The Musings Of A New Millennium Nigga: So, You Want To Start A Revolution?

The Musings Of A New Millennium Nigga: So, You Want To Start A Revolution?

So, You Want To Start A Revolution?

A GAGGLE OF REPORTERS gathers outside of New Millennium Nigga Headquarters (aka his house, aka the crib).

NMN emerges. Cameras click over the buzz of the gathered crowd.


NMN: Thank you all for coming. I asked you all here to say...

First of all...Fuck John McCain! I used to think he stood for something but if he could get in bed with the likes of this piece of shit administration...Let's just say that somebody's senior thesis at Arizona State should be, "When Good Men Sell Their Fucking Souls: The John McCain Story (with foreword by Colin 'Please Don't Make Me Go To the UN and Say That Bullshit' Powell)."

And while I'm at it, I'd also like to say...Fuck Hillary Clinton! Where ya at, Hillary? You can't be more Republican than the Republicans so you might as well start sayin' some shit that makes some goddamn sense about this war and stop bullshittin'. Yeah, we know you voted for the war. Ya fucked up. But ask Slick Willie, the worst thing to do after you fuck up is run from it. Face the music. It'll be better that way. But you won't. And even if you did, you won't win. Word is a lot of people really hate your ass...and not just on the right. Hey, don't get mad at me. I don't make the news. I just report it.

See, I hadn't expected to have to make this decision this soon. But it seems that Presidential campaigns, much like the Christmas shopping season -- excuse me, 'holiday' shopping season -- are starting earlier and earlier these days. I mean, we're not even to the mid-term elections and John McCain is all set to cash in on his deal with the devil. Not only that, but Hillary Clinton is out talkin' shit about video games or some such matter of national, nay international, nay interga-fuckin'-lactic importance. God, I hope the Democrats run her. That ought to be pretty fucking entertaining. But I digress.

Today, I, A New Millennium Nigga, am announcing my candidacy for President of the United States.



REPORTER #1: Given the social climate of this nation and the force with which the FCC has struck in recent history, do you think there is much hope for a candidate who hurls the F-word about and who is known as A New Millennium N-Word?

NMN: First of all...fuck you, man. I'm a grown-ass man and I can use any words I goddamn well please. Now, I'm A New Millennium Nigga. N-word is some shit white people started saying during the OJ trial so that they could pretend on TV that the word "nigger" was absolutely foreign to them. Second. I plan to make "Fuck" the national word. And Michael Powell can go fuck himself if he don't like it. We have a national bird...now flip it. Fuck's already been used on the Senate floor and frankly if it ain't made fuckin' acceptable this muthafuckin Presidency shit probably ain't gonna work out for a muthafucka. Besides, there are a lot of people in this country who will want to call the first Black President a nigger. This way, I can pretend they callin' my name and continue on my merry muthafuckin' way.

REPORTER #2: Tell us about your agenda. Where do you stand on social issues? on the wedge issues?

NMN: I'm glad you asked. First, I will nominate Star Jones to be a Supreme Court Justice.


Star Jones steps forward and waves to the crowd.


NMN: You may remember, she is a lawyer. How could you forget? She sure ain't shy about reminding a muthafucka. But more importantly, she is clearly in favor of gay marriage. Though it is true that the idea is to have gay people marry each other, Star's heart was in the right place...somewhere in the vicinity of her shifting breasts.


Star smiles sheepishly.


NMN: Also, Pro-lifers will be forced by law to adopt babies. And if you think it's scary to take in some unknown teen's baby, li'l Miss Southern Baptist, wait 'til you get a load of the baby daddy. Muthafuckas on the street don't call him N-Sane for nothin'.

REPORTER #3: Some might suggest that you will be overly-focused on Black issues. Are you in favor of reparations?

NMN: White America could never repay the debt they owe. So, to me, the whole reparations thing is bullshit. But, I also think it's bullshit when some white parent bellyaches that their kid who had the best schools and a fuckin' SAT tutor "lost their spot" to some mythical unqualifed Black kid. Damn, with all the shit that has gone down, you would at least think that folks could adopt a "tie goes to the runner" mentality.

But don't worry, America, I got plenty of beef with Black folks too. Like the baby daddy's out there. Fuck 'em. They probably don't vote anyway. Black deadbeat dads who go around collecting baby mamas and not paying child support will be forced by the courts to be locked in a room with Black men who take care of their kids. The rooms will have no windows. The door will remain locked for 10 minutes per neglected child. Believe you me, the checks will start flowing in immediately. Let's face it, something has to be done about these serial baby-makers. Eventually their kids are going to start inadvertently procreating. And the only thing more embarrassing than realizing that the armed robber who's leading the eleven o' clock news is Black is realizing that the nigga has three arms.

REPORTER #4: What about flag burning?

NMN: If it's the Confederate flag, I'm all for it. Under my administration there will be no more Confederate flags. Look, I'm Black and I hate the sight of the Confederate flag. The truth is that for me it represents a bunch of slave owners and the poor white people they duped who wanted nothing more than to keep niggers in bondage. But that is not why we should be rid of the flag. Here's why we should get rid of it. They lost. THEY FUCKIN' LOST! Since when do the losers in a revolt get to keep their flag?! They're lucky they got to keep their heads. It don't end so nice in all revolts. Picture this...It's the end of the Super Bowl and the losing team grabs the boxes of T-Shirts behind their bench and start walking around with shirts that say that they are Super Bowl champions. It doesn't work. We would never do that. We ship those T-shirts off to third world nations like Bangladesh so that the children have something to wear as they make the clothes Americans buy cheaply at Wal-Mart.

REPORTER #5: How about The War on Drugs?

NMN: In my administration the new head of the Department of Agriculture will be Snoop. 'Nuff said.

Snoop's hand emerges from a cloud of smoke next to Star Jones.

JEFF GANNON: So, you have smoked weed?

NMN: First of all, I don't know who invited you Mr. Bulldog, The Gay Prostitute. But you talk slick to me and I will muthafuckin' Valerie Plame your little Brokeback boyfriend who got you into the White House all those times.

REPORTER #6: Have you ever smoked marijuana?

NMN: Look, I'm not going to play the gotcha game. Y'all let Dubya get away with that bullshit, so why not me? I mean word on the street is that Laura sold weed -- no joke -- so maybe you should ask her if she remembers me. Here's the thing, whether you smoke or not, I can't see any good reason why weed is illegal. How many college rape stories include alcohol? Now, the truth is that when muthafuckas get high all they're lookin' to ravage is the fridge.


Star Jones snickers.


NMN: Snoop, did you smoke Star out? I told you not to smoke her out.

SNOOP: I can not tell a lizzle, my nizzle.

NMN: She can't get the munchies. She had that gastric bypass shit.

STAR: I did not.


Everyone looks at her increduously.


STAR: I'm not gonna play the gotcha game either.

REPORTER #7: Mr. Nigga.

NMN: Don't get fucked up today.

REPORTER #7: But that's your name.

NMN: I'm just sayin...watch your tone.

REPORTER #7: What about the budget?

NMN: You know how the financial gurus explain that when you buy a $50 sweater with a credit card it can end up being a $500 sweater because of the interest. Well, Dubya, with his tax cuts ... and his war ... and his welfare handouts to Halliburton, et al, has bought this country a $3.4 Trillion sweater (estimated, through 2015). That's a lot of cash-mere, niggas. Break out your abacuses -- abaci? -- and do the math on that shit. I wrote and asked Dubya to explain his fiscal fuckin' irresponsibilty, but he didn't get the memo...again.

Here's my policy. If you make a lot of muthafuckin' money, you gon' pay a lot of muthafuckin' taxes. And we are adopting a "don't start none, won't be none" foreign policy. This pre-emptive shit is expensive...and stupid. Even a li'l nigga from Flatbush could have told these muthafuckas that you do not pick a fight with muthafuckas who ain't got nothin to lose. You know why? 'CAUSE THEY AIN'T GOT NOTHIN' TO LOSE!!!

REPORTER #8: So you would pull out of Iraq and let the country fall into Civil War?

NMN: As opposed to...

REPORTER #8: As opposed to staying the course.

NMN: Look, the Civil War is already on and poppin'. The people of that region are pissed and they are only gettin' more pissed every day. A friend of mine told me that he was taught when guests arrive to scope out how much underwear they've packed. That, he was told, is a clear indication of how long muthafuckas are intending to stick around. Well, when we start building bases and puttin' up golden arches and shit, the Iraqis see that as a whole shitload of underwear. And they want us the fuck out. I like to call this The War of the Roses, seein' as how we were supposed to be greeted with fuckin' flowers and all. Well, the only fuckin' flowers we'll be seeing will be on the graves of the estimated 33,000-38,000 (possibly as high as 100,000) dead Iraqis and over 2,300 US troops. All that and Osama is probably playing backgammon with Michael Jackson as we speak.

STAR: I'm hungry.

Star runs into the house. NMN shoots Snoop's cloud of smoke an angry look.

NMN: That's all for now. Thank you all for coming. Vote for A New Millennium Nigga in '08.

NMN flashes the victory/peace sign and walks inside with Snoop.

NMN: I told you not to let her hit that chronic. She liable to get at those Fritos and pop a staple.

They disappear into the house.

From inside the house, Star screams.

NMN: Is that Chunky Monkey?! Call 9-1-1!



Artwork courtesy of The Minister of Propaganda

The Musings Of A New Millennium Nigga: The March 24 Edition

The Musings Of A New Millennium Nigga: The March 24 Edition

The March 24 Edition

First of all...FUCK MY KIDS! And I don't just say that because I've learned that some pre-schools in LA cost roughly $15K per year. Oh, yeah...Did I mention they're twins? That's thirty-fuckin'-grand to learn all the verses of "The Itsy Bitsy [Fucking] Spider." But that's not why I curse the day they came into my life. I'm not even going to get started on the fact that I now need two weeks notice and a fuckin' UN resolution to see a movie with my own wife. And what's the point of discussing how much I hate it when they cry as I change their diaper? "Hey, pal. I'm the one who's elbow-deep in another muthafucka's shit. What the fuck are you crying about?"

Even as I write this, their picture sits on my desk. I look into those innocent eyes, those cherubic faces, and I am struck by the realization that I HATE THEIR FUCKING GUTS! Seriously...fuck them! Damn, I love them!

See, that's how they get you. They get you cooing to them to catch a glimpse of one of their first smiles. They touch your cheek. They rub their tiny hand back and forth on your arm as they down a bottle of milk. They lay on your chest and relax completely into a restful sleep. And the next thing you know, you love those little shitheads more than you love life itself. Beware! It could fuckin' happen to you. It fuckin' happened to me. And I should fuckin' know better.

Once, back when A New Millennium Nigga was just a little niglet, a friend teased me about my middle name. (You may be thinking, "Hey NMN, 'Millennium' is a strange name for a nigga to have." But I remind you, dear reader, that New Millennium Nigga is not my government name.) "That's my father's name," I shot back. See, I would joke around about a lot of things, but not my father's name. It was his gift to me. And it was on the short list of shit I just didn't find funny. Period. I loved having my father's name...mostly because I loved my father.

One reason I loved my father was our trip to the Baseball Hall of Fame in Cooperstown, NY. I think back on that trip and now realize that it was a real sacrifice for an electrician to use up his vacation time to take his son to "sunny" Cooperstown. I now realize that he piled my little sister, who had no interest in baseball whatsoever, into the car, too. I now realize that motels...and gas...and food...and that souvenir glass I just had to have all cost money. That trip meant a lot to me. And I now realize that he did all of that for me, that he did other versions of that for me throughout my life.

Friday, March 24, will be his birthday. He would have been 79. He's been dead for five years.

And so I say...fuck him too! See, he neglected to warn a nigga that all those good memories boomerang back and do their best to take your fucking head off. He never told me that one day a tumor would take hold in his fuckin' brain and he would fuckin' die on me. And then...to top it off...as I wandered through his apartment after he was gone, holding my shit together by a thread...you'll never guess what that muthafucka had the nerve to do. Well, I went into the kitchen for something to drink. I opened the cabinet looking for a glass. And there it was...25 years after he bought it...the souvenir glass from our trip to Cooperstown. I guess that trip meant a lot to him, too. I lost it. That shit hurt. What a fuckin' asshole!

And you know what? On the morning of March 24, I'll pick up my phone to call him -- why should this year be any different? -- and then it'll hit me. It'll feel like an uppercut to the gut. "He's gone, nigga. Put down the phone."

As fate would have it, March 24 will also be the first anniversary of my mother's cremation. That coincidence is evidence that if there is a God, he/she/it's got a wicked sense of humor. Those two hated each other's guts.

My mother taught me lots of things. She taught me to say "Please"...to say "Thank you"...and to "always use the bathroom before you leave." She was practical like that. The one thing she didn't get around to teaching me was how to make her chicken lasagna. I loved that shit. And whenever we were together, she made it for me...special, for me. Sometimes she would tell me bits and pieces of how it was made. "A little of this and a little of that." Well, guess what? I've searched high and low and there are no measuring devices marked "a little." Not only that, but "this" and "that" are, apparently, not actual spices. So here I am, a year after she fuckin' died on me, fiendin' for some fuckin' chicken lasagna and I can't fuckin' have any. That shit hurts. Well...Fuck her too!

See, that's what muthafuckas do. They get you all comfortable. They get you likin' dey fuckin' chicken lasagna and shit and then when you ain't lookin' they fuckin' dip on you. Niggas be out! And they leave you with bullshit souvenir glasses to remember them by...as if that shit is supposed to be good enough.

So, I say...Fuck my kids! My wife, too! And fuck every muthafucka who has had the muthafuckin' nerve to weasel their bitch-ass way into my life, into my heart. If you are among that number...

Fuck you...for real. Fuck you for every time I dread the thought of losing you. A friend -- more like a brother really -- told me recently of some health problems he's having. If he doesn't handle it, the shit could get "catastrophic," he explained. I looked that nigga dead in the eye and told him -- 99% serious, 1% joking -- "Nigga, if you die on me, I will fuckin' kill you." Fuck him, too!

Fuck my son for ending up in the ICU after he was born. My stomach hurt for four sleepless...endless...days straight. Fuck my daughter for falling off the bed when I had just stepped out of the room for a second. I can still hear that gut-wrenching thud. It rings in my ears. It haunts me. Fuck my wife for every single time she hasn't answered her cell phone and I have had to spend the time between my call and her call back imagining every horrific goddamn thing that could have happened to her, imagining the hole in my soul that would be ripped open if I ever lost her. And fuck the realization that...sooner or later...death does us all part...and there ain't a goddamn thing I can do about it.

I feel like now that I've brought up my mother, I should behave the way that she taught me to behave. So to all my loved ones...

"Say 'Please.'" - Please be careful out there in this crazy ass world.

"Say 'Thank you.'" - Thank you for making my life all that it is.

And...

"Always use the bathroom before you leave." - In conclusion, if you have managed to matter to me...PISS ON YOU, MUTHAFUCKA! And I mean that with all my heart.

The Musings Of A New Millennium Nigga: It's Elmo's World?!?

The Musings Of A New Millennium Nigga: It's Elmo's World?!?

It's Elmo's World?!?

NEW MILLENIUM NIGGA NEWS HOUR (transcript provided by Reuters)
(credit given to Paul Mooney who introduced the idea of "The Nigga News" years ago)

[A Tickle Me Elmo commercial comes to its gut-busting end.]

A NEW MILLENNIUM NIGGA turns to camera.

NMN: "He's yellow." There are contexts in which "dem's could be fightin' words." But when you're talking about Big Bird, it is simply a fact. He's tall. He's yellow. And if you've been a child, had a child or even known a child on Earth anytime in the last 40 years, he's the man...or more accurately, as I would learn, the bird. A New Millennium Nigga News Hour brings you this special presentation: "Flippin' the Bird".


NMN walks down Sesame Street alongside Big Bird.


NMN: First of all...Fuck Elmo!

BB: Here on Sesame Street we don't fuck our friends.

NMN: Not even if they're fuck buddies.

BB: What's a fuck buddy?

NMN: Friends who fuck.

BB: We visited a farm last week and we learned about chicks being hatched. I guess you could say they're our cluck buddies.


NMN winks.


NMN: I get it...you be messin' wit dem chickenheads.

BB: No they had chicken bodies too.

NMN: Huh?

BB: What?

NMN: Chickenheads. Like chicks who...never mind. Stop getting me off point.

BB: What is your point?

NMN: My point is that it's Elmo's World.

BB: (singing) La-la-la-la, la-la-la-la/Elmo's World.

NMN: No.

BB: You don't know the song.

NMN: How could I not know the song? Of course I know the song. I have two kids. I hear that fucking song in my fucking sleep.

BB: It is catchy.

NMN: That's not the point.

BB: What is your point?

NMN: My point is it used to be YOUR world, Big Bird. What happened to you? You used to be beautiful, man.

BB: Well, it's everybody's world. We need to share--

NMN: No, no, no. Don't tell me you've started to believe all this "share, share, that's fair" shit you've been shovelling these kids, dawg.

BB: I'm a bird.

NMN: What?

BB: You must be confused. You called me a dog. I'm a bird.

NMN: Are you getting fuckin' smart with me?

BB: Here on Sesame Street we try to get smarter and smarter every day.

NMN: Well, if you're so muthafuckin' smart, how come you let that nigga, Elmo, snatch your show right out from under you.

BB: Sesame Street?

NMN: Yes, nigga, Sesame Street! For a muthafucka who be teachin' kids shit, you are one slow cat.

BB: I'm a bird.

NMN: What?

BB: Huh?

NMN: Look, man, I'm from Flatbush. And if there's one thing I know it's that you can't be lettin' muthafuckas run up on your block punkin' you. You come off lookin' like a bitch.

BB: Did you watch Sesame Street as a child?

NMN: Of course, man.

BB: Then why don't you know your animals? I already told you...I'm not a dog.

NMN: Are you gettin' fuckin' smart with me?

BB: You said I look like a bitch. But I don't look anything like a dog.

NMN: No, not a bitch like...Never mind. That's not the point.

BB: What is your point?


OSCAR THE GROUCH pops up out of his garbage can.


OSCAR: Oh...it's you. New millennium, same ol' asshole.

NMN: Fuck you, nigga. That's why you live in a garbage can.

OSCAR: Your mother.


NMN dives at the garbage can. Oscar shuts the lid just in time to catch NMN's hand. He pulls away shaking his hand.


NMN: Damn. That shit happens every time.


Big Bird looks on confused. NMN turns to him.


NMN: Look, this right here. This is your shit. Where does Elmo live? In Elmo's World? You live ON Sesame Street. YOU FROM THE STREETS, NIGGA!

BB: You're right. I mean, I never thought of it that way, but Elmo doesn't know what's going on out here on Sesame Street.

NMN: That's what I'm sayin'. But then why aren't these kids askin' for Tickle Me Big Bird dolls? Tickle Me Elmo?! You know what I'm'a buy Elmo for Christmas? A Blow Me New Millennium Nigga Doll.

BB: You have your own doll.

NMN: Yeah, it's cummin' in December.


NMN laughs at his own joke. Big Bird doesn't get it.


BB: I don't get it.

NMN: See, it's a Blow Me...Never mind. That's not the point.

BB: What is your point?

NMN: My point is that you are reppin' the real Sesame Street and that nigga Elmo is stealin' your shine.


Big Bird sits on the curb. NMN sits down next to him. Big Bird hangs his head.


BB: You're right. But what do I do about it?


NMN shakes him.


NMN: You can act like a man.

BB: I already told you. I'm a --

NMN: You're a bird. I know. I know. But here's the question. Are you gonna soar like an eagle? Or are you gonna let Elmo treat you like a duck?

BB: Technically, I'm not an eagle or a--


NMN slaps Big Bird's beak.


NMN: Focus! You go reclaim your show. Reclaim Sesame Street!

BB: You're right. I'm gonna reclaim Sesame Street!


Big Bird stands and storms away. NMN pounds his fist to his chest.


NMN: Sesame Street for life, nigga!


OSCAR pops out of his can.


OSCAR: Move it along, nigga. You're drivin' down the property values.

NMN: Shut up, man. That's why you stink.

OSCAR: I live in a garbage can. What's your excuse?


NMN dives at the garbage can. Oscar shuts the lid just in time to catch NMN's hand. He pulls away shaking his hand.


NMN: Damn. That shit happens every time.


Back in the studio, A NEW MILLENNIUM NIGGA turns to camera.


NMN: As I'm sure you know by now, Elmo was shot just hours after this interview. Both B.I.G. Bird and Snuffy are wanted for questioning. We here at the New Millennium Nigga News Hour certainly hope that there won't be anymore violence. Good night and good luck, niggas.


NMN puts his finger to his earpiece.


NMN: What the cops wanna talk to me for?!


VOICE-OVER: New Millennium Nigga News Hour is brought to you by Brace Yo'Self Elmo. Kevlar vest and life-like "nine milly" sold separately. They shot him five times. Really puppets don't die. Ya heard?!

The Musings Of A New Millennium Nigga: Katrina (The Remix)

The Musings Of A New Millennium Nigga: Katrina (The Remix)

Katrina (The Remix)

Some people say that George W. Bush is always fucking lying. That's not true. Sometimes, he's fucking sleeping. And sometimes when he's awake, he isn't fucking speaking. But the rest of the time...when he parts the lips that form that smug fucking smile...he is one lyin' ass muthafucka.

Now, let me put something out there right up front. When I decided to write this "Musing" a couple people half-joked that I should be careful. I thought about it and for those who would warn me that I will now be on some government list... I’m a Black man who graduated from Yale and particpated in a protest or two while there. I’m guessing I’m already on some fucking list. Besides, what the fuck can this government do to me ain’t already been done? So you can warm up my cell at Abu-Ghraib, Dubya. Or you can just ship my Black ass off to Gitmo. But before you send me, you should know this. I ain’t afraid of menstrual blood nor my own, so in your own words, “Bring It On.” Greater is he that is in me than he who is in the Oval Office!

First of all...Fuck George W. Bush! I know he was a cheerleader back in the day, so let me put this in terms even he could understand.


Fuck George W. Bush!
Fuck him in his earhole!
Fuck him in his eyehole!
Fuck him in his
lyin’-ass piehole!


Didn't he specifically say that he didn't know what was happening as Katrina lashed the Gulf Coast like a runaway slave? Wasn't the popular response to criticism of the administration's response, or lack thereof, that the left was trying to blame Dubya for the weather? [Well, from what I'm told Bush and his cronies can take a little credit for the weather since the severity of these hurricanes lately has been linked by some to the very global warming this administartion insists "needs more study." (Translation: We're gonna keep farting this shit into the sky. Fuck the fucking consequences.) But that's another rant for another day.] Well, now it comes out. He was far more responsible for that catastrophe than he was saying. And in our law and order country, I'd like to know why no one is calling for the death penalty.

I, for one, don't believe in the death penalty. But I know that many in America do. So, if Tookie can be put to death for killing people why not Dubya? I assure you Dubya had more choices in life. 1,300 bodies found in Katrina's wake and nothing. Bad approval ratings?! That's the kind of "time-out" level punishment this murderer gets? I mean, I heard Tookie described as an animal. I'm pretty sure that he didn't kill 1,300 people, so how much more of an animal must Dubya be? And that's to say nothing of Iraq and it's 25,000 American casualties (a number put forth by Gary Hart on "Real Time" last week) and 2,300 dead American soldiers. How many people died in 9-11 again? What does this guy have to do to generate the kind of anger Janet's tit did? out a CIA operative? I don't want to actually say how I think the death penalty should be administered in this case, but suffice it to say it involves that smug fucking smile and a smidge of K-Y jelly.

But back to the tape. Not since R. Kelly has somebody been caught so red-handed fucking people on tape. He was told about the levees. He was told what would happen to those people...my people. No questions. No nothing. Who knows what that "beautiful mind" was mulling over? May be he was contemplating the intricacies of a "Rocky & Bullwinkle" episode he had once seen? Or he could have been wondering if that coyote ever caught that pesky road runner. Or may be he was wondering if Fred Flintstone ever got strawberries on his feet, using them to brake like that. Or he could have been sorting out how they get the filling into Twinkies. Or why people park in driveways and drive on parkways. I have never been an idiot. I don't know what he was thinking. But I do know this. The nation got it's collective panties in a bunch wondering if Clinton fucked Monica. Where's the outrage at the fact that Curious George and his crew are fucking us all? It comes as no surprise though that this was kept a secret for so long.

Dubya, people like you have a long history of keeping your jaunts across the proverbial tracks…to say nothing of down to the slave quarters…pretty goddamn quiet. Congrats on fucking all those Black people. And in a twist, this time unwanted (at least by your administration) children died instead of being born. (To think, Essie Mae Washington-Williams could have inconvenienced good ol' Strom. Good thing she knew her nigger place, huh George?) And all those dying Black people means fewer Democrats. Talk about your win-win situations.

Let's be real. This Katrina shit is, at it's core, racial. I mean, Kanye missed a little of the point. ("George Bush doesn't care about Black people." is another check in the "I Love Kanye" column for me.) Dubya, et al don't care about poor people. Now, when you discuss Black people, you will eventually deal with poverty. And when you deal with poverty you will eventually deal with Black people. To be sure, Dubya doesn't give a fuck about Black people, but I remember seeing Brett Fahr-vruh trying to call his mother in the aftermath of Katrina and there won't be no crayon drawings of him goin' up next February. It's bigger than race. Here's how you know if you matter to this administration. Ask yourself, "Did I get a tax cut?" If the answer is no, you know they don't give a fuck about you. And yes, that includes the lemmings who voted based on the need to keep boys from marrying boys and girls from marrying girls. News flash: Gay people didn't want to fuck you, but Dubya seems to love puttin' his Wonka right up our collective chocolate factory.

It's fitting that they're called red states, because those who put this asshole in office have blood on their hands...and lots of it. This is not about Democrat versus Republican. This is not about liberal versus conservative. This is about right versus wrong. What happened in New Orleans was wrong and I want some satisfaction. The War in Iraq was wrong and is wrong and I want to know who will have to pay for the crimes (against humanity) that were committed. I want Cheney to be treated like a muthafucka who had alcohol on his breath and in his blood and shot somebody. Vice President, I would apologize for my language, but I heard how you talk on the Senate floor. You can take it. You're a big boy...to say nothing of being an evil fucking man.

And if this ever reaches you, John Kerry, I hope you're smiling. I hope you're agreeing with my assessment of this administration and feeling secure that you have an ally in me...because then I can picture the shock when I say...Fuck you, too! Fuck you and every plastic-spined, pussy-footin’ equivocatin’ member of your joke of a fucking party. The Democrats--or as I refer to them, The United Ankle Grabbers of America--have given this country away. Don’t blame those who voted for Nader. Neither election should have even been close. I have been a registered (and loyal) democrat for my entire voting life. But you should know this. I’m not voting for another fucking Democrat until I see that they stand for something. At this point, a stand in the great Coke vs. Pepsi debate would be an improvement over the hand-wringing, deer-in-the-headlights debacle we’ve been forced to endure.

You bumblin’ bastards couldn’t find your assholes with a flashlight and a road map and I’m not throwing my vote your way anymore until you earn it. I’ll vote for Nader. I’ll write in “None of the a-muthafuckin-bove”. I’ll vote for Tyrone-fuckin-Biggums before I cast another "lesser of two evils" vote. Fuck you, John Kerry, for being the kind of pussy who would “go hunting” but not carry the kill. You don’t stand for a goddamn thing and that’s why you fell in defeat to an incumbent who was an unabashed, unmitigated failure in every sense. The economy was a mess. An elective war had gone wrong. The man had publicly admitted that he doesn’t even read the newspaper. Fuck! What else did you need? A picture of him butt-fuckin’ a 12-year old Mexican border crosser who had been caught by the infamous militia men. Now you've got balls?! Stop emailing me. Too little, too late. You remind me of the guy yelling, "Hold me back" after the shit has already gone down, after the fight is over. You make me sick. You doomed us to this with your bullshit.

Moving on...

Dubya, I'm reminded of a time when I was a young boy. I don't remember how old I was, but I was young enough to still be playing with crayons. I know you still play with crayons -- How else would you pass the time as people read you boring memos entitled things like, "Bin Laden Determined to Attack Inside the United States"? -- but the rest of us put aside our childish ways after a certain point. Anyway, my mother called me into her bedroom and pointed to the back of her door. "Did you write this?," she asked pointing to the crayon scrawling on the back of her door. I denied it. She pointed out that it was my name. I was a bad liar. I was punished. My mother taught me that it was wrong to lie. I know that your mother doesn't soil her "beautiful mind" with trivialities like the loss of American lives, so she may have also been above sullying her consciousness with the fact that her son is a fuckin' pathological liar. So, I'll tell you. It's wrong to lie, George. Some might even call it --gasp! -- a sin.

But I don't share this story to point out that my mother seems to have been a better human being and Christian than your mother. I'll leave those judgements to the ultimate judge. I share the story to point out that you are a horrible liar. The mission in Iraq is far from accomplished. Many children have been left behind. And you did know that the people of New Orleans were doomed. Is this the "honor and dignity" of which you spoke when you ran in 2000? Is this the compassionate conservatism that was the way to a better America? Is this the Christianity of which you so freely and frequently speak, alienating millions of Americans who do not believe in Christ and frightening those of us who do, but who generally try to utilize the gifts of reason and intellect as well?

To use a phrase you once butchered beyond fucking recognition...Fool us once, shame on you. Fool us twice, shame on us. And we should be ashamed that the self-proclaimed greatest country on Earth could not find a leader better than you, a man who had been mediocre on the best days of his privileged life. You couldn't run baseball, but the country...Wow! That says a lot about the political process. Apparently, you were helped by the fact that people felt they wanted to have a beer with you. I've had a lot of drinking buddies in my day...hell, I've had a lot of drinks...but I wouldn't necessarily want some of those drinking buddies calling the shots for the free world. I'm just weird that way. But far be it from me to tell people how to waste their vote.

Anyhow, what's done is done. Well, not exactly...The tax cuts will cost several generations after ours money they never decided to spend. But other than that...Well, there is this pesky swamp of a war in Iraq. We won't be pulling out of that quicksand anytime soon. But beyond...Oh yeah...They're still waiting for the clean up to happen in New Orleans.

I did hear they had Mardi Gras though. So, may be next year we can all have a drink with you down in New Orleans. Don't mind the dead bodies. I'm sure somebody will clean the mess up eventually. May be, for ol' times sake, Laura will let you get shit-faced with a bunch of us American citizens you relate to so fucking well, you Washington outsider, you. And if we're lucky, we can all jump in a car and have a drunk driving incident that nobody ever talks about. Shit, we can rip a page out of Cheney's book, hit somebody and make them apologize on national TV for being in our way. I'm starting to see the genius of this whole "I'd like to have a drink with him" philosophy. I'm getting all excited, just thinking about us stumbling down Bourbon Street drunk as Noah himself. Now, that's the kind of drowning in Hurricanes I'm talkin' 'bout!