Hey y'all, I'm not looking to be racist in writing this little story, just know it's taken from the slightly-skewed point of view of Uncle Ruckus himself, so don't be hatin'. Oh, and I own none of the "Boondocks" characters.

ON THE JOB WITH UNCLE RUCKUS

So this is how it goes - with a bunch of monkeys jumping around like they escaped from the zoo. How it pains my heart to see this happening at something that a white man built.

Oh, excuse me, my name is Uncle Ruckus, no relation. I'm here in the negro-centric big city outside of Woodcrest at a brand-new ice hockey arena that was built by a white man, for white men. Now I'm seeing all these chimpanzees hanging around outside the main gate and wondering what makes them think they ever gonna get in. Especially with me on the job.

Yep, I took a part-time security position at this fine new facility, all pristine and white, and I'll be damned if I'm gonna some let darkies looking for a free handout get in without paying on game nights or any other nights. Why, just the other day, five of 'em was knocking on the back door, trying to get in for nothing and probably figuring I would let 'em in because I'm cursed with the re-vitiligo and watch my skin get blacker and darker every single year.

You shoulda seen the looks on their faces when I threw open the door and yelled, "Get your black asses out of here! This is the white man's sport, and it ain't for y'all to watch!"

Heh heh. You shoulda seen them runnin away. I scared one of 'em bad enough that he fell into a snow bank. He got up and ran off, shaking off all that pretty white snow while pretty much freezing his black ass off. No free rides while I'm on the job, no sir.

I'll admit I don't know much about hockey, but if the white man plays it, then it must be a beautiful thing. So is watchin' them slap a little black puck around from end to end and knockin' it into a white net. It reminds me of the good old days when rich white men owned colored folk. We sure had it good back then, but somehow we messed it up like always.

I might have seen a black man skating out there on that white ice once in a blue moon, but I figure he must of got lost up in Canada or something and never made it back until now, and there's nothing up there in Canada but hockey, or so I've heard, so I guess I could forgive him for playing a white man's game. Some. A little. Not much.

But they still the others keep coming, trying to get in here for free and jamming up the front doors every game, especially at night when the darkness camouflages them almost up to the entrances. Hell, it's like being in that movie "I Am Legend," and don't get me started on the main character in that flick.

And word now is we may have a professional basketball team on the way here, too. Oh lord have mercy, lord have mercy, I may have to work triple shifts to keep 'em all out. Wish I had a whip, a noose, a nightstick, a branding iron, or something else to lay down the law, but all the white bosses gave me was a whistle so I can call for help. Unfortunately my lighter colleagues don't monitor the black crowd with, shall we say, the same fervor that I do.

That's OK, though, I've got something else to handle anything that might come up. I don't mind taking matters into my own hands, whether I'm a singer, jurist, elf, Santy Claus, chauffeur, activist, bouncer, police officer, minister, movie usher, neighborhood watchman, exorcist, you name it. I sure have done lot of things in my life for a dark-skinned Irishman.

Look, there's Robert Freeman and his grandsons, Huey and Riley, walking in at another gate - they know I'm working here at the arena and probably realize they better avoid me. I bet they probably didn't even pay to get in. I know Robert, he can be a good friend at times, but mostly he's a cheap old bastard.

But just as I move to intercept the Freemans, I see something that screams "Code Black" to me. Two tall, dark teenagers, standing by the far wall of the main concourse, minding their own business and not bothering nobody.

Like hell. They're probably planning to rob the souvenir stand less than ten feet away. Good thing I got my larger-than-the-other-one eye on them, as I make my way over and ever so slightly reach into my pocket for that new stun gun that I've been dying to try out …

(Cue "Boondocks" end theme)

END

"The Boondocks" created by Aaron McGruder.