Yet Another Incident Involving a Puerto Rican Smoking Jacket
On my way home from the rehearsal dinner for my cousin’s wedding tomorrow (today), I saw an extremely suspicious confluence of events: a police helicopter hovering over the street I was on with its searchlight going everywhere at once —and a brother running past me with a terrible limp. There wasn’t anyone around him, but this guy obviously had only one object in mind: to get the fuck away from wherever he had just been.
So I call up 311 on my cell phone and tell the operator about it. But when I try to describe this guy’s clothing, she could not understand what I meant when I said he was wearing a “wife beater.”
Huh?
“It’s a sleeveless T-shirt. You know, an undershirt?”
She had no idea.
A police dispatcher who’s never heard of the term “wife beater”? Horseshit. I think, somehow, she’s obligated by the manual to [wonder] what I’m talking about. You know, for some ridiculous PC reason that should embarrass any normal citizen.
