White Boy Shuffle by Paul Beatty

an excerpt:

I don't remember helping my mother unload the trailer, but the next morning I awoke on the floor of a strange house amid boxes and piles of heavy-duty garbage bags jammed with clothes. The venetian blinds were drawn, and although the sunlight peeked betweent he slats, the house was dark. My mother let out a yell in that distinct-from-somwhere-in-the-kitchen timbre: "Gunnar, go into my purse and buy some breakfast for everybody." I acknolwedged my orders and got dressed. Rummagin through my personal garbage bag, I found my blue Quiksilver shorts, a pair of worn-out dark gray Vans sneakers, a longsleeved claycolored old school Santa Cruz shirt, and just in case the morning chill was still happening. I wrapped a thick plaid flannel around my skinny waist. I found the front door, and like some lost intergalactic B-movie spaceman who has crash-landed on a mysterious planet and is unsure about the atmospheric content, I opened it slowly, contemplating the possibility of encountering intelligent life.

I stepped into a world that was bustling Italian intersection without Italians. Instead of little sheet-metal sedans racing aroun the fontana di Trevi, little kids on beat up Big Wheels and bigger kids on creaky ten speeds weaved in and out of the water spray from a sprinkler set in the middle of the street. It seemed there must have been a fire drill at the hair salon because males and females in curlers and shower caps crammed the sidewalks.

I ventured forth in my new environs and approached a boy about my age who wore an immaculately pressed sparkling white T-shirt and khakis and was slowly pacing one slue-footed black croker-sack shoe in front of the other. I stopped him and asked for directions to the nearest store. He squinted his eyes and leaned back and stifled a laugh. "What the fuck did you say?" I repeated my request, and the laugh he suppresssed came out gently. "Damn, cuz. YOu talk proper like a motherfucker." Cuz? Proper like a motherfucker? It wasnt as if I had said, "Pardon me, old bean, could you perchance direct a new indigene to the nearest corner emporium." My guide's bafflement turned to judgmental indignation at my appearance. "Damn, fool, what's up with your loudass gear? Nigga got on so many colors looking like a walking pain sampler. Did you find the pot of gold at the end of that rainbow? Your not even close to matching. Take your jambalaya wardrobe down to Cadillac Street, make a right, and the store is at the light."

I walked to the store, not believing that some guy who ironed the sleeves on his T-shirt and belted his pants somehwere near his testicles had the nerve to insult me over how I dressed. I returned to the house, dropped the bag of groceries on the table, and shouted, "Ma, you done fucked up and moved to the hood!"

it's satire, don't stress.