Yesterday was one of those "gray cloud" days. Every small advance was permawelded to an enormous setback. In the penultimate setback, I moved my boat to its new slip, about four miles from my house. Having left my car at the original slip, I'd taken my bike aboard the boat and, after the move, started riding it home. Flat tire. Damn.
A big guy in a golf cart crested the hill. He was about my age—actually, he was a good 15 years older, but in Metamuville that's "about my age"—and stopped to introduce himself. He builds custom golf carts. Would I like a ride?
Blaring Supertramp on a comicly oversized stereo, he drove me to my house. Him: trying to sell me a golf cart. Me: feigning interest so that I wouldn't have to walk home. We got out and stood on my deck a few minutes, amiably chatting. It turns out he's from Baltimore, so I identified myself as a Steelers fan. And then he dropped the n-bomb.
As in "Ya know, that Ray Lewis, he's no ordinary nigger."
No, you didn't miss anything. It was that out-of-left-field. He proceeded to drop the n-bomb several more times in the same paragraph. I was stunned. It was offensive, of course, but it was rhetorically appalling as well. Who does this? Forget ethics for a second. Forget good taste. On what planet is it considered a good idea to go out of your way to use the most hurtful, divisive word in the language in front of a complete stranger to whom you're trying to make a sale?
One final observation: the last time I was in this position was on a Football Weekend in Baltimore, where our cabbie was similarly flinging n-bombs. I'm starting to build a Baltimorian profile, and it ain't pretty.