I'm on the MARTA train, headed to the airport. Sitting around me are three older guys, all of whom are enrolled in a class on air conditioning maintenance and repair.
"What about that Pakistani guy?" the first guy — an older man with thick glasses — asks. "What's his problem?"
His buddy, the one in the black windbreaker, rolls his eyes. "That man's a freak. Did you know he's got three wives?"
Thick Glasses shakes his head. "You're lyin'."
"It's true!" Black Jacket insists. "Three wives. And get this: one's his cousin … and one's his sister."
The third guy blanches. "What?"
"His sister," Black Jacket says again. "He said Pakistanis like to keep it all in the family."
"So their kids is cousins," Thick Glasses muses.
"And they kids gonna be cousins!" Black Jacket says.
The third guy frowns. "What did you say this guy was?"
"Pakistani," Thick Glasses replies.
"Pakistani," the third guy says. "Man, that's one whack religion."
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