Deep in the Heart of Darkness... er, Texas
The Mountain of Love and I arrived at our apartment complex's dingy exercise room for our daily constitutional to find the treadmill occupied by the woman we've nicknamed Oprah. We call her this because of her infuriating habit of watching Oprah Winfrey's insipid show while she's ever so slowly strolling on the treadmill.

Not long after we arrived, a third gentleman entered the exercise room. Oprah said "Hi" over her shoulder and the gentleman and I exchanged nods of acknowledgement in the whole-wall mirror opposite my seat at the arm curls station. Less than a minute later, the gentleman's mobile phone chimed, he answered the call, stepped outside to conduct his conversation, and walked away from the exercise room. I presume he was heading to his apartment. As soon as he had gone, Oprah asked, "Have either of you seen him before?" Neither of us had. "He asked me a bunch of questions about this room when I was on my way over here and I was afraid I was going to be alone with him in here."

It is at this point in our sordid tale that I should add a few telling details. I am white, as is my brother. Oprah is white. The other gentleman is black. Though the Mountain and I prefer to work out at the same time, bantering as we agree and disagree with Mike Wilbon* and Tony Kornheiser and laughing to the immortal grandeur of Seinfeld. But we cannot always coordinate our schedules. I have been in the exercise room alone except for Oprah. I am fairly sure the Mountain has been her sole companion at some point. Was she afraid to be alone with either of us? You'd be inclined to think otherwise given her constant, earnest, and witless attempts at conversation.

And then Oprah's mobile phone rang and, still reeling from such shameless racism, the Mountain and I were subjected to her side of the phone conversation. So, not only is this horrid wench a racist, not only did she blithely assume we shared her despicable prejudice, not only does she adore Oprah and Oprah while in the same breath casting wicked aspersions on the characters of a man she didn't even know, but mere moments after accusing this blameless man of being a rapist, a robber, a thief, or all three and worse, she practiced demonstrably worse mobile phone etiquette.

That fucking cunt.

Of course, to my great shame, I said nothing. I exchanged unbelieving looks with my beloved brother, but I challenged neither her racism nor her assumption that I shared her poisonous views. I'm such a coward. I am considering writing a letter of apology to Mike Park, and promising him that next time, and sadly there will be a next time as surely as the Sun will rise upon the morrow, I will have the courage of my convictions.

*As long as I've watched Pardon the Interruption, I've been amused that only one letter's difference separates Mike Wilbon and Mike Wilson.