Having a white man with a walker raise his voice and peremptorily tell me to get out of the way on the bus, when I was trying to do just that, infuses me with no great love for elderly white people. And let us ignore for the time being that I am one of them, as I am not a Karen. If we have to focus on anything at all, let us focus on the fact that at my eyedoctor's office, at the barbershop, at the bank, at the pharmacy, the chachanteng, three grocery stores, and the bakery, everything had been mellow, efficient and effective, and courteous.
And all in Cantonese. Because unlike crusty old entitled white wankers, of which there are a regrettably large number in this city, Cantonese people understand courtesy and not being abrasive. Instead of arrogant, entitled, and disruptive.
Five people or so at the eyedoctors. Two at the barbershop. Only three at the bank, nearly a dozen at the pharmacy. A whole throng of them at the chachanteng, because it was the lunch rush. Several at the grocery stores and at the bakery. Cantonese. Although two of the people sitting down were speaking something that sounded closer to Fukienese (閩南話). In any case I couldn't understand more than one word in ten.
Mati kadadak, asu gila 'kau.
Some elderly white men need to be horse-wipped. They are unlivable, overly entitled, horribly rude, and in far too many ways rabid unbearable hapless jerks.
And I say that with the greatest respect.
As much of it as I am able.
And by the way, my right leg hurts. It's been aching since before noon. If I can act bearable and friendly despite that, so bloody well can you, you poisonous old bastard.
Old white men are precisely what's wrong with this country.
Zo is dat precies, gatverdamme.
Next time, I might whack you with my cane.
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