no one is safe...

No one is safe for two reasons:
1. Keyshawna.
2. Because if you send me an email like this one, i will post it on here.

So, I just got the following email from my friend Randy explaining his lunch break...
__________________________________________
Subject: THIS JUST HAPPENED

Today’s theme: URBAN VIOLENCE AND ITS CHEESY, DELICIOUS VICTIMS.

Today, just a little more than an hour ago, I decided that it would be a good idea to step out for half an hour and catch some fresh air during lunch, because, after all, today is the first day in months it hasn’t been a hellish ice-apocalypse outside. So, I’m rocking it down Forbes in my Haggar slacks—you know, what in all of their pleat-free, iron-free glory, when lo and behold, I see a large black woman (hereafter, Keyshawna) going, what I like to term, “ape shit” on a bag of Doritos. And I’m not talking “going ape shit” as in “partaking of their cheesy and processed goodness in a less-than-ladylike fashion.” I mean using that damn bag as a viable and deadly weapon.

Allow me to explain.

Again: rocking down the way in my “Hags” when, ever so faintly at the intersection about 30 yards in front of me, I hear, “aww…hell nah! HELL NAH! HEEEEELL NAH!” This urban battle cry can mean only one thing: DORITOS!

This “cry of the ‘hood,” usually reserved for an unwanted pregnancy or an insult regarding one’s weave, was today, however, followed by cheese-flavored tortillas being showered about the intersection in what appeared to be 300-fashion animation. The ill-fated snacks rose slowly through the air, as though an integral part of the Battle of Thermopylae, until the force of gravity brought them fiercely to the ground in one fell swoop, cracking the pavement in a 10-foot radius.

The reason for the little, cheesy Spartans taking a beating against the side of a mailbox? Keyshawna had missed the 12D, which apparently today, was bound for the f***ing sanitarium.

Now, I asked myself, ‘Randall, what do you do when you miss a bus?’ Answer: I grab the first damn bag of Bugles or Funyuns I can find, and I effing let the man know that he will no longer get me down.

So, I’m drawing ever closer, intrigued now by this cheese-and-bus-schedule induced madness. And Keyshawna ‘Crazy-Ass’ Jones is out in the middle of the intersection stomping these little guys like Lucille Ball in a vat of effing wine grapes. Traffic has, at this point, become snarled for at least a block in all directions and people are honking and looking out of car doors as though they’ve been transported into a ghetto-nightmare heretofore unknown to man.

The climax: a CONSTABLE shows up in what had to have been a “constable car.” First of all, I didn’t even realize constables still existed. GREAT. So now we have the law of the wild, wild west involved. DAMMIT. It has now become necessary for me to miss all meetings for the rest of the day just to see how this cheese-psychopathy pans itself out in the face of THE LAW.

Well, our journey with Keyshawna and her anger management issues has come to and end. In a violent barrage of racial epithets toward said constable, including, “whitey,” “the man,” and “ghostface,” my girl, Keysh “Cheese” Jones was summarily cuffed and escorted away, allowing me to get back to the office to inform you all of my lunch frivolities.

Thank God for crime-free suburbs, right? Damn.