Racism: it's about the pride?

It's really hot outside, the a/c is blasting, but I turn it down a tad so that maybe the ladies can check out my Old Spice deodorant a bit more. I'm on a horse.

Once I get off my horse, a man walks up. He's very friendly, has some tattoos like everyone else, and we exchange pleasantries, like in Victorian times. Although lame, I quickly realize that maybe I'm suffering from heat-stroke and quickly turn the a/c back up and drink some water.

Still somewhat dehydrated, I find myself deep in the South of the United States. It's scary, and the man offers to sell me his slave. Also, he asks if we have any music by bands such as Berserker, Patriotic Front, or White American Youth, while a truck with a huge lighted cross on the front zooms by.

The Klan. I'm starting to notice KKK people wandering around. They're eying my horse with slack-jawed grins beneath their hoods.

I decline the slave offer, but humor him to confirm that we don't have those bands, ever.

"Well" he attempts to assure me that all is fine & normal "Those bands aren't about the hate, really." I'm glad to hear that, and he continues "They're really just about the pride, and they really rock!".

Increasingly surrounded by the KKK yet undeterred, I try to get a closer look at his tattoos, but to no avail. They look like faded prison tattoos, so I can only assume they're just as racist as this guy is trying not to seem.

Things are getting pretty tense now; I had no time to take a shower this morning, and I'm wondering if they're beginning to notice the scent of my liberalism beneath the Old Spice.

Everyone knows that the KKK rapes & eats horses three times per day, which is exactly what they just did to my horse. I need a plan, quick, and wonder if perhaps now's the time to hitch a ride on a northbound Jesus truck.

Baltimore. I need to get to Baltimore asap. I'll be safer there, and my friends can find me on Google Street View.

This truck doesn't have a big cross on the front, so it's the first one I flag down. There's a man driving, along with him is his son.

"Daddy" the son asks while drinking a large can of Red Bull "who's that war hero? ...you know..." and before the father can get half way through "Patton", the son cuts in suddenly "Hitler, I knew it was Hitler" There's a pause.

My horror movie-like concern is escalating just as I notice the customs slip in the console. It's for fresh produce. This is a good sign.

"No son, it was General Patton" the father speaks up. I'm relieved, and only more so when I realize this truck is hauling lemons & oranges up to the vast barstools of Canada.

Now, most certainly in safe territory, I spot a dumpster, then a junk filled shopping cart, a corpse, I'm in Baltimore.

I'm safe with Bubs once again, listening to Eminem.