🚀 go-pugleaf

"Thalamus" <zhil@online.no> wrote in message news:<_SwC9.2072$8E1.37451@news4.e.nsc.no>...
> If they did anything like this, I'd machinegun these bastards !!!
> 
> Brian
> 
> Fra: "Ron" <ron@my.bizness>
> Emne: Mogadishu, Maine
> Dato: 19. november 2002 21:04
> 
> A Surprise Visit
> by Etienne Brule
> 
> November 17, 2002
> 
> It's early one evening, and you are sitting in the living room of your
> home, resting after a long day at work. Your wife is in the kitchen,
> putting the finishing touches on dinner. She asks you to help out by
> setting the table. There are only two of you now. The kids have grown
> and are out of the house. It's tough for them, tougher than it was for
> you when you were their age. They are struggling, but they'll get by.
> You just hope they won't have to move to Boston to do it.
> 
> You get up wearily, walk to the kitchen and start pulling dishes from
> the cupboard. Suddenly, you hear your front door being opened. You
> wonder which of your neighbors would be so rude as to let himself in
> without knocking. Your house is modest and you trust your neighbors,
> so you never bother to lock the door when you are at home. But still,
> good neighbors knock.
> 
> You step into the dining room and stare at the front door as a short,
> oily-looking stranger strides in, acting as if he owns the place.
> After casting a scornful glance in your direction, he ignores you,
> turns toward the door and beseeches in a whiny, nasal voice -- "C'mon
> in, c'mon in, make yourselves at home!"
> 
> A long line of tall, skinny negroes makes its way through your door.
> Your wife, staring in disbelief, steps beside and slightly behind you.
> Instinctively, you place yourself between her and the darkies. Several
> of the men sit down at your dining room table while others, mainly
> women and children, squat down on the floor. As many as will fit crowd
> into your kitchen, rummaging through the cabinets.
> 
> The largest male soon returns to the dining room, carrying a large
> bowl of spaghetti with meat sauce under one arm and a bowl of salad
> under the other. "Dis all you got?" he sneers, "we hongry!" He places
> the spaghetti bowl on the table for the men and the salad bowl on the
> floor for the others. Instantly, a half dozen black hands grope into
> each bowl, pulling out handfuls of what would have been your dinner.
> Oh, you weren't hungry now, were you, White man? You've certainly lost
> your appetite by now.
> 
> The obnoxious stranger diverts your attention from the sambos by
> clearing his throat theatrically. You shepherd your wife through the
> black throng into the living room. The pudgy stranger is perched on
> the edge of your couch with an open notebook on his knee. His
> attention is focused on the notes he is taking, making it clear that
> he will talk to you only when he is good and ready. You stand in front
> of him, staring down at his balding dome, with its few black oily
> strands of hair plastered across it.
> 
> You want to demand an answer, but ever since the initial shock wore
> off, the angry bile rising in your throat has choked back the words.
> The stranger puts the cap back on his pen and lays it down on your
> coffee table next to his notebook. He lounges back on your sofa, puts
> his hands behind his bald head, and announces:
> 
> "My name is Hyman Z. Danglestein, and I am a human rights advocate. I
> represent the good citizens of Lewiston...."
> 
> With this, your mind engages -- you were born and raised in Lewiston,
> and have lived here all of your life, except for your hitch in the
> service. You know many, if not most, of its citizens -- good, bad, and
> indifferent. "When I find out who brought in this greasy yid with his
> smelly niggers, why, I'll..." Your train of thought is broken by an
> odd whining sound from the Jew.
> 
> "As I was saying, I represent the good citizens of Lewiston, and we
> are forming a Human Rights Commission to ensure that the current
> residents of Lewiston treat the new Lewistonians with all the respect
> and dignity they deserve. We fully expect you to join us in our
> efforts by agreeing to provide hospitality for them."
> 
> Your family has lived in Lewiston for generations. Although it's not
> what it used to be, you still consider the town your birthright -- not
> just yours, but your children's and their future children's as well.
> You want to hand the town to them just as your parents had given it to
> you. Hearing these savages called "Lewistonians" makes your skin
> crawl. You don't want your kids living in Mogadishu, Maine.
> 
> Before you can reply, you are interrupted by uproarious laughter from
> behind. The dining room darkies are hooting and slapping each other on
> the back, pointing at one of the squatters. You look at her, then
> notice the spreading puddle on the floor beneath her as the
> unmistakable stench of urine reaches your nose.
> 
> Ten minutes ago, the only thing you smelled was the garlic bread your
> wife was baking for dinner, now your house is beginning to smell like
> the outdoor privies you use during hunting season. The Jew picks up
> his notebook and pen and stares at you intently, waiting to take down
> your reaction.
> 
> It's your move, White Man.

Will the Maine yankees fight or will they just move?

Paul