YOU THERE.

I was walking down to the subway from work today when I noticed my friends in the NYPD had set up a little table and a sign. Because I walk very quickly and with a backpack, I was ripe for the plucking. Also, being a large Caucasian with blond hair and blue eyes made me a shining example of anti-profiling. LOOK HOW GOLDEN BUTTERY HE IS! NO TURBANHUNT HERE! A portly Italian officer with an awesome brooklyn accent- okay, this cop was basically Joe Pesci. It will be easier if you just imagine Joe Pesci. I know I started to imagine him as Joe Pesci even as he stood in front of me, clearly not forcing Sharon Stone to blow him. he pointed, then jerked his thumb over his shoulder "sir, please step over here to have your bag searched". OH IT WAS ON. I didn't even mind. If this is the price I pay so Mubarak doesn't assume power in America, I pay it gladly. Being led over to the table, the colorful rainbow of people streaming past me, the harpoon'd white whale being dragged finally to Ahab's poop deck, I looked at the other cops waiting at the table. It was at this moment I had the most irrational thought I remember having in a while- "what if there are drugs or guns in your bag?" UHH- WHAT? There's something about being led to a table of cops to be searched that just makes yoru mind go to this place. The place where you are sure you are Kurtwood Smith in Robocop and that you are carrying a duffle full of burnt cash and shotguns rounds. NE NE NE NE NE NE NE NE BOOM MURPHY! The officers took my bag from me. The jig was fucking up, friends. They were on to me. Upon opening my stylish Jansport backpack they discovered me to be...THE WHITE URBAN THREAT.

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"Uhh...you can go."