Five old fat white guys are sitting around at the start of a work day.
They are conversing about how the world has gone to hell in a hand basket.
They swear that the guy that just got shot yesterday had to be named Manuel or Jose or Jesus. They are sure rhat the person that shot him was named similar.
The conversation was filled with the word "they" and then much trouble about the times and environment.
I was one of the five, though discretion was present and my voice was muffled by my own conscience.
After a spell, I thought back on the irony of five white guys complaining that their world was being rained upon from outside inluences from the south, many here illegally, when the five of us are collecting hard earned taxpayers money while sitting on our asses complaining about past Californians.
People that were disposed from their homeland, pushed south or killed, brought back into this land as cheap labour, exploited by every whiteman that could get away with it and now we are bitching.
Paybacks a bitch, or so I hear.
I personally do not care what God's name is and would be glad to call her/him/it whatever name another chooses as long as I think the person who names her/he/it as earned my respect. Mustafa has a nice ring.