Monday, October 12, 2009
Helping America become post racial, one brutal beating at a time: Episode Three
Even though my dating history is a sordid one, mostly a dismal collection of brief sexual encounters where being an emotional cripple with a bed that becomes a proverbial ejector seat as soon as I ejaculate halts any possible prospective relationships - it would make perfect sense that my favorite "girlfriend" just happened to be a therapist. The level of catharsis you feel when dating a mental health professional is unparalleled. I mean, outside of admitting that you have dismembered bodies of miscellaneous strippers buried in your backyard, you can pretty much unload some of your deepest and darkest secrets without them so much as batting an eye - something I usually did post coitus by the way. My penchant for penetrating low self esteem having women in church buildings almost provoked shrugs from her. Pushing a wheelchair bound man into traffic? Her beautiful stare was unchanged. Headbutting a clergy member, getting a handjob from a girlfriend's mother at a wedding, tossing a rather lippy midget on to a bar roof, pushing an entire book shelf on someone at a public library, threatening to publicly waterboard an old man who snaked my parking spot. Incidents that would usually repulse most people were met with indifference from a head shrinker who was desensitized from all the certifiable shit smearing psychopaths she had previously treated. Sure, I knew that she was probably using me as her personal take home assignment, but I fully embraced it. Shit, it wasn't the first time I fucked my therapist.
Between all the deviant sex and my unsuccessful attempts to score some prescription medication from her, she did uncover something about me that had never crossed my mind before. She concluded, because of my father's verbal bullying that I was constantly on the business end of, that many of my physical altercations that I had been a part of over the years were a direct result of me trying to right that particular wrong. I never thought about it before, but a large percentage of the throatchops that I have mercilessly administered to some asshole's larynx were indeed born out of me sticking up for someone. I'm sure if I was still with her she'd come to the same conclusion about my violent defenses of President Obama as well.
I mean, this may anger all the pseudo-militants out there that I'm constantly coming in contact with: Armchair revolutionaries who spend their time viewing President Obama as an "Uncle Tom" simply because of his job title or because he isn't spreading the teachings of Marcus Garvey. Ridiculous child-like giggle provokers who naively view him serving Americans as a whole as an affront to the Black Community. The same intellectual knuckle-draggers who incessantly try to push "The Obama Deception" on me as it was a motherfucking "Watchtower", fake ass "Michael" from "Good Times" wannabees, feverishly masturbate to Dead Prez records on your own goddamn time. With the racism directed at the President in the form of blatant disrespect. Racism in the form of citizenship questions. Racism in the form of assassination dogwhistles. Racism in the form of daily manufactured outrage. Please get this through your kufi's, I'll have the President's back way before I'll ever have yours. Shit, even if I wasn't a supporter of his policies I still may have his back based on all the bigots that are out to get him.
"Don't spray me bro!": When you live around as many knuckle dragging savages as I do, drooling lunatics with racial attitudes so backwards that you are certain that they were recently thawed out from their cryogenically frozen state that they've been in since 1944 - a common occurrence is getting extremely dirty looks from fellow motorists simply because an Obama sticker is on your bumper. Seriously, you would have thought I had a ringing endorsement of necrophilia on my car, or puppy torture. Usually I respond to such hostile grimaces with utter civility: The one finger salute, screaming "What the fuck are you looking at you goddamn Hillbilly?!", or threatening to beat them within an inch of an amnesiac state. So when a young couple in their early 20's decided to flash me the icegrill from stoplight to stoplight, I didn't find anything strange in what I felt was pretty much par for the course. But the constant pulling up beside me? Tailgating? - I'm constantly amazed how threatened some white people are by possibly the least threatening black man that has ever existed. Anyway, when I ran into rush hour traffic, the young couple found themselves behind yours truly. You know that feeling you get when something is about to happen, like a fight is about to break out at a club or Mary J Blige is about to give an interview where she doesn't depress the shit out of you. Well something was in the air, and my instincts proved to be right as I glanced in my rear view mirror and saw the young couple carefully exiting their car and approaching mine.
Because the only beating I do on a female involves premature ejaculatory pelvic thrusts, I grabbed the pepper spray that I purchased for my mother and proceeded to the back of my car where I found the both them attempting to take my Obama sticker off of my car. To sell the altercation to curious onlookers, I screamed with an Academy Award winning panic "What in the world are you doing to my car?" - before mercilessly spraying the shit out of what I perceived to be raging rednecks. As they both writhed around in anguish, invoking the name of our heavenly father, pleading for help - I realized that I'd be a perfect Abu Ghraib guard because I simply didn't give two shits about the excruciating pain that they were in. Immediately a cop showed up and I, along with some of the onlookers that I performed for, told the cop exactly what happened. I even topped off my acting tour de force by nervously exclaiming, "Sir, I was scared for my life! I saw those two approaching my car and I didn't know what to do. I just want to go home and hug my children!" Everything turned out fine and the cop let me go, but I had the sneaking feeling that he didn't believe me - and I'm sure the wink that I gave him before I entered my car didn't ease his suspicions any either.