Up-South Versus Down-South

I was down south for a couple a couple of weeks. Houston, Tex-ass. I expected the worst: Negro corpse – dragging, the usual 14 shot search warrants served at 4 in the morning….But Houston was actually okay, with only a two week sample.

Was it ‘BETTER’ than Up-North?! In the main…on breve…OUI!!

The people were more real, more down to earth. Image seemed to mean less down thar. The games people feel that they must run in order to hoodwink you, make you believe in their mythology Up-South…what a waste of energy.

AHHH! But, it would be a mistake to believe that…A cop is a cop, whether good or bad…His hope, good or bad, is to incarcerate you, control you, dominate you…at least, my reading of history says so. I have no more time for the ‘good’ kind and their tricknology, their brain-curdling lies, their fake smiles, their phony, saccharin head nods.

Give me real hate with gravy, give me a Jasper cab ride, rather than a Northwest Kumbaya ceremony.

I have outgrown ‘Up-South’ hypocrisy and hopefully, outlived it, too.


Portland said: “No NIGGAS!”

I have lived in this white-bread town for almost fourteen miserable-ass years.

From the beginning, when I made the move to this town, there was a faint chorus that my internal (infernal) ear could not clearly hear.

It  took 6 months. 6 months of drive-bys and drive-throughs, through all manner of splendid, well manicured, dare I say “hip” abodes, neighborhoods, dwellings…and none whisphered “Moi.”

By the end of 6 months, I stopped getting out of the car. The STOP sign was that loud and clear.

So, I stopped looking for Nirvana and tried to figure out, “where in the hell I was.”

And then, it hit me.

Minister Louis Farrakhan had once sung that, “a white man’s heaven, was a black man’s hell.”

Portland, Oregon is “White Heaven!”

And the little whisper that I couldn’t decipher when I first moved here…now, I could…

“Make it here, nigger?! You might make it here…as a Tom, as a head-scratcher, ass-picker or foot-shuffler…beyond that…nigger-please!”

Yep. So, I needs to take my black ass somewhere, anywhere that I can be my own black self.

Eventually, its gonna be out of this hellhole. Cuz, while there is no “Black Heaven” to my limited knowledge, living in this white heaven called “Amerikka” is a black man’s allergen, called “HELL!”


Boss Man’s a Racist – Say What?!

I’m gonna get me a boss man

One that’s gonna treat me right

I work hard in the evenin’

Rest easy at night


Big boss man, big boss man, big boss man

Can’t you hear me when I call? Alright

I said you ain’t so big

You’re just tall that’s all

“Big Boss Man,” written by Luther Dixon and Al Smith, originally recorded by Jimmy Reed


Boss Man’s a Racist – Say What?!

Stirling. L.A. Clippers. Blah. Blah. Blah. All this noise over a racist boss. What else is new? Negroes deal with do-as-I-say-not-as-I-do, Don’t-ask-any-questions-or-look-at-me-funny and most-definitely-approach-me-uninvited-or-outside-of-business-hours bosses every single day. Makes no difference if it’s the Post Office or the NBA, power is power, privilege is privilege, White makes right. Everybody knows that.

So, why all the fuss?

Surely, one does not assume the Mandigos in short pants are, by dint of media exposure, a protected class. With great exposure, comes great responsibility. With broadcasters and advertisers, you best come correct. When faced with a social or ethical dilemma, a choice, say, between person-hood or livelihood, don’t get all Malcom X and play some kinda race card. Your task, in this good old US of A, is to consume a very large portion of shit with that phat paycheck. You’re an employee, muthafucka. I don’t give a fiddle what you drive or where you live or which cheerleader you married. You’re an entertainer on whose back media empires, executive careers and lifestyles of the rich and famous are built. Shut the fuck up and eat the shit sandwich graciously brought to you by the Silverback Arches. Get on with your business of fulfilling childhood dreams of winning championships. Just make sure to make that highlight reel. Go on, get it!

Don’t you worry about a thang. I’ll be right here on the couch. I’ma keep on watchin’ cause my sorry life any no storybook tale of derring do and triumph like yours. Nope, it’s a Jody Grind and a Dry Hump. It’s a big fat rat fuck of careless schmucks with good intentions and callous assholes with bad ones. It’s my own private Idaho, my own piece of the rock. Gamin’ on ya.

So, take your money and eat the shit. That’s what we do. That’s how we roll. That’s our raison d’etre til somebody turns this mutha’ out!

Kang Kong


Poor Babies!


An old, rich, shriveled up white man, whose wealth is predicated on working black men to the bone…

Oh, what a shock that he hates that source of his wealth – black people – so much so that the black, “belly warmer” trinket that he fucks and squires around to  make himself look….’good?!’…and could never win without the cash money earned from his exploited labor, he chastises her and demands that she not associate with people like her…

Makes sense to me.


Got Papah?

Brah. Hey Brah! You got some papah over there? ‘Cause this corporate media ain’t doinnothin’ 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-flayvors. 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.


-Kang Kong


The Washington Professional Football Team

Ethics?! Common sense?!

I’ve heard told that Daniel Snyder, owner of the aforementioned  Washington (DC) Professional Football Team is a billionaire.

How can you make so much money and be so stupid?!

Some background: I grew up south of the Mason-Dixon line in “Chocolate City,” “Dark Country.” Our ‘hood had one thing in common with Wisconsin and Connecticut Ave: we LOVED that damn ball team!

It was a love bordering on pathology. Perhaps, it exceeded it.

For realz, how can a bunch of second-class citizens, red, yellow and black niggas, support a ball club, called, “The Washington Redskins???”

We should know better. Somehow, we don’t.

There was once another Washington Professional Sp0rts Team owner. He was derided, by some, for changing the name of the Washington ‘Bullets’ basketball team to the Washington ‘Wizards.’ The name was corny, he was doing it for publicity, or, get this, Mr. Pollin did it “to make more money.”

Mr. Pollin said at the time that, because DC had become the murder capital of the whole US of A, perhaps renaming the team – from “BULLETS” – was appropriate. Seems reasonable.

To end this diatribe: All I can say is, I support the football team – but not the football team’s ugly, racist name.

The name Redskins must go.

Dan Snyder (and all the other punks who think “appropriate” means whatever puts mo’ money in your pocket) are carnivorous fools. If they don’t KNOW that that name is a slur — I don’t care how many pride-less, Uncle Tom Indians you can dig up to assert otherwise — they are out of their minds.

I used to have “Redskin” pajamas and helmets and wastepaper baskets, but I was told to let go of foolish things…when the time comes.

It seems that , as the old coach used to say, “the future is NOW!”


Salutations, Bitches!!!

Outhouse Negroes.

We’re from inside the outhouse. The Underneath. The shit you prolly don’t want to hear, said in a way you prolly don’t want to hear it said. Tough shit.

Our subtitle/subtext: Outhouse Negroes, offering up tough shit for the ig’nant, the too cool, too black, the too bougie, the too progressive, but mainly, the too blind. Blind. Deaf, dumb and blind.

The Obama Cultists are welcome here to read, but not plead the case for your phony ass black man. But we’ll, at least, I’ll, get into that. Cold buster-type…

We are two, the Outhouse Negro crew, two no-count Negroes, with keyboards in hand, trying to express what we dare observe in our day-to-day terminal existence. It is either write, or die. We ain’t ready for all that bloodshed just yet, so……And, plus, the pen is mightier than the sword, so they say….

We just want to call it like we see it since no one else will let us. So, we’re grabbing our own mikes and saying what the fuck we want to say sans the permission of the Pink Tyranny mucking up our works.

Fuck dat!!

We’re gonna put in work, word-work, said in our own, sweet way, in our own vernacular and to whoever can hear it, appreciate it, etc….

So…..all of that said to say……

Word to the real muthafuckas who want the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the mutha-fucking-truth! At least our version of it anyway.

And don’t expect unanimity, either, muthafuckas!!!!!