By J.J. Colagrande

10_shore-morris3The Shore Morris story. You want to know the Shore Morris story? My story’s just like everyone else’s story, I’ll tell you that. There’s nothing special about my story. Nothing monumental. I’d rather talk about The Washington Monument, a huge white phallic symbol, a giant American penis, the United Cocks of America, one of America’s biggest monuments a hard-reminder of the patriarch, a hard-reminder that all forty-three presidents so far have been white males. At least they were. I’m Asian but so what? I’m so happy Obama’s our president. He should paint the Washington Monument chocolate brown, it’s only fair, I say. Who cares that I hail from Seattle? Who cares that my grandparents were World War Two prisoners of war, held captive right here in America? I’m not here to be your friend. I’m not here to be funny. You think it’s funny in every American arcade there are games with guns. An arcade is a haven, a freaking sanctuary for kids. Mine as well put a nine-millimeter in their hands. No wonder why you have eighteen-year-old soldiers going to war thinking they’re playing a game. Soldier, son, can you describe the battle for all the loyal Americans WATCHING FROM THEIR COUCHES AT HOME all of us who support you so. Well, yeah, we see the sandniggas, and we pop em, reckon it’s kind-a like a video game. Meanwhile Iraq and Afghanistan are burning down and women and kids are dying and we’re supposed to buy it. Absurdity. Fucking ridiculous. And it starts here, perhaps in our own arcades. Whatever happened to Pac-Man or Pitfall or Donkey Kong; simple video games that promoted capitalism not death. They should make games that promote sharing. Game’s where the goal is to grow as much food as possible or how-to-raise-a-family when you’re driving a cab. It’s a lot easier to point and shoot. I know. And Americans like it easy. We like it easy. We certainly do, Ollie.

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