I can relate to the frustrations of Madame Cuntessa when it comes to how some people in the city of Philadelphia carry themselves and disrespect the rest of us. Sometimes I wish there were laws against certain behaviors and human tendencies.

I think unusually large-bodied people should be fined for wearing bright, distinctive colors in the public; or spandex shorts; or open-toed sandals; or anything that is going to reveal to me the nasty, pus-filled cottage cheese on the back of your legs and arms or the crusty yellow tint that has overwhelmed your unattended toenails.

I think us civilized humans should be allowed to take undisciplined, rowdy, unattended children to undisclosed locations and give them a coupla' kicks to the rib cage, or perhaps to a field and used for a soccer ball. You might be laughing at me, but all this rage stems from a few experiences.

I saw this black dude "jigga-walking" in Center City last Sunday afternoon. He pompously walked around in the 90 degree heat wearing a bright yellow suit with a matching hat and shoes. He was feeling pretty good about himself, smiling as he strutted, thinking he was better than everyone in the world.

I simply laughed out loud at the chains that hung around his neck like Mr. T, and at his foul-smelling mouth that was full of gold teeth and other artificial sparkleys. This nigger thought he looked attractive but deep down in m'heart, I and the Peachbooties who had gathered around him thought he was a circus act.

And the next time someone refuses to take their loud infant or talkative child out of the movies while m'lady and I are trying to enjoy a good flick, I am going to have no choice but to throw my soda at them or pop them in the back of the head with an empty popcorn bucket.

You see, we went to see "Minority Report" at Neshamity Mall and a certain hooked-nosed toddler in the front row wouldn't stop saying, "Mommie, what's that smell?" And his hook-nosed mother wouldn't answer his question or do anything to shut the young Jew up. Finally, some Dominican guy in the upper rows had the courage to stand up and yell "Shut the fuck up!" At that point, the J.A.P. got embarrassed and left the theater for fear that people might riot.

But I recognized the hook-nosed bitch as an old classmate who had her gallbladder removed in 11th grade. The people thought she was leaving because she was afraid, but I secretly knew she was leaving because she had accidentally shit herself and if she continued to squirm and wallow in the funk she just created, her butthole and the sensitive skin on Hebrew ass would begin to itch and burn.

And there was this Asian girl I dated back in college who couldn't stop the shit from exiting her rectum after a couple of Corona's. One day after a "few" drinks at the bar we were walking back to her dorm and she muttered the words, "Oh no!" I told her "Oh shit!" would be more appropriate because it was obvious by the funk in the air and the embarrassed expression on her Asian face that she had just pooped herself.

She didn't speak to me or return my phone calls for a long time; and when we cross paths on the elevated train from time to time, she will say a quick "Hello!" and then avoid looking me in the eyes because she knows that I know that from time to time she can't help but poop herself.

And I think we should be allowed to shoot old people who are beyond incoherency. There this group of walking skeletons who are touring the school lab as I am writing this. I don't mind the stories about who slobbered on who at the Bingo Hall or how fascinated they are with the fact that niggers are allowed to walk the streets freely these days, but when the topic of conversation switches to how their Depends doesn't work and they are pooping themselves, I think I should be allowed to use my shotgun.

And there's this Dominican guy at my job that is missing four of his front teeth and when he laughs or smiles, he quickly reminds himself of his gap and covers it up with his fat, Dominican lip and then suspiciously looks around to see if we're laughing at the hole in his mouth. What annoys me is that he is too shy to approach the boss and ask about the company's dental plan.

And these walking skeletons sitting in the lab are beginning to get beneath my skin because I can smell the poop in one of their diapers and they are all pretending not to notice, but the rest of us do, but then we laugh because Raul is sitting across from us trying to keep himself from exposing the hole in his mouth.

And the next time this Brazilian mountainnigger who lives up the street from me allows his German Shepard to run around freely without its leash and harass us, I am going to capture the dirty creature and send it to him in the mail.

You see, I will take the dog to my basement for some personal treatment. My burrito-smelling neighbor will then receive an envelope in the mail with his former dog's eyes, nose, and toenails in it with a small post-it note telling him that his worm-ridden companion will never return and that to mail this letter cost a mere fifty cents.