It’s Sunday and all I wanted to do was go for a jog with my dog in the park and finish up the second draft of my first book. But as inspiration hit this morning, I boxed some crap to sell eBay that has been taking such a long nap on my bed that for the past couple of weeks I split my sleeping from my massage table to crunched perpendicular on the bottom edge of my bed.
I then worked on two flower essence combinations for a soul sister, which in this case doesn’t mean she is black, although I think her ass may be black, and her soulmate who is dealing with a serious health challenge at the moment. I listened to a song that, gaily enough, is from the “Touched By An Angel” album, that moves me very much. I found myself overwhelmed with emotion, which I usually dig because it reminds me that I’m alive and that there’s something more important than keeping up on “South Park” and “Family Guy” (although I would deny that under oath if it came to that!)
So it was after 3pm by the time I was ready to go for my jog. At this point, Abandon has put up with so much of my crap that she just lies on her pad and says, “When you’re ready, I’m ready,” like a good little bitch. I guess all the beatings I’ve given her over the years have finally paid off. My thoughts go to my Bible now, which is on the bookshelf right below the copy of Penthouse where I’m published (who would have thought a letter about how I slept with two raw foodists at the same time would be of interest to their editorial staff (see “A Threesome Spoiled”) If I may quote The Book of Sirach, also known as Ecclesiasticus, written in the second century B.C. in Alexandria, 26:1-4:
“A silent wife is a gift from the Lord and a silent dog is a bitch from the Lord.”
Now if I believed in the made-up Hell in which so many “good Christians” out there believe, I would probably concede that one who solely turns to the Bible in order to either mock it, mock people that quote it like parrots, or for a joke is probably next in line for eternal damnation right after the serial killer. But I am not a retard and so I don’t believe in stupidity as the word of God but the word of stupid people.
So Abandon and I finally started to leave the apartment and when she rolled her eyes and said under her breath but loud enough so that I could hear it, “It’s about time!” I reminded her of Genesis 1:26 and how God gave humans dominion over animals. She said, “Fuck God and fuck you.” I’ll tell you, having an atheist dog can at times be difficult for a religious biblicalist like myself. I then quoted Genesis and said, “’Cause Jesus he knows me, and he knows I’m right. Well, I’ve been talking to Jesus, all my life. Ah yes, he knows me, and he knows I’m right. Now he’s been telling me, everything’s gonna be alright.” She had less of a problem with this but did voice that she preferred old Peter Gabriel Genesis to new Phil Collins Genesis.
About five blocks away from the park, as I walked by someone—a black man—the drawstring of his bag somehow wrapped around my arm and as we passed, it kind of yanked the both of us. I looked back and was ready to laugh it up to the Universe up to her usual tricks and go back to my “jog with my dog in Central Park” mission, when I received a look of irritation from this black man.
I was like, “What the fu—?” I said to him something like, “What’s the issue here?” After a few more looks of death he turned and left. I walked the remainder of the blocks to the park with my arm bothering me from his bag’s drawstring, similar to the lingering pain and accompanying red mark that lasts for days after a prick cop slaps handcuffs on you tighter than he friggin’ needs to, not that I would know. Well, I would but I’m not getting into that here.
So Abandon and I finally made it to the park. I haven’t been too regular on my running and so I was like, “Maybe we should take the small loop, which is a little over a mile, and run it two or three times.” Abandon said, “I guess that would be fine if you’re a pussy.” I called her a heathen but my ego took over and we ran the 6-mile big loop. I’ll pray for her.
I wasn’t able to fully trance into the run, as I was downloading writing ideas left and right and as a faithful servant of God, I have to keep my crown chakra always open for his guidance. What’s that, God? Don’t write the word ‘pussy’ anymore, as that may offend all the feminists who read my un-blog because they’re pussies and while they don’t mind dining on pussy, they have a lot of trouble reading it? Okay, not my will but thine.
When I was less than 10-minutes from the place we entered the park at Columbus Circle, a black woman said in a critical tone, “You’re running that dog to death!” I looked at Abandon who said, “Fuck that fat nigger.” I pulled her leash sharply, as while I am resigned to put up with her potty-mouth, I will not accept racism from her mouth—or her ass if she somehow was capable of farting the rallying cry of the Ku Klux Klan.
I said to the woman, “Are you trying to give me helping advice or are you being a fat bitch?” She kept walking and I said, “Do I criticize you when you are stuffing down a whole bucket of Kentucky Fried Chicken? Do I offer my unhelpful commentary when you pollute the earth with more from your ass then what comes from the pipes of Homer Simpson’s nuclear power plant? Do I offer my thoughts about how you probably go through twice the amount of toilet seats through wear and tear—not covered under warranty, mind you—because of your far from average gargantuan ass?” At this point she was too far off and I was somewhat of a spectacle shouting out to her chem trail.
Abandon said, “I’m happy to go after her if you want,” and I thought my prayers to Jesus were finally helping to reform my dog into a Hell-bound mutt into a cooperative full-breed mix.
All I wanted to do was go for a fuckin’ jog in the park with my dog! Why can’t you black people leave me alone? I have a suspicion why this is. It is because I have nappy hair, big lips and a big nose and a schlong that if it didn’t come from my Mom fucking the black mailman then clearly was a genetic anomaly. These black people have a problem with me because I’m a black man trapped in a white body. White power!
I think it a bit hypocritical that they can take potshots at me for being a white man with black features and if I made a comment about Halle Berry’s small white nose, I’d be called a racist and hung from a tree only to inspire some budding poet to write a poem called “Strange White Fruit.”
I used to see these black racists in Times Square standing around in Genghis Khan outfits and saying how the white man is the scourge of the earth. I once interjected with, “Can I ask a question?” The man holding the Bible which proved that the white man was evil incarnate, surrounded by the others standing around him with sticks in a militant way said, “Go ahead.”
I went ahead. “So what you’re saying, if I have this right, is that I’m the Devil?”
“Yes you are,” he clarified.
“Okay, thanks. Just wanted to clarify that for myself. I’ll tell you, it’s a great relief to know who you are. I feel like I have a new spring in my step now. Thank you, brother—uh, is that okay for a white devil to call a black man who is a descendent of the Lost Tribe of Israel ‘brother’?”
“No it’s not,” he said.
“Then I suppose nigger is totally out of the question,” I said. I’ll tell you, I was feeling so good about finally definitively knowing the age-old yogic quest of Who I Am that I almost didn’t even feel the beating I received at the hands of the Blackhis Kahns!
I look in hope for a day when I can jog with my dog in Central Park without a derisive look or a condescending glance. A park where all men are created equal, including the white man.
I have a dream that one day in the lush suburbs of Scarsdale, the sons of former bankers and the sons of former lawyers will be able to sit down together at the table of a five-star restaurant and not have the rusty water of “Honky” showered upon them while they’re trying to enjoy their caviar and champagne.
I have a dream that one day even the city of New York, a city sweltering with the smell of urine, sweltering with the smell of cheap perfume spilling onto the sidewalks from the porn shops, will be transformed into an oasis of Chlorox and Pine Sol provided by the divide-and-conquer takeover of Disney.
I have a dream that my four-legged child will one day live in a nation where she will not have to hear me being judged by the color of my skin but rather by all the deficiencies of my character.
This is my hope, and this is the faith that I go back to my apartment with.
With this faith, we will be able to transform the jangling testicles of a street flasher into a beautiful symphony of balls and bells selling out a full house at Carnegie Hall.
And this will be the day — this will be the day when all of God’s children will be able to sing with new meaning:
My country ’tis of thee, sweet land of liberty, of thee I sing.
Land where my fathers died, land of the Pilgrim’s pride,
From every mountainside, let freedom ring!
And if America is to be a great nation, this must become true.
And when this happens, when we allow freedom ring, when we let it ring from every country club and every Polo field, from every state and every city, we will be able to speed up that day when all of God’s children, black men and white men, Jews and Gentiles, Protestants and Catholics—but not those perverted pedophiliacal priests— will be able to join hands and sing in the words of the old White spiritual:
Old McDonald had a farm! Ee-eye, ee-eye owe!
And on that farm he had a chicken—that managed to escape the black man’s racist mouth.
Ee-eye, ee-eye owe!
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PbUtL_0vAJk
(Martin Luther King, Jr., “I Have A Dream”)