Ballard
I spent the early summer of 2004 biking at sunrise to Ballard to get in line for daily gigs at Labor Ready. The broads at Puget fired me for patting a female coworker on the butt and I needed quick cash to tie me over till the next steady.
I drop “broads” here freely because I think it’s high time we make serious adjustments in regards to women congested in the areas of a singular ballgame. You have the same problem with men, of course, but that’s pretty much a mapped out territory and an old hat. Men by nature are several orders better at cross-controlling themselves in their parties than the broads. And I don’t pin the negativity of the term “broad” on women’s hip dimensions evolved for healthy reproduction, praise the heavens, but on their falling into the state of – you got it fren – being possessed when so singularly jammed.
In this case, the broad I had supposedly “touched” had a female backside alright plus another such fairing. The kind pushed now in entertainment and fashions to de-invigorate the White male and befoul his poise.
The broad I’m talking about was White, too, but having this steatopygia gift from her progenitors – it was the genes, not diabetes or grub, you could tell from the mammoth dimensions of her hip rack – she triggered a lot of males of the tropics’ origins due to their proverbial penchant for da butt.
If you heard of the “r/K” reproductive strategy, you’d know. We guys derived from the “K”-mating parts of the world don’t go batshit about a mountain of lard on a woman’s lower back. Overall, we’re good providers so we naturally fall for the normally shaped prospective childbearesses, out of ogling whom we draw tremendous amounts of pleasure from afar and close, the closer the better. And we would like to take a moment now to thank you, our backside egerias, for lugging around the kind of trunks making us go so lovingly nuts. Oh, we know well that it derives from our White males’ providing success that you’ve had an evolutionary chance to develop such superbly streamlined fannies. But be that as it may, we still can’t thank you enough for carrying them around so skillfully so as to grant us so much fabulous time. Keep up the fantastic work.
So, as you can expect, I didn’t pay much attention to the woman in question in terms of entertaining the opposite sex. Why should I, am I a charity nun, or another such socialized eunuch? It is her parents who should go to the slammer for passing their own physical mishap onto an innocent one by procreating her. I mean, she couldn’t walk straight through an open door, had to turn sideways, then shuffle. Just think of the hell she was going through when turning twelve. Fourteen. Sweet sixteen. When all the other girls and so on.
Really, no one would be “all there” after graduating from such an adolescence torture chamber – and no one should be tossed into such a no-exit pit, if it could be dodged. One prospective landwhale-parent and another prospective landwhale-parent (they pick each other because the mate market for their looks is sparse) crave like everybody else these intrinsic sweetmost gratifications from procreating, expecting, birthing, and then raising a precious one, so they eggsperm without the second, third, fourth, and much less the fifth thought. You hear tons of self-righteous my-body-my-choice rhetoric when some parties call for restricting abortions – yet we’re still waiting to hear a peep about restraining human landwhales from reproducing themselves into ever bigger blobs. Ten years in the slammer for each, I say. No parole.
And so you’ve probably guessed what really happened. That’s right, I didn’t pat her on the rump, I just tapped once on the radio she had on her side fastened to the belt. I was to take over her post in a gallery and she was leaning against a column looking leftward while I was approaching from the right. So I tapped on her radio to let her know I had arrived. But she supposedly felt it was her ass.
And she didn’t feel it right then. She didn’t feel it the next day. Nor the next week. No, she felt it a month later, all the while behaving towards me like nothing happened, like she was happy to see me. A week or so after that one tap, she changed her hair color again, this time from blue to orange, or opposite (or opposite to whatever), and stepping down the stairs toward me raised her hands and fluffed her mane to bring my attention to how cute she now looked because it’s green (yellow). What would you want me to have done there, ask her out? Idiots.
Three weeks after that stairway catwalk, I’m getting into the back entrance of the museum for my shift, but a colleague guard posted there says, stop. He calls in another guard and that another colleague of mine escorts me to the dispatch room like a perp. And the dispatcher (it wasn’t the chief) tells me that I’m put on a paid leave and barred from the premises until the final decision is made, the reason being I touched “someone” improperly. When the final decision was made, the broads from the Sixth Floor believed the female, not me. We take it very seriously, there is no place, inexcusable. Yadda yadda yadda.
But this sort of thing is bound to happen when you congest many women in an area of a singular objective, like I said.
I bet the same processes occurred prior to the Sixth Floor coven, when this ass-challenged one tried to spice her talk with the selected other colleagues – usually such female mishaps are drawn to each other, as was the case here – by just wondering aloud that I might’ve touched her. In the first two minutes that lower-chamber coven was getting incensed at the possibility of such an evil, by the end of the third already getting swept by the conviction of it having occurred. Then there would start cajoling, inciting, even coercing the ass-challenged one to go to the Sixth Floor with such a terrific misandry trophy.
I’m pretty sure that’s how it went.
It’s often overlooked how in the women’s covens, be they the modern ones like here, or the proverbial ones from the dark past – but wait, so those other ones, like the medieval and such, were dark but this shit ain’t?! – so it is often overlooked how in those covens it’s the actual misfits that go to the top and then exact a subliminal revenge on the healthy population. As if to cancel it out of existence, delete it out of their tortured consciousnesses, and perpetuate their own hereditary blur. Just look around the internet tower of babel.
That was the case with the witches of Puget which I’m telling you about now. The out-of-control broads’ collective mindset having clamped like a giant squid onto the cultural frame of a premium organization. A mobbing unit à la woke.
But perhaps the saddest thing in all this was the chief himself selling out in the process. I saw that defeat in his eyes when we sat in chairs side by side in a Sixth Floor office with the Human Resources commissar (of course it had to be one of them, are you surprised?) eyeballing us from across her desk, overweight too. The chief was telling me, blinking, that he believed the ass-challenged one, not me, and I’m fired. The chief knew he’d be putting his fat (Microsoft was our daddy) departing package on the line, if he ripped off his Cultural Marxism’s...
WHAAAT??!! STOP, STOP!! CONSPIRACY THEORY!!…
…collar and took my side in this predatory fat-positive wokefare. And there was a talk of him retiring. He had been really cool up until then, it just was one bridge too far for his trad American grit.
Hope the retirement package the chief got was what he expected and then some, and he’s still enjoying it today though he was already getting on, and he smoked. But I’m not going to look up on the internet if he is still there because it is not a right thing to do. I wish him well.