ABSTRACT
There's an old army story — no doubt generic, but inflected in the Nipsey Russell version I'm about to tell by accents of power, voice, and self-enactment — regarding the black private who called the supply depot to complain about persistent lack of toiletries in the barracks: at first grimly polite, he quickly warmed to his anger, and before long let loose a stream of protesting profanity in mordant chords of vernacular vituperation. Finally, a voice growled back, "Do you know who this is?! This is Gen. Cornelius Egmont Filliport you're cussing at, boy!" A brief pause ensued, whereupon the private replied, "Well, do you know who this is . . . sir?" "No," the general shot back. A longer pause than the first followed. Finally, the brother said, "Good," and promptly hung up.
