Brah. Hey Brah! You got some papah over there? ‘Cause this corporate media ain’t doin’ nothin’ for me, ya’ feel me? Gimme’ somethin’ I cause use to wipe away the 24-hour info-tainment, to run off squeaky little foxes and sweaty blowhards jamming obscenities into my earhole.
Can’t a brother find some peace?
Quit trippin’, my nigga. Just toss it over the top. You know me. I ain’t no down-low, “family values” Republic lookin’ to play footsies in some public bathroom. I am an original Outhouse Negro, on the fringe, off the edge, over the top, peepin’ through slithers and slats of virtual reality, tryin’ to make a living in the white man’s world, tryin’ to keep a lid on it and a roof over my kinky head, doin my best-us to move on up, to keep from getting’ shot by the friendly neighborhood watch, makin’ sure to say “hi” and “howdy” and “howyadoin” to everybody I meet. Nothin’ to see here. Move on. Move along. I’m one of the safe ones, really.
Safe from greed and avarice, from hate and (class) envy, from not knowing my place, from retributive justice, from fantasies of balanced books and evened scores, from levelled playing fields. Of dreams, I say squat. Of dreams, I’ll gladly defer in place of a good shit. A good plop, plop, fizz, fizz/Oh, what a relief it is.
The smell is getting’ to me, though. Not the sewer smell but the smell of death, the smell of Afghan wedding parties and rendered holy warriors, of catastrophic oil spills and drowning polar bears, of crazy homeless veterans and fly-covered children. This “not my problem” aerosol spray ain’t no way strong enough for this big ol’ stink. Big ol’ stink to high heaven stink. Call in and order right now, yes, we take credit cards, stink. This, please, God, let me pay off this second mortgage and not get foreclosed stink, this whistlin’ past the graveyard stink.
It’s much too stinky for a negro to ignore, even one trapped in the Outhouse of life in America, on the fringe, off the edge, over the top, on the outside lookin’ in, pressin’ a flat, ugly nose against the window of this candy story called America. The shelves are stocked full of artificial colors and flava-flay–vors. Too stinky! Too stinky!
But I want it. I want it so bad. Please baby, please, I want that stank ‘cause I ain’t to proud to beg but am too god-damned dumb and lazy to want anything else but this red-blooded Earl L. Butz dream of tight pussy, loose shoes and a warm place to shit.