Tuesday, July 11, 2006
I've gotten some complaints about the last entry I wrote. Apparently, some of my devoted readers were less than enamored with my use of ebonics. I got letters from Rev. Jesse Jackson, Al Sharpton, The Black Panthers, and other black celebrities and civic organizations ordering me to cease and desist with mocking their beloved hip-hop culture. Michael Jackson signed his name on one of the letters, but mysteriously, the black ink faded so badly that now it's almost white. Probably because of some weird disease. *Cough* Wow, I suck. Michael Jackson jokes...too easy...too 2004.
Consider this my official apology, beloved black bretheren. But while you're staring down on me in pity from your mansions built on affirmative action, reparation payments, and discrimination lawsuits, please, notice my hair, for I am one of you! I am just as cursed! Like baby Jesus, I am also a miraculous child, but some explanation might be needed to avoid the wrath of God for the blasphemy I just committed.
To the best of my knowledge, both of my parents are white. It's hard to have red hair (like my mom has and my dad used to have) and be anything else. But God tag-teamed with Mother Nature to give me not only the curse of red hair, but also the curse of...how do I say this nicely..."black" hair? That's right. My hair is red, yet it's black. I have the course, stiffish curls of a black man despite being named one of the top-10 whitest men on Earth in 2004 (last year, Conan O'Brien displaced me to number 11). Somehow, the genes of my two very white parents combined miraculously to create some sort of hair mutation that has caused me to be a social pariah since birth, ostracized by everyone except a blind girl in my 4th grade class and those two Mexican wolfmen I say on Maury last week. So, black folks, I admonish you, don't be hatin'! If you hate me, you're hating one of your own.
Consider this my official apology, beloved black bretheren. But while you're staring down on me in pity from your mansions built on affirmative action, reparation payments, and discrimination lawsuits, please, notice my hair, for I am one of you! I am just as cursed! Like baby Jesus, I am also a miraculous child, but some explanation might be needed to avoid the wrath of God for the blasphemy I just committed.
To the best of my knowledge, both of my parents are white. It's hard to have red hair (like my mom has and my dad used to have) and be anything else. But God tag-teamed with Mother Nature to give me not only the curse of red hair, but also the curse of...how do I say this nicely..."black" hair? That's right. My hair is red, yet it's black. I have the course, stiffish curls of a black man despite being named one of the top-10 whitest men on Earth in 2004 (last year, Conan O'Brien displaced me to number 11). Somehow, the genes of my two very white parents combined miraculously to create some sort of hair mutation that has caused me to be a social pariah since birth, ostracized by everyone except a blind girl in my 4th grade class and those two Mexican wolfmen I say on Maury last week. So, black folks, I admonish you, don't be hatin'! If you hate me, you're hating one of your own.
Yo, so iz time ta write a entry like diz. I's gunna be talkin' like a brutha, so don be hatin' o I bus a cap in yo playa hatin' nizzuts. So I's cruzin' in da projecs last night, an dis homey starts ta flash dis sick grin at me, so I's like naw beeotch, not in my game, so I grab muh piece from da flow and lif it up just ta flash da muzzle at da ugly dawg. But he jus reach behind da seat and pull out dis nasty lookin' thang, like da size of a f___in' cannon, so I's bein' chill, being coo', just hangin' wit da homey, but I's really like sweatin' like one a muh boyz tryin' ta read cuz y'all knows we don't read no good. So bro is teasin', testin' muh ballz, cookin' his grits on muh stove wit no care fo' what I got cookin'. Now dats jus dis'specfo, so I straight up cock muh piece and blast that beeotch. But I jus' carry da damn thang, don't shoot much, so 'course I miss, but dis playa' just laugh an den pull da trigga' on his gat. KER-BLAM! Damn piece sound like a newkleo blas, but I ain't never hear no newkleo blas so I don know what it sound like, but it gotta be sumthin' like dat cuz the blast alone make me drop a stinkin' load a sheeite in muh gang bangin' togs. So I's sitting dere in a hot pile a sheeite wit homey bussin' caps on muh ride fo' he drive off. So I pull ova when I sees dis licka sto', thinkin' maybe I rob it fo' some quick green. So I goes in, all cover wit duke and even some pizz that leak out, an da bizzitch at the thang jus like, "Boy, get yo stanky azz outta muh place fo' I get muh crew all ova yo reeky azz." And dis beeotch huge, she like a grilla so I jus' tuck muh gat back in da soiled togs I sportin' and get da eff out. Den I sees dis flamin' hot beeotch on da curb, doin' da milkshake, shakin' dat tight azz like a f___in' pone star, so I's all oled up and ready ta give dis beeotch what fo, ya know? But da dam sheeite is caked all ova muh drawers, and I know she smell it, and she turn and be's like, "Naw way stanky boy, ain't no way you jockin' muh hot azz. I goes fo crack dealin' pimps 'n car teefs, so ain't no way ya even touchin' all dis. Take a long look, cuz dats all ya gettin'." So I's all shot down, but it all good, cuz I's still alive, ain't no way no po' azz mo fo blast muh azz, but my pimpin' sweet ride still jacked. Sheeite!
