A Thorough Experience
4
By
Lincoln J.
Mr Sprigg's Real Pit Bar-B-Q
May. The. Good. Lord. Hath. Mercy. I have attended two immaculate universities. As a Harvard educated Afro-American in possession of a doctorate degree from the prestigious University of Yale in the field of Bio-Chemical Engineering as well as Political Science, I am the most qualified individual to inform you, the public citizenry of the United States, that the food dispensing establishment "Mr. Sprigg.s Real Pit Bar-B-Q" is exquisite in it's execution of the food the establishment prepares. On a brief hiatus from the review; my fellow "Niggas" in the previous review of this lovely establishment, to you, I ask this. On behalf of the National Association for the Advancement of Colored People, I must ask that you refrain from further belittling our race by calling yourself, and other Afro-Americans "Niggas". In continuation of the review; as I was one day passing through Oklahoma City on my way back from a rather risque topless bar with a various assortment of my Yale comrades in my General Motors manufactured limousine, I spied this seemingly vicariously polished establishment from the road. Methinks it was mere chance that my esteemed comrade was in need of the ingestion of a food substance rich in nutrients, yet with a flavor and spice which reminded him of his family's roots in the slave trade of the South. As we placed our many orders with the vivacious cashier (who's delicate curvature fondly reminded myself of the topless bar) I soon found myself smelling the far away spices of exotic lands. As my senses began to tingle with excitement, I was immediately reminded of my ancestors. My senses awry with genetically enhanced memories of my brethren previous, I could see my family on the Alabama plantation cooking Chitterlings for their starved sons and daughters, yet made strong by the endless days picking cotton, plowing fields, and engaging in intercourse with the daughters of their owner who wanted to be ravaged by animal-like behavior of my ancestors. I soon awoke to the cashier shouting into the microphone on the counter, "Hey, y'all git ova' here an' pick up yo' sheeit!". As I opened the delicate packaging and I sunk my teeth, yellowed by the stains of alcohol in my youth, into the ribs smothered in down home style Bar-B-Q sauce, I felt like my great-great-great grandfather reborn anew by the taste of pig meat on my large African orifice. I felt as if I should start licking my plate as if I were one of my ancestors eating off of a hardened pig hide, starved my the slave master, needing to ingest the remaining nutrient supplement on the makeshift platter before the rats in the barn stole what was left of the food on the deceased pig's hide. Oh, shall I compare thee to a summer's day, picking resources from plants in the hot sun among my kin. I will always remember my experience at "Mr. Sprigg's Real Pit Bar-B-Q", I hope you will as well.
Your sincere regards,
Lincoln Jamal Jefferson
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