I’ll tell you how I met my wife.
It was during one of my many years in college; either year five or six of my four year degree. I had been discovered as having Wrong Thoughts by the Official Black Students and everywhere I went on campus people turned their heads and eyed me like I was a celebrity. I was in the school cafeteria (a place I never went) because the Official Black Students had tried to have me kicked out of school the week before and I wanted to be in public to rub my existence in their faces. Yeah, I was petty like that. When I was young I didn’t run victory laps when I won at anything – I ran victory marathons.
The Official Black Students had read some of my very wrong and very dangerous thoughts about the failure of black political leadership and students – black, white, and Hispanic were on edge. I don’t think the Asian kids cared. So I sat in the cafeteria pretending to read a Thomas Sowell book while nursing a Coca-Cola [side note for my white readers: black people don’t drink Coke. I’m probably one of 25 that do]. My future wife plopped down across the table from me. She was going to be the latest Official Black Student to register shock and outrage at my wrong and offensive views.
I let her. She was cute.
When it was my turn to explain my backwardness I simply told her I didn’t vote for people who used my tax money to pay for the killing of black babies (any babies but you know Planned Parenthood has a special place in its cold, desiccated heart for black infants). That was new information for her. It didn’t register so I moved to affirmative action. I explained the Left thinks so little of us that they don’t think we can get a job, win a contract, or get into a university unless they let us in. We can never compete with whites.
We went back and forth until I asked her, “Do you think black students can get a 4.0 GPA and score high on standardized tests and compete with whites for top grades in high school?”
She heard herself say “No” and I saw her beautiful eyes go as wide as frisbees. At that moment she became aware of all the racist propaganda she had imbibed and believed about herself and her black kin.
That was the last argument she ever conceded to me but that’s not why I’m remembering it today. What brought it to mind and made me want to share it with you is the sordid, public affair between Chelsea Handler and 50 Cent. Mr. Cent had dared to declare he was going to think for himself and vote for President Trump. He had no affinity for the man he just thought it served him better to vote for the President. This was too much for the white Left. The aptly named Ms. Handler announced on Jimmy Fallon’s television show she had reminded Mr. Cent of his place – he is black and his mind and his vote did not belong to him. They belong to whomever the white Left tell him they belong to and she’d prove it with her body if necessary.
But we all knew long before Ms. Handler went Fay Wray for the late night viewing audience and social media that Mr. Cent belonged to white folks. You can tell from his rap lyrics. In a song titled, “How to Rob”, Cent calls black people Nigger 15 times in a four minute song. It’s not the only song in which smears black people. It’s a feature of nearly all of his raps but 15 times in 240 seconds is quite a feat. I’m quite sure even the most hateful, Mississippi Grand Cyclops at a well attended cross burning never approached that rate of Nigger usage. And if he did it’s because he meant it. Mr. Cent does it for cash.
This is his life. Fifty takes money from white music executives to call black people Nigger. He got rich from something black people spent 400 years trying to eradicate and then had the nerve to say he needed Trump in office to protect his money. He didn’t want to cheapen himself, in a sense.
Well, the joke is on you, Mr. Cent. Once you tell white folks around the world that you’re Nigger born and Nigger bred they treat you like it.
Keep your vote for Biden, boy. You wouldn’t want Miss Ann telling Massa you got ideas, now would you?