By William Pleasant (8-10-2013)
We stand on the despoiled shore of Black political meltdown.
In the far distance we can see a yacht captained by Pres. Buckwheat and crewed by white social dems, greasy-lipped negro preachers and homebettes sporting the latest Belgian-manufactured afro-duds.
High above the deck, in the crow's nest, white knuckled bow ties and turbans beseech Allah to raise the profit margin on bean pies and scented oils.
Our pants droop to expose the waistbands of our Versace drawers. We don't need to run, so there
is absolutely no reason to pull them up, now that cocaine--not cotton--is the cash crop of an imploding capitalism.
And what of Captain Buckwheat?
He sails straight into the rocks, beckoned on by a chorus of skag-blown sirens whose claim to fame
remains a cameo appearance on a reality TV show about their empty, spiritless lives.
We grin and charge our AKs in such a liquid movement that it gives the chicks standing next to us
a simultaneous, bone-deep orgasm.
2000 and 13 has come!