Wednesday, February 1, 2012

In Real Time, There Are No Replays (Twenty-Nine Years Old, Male, Black, Tribe Person) 1995

"I'm gonnah go and kick that motha fucka's ass Daddy," I said.

"Who the fuck you talkin bout? That fuckin cop and his partner who kicked yo ass propahly cause yo ass was fuckin round with his wife? That's who you talkin bout "the ass" yo dumbass gonnah kick?" My Daddy asked me with a smile on his face.

"Yeah," I said.

"Well, I'll be goddamned. Yah see that's what's wrong with US niggahs. Part of bein a man is knowin when yo ass has lost. Everybody can't win. There's gotta be some-fuckin-body that looses. I'm sorry tah tell you and all these otha sorry hard headed niggas round here. Shit! That's why these motha fuckas stabbin their wives and shit, shootin not only the wife but their two, three, four children...cause their asses done lost. Like in the fourth quarter in a football game, once the clock hits zero-zero, that's it! Game ovah, motha fucka! Can't play the same game over again. The game is over! And the winner is...and the loser is...The fuck! Sheeit!

The bitch left yo sorry ass cause that otha motha fucka was betta lookin than you; wore bettah cologne than you; had a bettah house than you; made more money than you; had a bigger dick than you; whooped yo ass cause he was tougher than you and the reason why you got yo ass kicked...whatevahthefuck!

Get over it! You fuckin lost...niggah! And I'm glad tah tell yah with yo silly ass self; you look like, sound like and act like a nigga who done lost! But...please listen tah me...move the fuck on!"

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