Tag Archives: racism

When Dogs Get Boners

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mouthopendogI like dogs. I like their general genial temperament. Their enthusiasm. I like when dogs let small monkeys in cowboy hats ride on their backs and the monkey is puffing on a cigarette and spinning a six-shooter on his index finger, just waiting to see another monkey riding on a another dog’s back dressed like an Indian, so that he can murder him in cold blood like the feather-headed savage that he is. I also like when dogs watch Animal Planet. Like sometimes it’s a dog watching a show where ANOTHER dog is like besties with a beaver or a snake or something. Shit’s wild. It really makes you wonder….

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I like when dogs look at you and one ear is sticking up and the other one is sticking down so they look like stupid ass pieces of shit. A stupid ass piece of shit that can’t even control their face parts. I’m like “what the!” I’m like “does this dog have multiple sclerosis or some other faggy deformity? What’s going on?!”

I like dogs enough that I can forgive the fact that they hate black people. I don’t want to condone their racism or perpetuate ignorance but I know that deep down in their heart of hearts, they’re just trying to keep us safe. The only way they know how: by attacking black people before they can attack us.

But there is one thing I don’t like about dogs: when dogs get boners. I don’t think I’m overstating anything when I say that their dicks are weird looking. All red and slick like the devil’s dick. Sheath that thing would ya? I don’t want your boner slime all over the passenger seat of my ’92 Honda Accord DX. I’m going to pick up Paw-Paw for lunch tomorrow and it would really chap his hide if he knew that he was getting crusty dog dick on his stain resistant khakis. I don’t think I’d ever hear the end of it. Until he passed away of course. Unless he was still so bitter about the red rocket residue that after he died he decided to haunt me like on Paranormal Activity 2. Then I’d really never hear the end of it. Like one day I’d be sleeping and then all of the sudden the toaster would pop up and the thermostat would be turned down and Paw-Paw’s voice would be like “I didn’t work in the mines for 50 years breaking my back to support this family so that I could sit in doggie dick juice.” And he’d be right.

redrocketLingering visions of dog boners can make everyday activities agonizing. Everyday activities like eating a hot dog or watching a pretty lady put on red lipstick or watching a pretty lady have sex with a doberman pinscher. I’m like “what the!” Get your devil’s dick out of there! That was made for people’s dicks ONLY! Says so in the Good Book. Yes sir, pretty sure it says it right there in the opening paragraphs. Not sure of the exact passage but I know it’s in there. No doggie devil dicks is human vaginas….PERIOD. For ever and ever, Amen.

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I can remember being a young whippersnapper and seeing this mangy sex-crazed mutt in the parking lot of my school. There I was, me and all the other Latino kids, waiting on our madres to come pick us up from escuela. And there he was, foaming at the mouth with his slimy devil’s dick humping thin air. I’m talking, fucking the ever loving shit out of thin air. Pounding the fuck out of nothing. Almost as if he was getting a hurkie-jerkie from a ghost or something. Like someone’s bitter Grandpap ghost was seeking revenge for getting crusty dog dick on his khakis (did I just think of my next screenplay? Paranormal Activity 5?). Anyways, he was like a thrusting red-dicked robot. Every step a hump. And he was moving closer towards us. His dick was possessed. Humping and humping. Red, slippery, glistening in the sun. So me and my Latino friends threw rocks at him until he died.

A Letter from Camp

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Dear Mumsy,

Camp Gooseneck is as wonderful as I could have ever imagined! How silly I feel that I was so nervous before. You were right, this is turning out to be the best two weeks of my life so far!

My counselor’s name is Chadwick and he is a righteous cool dood. He has curly hair and wears plaid pants and plays Sister Hazel songs on his acoustic. He says he doesn’t like to wear shirts because they stifle his nips. He says his nipples need to breathe or else they get dry and when they get dry they get cracked and when they get cracked they get chapped. He says if he showed up for lifeguard duty with chapped nappies, it would beget a pussy drought dryer than the Dust Bowl of the Dirty Thirties. I don’t know what that means, but I believe it. And Mumsy I must admit, his nipple breathing techniques seem to be working. They are the healthiest in the whole wide camp. With the circumference of a Sacagawea golden dollar, they are truly a sight to be seen. They are THE wonder of Cabin Apache.

Some nights Chadwick lets us sneak out and play pranks on those cuntdicks in Cabin Sioux. “Everybody knows that the Sioux are a bunch of sackless dickheads, who wouldn’t know a piece of pussy from a pile of hamburger meat if it smacked them on the chodeshaft.” That’s what Chadwick says. I don’t know what it means, but I believe it. Anywho, one night we painted our faces all camouflage-like and snuck down to their cabin and pissed all over their clothes and in their shoes and duct-taped this one codpiece named Jacob to his bed and put a plastic bag over his face until his eyes rolled back in his head and his breathing stopped while Tommy whispered “Don’t you ever let me catch you even looking at Cynthia Mossberg again, you pot-marked tampon string!” It was CLASSIC!

I made all my bunkmates friendship bracelets in Arts’n’Crafts as a symbol of our being bros and all.  We also made a blood oath that we would die for each other. We all pricked our fingers and rubbed our blood all together. Nothing brings a group of young men closer than rubbing their open sores together. Black Bobby wasn’t allowed to take part in the blood oath though, because Clarke said that if we caught any of Black Bobby’s sickle cells in our bloodstream, we would all turn black and we collectively decided that we’d prefer to be white. Nothing against black folks, you understand, it was just a personal decision. You know, you always hear that there is this hidden cost to being African-American. Whether it is the statistically lower pay or the higher rates of heart disease, HIV/AIDs, and diabetes or just the subtle everyday racism of the white hegemony. The only way to make it as a black in this country is to sell crack rock or have a wicked jump shot. I think I’d rather just stay white, thank you very much.

Last week, me and this girl named Sharon from Cabin Cherokee went on a canoe ride around the lake. It was a blast! We parked our canoe behind the big branch that hangs over the edge of the lake and she took off her bikini bottoms and showed me the little brown hairs she had sprouted on her hoo-hoo cooch that everyone in camp was talking about. She pulled out a baggie from her satchel and emptied it into a spoon. She dropped some lake water in and then used a match to heat up the bottom of the spoon. She sterilized her needle in the lake, after finding the biggest vein in my arm, and gave me a shot that she said “would make me forget about when Daddy would rub his zipper up and down my spine.” I didn’t know what that meant, but I believed it. We sat in that canoe for what seemed like hours, sipping from her canteen, listening to Break On Through by the Doors, and slobbering on ourselves. I don’t want to speak too soon, but Mumsy, I think Sharon might be the ONE.

There is a large creature that lives in the woods behind the ropes course. At night we hear his blood thirsty howls and the cries of children he has trapped in his forest cave. Camp lore says that he devours the souls of campers and  drains out all their blood and innards into a large gourd. Then he takes their bones and grinds them into a fine powder. Once the blood gourd has been brought to a steady boil over an open fire, he mixes in the bone meal and a pinch of brown sugar. Let that simmer for about 15 to 20 minutes, just long enough for the flavors to really coalesce. Then let it cool for about 5 minutes to seal in the taste, and you are left with with what the counselors call Gooseneck Bloodmeal.

Chadwick says as long as they give the monster 3 campers from every camp session, his appetite is quelled long enough to prevent him from attacking the whole camp. It’s for the greater good he says. Campers should feel honored to be selected for the sacrifice. For the greater good.  It is through the spilling of their virginal blood that the monster is satisfied and lets us play capture the flag and go canoeing and have talent shows. For the greater good. Baxter Culpepper, from Cabin Chickasaw, went missing several days ago. The other campers and I have begun to speculate that he has been selected. Probably all that is left of him by now is a pile of hair and teeth. For the greater good.

But that was days ago. The creature is hungry again.His howls have been louder the past several nights. It’s about time for a new selection to be made. Oh! Mumsy, you will never guess what just happened. As I am writing you this very letter, a group of counselors in dark hooded robes have burst into my cabin. They are currently binding my feet and hands. I will admit, it does make writing this letter a bit more difficult. Now they have put a burlap sack over my head. I apologize if my handwriting is suffering, it is difficult to see with the sack and all. Now they are dragging me by my feet through the woods and chanting ominously. I must give credit where credit is due, it is sort a catchy little number. Well, the creatures howls are now upon me, so I must be going. For the greater good!

Give Papa and little Susanne my love! Ta-ta!

Love,

Pudding Dickenson

P.S. could you send me some of those toffies I like so dearly?

Grandparents Are Racists

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I don’t think I’m alone when I say grandparents are intolerant bigots. They don’t care for the blacks. They don’t care for the jews. They don’t care for Mexicans. And I know they’re not technically a race, but they don’t care for homosessssssuals either.

If our grandparents had their way, shuffleboard would be the national sport, all the black folks would be shipped back to Africa, gays would be forced to live in subterraneal caves, Elian Gonzalez would have had his dick cut off, and rollerblades would have never been invented. Can you imagine how horrible that would be? I mean, instead of catching mad air off some big ass jumps on our blades, we would have to use those old 4 wheel skates that make you look like a crusty old pussy-fart. Shit’s fucked. My blades are like an extension of myself. Give me blades or give me death. Either you’re bladin’ hard or you’re hardly bladin’.

Not to be calloused (even though I am, severely, on my inner thighs from so much blading), but the world is going to be such a better place once all the grandparents are dead. We will be finally able to get down to all that stuff Martin King dreamed about. Like, the kids holding hands on a mountaintop thing and kissing or whatever. We will finally be able to have a Christmas Eve that doesn’t involve shouting the word “coons!” at the neighbors (who aren’t even black, they are from Pakistan.)

Now, I’m not saying that you should kill your grandparents. At all. Especially not by, like, smothering them with tempurpedic pillows during one of the 18 hours a day that they are asleep. Or by cutting the brake lines on their electric wheelchairs. Or by giving them a heart attack by telling them that you are moving to California to drop marijuanas and gay-marry your black boyfriend and have interracial babes galore. Mulattoes all over the place.

Or you could cover a pit full of sharpened sticks with palm leaves and dangle a photograph of Bob Newhart over it. They fall for the Newhart trap 9 out of 10 times. Then all you have to do is fill in the hole with quick dry cement and cash your inheritance check.

Or if you’re really crafty, you can rig their Jitterbugs to shoot a sharp metal rod through their ear and into their brains. Kind of like that guy in No Country for Old Men. It’s almost like, when you consider the title of the movie and all the killing and all, it’s like the Coen Brothers want us to kill our grandparents. It’s like their sending us secret messages through the guy who played opposite Big Willie Style in Men In Black. Agent K.

Again, we are in no way endorsing any of these things. All we are saying is that the world will be a better place if you did kill your grandparents. Because they’re racists.

I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus

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I saw Mommy kissing Santa Claus. On the tee-tee.

I’m fairly certain this means that Mommy and Daddy will be getting a divorce and that Santa is my new Daddy. I can’t say I didn’t see it coming. Dad doesn’t appreciate a g-darn thing that she does for him. He’s a slob. He’s a racist. He’s a busive. He’s a Baptist. He sits around all day in his fruity-booty whitey-tighties, scratching his nutsacks, eating beef jerky, and listening to REO Speedwagon. His only friend is the dog and he’s been dead for two years. You wouldn’t know it though, by the way Daddy keeps setting food out every morning and talking to the spot where old MustardFarts died. He treats that ghost-dog better than he treats us.

Mommy comes home after slaving away at the Waffle House. Like literally SLAVING. See, she picks cotton at the Waffle House. And when she comes home her dogs are barking. But does he ever thank her? Does he ever whip her up a little din-din? Does he ever give a deep tissue rub down? Does he ever take his jerkey smellin’ fingers off his balls long enough to give her a handjob? No. He doesn’t. He just yells at her for forgetting to get his order of h-browns chunked and smothered. Seriously. If he doesn’t get little chunks of ham on his h-browns he gets all loco, esé and starts throwing bows. Chris “Ludacris” Bridges style. Mad bows. 2 Fast 2 Furious. He flings Mommy to the ground and stomps on her rib cage until her bones making cracking sounds. Then yells at her for gargling up blood all over  the carpet and ruining the chances of get our security deposit back.

I’m GLAD Mommy was kissing Santa Claus on his candy cane striped dick. Santa seems like a real legit guy. A straight shooter. Real salt of the earth type a cool cat. He’s a giver. He’s an animal lover. He was really funny on Home Improvement in his younger years, back before he became Santa. Always busting Al Borland’s chops. Bustin’ em hard too. Like, bustin’ harder than Billy-Boy Murray, Dan-the-man Aykroyd, and that black guy back in the 80s. Anywho, maybe after the divorce with Daddy, me and Mommy can move up to the North Pole and live with Santa and the Elves and the Reindeer and Frosty and Jack Frost and Robert Frost and Michael Buble and the whole gang. And maybe Santa will learn to love me as the son he never had and train me as his apprentice to eventually replace him when he dies. Just like Kim Jong Il and his son. Oh, how I long to know love like Kim Jong Il and his son. Once I’m the new Santa, I’m going to find out where my old Daddy lives and go to  his house at night and sneak down his chimney and drop a Yule Log in the tank of his toilet. That way every time he flushes dookie water comes out.

Spice Up Your Life

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There comes a time in every man’s life when he must look deep within himself and ask that one question that burns in the consciousness like a lone firefly on a moonless night: which Spice Girl am I?

One must commit themselves to sometimes painful soul searching in order to define their essence in a single word. The road to Spice World is a grueling existential quest filled with trials and trepidation. Rumor has it, the Spice Girls had the same Guru-Shaman that Jim Morrison had and they spent 2 weeks in a sweat lodge eating mushrooms, smoking peyote, and having lesbian box-slurping contests before the spirit of Gaea revealed their Spice names to them. And I believe it too. Or at least I hope because it facilitates mad beat-off sessions during my lunch break in my 4-door Hyundai Elantra.

I’ll be honest, I’m not athletic enough to be Sporty Spice. I mean, sure I can run the 100 meter in 15 flat and I’ve got some killer calf muscles. Honest. You should feel my calves. They’re firm. They’re smooth. Well-toned. Tan. Everybody is always telling me how great my calves are. Seriously, if I went to India all those Hindu folks would consider these calves sacred, symbolic of abundance, of the sanctity of all life. They’d worship these calves like the Almighty God-hating pagans that they are.  But I just don’t know if I could cut it as Sporty Spice. Plus I’ve got wicked Tennis Elbow.

And I don’t want to sound racist or whatever but I’m not black enough to be Scary Spice. Dogs don’t bark when they see me. People don’t lock their car doors when I walk by. Clerks don’t follow me around their stores waiting for me to shoplift. Cops don’t assume I’m carrying a gun. I don’t sag my pants. I didn’t drop out of high school to join a gang. I’m not on welfare. I’ve only smoked crack twice and I doubt that I’ll make a habit of it. And I don’t talk in ebonics (unless I’m at a Sound Tribe Sector 9 concert with my white friends). I’m not being racist, I’m just saying I couldn’t pull it off.

During my internal quest I’ve realized, I cannot define myself in the terms of someone else’s Spice essence. I am an individual. My soul is like a beautiful one-of-a-kind, unique, distinct drop of crystalline energy amidst the vast torrent that is Spice World. I must be my own Spice Girl. But what? Who am I? What is my essence? Here are a few ideas that Gaea has facilitated during my meditations:

Yeasty Spice: It’s no secret that I got more yeast brewin’ between my legs than a pack of Sister Schubert’s. Yeah, there’s some inflammation and discomfort, get over it. My mom says it’s because I wear my wet swim suit around all the time. But I’m like “GOD SHUTUP MOM! You’re not a doctor. You’re not even a nurse. Just because you work at CVS Pharmacy doesn’t make you a medical expert! I like wearing my swim suit OKAY? Mind you’re own fucking business. I’m not your slave or whatever.” Fucking bitch. But yeah, I got more loaves in my undercarriage than a Wonderbread factory.

Sleepy Spice: Y’all, cuz I like nappin’! Simple as that. Second to the ole get in, get wet, and get out, there’s nothing better than curlin’ up in my Dennis Eckersly comforter and catchin’ some serious Z’s. Anytime I get the opportunity, I’ma get some shut-eye. I sleep on planes. I sleep in trains. I sleep in automobiles in the drive-thru while waiting on my chicken fries from Burger King. The saying goes: sleeping with your cousin is death, but if it involves gettin’ 40 or more winks, then hell, I’ll sleep with whoever has the best pillows, relation or not.

Corduroy Spice: Corduroy pants are sort of my thing. They’re the Thinking Man’s pants like blue jeans shorts are for Florida Gator fans. And there’s nothing I like doing more than curling up and reading some Satre in my wool sweater (with leather elbow pads), my birkenstocks with socks (birk’n'socks), and a cozy pair of corduroys- right before I take a nap. My friends hear that rhythmic swoosh-swoosh-swoosh of the cords rubbing betwixt my thunder thighs and know I’m coming from a mile-and-a-half away. It’s like whenever I wear my corduroys I feel like I’m invincible. Even when people tell me something is kimpossible, if I’m wearing my cords, I’m ronstoppable.

Foreskin Spice: My fleshy turtle neck is an integral part of who I am. As you may know, I am a regular contender in the county fair’s Mr. Foreskin contest. You should see the look on the judges faces when they get a load of my oiled-up, snuffleupagus dong resting peacefully on a silver platter, garnished by a leaf of parsley. It’s a seriously borderline life altering experience. I knew that I was gifted when old Aunt Francine used to change my diapers. Her eyes would get real wide as she took a drag of her cigarette and said “Foreskin? more like fiveskin!” I remember the day she died like it was yesterday. It was actually last Tuesday. She’s gone now, but she’ll always have a spot in my little cock slug.

Dairy Queen Spice: If you’ve ever had a Hot Fudge Sundae (and I don’t mean the one you get from the cute Afro-American guy at the end of the bar, Susie! LOL! You’re such a slut!) then this one pretty much explains itself. I like Dairy Queen sundaes so much that whenever I go to the pussy doctor for a pap-pap,  I specially request the Hot Fudge Smudge. I put my feet in the stirrups and he just mashes it all in there. Mmmmm! Mmmm! And my Harold sure doesn’t complain one bit. Every time I come home after getting “the Smudge” all he really really really wants is to zigga zig ah.

White People Do This, Black People Do That.

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Errybody and their greasy granny with holes in her panties knows that the best comedians are the ones that harp on racial differences AT ALL TIMES. Black, White, Asian, Mexican, Japanese, whatever. If you bring attention to peoples’ cultural differences, it’s like a guaranteed home run. It’s outta there, baby. Like Babe Ruth style. The Babe. The Big Blue Ox.  You’ve got to understand, rule #1 of comedy: It’s funny because it’s true, you guys. Whether you are talking about how Mexicans can grow mustaches at the age of four or how Asians talk like a bunch of pots and pans banging together- “ching chong cling clang duck sauce,” you are going to get big laughs. T-rust me. So we’ve prepared a little brainstorm session to help get your racial juices flowing. Today’s focal point is the classic group: blackies and whities. They’ve been going at it for years, like when white folks enslaved all those black folks or when black folks decided they wanted to go to school. I mean, that constant back and forth is hilarious! Here’s a few difference between black-asses and white-asses to help with your racial humor:

1) Shoes: Black people wear basketball shoes (Adidas and Nike, not FILA, FILA is for Asian soccer moms), white people wear penny loafers and flip flops. White people like penny loafers because they are total gay wads. They like to wear them with linen shorts and without socks, so that they can show off they sleek sexy milky white ankles while they play croquet in the yard and drink Shirley Temples. Same with the flops. It’s all about the bare ankles with white folks. You would never NEVER catch a black person wearing flip flops. Feel me? They have to constantly wear closed-toe shoes so that they can run from the police or start a pick up game of sports. They are very good at sports. Waaay better than the white people who invented them. Black folks like the brands Nike and Adidas because they like Michael Jordan and Run DMC, respectfully. Interestingly, while Air Jordans are known universally as “fly mother fucking feet condoms,” blacks folks have not taken to Hanes products, which #23 also endorses. In fact, black people don’t usually wear underwear. It slows them down in case they want to run from the police or play sports. And let’s face facts, errybody- M.J., whitey, blackey, the Jews- errybody like Citrus Cooler Gatorade best. Which reminds me of my favorite thing I like to say while I’m belly buttton deep in a badass bitch: “Is it in you?”

2) Pablo Picasso: White people prefer Picasso’s Blue Period (1901-1904) , Black people prefer his Cubism stuff (1909-1912). White folks identify with the somber subject matter and austere use of color. Plus, they generally like blue shit: Avatar, Blue Man Group, swimming pools, Blue Oyster Cult. They love it. They. Loooove. It. However, black folks like how Picasso deconstructed and reconstructed shape, highlighting the subjectivity of the perceiver, during his cubist period. They are also big fans of the 1997 Horror Sci-Fi film Cube.  In this film, a diverse group of strangers have to work together to escape the mysterious and dangerous giant cube they are trapped in. Black people generally like stories of teamwork (might be why they like sports?).

3) White people are serial killers. Black people generally don’t go on murder sprees. (Except all rappers and O.J. Simpson).  Think of all the serial killers throughout history. Dahmer. Gacy. Bundy. Reagan. They were all white as fuck. They were whiter than Anne Hathaway fucking an all white unicorn in a snowstorm. Black folks ain’t never hurt nobody. They were too busy learning how to dance and play sports better than whitey to get mixed up in all this “my dog told me to rape, then eat, my entire family” business.  Think Rose Parks said it best, “can’t we all just get along?”

4) White people like gondola rides. Black people LOVE gondola rides. There’s something about sitting in the back of a gondola, gently drifting down the canals of Venice, sipping red wine, starring into the eyes of the woman you love while a mustacheod gondolier serenades you with  traditional Italian love songs in a throaty baritone. You and your lover’s lips meet. Your olfactory senses tingle with the smell of freshly baked bread, of the flower vendors of Calle Specchieri, and of course the lingering scent of your lover’s saturated panties. Your hand slowly slides under her dress while you whisper into her ear.”Facciamo l’amore.” Two fingers ease into her sweet honey pot.  She winces in ecstasy. She grabs onto your arm, begging for more. You get wrist deep in dat shit, daaaawg, plunging  with a vengeance. Die Hard 3 style. She begins howling like a New World monkey with banana fever but you don’t stop until you feel a snag. What’s all this? You pull out your slimey fist only to find that your watch has gone  missing. “That’s a four-hundred dollar watch you swallowed up you fucking bitch!” you shout. You rear back your hand, about to show her face how much stronger you are than her, when you realize that the gondola is gaining a lot of water. Your lover had been juicing like a punctured Capri Sun during the fisting conference and the gondola is going down fast. There’s nothing you can do, you’ve got to abandon ship but you’re scared. You wait until the last possible moment, fill your lungs with air, and jump over board.

If these suggestions don’t get your proverbial comedic pussy dripping like a roast beef sammie soaked with Au Jus, we suggest growing your hair out, dying it red, perm that shit, go to the gym and work out until you’re swoll like a freckly gorilla, then just make some funny props. Like a walker with a Viagra dispenser and tube o’ lube on it. Get it? For old people? Cuz they can’t keep their dicks hard or their pussies sufficiently lubricated or whatever? Everybody loves that shit.

Heroes of the Civil Rights Movement ep. 2

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Carl Winslow (born Aug. 16, 1948) is the first African America police officer on the Chicago police force, proud husband, and father of three. When he’s not keeping the streets of Chicago safe, he enjoys time at home with his family, and a few times per week/episode, the autistic kid from down the street who wears suspenders and collects Winslow’s daughter’s dirty underwear.

His fellow law enforcement agents know him as the “Big Kahuna” because he’s got that a no-messing-around, let’s-get-down-to-business kind of attitude. And because he is fat. He began his career as a police sergeant in Chicago during a time where Chicagoans or Chicagoites or Deep Dish Douchebags, as they call them down south, were afraid to give black people guns. They were always saying stuff like “Black people can’t have guns because they’ll shoot their eyes out.” Well guess what Windy City fuckers, that’s a hurtful and inaccurate stereotype. Despite facing racial discrimination at every turn, Winslow’s hard work, dedication, rotundness and good old fashioned spunk lead to his promotion to lieutenant, and eventually captain. Captain Carl Winslow. That’s got a motherfucking ring to it. Winslow earned his firearm the only way he knew how: shooting people in the knee caps, shooting down chandeliers so that they fall on crooks, thereby immobilizing them, firing at bad guys’ cars as they drive away and hitting the gas tank, whereby making them explode (Side Note: shit looks dope in HD), and finally, setting the record for consecutive hours spent spinning his Beretta on his the left index finger before holstering it quickly. Unfortunately his career in the field came to a tragic, premature end when Winslow shot himself in the eye. Now he travels around to Chicago middle schools with D.A.R.E. All the kids make racist jokes about what he’s hiding under that eye patch. They’re always like “I bet Officer Winslow shot his eye out cuz he’s black and that’s what black people stereotypically do when they shoot guns.” Racist sons of bitches. Still, Winslow marches on, spreading the good word to all the little chilluns in the community. Except Steve Urkel. Fuck that guy. Amen.

Another hero for dat azz.

A Drawing I Made in 9th Grade

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What you’ll see here is two 1950′s style robots, one of which is wearing a bowler hat, shooting laser beams at who they think to be Puff Daddy. However it’s Tiger Woods. The all white outfit probably lead them to this conclusion. You would think that the golf club and Nike swoosh hat would have given him away. But you thought wrong. Dead fucking wrong. You see, they didn’t have “golf” or “Nike” back in the 1950′s. This drawing is a commentary on American modernization as we entered the Space Age and the system of racial oppression which supported it.