Saturday, February 25, 2012
Monday, February 20, 2012
My Booty-Guard???
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
America mourns Princess Diana in the role of a Black crackhead?
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."
--30--
EU & IMF offer Greek workers not even minimal relief?
So let the RAW SCREWIN' begin!
(c) 2012 Baba Rumraisin
Tuesday, January 31, 2012
Now, this is what I call SARCASM!
By William PLEASANT
In August of 1865, southern Colonel P.H. Anderson of Big Spring, Tennessee wrote to his former slave Jourdan Anderson, requesting that Jourdan return to a new and improved plantation. The good colonel wanted his slave back after he and his Confederate States of America had bitten the dust several months earlier.
Jourdan Anderson had by then run away from the farm, emancipated by the Union Army, and had moved to Ohio where he found a job that lavishly (in relative scale) supported himself, wife and children. Jourdan's written reply to the finger-licking good colonel was printed in the August 22, 1865 edition of the NEW YORK TRIBUNE. (Cited from The Freedmen's Book)
Below is an excerpted version of the slave's reply to his ex-master's invitation:
(Complete letter here...)
Dayton, Ohio
August 7, 1865
To My Old Master, Colonel P.H. Anderson, Big Spring, Tennessee
Sir:
I got your letter, and was glad to find that you had not forgotten Jourdon, and that you wanted me to come back and live with you again, promising to do better for me than anybody else can. I have often felt uneasy about you. I thought the Yankees would have hung you long before this, for harboring Rebs they found at your house. I suppose they never heard about your going to Colonel Martin's to kill the Union soldier that was left by his company in their stable. Although you shot at me twice before I left you, I did not want to hear of your being hurt, and am glad you are still living. It would do me good to go back to the dear old home again, and see Miss Mary and Miss Martha and Allen, Esther, Green, and Lee. Give my love to them all, and tell them I hope we will meet in the better world, if not in this. I would have gone back to see you all when I was working in the Nashville Hospital, but one of the neighbors told me that Henry intended to shoot me if he ever got a chance...
 |
| JOURDAN ANDERSON |
I want to know particularly what the good chance is you propose to give me. I am doing tolerably well here. I get twenty-five dollars a month, with victuals and clothing; have a comfortable home for Mandy,—the folks call her Mrs. Anderson,—and the children—Milly, Jane, and Grundy—go to school and are learning well. The teacher says Grundy has a head for a preacher. They go to Sunday school, and Mandy and me attend church regularly. We are kindly treated. Sometimes we overhear others saying, "Them colored people were slaves" down in Tennessee. The children feel hurt when they hear such remarks; but I tell them it was no disgrace in Tennessee to belong to Colonel Anderson. Many darkeys would have been proud, as I used to be, to call you master. Now if you will write and say what wages you will give me, I will be better able to decide whether it would be to my advantage to move back again...
As to my freedom, which you say I can have, there is nothing to be gained on that score, as I got my free papers in 1864 from the Provost-Marshal-General of the Department of Nashville. Mandy says she would be afraid to go back without some proof that you were disposed to treat us justly and kindly; and we have concluded to test your sincerity by asking you to send us our wages for the time we served you. This will make us forget and forgive old scores, and rely on your justice and friendship in the future. I served you faithfully for thirty-two years, and Mandy twenty years. At twenty-five dollars a month for me, and two dollars a week for Mandy, our earnings would amount to eleven thousand six hundred and eighty dollars ($116,800.00 in current commodity exchange value or current economic power value of $17,200,000.00--Liberator). Add to this the interest for the time our wages have been kept back, and deduct what you paid for our clothing, and three doctor's visits to me, and pulling a tooth for Mandy, and the balance will show what we are in justice entitled to.
Please send the money by Adams's Express, in care of V. Winters, Esq., Dayton, Ohio. If you fail to pay us for faithful labors in the past, we can have little faith in your promises in the future. We trust the good Maker has opened your eyes to the wrongs which you and your fathers have done to me and my fathers, in making us toil for you for generations without recompense. Here I draw my wages every Saturday night; but in Tennessee there was never any pay-day for the negroes any more than for the horses and cows. Surely there will be a day of reckoning for those who defraud the laborer of his hire.
Say howdy to George Carter, and thank him for taking the pistol from you when you were shooting at me.
Can we say more?
--30--
Monday, December 26, 2011
A Kwanzaa greeting and lesson...
Kwanzaa is just a conveniet post-xmas retailing scheme hatched by the FBI snitch Ron Karenga. Hallmark makes Kwanzaa cards. Its revolutionary relevance begins and ends there.
Comrade William PLEASANT
Sunday, December 25, 2011
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During the 60s, the FBI encouraged the most comically extreme Black cultural nationalist organizations in order to discredit and split the left. The more preposterous the organization, the better. Using that criterion, Karenga's United Slaves stood at the top of the heap.
Despite popular historical notions that conflate all the Black activists of the '60s, the Black Panthers were not racist 'Afro' supremacists. They did not promote armed revolution. But those were the FBI-inspired central planks of Karenga's United Slaves. Karenga's United Slaves were simply dashiki-sporting wannabe fascists, who gleefully gunned down Black Panthers and other Black Leftists while adopting absurd, manufactured "African" names.
J. Edgar Hoover could not have wished for a better crew of brothas.