Herman Cain: Inaugural Recipient of the Herman Cain Award

 

Clarence Thomas X the Tattooed Racist from "Tales from the Hood" (Rest in Peace, Rick Dean)

 

Tom Morello (Rage Against the Machine) vs. Lacey Sturm (Flyleaf)

 

Candace Owens

 

Nobody Wants to Change

 Every year the pattern was the same: two rival debate clubs went head to head and not a goddamn thing changed afterwards. The clapping from the audience was only out of courtesy, not out of impressiveness for one particular side. Everybody in that crowd had already made up their minds, or whatever was left of them after devouring a nice helping of Tucker Carlson’s show later that evening.

Paulo Bermudez recognized this dull pattern all too well. As he sat there on the side of the stage with his head barely perked up, he could see all the faceless minions nodding in mock approval for whoever was speaking. Even his own debate coach, Mr. Diametes Cosgrove, looked like a mindless bobble-head in the crowd, though his civil rights lawyer credentials made him slightly more believable.

Though Paulo and Mr. Cosgrove had their racial differences, the former being a Mexican teenager and the latter being a black Boomer, their struggles as minorities were real to each other. The harsh treatment by white cops, the gaslighting rhetoric of rich pampered politicians on TV, the general disdain from society, they both knew it all. When Mr. Cosgrove asked Paulo to be the captain of this year’s debate team, it was because he saw something in the young man, though Paulo saw nothing in himself and not much else in his opponents.

While Mr. Cosgrove and everyone else in the audience had their best suits on for this occasion, Paulo’s T-shirt and jeans look showed he knew the outcome of the competition long before it was over. The minute his rival captain Cora Yellowwood took the podium in her posh blue sweater and brown skirt, Paulo’s Nostradomus skills were even more heightened. She went on and on about the basic conservative anti-immigration tropes: they took our jobs, they’re joining MS-13, you can’t care about kids in cages if you’re “pro-abortion”.

Paulo’s blood would ordinarily boil over at this kind of rhetoric. But at this point in the competition and in life in general, he couldn’t bring himself to care anymore, because nobody else did. Once Cora was done with her two minutes of hate speech, the audience applauded like they had been programmed to do all these years. Paulo didn’t even snap out of his apathetic trance long enough to hear his own name called by the moderator. The old man had to say it multiple times in exponentially louder voices before he woke up to the nightmare around him.

“Mr. Bermudez! It’s your turn at the podium. You have two minutes to rebut Miss Yellowwood.”

Paulo dragged his sorry ass to the podium and was greeted with insulting shoulder squeezes and hair fluffing from his opponent. The audience chuckled at the gesture, not realizing nor caring how creepy that was. Once Cora skipped back to her seat on the opposite end of the stage, Paulo stared out into the crowd with a mixture of hatred and aloofness.

He allowed the droning audience to absorb his rage before he finally spoke. “You know what this debate competition sounds like? Team Bermudez vs. Team Yellowwood sounds like a UFC event, which is what I wish it was right now.” The audience chuckled awkwardly while Mr. Cosgrove rolled his eyes.

“Mr. Bermudez, please stay on topic,” the moderator warned.

“Oh, don’t worry, I am on topic.” Paulo sighed heavily and read the room some more, wasting valuable time on his two-minute limit. “Truth is, I could stand up here and tell you all about my struggles as a third-generation Mexican-American. I could entertain you all with a sob story about my grandfather escaping violence. But in the end, none of it will mean a damn thing, because nobody wants to change.”

The audience gasped while Mr. Cosgrove face-palmed.

“Mr. Bermudez…”

“Yes, I know! I’m staying on topic like you said! Just give me a few minutes, okay?!” The room fell deathly silent once again. “I could talk here for a lot longer than two minutes and none of it would make a difference. Nobody wants to change their minds. Nobody wants to listen to me or anybody like me. People don’t get into political arguments because they want to see a new perspective. They do it because they want to win. They do it because they want to quote-unquote own the libs.”

“Mr. Bermudez, that’s enough!”

Paulo ignored the warning against him. “Think about it! When was the last time anybody changed their minds because of something I said? Never! It’s like talking to a brick wall sometimes! Actually, no, that’s not true, because at least the brick wall wouldn’t give me a snarky answer or call me a snowflake every time I had a valid concern! The minute Mr. Cosgrove made me the team captain, I should have quit!”

Cora made a hand-job gesture and earned another round of light laughter from the crowd. Paulo caught her. “I’m sorry, am I boring you? Is there anything I’ve said just now that was a lie? Did you do that little masturbation thing because I’m right about nobody listening to me? Or maybe you did it as free advertising for your Only Fans account!”

“MR. BERMUDEZ!”

“Tell me, Cora, what’s so funny about my struggles?!” As Paulo drilled Cora with more angry rhetoric, Mr. Cosgrove emerged from the crowd and grabbed his arm to pull him offstage. Paulo resisted as he continued shouting down his rival captain. “Of course you can laugh about it, because you’ve never been discriminated against in your life! You’re a rich white bitch who never had a day of hardship! You can just throw money at your problems and they’ll go away like that!” Once Paulo was successfully pulled offstage, Cora gave him a raspberry and laughed.

“Let go of me, Mr. Cosgrove!”

He did, but only once they were far enough backstage that they had the alone time they needed. Mr. Cosgrove angrily whispered, “I didn’t go through all those years of Harvard Law School just so you can go up there and act like a jackass, do you understand me?” Paulo breathed both to soothe his anger and warm up his anxious nerves at being lectured by his debate coach. “I made you the team captain because you have a voice. You have strong opinions that needed to be out there. If I did half of what you did out there just now, I’d have been expelled a long time ago, maybe even thrown in jail at some point. You don’t control the crowd by throwing a baby fit.”

“No! You win the crowd by brainwashing them like the sheep that they are. Cora’s good at that sort of thing.”

“So what if she is? It’s your job as a debater to snap them out of it. You actually have to work for their attention. You can’t just give up because it’s too hard. Imagine how many more black and brown folks would be sitting in prison right now if I had given up on them. If you’re so certain that nobody will listen to you, then you MAKE them listen to you!”

“I can’t! Jesus, will you leave me alone! I can’t save the world by myself! If I could, I would! But I don’t have the time and energy to pull the public’s heads out of their asses! I can’t save the world if the world won’t save itself! If you’re so damn confident in your abilities, why don’t YOU go out there and destroy Cora Yellowwood yourself!”

“Yeah, that’s not going to happen.” That smug voice belonged to Cora herself, who stood at the entrance to the backstage area with a scorecard in her hand and a cutesy-wutesy smile on her face. “I don’t know if you guys are aware of this, but Team Bermudez is so far behind in the score that it wouldn’t have mattered either way. I got the scorecard right here if you don’t believe me.”

She handed it to Paulo and the defeated look on his face grew even more sullen at the news. “We never stood a chance.”

“That’s right,” said Cora with a wink. “I guess you made people see things your way after all: nobody wants to change. Sorry life didn’t work out for you in the end. Maybe you’ll have better luck debating people when you land your first job at McDonald’s. Do you want fries with that? Here’s why you shouldn’t have fries with that.” She laughed at her own joke. “Well…you can always try again next year. Here’s a little something for good luck.” Despite Paulo’s weakest resistance, Cora kissed him on the lips.

“I’m fairly certain that’s sexual harassment,” said Mr. Cosgrove.

“What’s he going to do? Sue me? Like he’s got that kind of money. Or maybe you’ll do his legal work pro-bono…Diametes!”

“That’s Mr. Cosgrove to you, you sanctimonious little bitch.”

“I’ll be sure to let the Principal know you said that. It’d be a nice test of your debating skills, trying to convince him to let you keep your job.” Cora laughed and waved goodbye before skipping back onstage to accept Team Yellowwood’s victory.

Mr. Cosgrove roughly grabbed Paulo’s shoulders and snapped him out of his sexual harassment trauma long enough to add a cherry on the cake. “In case there’s any confusion as to whether or not this school needs you more than you need them, I’m recommending you for a ten-day suspension for that stunt you pulled tonight. Rebut that.”

Paulo shrugged his teacher’s hands off of him. “I’ll send you a postcard from the Bahamas.”

If he couldn’t afford a lawyer to sue Cora, then he couldn’t afford a ten-day vacation overseas. But that didn’t matter, because the little zinger brought a smile to his own face. It was the first time he smiled that whole night. For just a tiny little while, he believed in his own verbal skills. How long would that last? How would he use that momentum? It was hard to answer those questions with the trauma of Cora’s forced kiss swirling in his head.

Dirty Laundry

“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. Welcome to another episode of Beneath the Surface. I am your host, Aaron Moore. Tonight we’ve got a special treat for you. It’s no secret how Dread City’s debt crisis has ravaged our poor and working class population. Many of our citizens are losing their homes, their jobs, and in many cases, their families due to not being able to pay their debts on time. Here to expose the secrets of this little known debt industry is a man who wishes to be known by the pseudonym Heath Riggs. Heath, welcome to the show.”

“Good to be here, Aaron.”

Heath parked his ass at a dimly lit studio table across from his host, while live cameras filmed the interview from every angle behind the shadows. Aaron Moore clearly enjoyed the spotlight as evidenced by the fancy gray suit and tie he wore just for this occasion. Heath Riggs, on the other hand, thrived in anonymity, his black leather jacket, sunglasses, and hood covering everything but his black face driving the point home. While Aaron leaned his body in to ask the tough questions, Heath kicked back with his fingers in a triangle position and his heel across his lap.

“Now Heath, I want to start off by addressing with you the harassing ways in which debts are collected. The late night phone calls, the vulgar speech, the contacting of family, friends, and coworkers. By your own admission, these tactics should be illegal, yet debt collection companies get away with this all the time.”

Heath cleared his throat. “Well, you’re right about the fact that these tactics should be illegal. If they came from anybody other than a collector, the police would be called in a heartbeat. But the funny thing is, the harassment doesn’t actually get us our money faster. Then again, neither does the impending lawsuit and the subsequent garnishing of wages. This isn’t about collecting money we’ll never have. It’s politics. It’s all about weeding out the poor and disenfranchised so that they can’t influence our governmental policies. It’s not a conspiracy. This shit’s as real as it gets.”

Aaron, who was drinking a mug of hot coffee during Heath’s answer, spit out his beverage and choked on whatever was left. After wiping his mouth with his expensive sleeve, he said, “Mr. Riggs, I appreciate your honesty during this interview, but I have to ask you not to swear when giving your answers. We’re on live television in over a million homes. Surely, you understand.”

“Of course I do.” Heath grinned like he was onto something. “Wouldn’t want to offend your audience’s precious Christian ears. Wouldn’t want the children to hear any of this shit. Lord knows they might grow up to become free thinkers. We know that can never happen.”

“I’m warning you, Mr. Riggs….”

Taking his sunglasses off and revealing gray mechanical eyes underneath, Heath said, “Don’t worry, Aaron, I got the message loud and clear. You can’t swear on television, but if you do it behind closed doors with an unwilling secretary, it’s A-okay. I’m not just exposing the debt industries secrets, but yours as well. I agreed to do this interview because I want a clear conscience. Fourteen years of debt collecting began to wear on my soul after a while. I figured, as long as I’m here with an alleged sexual harasser, I might as well go the full nine, you know what I’m saying?”

“Cut the camera feed! Cut it now!” demanded Aaron. Without checking to see if his orders were followed, he leaned in closer to Heath’s face and pointed an accusatory finger at him. “I don’t know what kind of stunt you’re trying to pull, but you have no proof and neither do any of my accusers. Those cases were settled a long time ago. Now do you want to discuss debt collection or do you want to keep toying with me?”

“Why can’t he talk about both? It’s not like you two don’t deserve last words,” said a robotic feminine voice from the shadowy background. While Heath remained calm, cool, and collected, Aaron went bug-eyed and his body trembled at the sight of a cyborg assassin holding two severed heads by the hair like they were cheerleader pompoms. As soon as this mysterious woman stepped into the light, headless bodies all around the studio dropped to the ground and soaked the wooden floors in human blood and cyborg oil. A bald black woman with golden earrings and a green metal suit stared her newest victims down with a mischievous grin.

While Aaron curled up in a ball on the edge of pissing himself, the assassin said, “Don’t worry, honey. None of what you or Heath said made it on the airwaves. I made sure of that. It’s probably just as well. Although, if you want to tell your mindless viewers goodbye for one last time, I suppose I could let you do that.”

“Please…I don’t know who you are, but I’ve got a family I need to get home to. Don’t kill me! Please don’t kill me!” quivered Aaron while Heath smiled and shook his head.

“It’s the same old excuse: think of my family so that I don’t have to when I’m trying to take the secretary to pound town. Don’t worry, Aaron, I’ve got this.” Heath cracked his knuckles before getting out of his chair and strutting towards the assassin, who tossed the cameramen’s heads off to the side like they were easily disposable to begin with.

“What are you so cocky about, Mr. Riggs? You’re not making it out alive any more than Hard-On Henry over here. In fact, you’re the reason I came here today,” said the assassin with a grin.

Heath gazed his assailant up and down and whistled. “That’s some expensive hardware you’ve got there. How much did them arm blades set you back? Hundreds? Thousands of dollars? And that metal body? Shit, man, I don’t know how you pay for all that with just a Street Ronin’s salary. If only there was somebody here who knew how to make debt disappear quicker than those cameramen you laid out. Hmm…” Heath stroked his chin as he mockingly pondered this question.

The assassin flipped one of her arm blades and held it underneath Heath’s chin. He didn’t back down from his confident demeanor, but he was all ears for his would-be killer. “When you’re as good as me, money isn’t that hard to come by. I don’t know what kind of lies you’re telling about my client, but these poor suckers don’t go into debt because of politics. They do it because they could never make it in a capitalist meritocracy. That’s my special way of saying they’re fucking lazy.”

“Sure, whatever you say…Harlock!”

Upon hearing the assassin’s name, Aaron slowly lowered his feet to the bloody floor, obviously not caring that much about his designer shoes. “Wait a minute, you know this woman?”

“Not as well as I’d like to, but when you’ve been on the job as long as I have, you learn something about these poor pathetic motherfuckers. The boss man gives you a name, an address, and how much they owe. The rest of the research is up to you, hence why we often resort to calling friends and family to collect the debt. Harlock here doesn’t care about the circumstances of others, which is ironic considering those cyborg parts didn’t come easy in this so-called meritocracy. Besides, if she was really as hot shit as she thinks she is, she wouldn’t have revealed all this information to me. We’d both be dead as fucking fried chicken right now. But as it is…”

“Shut the hell up!” said Harlock as she drew a tiny droplet of blood from Heath’s cheek. He still didn’t budge, only smiled wider as he cleaned the wound off with his finger and licked it.

“Face it, lady,” said Heath. “You don’t want to admit it, but you can see the irony of a debt-burdened assassin working for a debt collection agency. You’re desperate for cash, so you’ll whore your services to anybody who can make shit go away. But the truth is…paying those suckers off ain’t going to solve everything. You would not believe the tricks they pull out of their asses just to keep you paying up. Ever heard of zombie debt? How about fifty percent interest? How about debtor’s prison? They still have that shit.”

Harlock narrowed her bladed eyebrows and dug the weapon deeper into Heath’s skin. He flinched a little bit, but not enough to give away whatever modicum of fear he might have been burdened with. She leaned in and said, “You know nothing about me and my struggles.”

“Exactly! Debt collectors don’t know shit about you, which is why they keep calling your ass in the first place! You could come crying to them with your whole life story and it wouldn’t be enough. They got no heart. They got no soul. If a big ass mega corporation had a heart and soul, they wouldn’t be in business for very long, would they? Capitalism is a bitch.”

Harlock’s eyes slowly lowered to the soggy floor as if Heath’s words got through to her. He took this small window of opportunity to grab her by the arm and swing her blade into her own stomach. While Aaron was in the background this whole time shivering and weeping, Harlock’s mechanical guts spilled all over the ground as she coughed up oil and blood. Heath yanked the blade upwards and split the rest of her upper body in two, bloodying the floor even more than it already was.

“What the hell did you do that for?! She was cooperating!” Aaron screamed.

“Recognizing how badly you’ve fucked up isn’t a Get Out of Jail Free card. In case you hadn’t noticed what’s been going on here the past few seconds, look on the ground. That bitch is beyond redemption. Speaking of which, let’s get them cameras rolling again…”

“No! No cameras! No! I’m done with this!”

“Oh, we’re just getting started, Aaron. We’ve got a lot to discuss. Debt collection and sexual harassment all in one story, although that piss stain on your pants will be bigger ratings boost than anything we talk about.”

Aaron spread his shaky legs to see that there was indeed urine on his groin. “Goddamn it!”

Heath shushed him. “Ah, ah, ah! No swearing! There’re children watching!”

Tales From the Hood 2

MOVIE TITLE: Tales From the Hood 2

DIRECTORS: Rusty Cundieff and Darin Scott

YEAR: 2018

GENRE: Horror Anthology

RATING: R for violence, language, sexual content, and political themes

GRADE: Mixed

Master storyteller Mr. Simms is hired by rightwing prison CEO Dumass Beach to give secondhand experience to a police android named Robo Patriot. These stories are designed to help the robot identify threats to America and deal with them appropriately. Instead of giving Beach his confirmation bias, Simms tells stories about the pain racism and sexual harassment have caused throughout the years. Whether the lead characters in these stories are Tinder rapists, mammie doll collectors, wannabe thugs, or black republican politicians, they all will get what’s coming to them in the end. Beach doesn’t like these premises, but live with them he must.

Compared to the first Tales From the Hood movie, this sequel had more cheese than a stuffed crust Domino’s pizza. Whether you agree with the messages in this movie or not, every storytelling device these directors used was so obvious even to the most tone-deaf viewers. I’ll leave it up to you to figure out what the prison CEO’s name Dumass Beach is supposed to be a play on words of. The poor acting skills of the white characters didn’t make me believe in the stories, especially the mammie doll collector in the first story. The Robo Patriot sounds like it was haphazardly thrown together at the last minute, not an ounce of creativity left. The CGI effects looked faker than a John Cena pro-wrestling punch. I could have eaten Wendy’s Baconator fries and gotten the same amount of cheese, but no, I had to sit through Tales From the Hood 2 because I thought it could measure up to its 1995 predecessor.

I can’t completely dump all over this movie, though. There is a reason it received a mixed grade from me instead of a failing one. The strong themes of racism are what saved it. Floyd, the museum curator in the first story, delivered his dialogue about the history of black culture in a convincing and educational way. Plus, I loved his evil side near the end (even though he was technically the good guy of the story). In the last story, a group of voodoo sacrifices have to convince a black republican to vote with his heart, not with his wallet. And don’t forget the third story about the Tinder rapists, which is a cautionary tale to end the romanticizing of “boys will be boys”.

Beach’s distasteful reactions to these stories should serve as a reminder of how abundant racism and sexism are in today’s culture. It’s a shame these stories had to be poorly acted by the white characters. The black characters did an excellent job, by the way. I’m not trying to be a “reverse racist” when I say that. I’m just calling it like I see it. The black actors most likely experienced overt racism during their lives, so they bring that into their acting gigs and it sounds more authentic. I was disappointed with Zoe’s performance, though. She sounded just as unconvincing as her white friends.

I can understand the hate this movie gets online, but it’s not as bad as I was anticipating it to be. It had its good moments along with its hokey ones. And yes, it didn’t live up to the bar the previous Tales Form the Hood movie set. I get that. Even Mr. Simms’s “Welcome to Hell!” line sounded forced, like the directors were trying to recapture that old glory of Clarence Williams’s version of Simms in the first movie. But like I said before, this movie gets a mixed reception from me, not a negative one. But would I want to watch it again? Maybe if I was a robot during an episode of Mystery Science Theater 3000.

Punished For Nothing

VERSE 1

The rift between crime and punishment

Is the rift between democracy and government

A slap on the wrist for a child rapist

A lifetime in prison for the drugs taken

Beaten and tortured for freedom of speech

What lessons are we supposed to teach?

That you’re fucked no matter what?

Unless you’ve got over a billion bucks?

CHORUS

Punished for nothing! X4

VERSE 2

Protesting peacefully in a crowded street

Pepper spray burns like hellfire heat

Bones broken by a pair of booted feet

A life sentence for daring to question

The authority that screwed you over

No punishment for the country’s owners

Administrative leave for those who smash

The skulls of innocents who’re treated like trash

CHORUS

Punished for nothing! X4

VERSE 3

White man, black man, what’s the difference?

One is automatically declared innocent

The other is treated like he’s second class

Yet we refuse to acknowledge the racist past

Calling the cops for doing mundane tasks

Sparing those who kiss the authority’s ass

One nation under fraud, justice for none

It’s all just a joke to you, all in good fun

CHORUS

Punished for nothing! X4

FINAL VERSE

They always tell us to not break the law

But even innocents can have a broken jaw

Even a jaywalker can eat a fucking bullet

The American Dream has been stolen

Black Panther

MOVIE TITLE: Black Panther

DIRECTOR: Ryan Coogler

YEAR: 2018

GENRE: Superhero

RATING: PG-13 for violence and language

GRADE: Extra Credit

The secret African nation of Wakanda harvests a powerful mineral called vibranium and uses the unstable element as the basis for all of their technology. Part of their technological advancements include an impenetrable superhero suit for the king of Wakanda, T’Challa a.k.a. Black Panther. A mysterious black American soldier named Erik “Killmonger” Stevens wants the vibranium for himself so that he can carry out his own political agenda. The power struggle between Black Panther and Killmonger runs deeper than just superficial greed. Revenge, revolution, and altruism are at the heart of this battle in which loyalties will be tested on both sides of the equation.

The main reason this movie gets an extra credit grade is because of how strongly black people are portrayed. Representation matters, especially in a world where racism and classism governs every part of American life. The audience will love the Black Panther character for more reasons than just being a kick-ass superhero. There’s a struggle within him that’s more taxing than the physical battles he endures. He wants to be a good king to his people, but a small part of him wants to share his loyalty with the entire world despite protests from his own subjects. This dynamic between selfishness and altruism is something we all have to consider in our lives. We need to have empathy for each other if our world is going to know true peace and the director seems to agree with that sentiment. Blood begets more blood and love begets more love. Underneath all of the action-packed fight scenes, the truth resides, though some people aren’t ready to hear that truth, which is why we have the bloodbaths we have today.

But of course, if the power struggle is to be believed, then the villain must buy into his own hype and make a strong case for it. That’s exactly what Killmonger does and the actor’s portrayal of such is to be praised. Killmonger wants revenge on a world that looks down upon him with racist bigotry. He wants to overthrow entire governments just so he can flash a middle finger to the man. It goes to show that even in a superhero movie like this, there are shades of gray in between the two extremes. The audience actually has to think for themselves and decide what is right. I hate power hungry oligarchs as much as anybody, but do we need constant assassinations left and right? It’s easy to give into the dark side when anger becomes your driving force. Be better than that. I’m begging you.

No matter what side King T’Challa takes, he’s going to have to pay his dues with one hundred percent interest. Just because he’s a superhero, doesn’t mean he’s not vulnerable to losing every now and then. Physical strength and godlike endurance can only take a man so far. It’s what’s on the inside that will bring him to any victories he needs. Anybody can throw a spear. Anybody can shoot a machinegun. But the real enemy must be conquered from within and that takes more strength than a bullet can provide. Some people don’t have that strength and they either meet an early death or they cross the moral event horizon themselves. Can Black Panther pass his own moral test? Buy a ticket and see for yourself.

In the same way that Wonder Woman was empowering to females, Black Panther is empowering for black people. While it’s nice to live vicariously through the titular superhero, it’s what we do in the real world that will make the biggest difference. What will you do to make a change? Will your actions be more powerful than a lead bullet? Will you become superhuman by virtue of your work towards a better day? Black Panther will steer you in the right direction and for that it gets an extra credit grade.

Thurgood

PLAY TITLE: Thurgood

PLAYWRIGHT: George Stevens, Jr.

OPENING YEAR: 2006

GENRE: Historical One-Man Show

MATURE CONTENT: Racial Slurs

GRADE: Extra Credit

Thurgood Marshall reflects on his life from impoverished beginnings to becoming a well-known civil rights activist and Supreme Court justice. His budding wisdom was needed more than ever since he grew up during the Jim Crow era, when racism against black Americans came in the form of lynching, segregation, and an instilled feeling of inferiority. Through poignant debating skills, tireless research, and undying commitment to his cause, Thurgood Marshall paved the way for younger generations of black Americans by giving them a sense of pride and urgency. They need it now more than ever in the wake of Trump’s presidency, police brutality, and the rise of the alternative right.

I saw this play on February 25^th, 2018 and the actor who played Thurgood was spot-on in his performance that afternoon. He spoke with candid authority, undying passion, and an encyclopedic knowledge of the law. When he said that the law will be his only weapon, you believed him, not just because of beforehand research, but because it felt organic coming out of this actor’s mouth. There were a few times when he stumbled over his words, but he was able to pick himself back up and keep going with his oratory as if nothing slowed him down. Even if you had the attention span of a five year old, you’d still be laser focused on this one-man show.

The actor’s body language was every bit as poignant as his debating skills and speech patterns. He recalled one time when he worked as a waiter in a predominantly white café. The way he served his racist customer’s food and danced around all smiles was the perfect mask for hiding his anger on the inside. He knew being constantly called the N-word was wrong, but he put up with it because he was getting twenty dollar tips during a time when he was flat broke. It wasn’t until after being fired by his black boss that he realized there were more important things in this world than money. That’s a lesson we all need to learn if we’re to move forward. If you’re not paying attention to this lesson, you’re already waiting to be screwed.

But even the Murphy’s Law-style life story and emotional acting couldn’t prepare me for the doll comparison angle. When arguing against segregation, Thurgood had two dolls on the bench: a white doll and a black doll. He recalled research where he asked children questions like, “Which doll would you like to play with?”, “Which doll is better looking?” and “Which doll is evil?” The black children answered positively for the white doll and negatively for the black doll. That broke my goddamn heart. Taking self-esteem away from children no matter what color is disgusting as hell. But without this heart-wrenching scene, Thurgood wouldn’t have been able to make a strong case against Plessey vs. Ferguson. It hurts. It hurts badly. But it’s a truth that we all must be exposed to if we are to make progress. This part of the story was executed perfectly.

We need this kind of peak-performance acting in today’s far-right society. We need this kind of inspiration. We need this kind of message. I have no idea when this one-man play will be performed again, but if your city is hosting it, go see it without missing a beat. Even for those who are already on the correct side of history, your eyes will be opened much wider than before. Thurgood Marshall did a lot for this country, but we still have a long way to go until we reach perfect harmony. An extra credit grade will go to this excellently-acted show with an undeniable message.

Escape From Kentucky

Matt Ramirez and Alice Logan joined hands and let the soothing sounds of “Oh” by Stone Mecca wash over their exhausted bodies. Just a few more miles on the road and they’d be free at last. Matt took especial care not to drive over the speed limit lest he be pulled over by “Kentucky’s finest”. They’d take one look at his dark skin and wouldn’t think twice about pulling the trigger. Such thoughts caused Matt to accidentally squeeze too hard on Alice’s hand, to which she yelped and he promptly apologized.

“It’s my father, isn’t it, Matt?” asked Alice.

“It’s not just him,” said Matt. “It’s that whole group of assholes and whack jobs he sides with. I can’t go anywhere in Kentucky without seeing a burning cross or a burning swastika. Even when I close my eyes to sleep at night…” That last sentence was punctuated with a sigh as he was lost for further words.

Alice saw the pain etched in Matt’s otherwise handsome face and hers suddenly became visible too. That black eye he received healed quite nicely, though it was noticeable from miles away. All of this hatred over something as stupid as the color of someone’s skin. How senseless and cruel, she thought. She reached into the glove box and pulled out two items: a bowie knife and a manila envelope.

“I’m not going to lie to you, Matt,” said Alice in her sweet southern belle voice. “It’ll only be a matter of time before daddy finds us. If he does, I want you to have this knife. I’ll keep the envelope in case things get too heated.”

“What’s in the envelope?” asked Matt.

“Something my father won’t like. There’s no telling what the hell he might do if he sees what’s inside.”

“Like we need him to be angrier than he already is,” sighed Matt.

“He would have been angry regardless. Racist assholes like him always are. That’s why I’ve got a lifetime of lashes on my ass. Every little thing. Every stupid little thing!” Alice punched the dashboard and almost inflated the airbags.

“Hey, hey, hey, take it easy!” said Matt as he barricaded his girlfriend with his thick arm. “Everything’s going to be alright, Alice. I’m not going to let anything bad happen to you. Let’s just get the fuck out of this god-awful state and we’ll see what happens from here….Alice?...What’s wrong now?”

Alice’s icy blue eyes widened as she gazed into the rear-view mirror. Matt took a peek as well and said, “Uh-oh” when the source of his girlfriend’s horror came in the form of a massive pick up trick with a confederate flag paint job. He squinted into the mirror and saw the scraggly bearded face of an older man in overalls chewing on slimy tobacco. “That’s him, isn’t it?”

“Who else would it be?” sobbed Alice while wiping away her tears with her bare arm. The couple held hands even tighter and said their I-love-yous before Matt pressed down on the accelerator, giving zero fucks about the police potentially pulling him over. But the faster his SUV went, the further the pickup truck chugged along, spewing smog into the sky like a factory smokestack.

The pickup speeded close enough to tap Matt’s bumper, to which Alice squeaked and hugged her boyfriend’s whole arm. Matt never took his eyes off the road and pressed even harder on the accelerator. But the more he pressed, the harder the pickup truck tapped his bumper. “Son of a fucking bitch!” Matt roared. He didn’t know where the hell to go since there were ditches on both sides of the otherwise empty freeway.

Matt’s sniper sight turned to distracted rage when he saw another flaming cross off in the distance, complete with bigots in hoods dancing around and chanting. Alice tried to keep him focused with squeaks of his name, but all Matt heard was the many racial slurs he’d been subjected to all of his life. Nigger. Spick. Spigger. Porch monkey. Wetback. Being half-black and half-Mexican really brought out the creativity and imagination of his prejudiced tormentors….said no biracial man ever.

Matt’s grip on Alice’s hand tightened as the truck rammed hard into his bumper, causing the SUV to spin out of control and crash into the ditch. The couple screamed and cursed throughout the whole collision, shattered glass flying into them like a hailstorm of bullets, airbags and seatbelts being their only saving grace…or so it seemed.

The red in Matt’s vision wasn’t just hotheaded rage. It was the warm, copper-scented blood trickling down from his eyebrows and forehead. Any vision he still had was obstructed with blurriness. Looking at his own cut up arm felt like he was on acid…and drunk…and stoned. He reached across to the passenger’s seat and felt around for Alice’s arm. He shook it in an attempt to wake her up, but she barely moved an inch. “Come on, baby girl, wake up! Don’t die like this!” begged Matt with glass in his gums.

The excruciating feeling of having his puffy hair yanked on cancelled out the slashes tormenting Matt Ramirez’s body. At least lying dormant in a ditch lent itself to a somewhat peaceful slumber. This was war. And as such, he reached around for the bowie knife and kept a death grip on the handle before being jerked out of the vehicle by none other than Jesse fucking Logan, Alice’s father.

Matt wanted nothing more than to slash Jesse’s throat open like a slaughterhouse cow, but his normally muscular body felt weaker than a grandma who slipped and fell in the bathtub. Every time he went for the slash, the slashes in his arm set the rest of his body ablaze with agony.

Jesse wrestled the knife out of Matt’s hand and held the blade to the “nigger’s” throat. The old man’s body odor along with the tobacco sloshing around in his mouth made Matt want to puke himself inside out. “You ain’t going nowhere with my daughter, you little coon. In fact, you’d been sticking that ugly black thing in her for far too long. I think it’s time we do something about that.” Jesse went to work in pulling off Matt’s jeans and underwear, to which the sluggish victim put up a minimal struggle due to the burning pain he was in. Holding the blade up to Matt’s genitals, Jesse asked, “Any last words before I cut you from asshole to appetite?”

Matt spit out the glass in his mouth and allowed the nickel-flavored goodness to descend upon his throat and tongue. He took a few deep breaths before resorting to his final act of defiance, the one act he could actually perform without torturing the shit out of his own body. “You call yourself a father?” The brown-toothed smile on Jesse’s face made Matt shiver like a naked Eskimo. “I know Alice better than you ever will. Underneath all of that hatred you tried to teach her, there’s a beautiful and intelligent woman. I don’t look at her and see the lashes you gave her. I look at her and see someone I want to spend the rest of my life with. Looks like I’ll get my wish one way or another.”

“That’s some sweethearted poetry you’ve got there, nigger,” said Jesse while mockingly wiping away a fake tear with his free finger. “But there ain’t no such thing as magic here in our great nation. You’ll get plenty of that when you’re burning in hell with the rest of the sinners, boy. Later, tater!”

Matt could feel the blade opening a fresh wound on the base of his penis. Slowly. Painfully. Torturously. Jesse had all the opportunities in the world to finish him off straight away, but instead chose to pick the wings off of the proverbial butterfly. If Matt got any sicker to his stomach, his vomit would result in more violence than his torture and car crash combined.

And then out of the corner of his blurred vision, he saw an angel descend upon Jesse Logan. A blood-soaked angel who nonetheless looked beautiful and radiant in her teal dress, glass shards aside. In that small moment of temporary salvation, Matt smiled his handsome smile. And then Jesse shoved his own daughter to the ground and trained the blade on her. The smile was dead, just like the couple would be in a few seconds.

“I didn’t raise you to be no nigger-lover, Alice,” sneered Jesse while spitting tobacco in his own daughter’s face. “You’re a disgrace to this family. You’re a disgrace to my people. You’re a disgrace to God himself! You see that cross burning out there? That’s going to be you and your lover once I send both your asses to hell.”

“Be….before you kill us…” stuttered Alice. “Open this…” She lifted her battered arm just high enough to hand Jesse the manila envelope.

Jesse shrugged and said, “Why not? It’s the least I could do for my baby girl before she spends eternity getting butt fucked by the devil.” He took the envelope and slashed it open with the bowie knife. He read the contents inside at first with an arrogant grin. That grin slowly faded into wide-eyed shock. He lost control of his jaw and allowed the rest of his tobacco to splatter all over his daughter’s leg. “This is bullshit! This ain’t real!”

“Oh, it’s very real, daddy. Looks like you’ll be going to hell with me!” said Alice with a bloody grin.

“No way…no way in fucking hell…” Jesse dropped the paperwork and held the blade to his own throat. “I’m sorry, Jesus! I’m sorry for everything!” In one swift motion, Jesse D. Logan slashed his own throat and plopped to the ground dead as a doornail, covering both his daughter and her lover with his viscous life juices.

Although Matt felt a weight the heaviness of Jesse’s truck being lifted off of him, he couldn’t help but give his girlfriend a confused frown. Alice smiled her beautiful smile at him and said, “That was a DNA test, my love. My daddy has a little good in him after all.”

“He’s black?” asked Matt, to which Alice nodded. “That’s some sick ass irony.”

“It is. And when those Klan bastards come running over here to see what’s up, they’ll find that paper work and know their whole bullshit is just that: pure cow manure. They can kill us both, but love itself never dies. Hold my hand, just like we did in the car.”

As soon as Alice reached out, Matt found the strength in his left arm to squirm over and hold hands with his girlfriend. In this moment of beauty, he didn’t care about the Klansmen rushing over with their hateful rhetoric. He didn’t even care about the burning crosses that haunted his mind like schizophrenic ghosts. All he felt was love. His heart beat faster, the wounds stopped hurting, and even his blood-soaked penis couldn’t help but stand up for what felt right. Alice gave him a little giggle and said, “If only we could do that in front of these racist assholes.”

“I love you, Alice.”

“I love you too, Matt.”

"Born a Crime" by Trevor Noah

BOOK TITLE: Born a Crime: Stories from a South African Childhood

AUTHOR: Trevor Noah

YEAR: 2016

GENRE: Nonfiction

SUBGENRE: Apartheid Memoir

GRADE: Extra Credit

Before he replaced Jon Stewart as the host of The Daily Show, Trevor Noah had a difficult childhood in both Apartheid and post-Apartheid South Africa. Having a white father and a black mother, Trevor was already the product of racist laws that could have kept him and his parents imprisoned for several years. He spent most of his childhood in hiding to evade the police, which included not being around his white father as often as he wanted in order to keep the subterfuge alive. With poverty, an abusive stepfather, and life in general working against him, Trevor still managed to keep his sense of humor intact with the help of his jovial, yet strict mother, who he credits as his number one fan.

This glimpse into Trevor Noah’s life is as educational as it is entertaining. It’s a firsthand look into how structural racism worked in Apartheid-ruled South Africa and how it’s still alive in the world today. Racism isn’t just about calling somebody the N-word or beating black and colored people to death. It’s psychological torture as well. The whites in charge purposefully divided their non-white peers into separate groups and treated them as less than human. The education was watered down, the living conditions were crappy, poverty was by design, and violence became a social norm. None of that changed after Apartheid was over, in the same way that structural racism never ended after slavery in America. You can change the laws all you want, but the damage has already been done. The damage continues to be dealt in subtle ways behind the scenes of politics. The one thing we learn from history is that we learn nothing from history.

Because Trevor grew up with an abusive stepfather named Abel, his memoir also gives us a glimpse into how psychologically torturous domestic violence is. Abel was regarded as a nice guy around town who would always help out those in need. That was the disguise he needed in order to secretly beat Trevor and his mother and get away with it every time. Trevor’s mother was met with skepticism from the police every time she tried to file a report. Abel would always be apologetic and life would go on happily for a while until the next beating. The scary thing about him was that he was always calm and collected when he struck his family. He wasn’t as psychotic as The Joker or dramatic as Darth Vader. He was just a regular guy with a good reputation outside of home. Even when he would drink himself into stupidity, he always came across as a cool guy. Those are the worst kinds of villains that are too realistic for superhero movies. Trevor Noah was haunted by this man’s evil deeds for many years to come. Abel is still walking around South Africa today as a free man. How sick is that?

Through all of the racism, violence, and troubled times, Trevor Noah never let any of those things strip away his individuality, morals, or sense of humor, all of which he got from his loving disciplinarian mother. She always taught him how to question everything and never lose sight of who he was. And that’s the thing with Apartheid: the education quality for blacks and colored people is significantly reduced for the sake of maintaining the status quo. Without an educational mother who bought him books and allowed him to explore the world beyond his impoverished home, Trevor wouldn’t be the well-informed man he is today. There are none so blind as those who will not see, and Trevor Noah’s eyes were wide open. He had a rough childhood, but without it, his worldview would have been watered down to where he could never fill Jon Stewart’s shoes, let alone live his own way. Trevor lives life with no regrets and that’s something we all need to learn if we’re to move forward.

The eye-opening educational aspects as well as the humorous writing style make Born a Crime a must-read for anybody who wants to explore the world without actually being in the crossfire of South African racism. Trevor Noah went through hell so that he could nourish the world with love and thoughtfulness. His story is genuine and his emotions are passionate. He could never be bitter, because bitterness would strip away everything he worked so hard to become. An extra credit grade is what this book deserves, nothing less, maybe more.

Gyro Psycho Modulator

VERSE 1

A Kafkaesque prison, you’ll never break out

Straws in your nose and a ball in your mouth

The tightest straps on your ankles and wrists

Clamp down on your gut with one more twist

Spinning in circles like the wheel of fortune

Your stomach boils in this evil torment

Your head bursts from all of the mind rape

Bringing torture back to medieval dates

CHORUS

Gyro! Psycho! Modulator! X4

VERSE 2

You need to learn your hardest life lessons

Surrender your soul, lay down your weapons

You’ve done enough damage to your own kind

Let these necromantic images burn in your mind

Lynchings and shootings: what’s the difference?

They both come from those with sinful visions

You can spin forever on that torture table

Keep your supper down if you’re able

CHORUS

Gyro! Psycho! Modulator! X4

VERSE 3

One last chance, you won’t get another

Confront the souls of your slain brothers

Tell them why you murdered their asses

Tell them why you terrorized the masses

Your Freudian excuses are so pathetic

Death and disease is your sick fetish

Tell me all you want how you give no fucks

Tell it to the gangsters who fill you with slugs

EXTENDED CHORUS

Gyro! Psycho! Modulator!

Sensory! Deprivation! Chamber!

Stripped! Naked! For slave labor!

You still! Reject! Your only savior!

FINAL LINE

Welcome to hell, motherfuckers!

Staple Gun Gangster

The tremendous bangs against Marco Said’s door jarred him awake, making him believe for a moment his house was being raided by the police. He sat in bed wearing nothing but Nike shorts and cursing when he saw what time it was on his digital clock. Three in the morning. Who in the hell would want to wake up Marco at three in the morning? He slipped on a pair of socks and running shoes (not even bothering with his shirt) and grabbed his trusty staple gun from the nightstand.

As he advanced toward the front door, the pounds became louder and Marco’s annoyance turned to full-blown rage. “Wait a fucking minute!” he yelled. Still awakening from his peaceful slumber, the gangster rubbed the sleep from his eyes and stumbled on his way to answer the door. He didn’t even bother turning the porch or living room lights on.

When Marco saw the slimy, slobbering green mess of a man before him, the black gangster didn’t look the least bit intimidated. In fact, Mr. Said had a scowl on his face that would shake marine drill instructors to their cores. With his staple gun raised in the air, he snapped, “You better have a damn good reason for coming over here at three in the fucking morning! Who the hell are you and what the fuck do you want, bitch?!”

The muck-covered visitor smiled and exposed his rotten brown teeth. He laughed in a monstrous growl of a voice and said, “I’m the Boogeyman! And I need a favor. I hear you can get me some serious cash in a big hurry.”

“At three in the morning? What the hell does your ass need at three in the morning? I ought to staple your ass right now for waking me up this fucking early!” threatened Marco, shooting a few staples in the air for a demonstration.

The Boogeyman put a hand to his chest and feigned terror when he said, “A staple gun? Ooooo!” The monster even wiggled his fingers in sarcasm. “I thought you original baby gangsters liked to use some serious hardware. I was expecting an AK-47 or something like that. But instead you’ve got a staple gun. A gun…for stapling!” He laughed like a bloodthirsty hyena while leaning backwards and slapping his thigh.

Not wanting to be screwed with any further than he has, Marco shook his head and fired a staple into The Boogeyman’s leg, causing the monster to splash goop all over the gangster’s shorts and clutch his wound with almost mock agony. “You see that shit?” said Marco. “Any bitch nigga can shoot off a machinegun or sell cocaine on the streets. Me? I handle my business up front. Now, either you tell me what you want money for or I’ll shoot your ass again!”

The Boogeyman breathed heavily and chuckled once again before standing up straight to meet Marco’s gaze with a sinister grin. “Alright, buddy. You win. You see, it’s been a while since I’ve had any…how shall I put this…action.”

“Well, no shit, dawg! Your ass looks like something from a Michael Jackson video! Why don’t you dance down the street doing your Thriller thing and I’ll get my ass back in bed!” said Marco as he prepared to close the door.

The only thing that stopped him was The Boogeyman holding his hands out and saying, “No, wait! You’re right. I’m not much to look at. But…if I had some of that cold hard cash, these little girls wouldn’t have a choice! Get my drift? Some people like to dine on sweeter things than that. Me? My favorite kind of food…is fetish-ccini!”

As the monster laughed at his own pun, Marco fired another staple, this time at the creature’s groin, causing him to double over in a modicum of pain. Marco barked, “My noodle is your momma’s favorite kind of pasta, motherfucker! Now get your ass out of here! Ain’t nobody messing with no kids on my watch!”

“Since when did you become the paragon of morality?” said the Boogeyman with the widest of grins, still hunched over. “You’re a loan shark, one who kills people who don’t pay their debts on time. You’re right, buddy: you are a real thug. Those staples hurt like hell, whereas a bullet would end someone’s life right away. You’re not a murderer. You’re a torturer. You’re like me except without the slimy body.”

“Alright, boy, I see your point. Let me get some cheddar real quick. Stay right here,” said Marco, who reached into his secret panel and pulled out a ten dollar bill. He waved it in front of the Boogeyman’s face and said, “With the kind of bitches you’re looking for, this is all you’re going to need.” The gangster then stapled the ten dollar bill to the creature’s forehead, eliciting a much louder howl of pain than before. “We’re done for the day. Now get your ass off my front porch or I’ll turn you into a Swiss cheese, bitch!”

Marco slammed the door shut and locked both deadbolts. He shook his head in disbelief and said, “What the hell was all that about?” as he stumbled back to his bedroom, not wanting to wait another moment to get some shuteye. He kicked off his sneakers and pulled off his socks before jumping back into bed. The sounds of the Boogeyman screaming in agony were drowned out by the thickness of the front door. If anything, they were like a lullaby to Marco Said’s ears. He drifted off into the dream world without further incident.

By the time the staple gun gangster woke up, he saw that it was noon on his digital clock. She shoved it off the nightstand and cursed under his breath. Marco sat on the edge of his bed rubbing the sleep out of his eyes and contemplating the events of last night. Who in the hell was that guy? Why was he covered in goop? Why did it even matter that he looked like a creature out of a sci-fi movie? He threw on his same shoes and socks as well as a basketball jersey that was laying on the floor in a pile of unfinished laundry. He also grabbed his staple gun and reloaded it before heading toward the front door to start his day.

He dropped the weapon and stared at the gigantic hole in his door with wide eyes and furrowed brows. The door was covered with acidic slime and the floor had green footprints leading elsewhere. His secret money panel had been broken into as well. “What the fuck?!” he yelled before picking his staple gun back up again and following the footprints ever so slowly.

The closer he got to the closed bathroom door, the louder the sounds of muffled child screams echoed throughout the hallway. Marco’s blood boiled and his trigger finger got itchy. His menacing business stare turned into teeth-clenching, white-knuckle rage. The muffled screams were deafening and the sounds of goop slurping about were even more obnoxious. He was somewhat afraid to touch the door handle since it too was covered in that disgusting green filth.

With his hand tucked in his jersey, Marco slowly opened the door to see the Boogeyman laughing it up while the muffled children’s screams were behind the closed shower curtain. The creature shouted, “It’s complete! My revenge is complete!”

Not caring if that made sense or not, the gangster stapled the Boogeyman’s forehead, chest, and groin repeatedly, splashing green blood against the vanity and shower curtain. The monster curled up next to the toilet in a pathetic ball of pain while Marco shouted, “I told you what was going to happen if you kept messing around with me, motherfucker! I ain’t playing no games with you! I’ve got staples for days, bitch! I’ll do this shit for as long as I want! Those Guantanamo motherfuckers are pussies compared to me! Your ass is in for a long ass night!”

After the initial wave of torture wore off, the Boogeyman laughed in rebellion as if he didn’t care about Marco’s wrath one bit. When asked what was so funny, the creature said, “Don’t you get it, buddy? I didn’t need those children for a good time. Nah, I needed them for a little bit of revenge.” When asked what he was talking about, the Boogeyman said, “Did you ever wonder why those kids turned to prostitution? To pay their bills of course. Their parents couldn’t do it because they were killed by a certain staple gun gangster, who by the way didn’t like late payments and collected with interest.”

Marco looked down at the monster with solemnity before shouting, “Bullshit! This is all just a game! Your ass is having a laugh!”

“Trust me, Mr. Said: there’s nothing funny about growing up in the hood with no parents and no other way to pay bills than having sex with strange men. If you need proof, just ask them yourself,” said the Boogeyman before slowly standing up and drawing back the shower curtain.

Marco’s eyes widened with horror for the first time in a long while. He was shakier than a woman’s sex toy at the sight of black teenaged girls covered in slime, just like the Boogeyman. They drooled, droned, and gurgled as they screamed for vengeance and hungered for blood. The Boogeyman placed a not-so-loving hand on Marco’s shoulder and said, “My name is Kip Kyle, but you’ll remember me as the father one of these children. Surely, the name Kip Kyle means something to you, right? Maybe the name of a former customer?”

The gangster’s heavy nervous breathing turned to cowardly whimpers as he curled up against the bathroom sink holding his staple gun with a quaking arm. Kip Kyle raised his goopy arm and brought it down with his finger pointed right at his murderer, signaling for the little slime balls to chomp, chew, and devour their way through Marco’s body.

The gangster would have screamed, but blood was in his throat after a girl gnawed on his neck. Soon enough, the staple gun gangster was nothing more than a pile of picked bones, bloody rivers, and slurped organs. The teenaged girls’ hungers for vengeance and human meat were both satisfied to the point of fat bellies and bright brown smiles. One of them even let out a loud burp to the others’ laughing delights.

Another one of the girls asked, “Can we go home, Daddy?” in a gargling voice.

“Yes,” said Kip. “We can all go home now. The last one to the sewers is a rotten egg!”

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White Boy

VERSE 1

Black lives matter; they always did

You’re saying otherwise? Who’re you trying to kid?

You keep your racism under the tightest lid

And sell powerful positions for the highest bid

You’re a bunch of slave owners with a license to kill

Leaving the taxpayers to clean the mess and pay the bill

A trail of bodies as long as the Nile

Hundreds more ready to walk the Green Mile

VERSE 2

I’m not ashamed of the things I’ve said

I’m talking to you, white boy, with your neck all red

You point your pistol and you open fire

But when you take the stand, you turn into a liar

You buy the judge with your unlimited funds

Intimidate the jury until their urine runs

Walk away a free man with the blood on your hands

Go back to the station to tune up the band

VERSE 3

You talk about freedom like it’s a cultural buzz word

Yet when minorities have it, you get all butt hurt

“Reverse racism” is your phrase of choice

Boom and bang are your preference of noise

Get out of your seat; put your hand on your heart

“I pledge allegiance to the flag of Wal-Mart

And to the EBT stamps for which they accept

One nation under fraud, time to break some necks”

VERSE 4

If you say “All Lives Matter”, you’d better mean it

That includes all races, you’d better believe it

Not just the cops, the Christians, or the whites

Every one of us should have the same rights

You go back on your claim when the flag is in flames

You point your rifle like a finger at somebody to blame

It’s all about you and the power you wield

And how “reverse racism” has become a shield

Daniel McBride

As a writer, I draw inspiration from pretty much everything around me. Drawing inspiration from the movie Pulp Fiction as a teenager was probably not the best idea. Don’t get me wrong, Pulp Fiction is a badass movie and Quentin Tarantino will always be remembered for it. It’s just that Quentin Tarantino is really the only person qualified to write anything in his own style. I tried copying his style and it was a fucking disaster. That’s where we get the character Daniel McBride. The reason he’s called that is because I didn’t know at the time of creation there were already people named Danny McBride. I thought I was being original, but it turns out I’m not. You want to know what made Daniel so special? He used racial slurs despite not being a racist. He was first introduced in a Play By Web college RPG as a freshman art major. He got in a rivalry with another kid named Shawn Rawlins because Shawn’s player controlled Daniel’s actions and used him to trip Shawn accidentally. Folks, if you’re ever in an RPG, don’t control anybody’s character but your own. That’s a huge pet peeve of mine. But instead of complaining to the admin of the game, I tried to make lemonade out of lemons. Daniel tried apologizing to Shawn, but Shawn pulled a gun on him and shot him in the leg. Daniel then shouted a whole bunch of KKK jokes at him (Shawn was black) and got beaten up even further for it. That and the wannabe thug stole Daniel’s girlfriend away from him in the process. I can safely say I’ve never been traumatized by an RPG before that moment, so I left for greener pastures. Years later, Daniel McBride became a character in a movie I wrote called Pumping Filter, where his old rivalry with Shawn Rawlins was relived. Pumping Filter had a whole bunch of racial tension with no real reason for it. The way I justified it back then was the whole idea behind insulting someone was to get them angry and nothing made an opponent angry like an attack on their culture. As I got older, I realized that simply using those attacks is enough to be deemed racist and rightfully so. These days, my works don’t resemble Pulp Fiction on steroids. Quentin Tarantino was a staple of the criminal underworld, so he has all the tools he needs to write these kinds of movies. Me? I’m just a suburban white kid who had a generally easy life. But as it stands, Daniel McBride needs a new home, either as a college or high school kid. Maybe this time his martial arts skills will come in handy and he’ll actually win fights. His martial arts skills didn’t work too well in Pumping Filter and that college RPG. Can I really make chicken salad out of chicken shit and turn Daniel McBride into a respectable human being? I hope so, because my imagination is getting to be too lonely for him.

　

***JOKE OF THE DAY***

Q: What grades do racist skinheads get in school?

A: Not C’s.

"To Kill a Mockingbird" by Harper Lee

I spent my freshman year of high school in a little town called Chehalis, a hotbed of racism, bullying, and pretty much every other kind of ignorant behavior imaginable. This town desperately needed “To Kill a Mockingbird” as part of its English curriculum. Atticus Finch must defend a black prisoner named Tom Robinson wrongfully accused of raping a little girl. If he’s wrongfully accused, then he should be easy to get off the hook. Right? In Maycomb, Alabama, it’s not that simple. Racial prejudice and other forms of bigotry run rampant throughout the town, making it impossible for people to see that Tom Robinson is clearly innocent. Caught in the middle of this racial tension is the main character of the story Scout Finch and her older brother Jem. These two children actually have to grow up in this environment and learn the hard way of the dangers of racial injustice. With so much character development in this story coming from the two children, it’s no shock at all that this book won a Pulitzer Prize and that it’s required reading for pretty much every high school in the country. You know what is a shock? Certain groups of people were actually trying to get “To Kill a Mockingbird” pulled from library shelves because it uses the word “nigger” multiple times. Really? You’re going to censor a book for being realistic about the environment the characters live in? Maycomb, Alabama was not a pretty place to live in, especially if you were, (deep breath), black! You think the villains in this story are going to get away with calling Tom Robinson a “doo-doo head”? How about a “jerky-puss”? Or a “turtle nose”? G-rated insults simply don’t cut it in a world where innocence is shattered like glass. Because as it turns out, losing your innocence is something that everybody goes through in the real world whether they want to or not. Some people have an easier time with shedding it than others. It’s sad and unfortunate, but it is true. You think that if Tom Robinson was being called a “doo-doo head” that this book would have won a Pulitzer Prize? Bullshit! It wouldn’t even make it passed the printing press! Maybe there’s another reason why censorship addicts want this book pulled from libraries. Maybe it’s because they use the word “nigger” more often than the characters in this book! Just saying…

　

***POLITICAL QUOTE OF THE DAY***

“The only way the republicans would approve of abortion is if the father was black.”

-Bill Maher-