DRINK AND DRINKDRINKDRINK. But other than that…
So, I felt a sense of superiority, despite my disheveled state, when I saw people giving the bikers side eyes and muttering to themselves, acting frightened, and nervous. Pshaw, thought I. Greasy old bikers won’t hurt you unless you owe them money, or you’re part of a rival club, or if you suggest they put down the Jim Beam and go to rehab, or you tell them you’re a vegetarian, or if you use big words they don’t understand. They don’t like THAT stuff, but everything else, they’re cool about. So I wandered into the Speedway and some bikers opened the door for me without even looking back at me. Awww, nice peeps. I got my froke and some Krispy Kremes too, because hell, I was already through the trashy looking glass. In line, I saw a biker turn and noticed his tattoo which had a rather alarming swastika on it. Still, I thought, pshaw. Bikers have all kinds of offensive tats and they’ve always been nice to me with my butterscotch skin and splendiferous fro hair. Then, staring dimly at the biker “colors”, my bleary eyes finally focused on the actual name of the motorcycle club. My thought process went like this:
Fourth Reich of Detroit.
Huh, Reich.
Reich like Hitler.
Hitler had the third Reich though.
Oh fourth Reich. They’re Nazis.
HOLY FUCK I’M STANDING BY G*D* NAZIS!!!!
At which point, I nearly pissed myself with fear of the two bikers who were buying snickers and Cheetos and joking with the cashier. I paid as quickly as I could and then ran to my car and locked all the doors. I turned the car on and checked my mirror, sipped my drink as though nothing were wrong. I didn’t want to draw attention to myself in case they felt like making an example outta someone with bad breath and an afro. Also, I realized that as a representative of my race, I was now obligated not to become another reason for them to hate people who are different. Man, being brown is hard work. So I backed out of my spot slowly and safely and drove away, shaking and suddenly desiring Taco Bell. Because there is nothing like a run in with affable Nazis to make you crave bad food.
So what started as a moment to reflect on my own prejudices turned into running for my life from Nazis who seemed pleasant and weren’t actually chasing me.
Is there a moral to this tale? As it turns out, yes there is. Don’t leave the house looking like crap because you never know when Nazis might murder you, thereby ensuring that your leggings-clad, cellulite-enriched ass will be splashed on the front page of newspapers and blogs for everyone to stare at.
So really this whole thing is less about Nazis and more of an indictment against leggings and comfy novelty t-shirts. Damn you for being so comfortable! Damn you tooooo heeeeellllll!
