Monday, February 20, 2012
Dear Comrade William,
I am really hurt at the passing of our beautiful sister Whitney Houston. I am in profound pain. She was such an inspiration to me. Now I can't get out of bed because of my pain. She has inspired me to follow in her footsteps, so now I need for you to wire me $5 to help me get my crack thing on, my brother, to follow her grand example. Western Union. Brooklyn, New York. Okay?
Right now, I'm trying to get a part in a movie with a white action actress who saves me. She can be my "Booty-Guard" in the movie, although she's really bothersome. But I can fall in love with her anyway. Feel me? I have found my purpose in life, thanks to Whitney Houston's demise. I'll even go to church and I won't steal nothing. I swear!
I hope I get the major role in that moive, for I have been dreamimg to follow sister Houston. So, even though you're a Marxist, please "pray" for me... and hurry wire the $5 because my crack pipe broke.
GOD BLESS AMERICA, MUTHA-FUKAHS! OBAMA 2012!
PORKY CAPERS LIVES!
PORKY CAPERS LIVES!
Saturday, February 18, 2012
By William PLEASANT
Today, I watched the WHITNEY HOUSTON funeral.
It was a fluke for me. I rarely watch TV anymore.
I did so today because I was in the day-room of a Maryland nursing home that had cable.
Around me sat the infirmed, demented and the proximally moribund wreckage of US monopoly capitalism.
CNN brought in the funeral broadcast live.
The old folks and invalids were, by the default of boredom and social neglect, entranced by the TV screen. They watched a herd of Black preachers and negroratti celebrities pay tribute to their ersatz Princess Diana via peasant-ghetto poetics, i.e., BLACK BAPTIST CHURCH christianate inanities.
An elderly Black lady I cared for drooled, as I cut her fourth salisbury steak of the week and spooned it to her. She broke the trance. Suddenly sitting up in her chair, in a sort of spasm, she hollered for everyone to hear on the ward:
"Hey, fuck that rich bitch. She just got some wrong narcotic.
I got it all my life. When they say I was hurtin'? Never!"
The frail lady then swallowed my spoon of ground what-not and instant mashed potatoes.
I gave her a swig of ginger ale to wash the medicaid garbage down.
"You be my son until you find Michael. Can you do that? Where Michael at?"
"I am not Michael. My name is Bill," I explained. "I am not your son. I cannot find Michael for you. I tried. I am just a Communist. I am with you. Have some more to eat."
For a long moment, she stared at me, as I held the next bite of mush to her withered lips.
Her milky death-eyes seemed to come clear as a hungry house cat.
She wanted more to eat, I assumed.
But the old woman groaned, shifted in her chair and dragged my ear close to her mouth.
She whispered: "I one of them like you, too."