I love rich people. I hate their children. But I hate poor people’s children, too. In fact I hate a poor child more than I hate a rich child. Poor kids make me feel bad. And I don’t like feeling bad, at least not about shit that don’t directly affect me. I have a narrow focus. A keen eye. And other’s people shit better not fuck up my view.

But when you’re part of the masses, you learn to fake that shit until that shit becomes real. Like small talk. Everybody hates small talk. But without small talk, there would be no big talk, and no one would get any ass. You can’t just walk up to that chick on the corner with your hands out and say, PUSSY! You’re taught that you gotta put PLEASE after that shit, and even that won’t work 99.99999.999.999 percent of the time. So, you learn to fake interest in bullshit. You learn to work your shit into the mix. You learn to talk about the weather, and the news, and politics and anything you think might get you in that shit. And you learn your success rate evens out. And now that shit don’t work 80 percent of the time. But at least you’re gettin’ 20 percent pussy. And 20 percent is better than nothing. So, you keep that shit up, at least until you get rich. Then you know you have better odds gettin pussy being 85 percent ignorant asshole and 10 percent white devil and 5 percent righteous human. But you gotta grow up dirt to even get that 5 percent.

Now I wouldn’t mind being less human for a little more dough. Screw all that keep it real crap. I’m close to selling out for 100 bucks and a bag of chips. I figure I can buy a decent personality with a couple of million. Look at Bush. Money makes a dumb motherfucka president. Rich beyotches get in Harvard and Yale. Dumb brothers pay for brains and get head for free. A couple of million washes away your sins. Being rich and famous gets you a free card to rape women and molest little children. Being rich means you have enough time to politic, and prophesize, and philosophize, and all that other -ism and iz’n bullshit.

A rich person can sit back and research. I wouldn’t mind doing a little research. I’d love to research and educate like a motherfucka. But education becomes part-time when food becomes your preoccupation. A man needs vocation so that that preoccupation can become irrelevant and education becomes the prime occupation. Hear me Jesse. If the glove does not fit you must acquit. Which gets me thinking. Maybe, just maybe, that shit could work for Michael. You see where I’m going with this here. If the glove does not fit… You get my shit. You feel me. You know what the fuck i’m talking about.

I’ve been talking all this shit and here it hits me: MICHAEL JACKSON IS INNOCENT. IN-NO-CENT I SAY. He did not do it. He did not rape that chick in that hotel room. Right? Shit, why would Michael fuck wit a white woman. That brother straight NOI. That pure black African brother don’t mess with no cave shit. Mike strictly for the chocolate. He pure soul. None of that white devil cootchie juice for him. Although. Forget about it. Fuck it. I’ll piss on you.

Why? Why? I was on the train. And I’m singing, I’ll piss on you. I’m sick. Even though I will piss on you. If I was rich you’d welcome my piss with open arms. But since i’m poor, you shun my piss. Be forwarned that the meek shall burn in hell with all the loud talkin’ mothafuckas. That’s the joke. You think that if you talk truthful, and speak honestly, and sacrifice willingly, that you’ll get into them golden gates. And all along your ass is being set up to burn in hell. Oh, man. Like watching Eddie Murphy in his prime. That shit’s funny. I’m laughing like a mothafucka.

YOU HEAR ME!!! I’M LAUGHING!!!

I get the joke now.

Goddammit, I wanna cry.

But I gotta piss…

(That’s why I wrote this shit for you.)

Chicken, baby, you a fine ass lady
Free me tell me I ain’t crazy
Even though the voices I hear

Baby, don’t you have no fear
I won’t stab ya in yo sleep
But when you wake stay away from me

It’s early morning, And I can’t go bye
Rise little children poke out my eyes
Cause the devil’s comin’ the devil’s comin’

mourn
That’s right little ones
mourn

No more melody
No more rhythm
No more rhyme or reason
No more jokes
nothing
It
I
…

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