Alisa: A Story of Race, Sex, Class, and Shame

            “I could use a foot rub!”             She barked this request almost every night, but why did she need a foot rub? She sat on her butt and watched the idiot-box all day. Did she need a rest from resting? At least she wasn’t some lazy nigger, right?             I ignored her, as usual.             “Gizmo (our cat) licks my feet every single night. When’s the last time you gave me a foot massage? You must not love your mother!”             She was right. I didn’t love her. Amanda Goldstein deserved a foot massage just by virtue of her hotness. What about Alisa…? Hmm… Alisa and her (presumably) Dorito-smellin’ feet.             Fart… Mother lifted a varicose-la...

“If home is where the heart is then there are stories to be told…” – Axl Rose             White privilege affords the recipient thereof the luxury of taking a shit in private. Sorry to sound so legalistic.             When Alisa dropped turds in her toilet, did it wake the befuddled drunk on her doorstep?             A Zen koan. Sasquatch hear the trees fall in the forest.             Did the North Jersey party animal wake up – with a leaden hangover - and say “Dude, what the fuck was that noise? It sounded like a plop! And what the fuck is that smell? I think someone inside that house just took a shit! Wait! This isn’t even my house! I better walk one block over and throw up in front of my own rental or that person inside who’s taking a dump might call ...