E' Cigs and Shit (Forty-Eight Years Old, Broke Black Prophet, Near Salvation) 2014

Mothah fuckah!  Mothah...fuckah!  Say whah?  You  heard my Black Broke Ass!  Oh, yes yah did! 

So, a mothah fuckah tryin tah quit smokin and shit.  So my Black ass goes to the closest shit.  Yah heard may?  So I pulls up tah Meijers' gas/convenient mart.  Walk in. 

What kind of E' Cigs do yah have?  So the clerk says tah me, "Njoy," and some othah kind of mothah fuckin shit I have no idea the name brand.  But I remember, based on advertisin that Njoy was  the shit I am familiar with.  Yah see how shit is fucked up?  Anyway.  I tell her, "Njoy."  How much is that?  And she says, "Hold ohn.  It might be buy one get one.  It's been like that for a long time." You mean a BOGO?  Shit, you already know.  So she rings the shit up and says, "Oh, no.  They ain't no buy one get one no mo."  That's alright.  I'll take one.  "Well we got, Original, Light, Menthol..."  I'll take the Original please.  "Whah?  You tryin tah quit smokin or som'ehn?"  Yes.  Gottah do somethin with my old self.  "Well, just do like I just did.  Just quit."  I hear yah My Dear Sweet Sistah, but tah me, it ain't as easy as that.  "Shit, I just quit.  I even smoked weed and shit."  Hah!  No you didn't!  But I undahstand!  "Seriously though.  Just quit.  And that will be nine dollahs and thirty-five cents."   Ouch!  "Yah see what I mean?  Just quit.  If I did it, anybody can do it.  I was up tah a pack and ah half and shit.  Fuck that." 

Word.   

One...Cannot Last With Only One (Fifty Years Old, Broke Black Prophet, Saved) 2016

You would think, after all this time, that we are getting smarter.  But I'm sorry to tell you Sunshine, it's quite the adverse.  And why is that?  Well, to put it simply, it's because we have forgotten about the Collective and we have unforgivingly gotten more about One.

There is nothing One can do without another One. 

It takes another to make you...and me.

And once that simple mantra diminishes...

Welcome to the state that we are presently in.

And, "Welcome to the party!  My Dear Sweet Sistahs and Brothahs!"

Be Proud! Black Food Is Delicious (Thirty-Eight Years Old, Broke Black Prophet) 2004

Niggahs kill my Black ass.  Oh, I’m sorry.  If yah didn’t understand the first statement, I’s be a niggah too.  But that’s beside the goddamned point.  Shit, I come from a family of eleven boys and one girl and some of the boys, yes, my brothahs, I can’t stand.  So, you see where I’m goin with this little analogy.  Can’t fake the funk when the funky is on yo Black ass!  Oh, no nig…gah!  It is what it is.  C’est tout.  So consider me kilt.

We are the only race, Black Americans, on this here planet Earth ashamed of what we eat.  Whah?  Mothah fuckah?  Yah heard my Black tired ass!  Oh, yes yah did! 

You are a fried chicken eatin, collard green eatin, watermelon eatin…nigger sombitch!  And yes, I am all those things; save the nigger part, with yo sorry mothah fuckin ass.  Cause yo ass is mothah fuckin sorry.  Best believe that shit!

You think Asian people gonnah quit eatin rice cause yo ass tells’em, “You chink rice eatin bastard.”?  You think Africans gonnah quit eatin goat cause yo ass tells’em, “You Sand nigger goat eatin bastard.”?  You think Hawaiians gonnah quit eatin Spam cause yo ass tells’em, “You fat Hawaiian Spam eatin bastard.”?  Or tell an Ukranian, “You sorry borscht eatin bastard.”?...And this is the kicker, yo sorry racist ass tells a person in the Jewish religion, “You Matzo-Ball eatin bastard.”? 

That what you think?  Well, maybe when it comes down to my Black counterparts.  Because for some damn reason my Brothahs and Sistahs will sit up there and fixate on a sorry ass individual who puts their traditional nourishment in the same sentence with “Black,” “Nigger,” or both.  And who gives a good goddamned fuck!  The shit is good! 

You call a Mexican, “You Taco eatin Spic!”  And they will say, “Si,” to the first part and “fuck you” to the last part.  Or call an Italian, “A Spaghetti eatin Wop!” And they will say, “I love the pasta but don’t you dare disrespect me again with the fuckin Wop part!”  D’accordo.  Mi scusi.

Vous Comprenez? 

Word!

Religion, Politics and Taxes: The Old Pimp Move (Fifty Years Old, Broke Black Prophet, Saved) 2017

We are an absurd bunch.  Always hiding.  But that shit is hackneyed.  Quite fatally so.  We have been doing the same shit over and over again for so long we don’t know how to be even honest to one another for civility’s sake.  And that’s a damn shame.  We pacify our sorry asses off.  Why?  Because: our asses are scared shitless of being alone.    Doubt is a mothah fuckah.  Confidence is shunned, made into a weakness and turned into a negative of being cocky.  The fuck that shit about?  Keeping a mothah fuckah off their given game is the way this bitch is taught and preached.   But only if…yo ass is broke, poor.  You sorry mothah fuckah you!  And I’m so sorry for your luck. But not really.

You hear all the fuckin time, “I love Jesus!  I love the Lawd!”  And…what’s yo sorry ass point mothah fuckah?  The pimp game is alive and well, living and breathing among us.  But what the fuck you wants my sorry broke ass tah do?  The religious lottery is free; as long…as yah pays yo fuckin tithes.  Yo mothah fuckin ten percent.  “Where’s my money you fuckin bee-ohtch?  Get yo broke sorry ass back on the stroll!  You worthless piece of shit!  You!”

Our political leaders stress working hard and getting ahead; while they talk their mothah fuckin asses off, not liftin a fuckin fingah and getting paid like a mothah fuckah!

Oh, then we have taxes.  Where we are strong-armed to pay this here You-Nited Sates of America a usury to work.

And we gotstah nerves tah say: "Only whores get fucked for money!"  But at least those mothah fuckahs gets fucked politically free, religion free and tax free.  While we get fucked...gratis!

Dumb.  Just fuckin dumb.   And quite shameful.  Really.   

"A Rose By Any Other Name..." (Forty-Eight Years Old, Broke Black Prophet, Near Salvation) 2014

If there was an inkling of humanity amongst the world political leaders there would not be any poor.  Do you understand? 

Okay, I guess you don't because we live in America where poverty gets the shaft in place of the politically correct, "The Land of Opportunity." 

Puhleeze!  Really?  The best y'alls sorry asses got?  And the shit's working.  All day.  E'r day. 

Why?  Because we don't care our damn fuckin selves.  Oh, no!  Shit, this here shit is all about me, goddamnit!  The fuck you lookin at me fo?  I ain't no classless mothah fuckah like...the poor!  I piss on thee!  Fuck'em!

And the beat goes on.

Coach Time (Forty-One Years Old, Jacques Sturdivant, Black Male) 2014

There is nothing more clandestine, more stealthy...than time.  And with that...comes your age.  Two different mothah fuckin things.  You see, time is relative, it is all over the place, omnipresent, forever moving. 

Now age, on the other hand, is finite; ergo, yo ol Black ass.  A wrinkle here.  A wrinkle there.  Less hair now than you had before the old you.  And before you know it, there goes the fuckin neighborhood; as in life, yo ass knows you're in trouble when the whites start taking over the blacks!

Then all you can do at this point is smile.  Look at yourself in the mirror, and of course say to yourself, because there's no other mothah fuckin body that wants to be 'round yo ol tired ass, and ask, "Well-well!  Now, what say you with yo ol Black ass?"  And you got to just love the old coach because Time tells yo ol Black ass to just say back to your withered reflection:

"I'm still in the game coach!  I'm still in the game!"

Damn right bout that!