When I was fifteen, my mom took us to Atlantic City; my uncle insisted, and so we were dragged to that wonderful circle of
Dante's Inferno. Well, while there, my mom and uncle went into the casino. I, my sister, my cousins, and my best friend Leslie were bored with the tiny game room, and we decided to venture forth unto the boardwalk.
The boardwalk is nothing to speak of. Sleazy stores with sleazy t-shirts, abandoned buildings, and Donald Trump's Steel Pier. Now, the Steel Pier is across from the Trump Taj Mahal. Knowing what I did about the Taj Mahal, being a monument built by a Muslim in India, a tomb for his wife, I immediately sensed the sheer crassness of selling hamburgers and hot dogs outside a casino which desecrates one of the greatest architectual wonders of the world.
And so, I began a little guerrilla theatre, pretending I was a preacher, exhorting people to bow down before the elephants of greed, the camels of corruption; enjoy the hot dogs, flesh of unclean animals, the murdered-cow hamburgers; praise money, we are in the promised land, brothers and sisters!
The security didn't like this. They called the cops. I ran like hell. My sister didn't think it was funny, but a couple of older black women thought it was great.