BY KEITH EVANS
Rapists. We all know at least 3. As sad as that may be its a truth that should completely invade your mind with reckless abandon without any regard for your acceptance of this intrusive thought. See. Do I know 3? Definitely. #1 Some dude named Ryan I worked with at TGIFriday's. I found out he was a rapist through one of those Google Sex Offender Maps on the internet. The 2nd is a past cohort Morry Davis. Now this is only an assumption, however I think I knew him a sufficient amount of time to suspect him as a weekender. The 3rd is a woman, whose name I will exclude. I was her victim. Though I became an eventual consenter three fourths thru the attack, I still claim this as rape.
As I write this, I am currently in the midst of of possible rapists. I am in Griffith, Indiana, a breeding ground for the creepy and mystical masters of the art of fleshly breaking and entering. Statistically speaking, within the confines of the northwest Indiana region, for every 10 Caucasian girls you meet, 7 of them has a story about being raped, or at the very least narrowly escaping it. Out of that 7, 6 of them suffered said act from a Griffith resident (or at the least, they worked at the Griffith Menard's). These are facts people.
As I look around, my third eye opens to point them out. There's a 60 something causasian man with his lovely wife. They are very middle American and suburban as he sits in his black wranglers with his black and white flannelled shirt, pocket protector/eye glass case in tow.
Sorry, there's a hot Latin girl singing karaoke (Lauryn Hill) right now. Unfortunately, she may be someone's victim tonight. Poor girl.
The man from earlier, probably a school teacher, definitely a weekender. He most likely prefers high school targets, which, let's face it, if rape is your field, that's about the easiest target with resistance. There's a black dude in a Tim Duncan away jersey and old school all black "locs" (sunglasses, similar to what a member of NWA might wear), a rapist without question.
Suspects EVERYwhere.
I can't stress enough how effective not washing your vaginas just may be, ladies. A visibly and odorous crotch with little to no maintenance could be the difference between turning away a possible suitor and saving your own life. Let that little jewel force itself on your conscience.
Surprisingly, sometimes that may not be enough. As "Freaks Come Out At Night" plays in my earholes, Griffith's finest have gathered in joyful unison, my blood pressure rises. Danger is afoot, ...with five volatile toes. The school teacher, Tim Duncan, some creeptard in a Nike hoodie, a black dude in a River Oaks mall sweater/skull cap/boot set (mandatory cheap blue tooth), and some chic in black leather leggings. The high council has assembled. Someone's innocence and self respect are in true peril right now. The rape hormone is thick in this smoke filled air. On the bar tv, the audience of the Oprah show is in hysterics, as the Christmas themed set hints, she's giving away shit. These visuals inspire my view of what the ancient city Sodom and Gomorrah would be like. Complete chaos.
Never judge a book by its cover. The hot Latina girl I referred to earlier, the very one whose vagina I feared for? She's now singing "The Thong Song" by Sisco. The aggressee becomes the aggressor.
I wonder if more than a certain number of rapists in one town constitute the use of a Union? It would probably keep things more organized. From the rapist's stand point at least.
Where's my waitress?
Probably somewhere getting raped.
I know, my words seem harsh and borderline negligent. I do realize this. What you guys need to realize is this town of Griffith in the state of Indiana is lawless. It's a "rape or be raped" society in these parts, and unless you rock iron panties, your p's and q's need to be kept close and guarded like you're the Lord of the Ring. Human hyenas I tell you. If R. Kelly or Michael Jackson walked in here, it would be as if Jesus walked into a Mexican restaurant. Complete and utter reverence.
As the intro to Purple Rain begins to play, someone felt it necessary to scream out "This is by Prince!". These are terrible times we live in people. The high council of Region rapists assemble with potential victims on the dance floor. My exit is now a must. I've spent too much time in this House of 1,000 "future" Corpses. As much as I love and adore the discography of Prince Nelson Rogers, this is only fuel to the fire. I think this girl whose found her duty to fuck up the lyrics to Purple Rain just might get raped by the entire bar, on general principle. I may have to support this one isolated incident. You really deserve to be raped if you don't know the lyrics to Purple Rain.
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