In America’s Finest City, the auditorium’s walls echoed with black chatter, as the audience took they mufuckin seats, my nigga. Finally, infamously white YouTube semi-star Russ Lindquist would answer to the black community—there in San Diego, and around the world—in a vain hope of justifying his racist hate-facts.
Row after row of righteously angry Wakandans glared at Lindquist, while randomly chewing nothing and patiently sitting through a few unprofessional post-start sound-checks and “niggas be like” observations from a charismatically chuckling poop-colored host who apologized that the event had started much later than scheduled. “Sorry, my mufukin niggas! But we wuz on black-people time!” The audience snorted soulfully, as they picked bugs off each other’s shoulders and ate them.
Finally, after a handful of chocolate grifters finished plugging their political mixtapes, the apes handed the mic to the human—so Lindquist took the stage to incite his upcoming mauling by the ready-and-waiting unarmed audience.
Calmly and cooley, Lindquist twirled the microphone and looked down at the audience, judging them racially—his large penis printed prominently in his pants for the audience to envy. “Hey there, my nogs,” Lindquist began friendlyly. “You know: you people have a lot of problems.” The audience erupted in protest: “Nigga said ‘you people’! Cracka mufuka—fuck you mean ‘you people’!? On da set, niggas ’bout to kill yo white ass my nigga!”
Lindquist, with his endearingly white and delightsome charm and dominance, quickly took charge: “Settle down, settle down—Hey! Settle down, all you Trayvons—don’t make me go full George Zimmerman on ya’ll.” Laughter burst throughout the crowd of black drug-addicts, all of whom had forgotten why they had been angry, and so they all cheered up and went back to picking bugs off each other’s shoulders and eating them, while happily meditating on how smart and important white people are. “Ok white boy,” said a silverback in the front row. “Good point. Please mufukin continue.”
“Well,” Lindquist whited wisely, “what I wanted to say is that there is nothing I can say that would, in and of itself, be a ‘black problem.’ Also, I can say ‘nigger’ and not be racist—because racism requires power plus prejudice, and I have no power. So—nigger, nigger, nigger, nigger, booty, booty, nigger.” The audience applauded wildly. “Dat shit make sense!” shouted one Trayvon. “Mufuka said ‘nigger,’ my niggas!” cheered another repeatingly.
“Now,” rebegan Lindquist, “instead of focusing on me: let us consider three real problems facing black Americans. First: here in San Diego, a black newborn child is twice as likely as a human child to die within the first year of life. This is due primarily to the shit health habits of the child’s abandoned single-mom, who looks like a monkey.”
“Mufucka!” agreed the front-row silverback blackly. “Second: black men’s rampant addiction to effeminate betrayal and cowardly non-commitment—this creates massive fatherlessness in the nig-nog community: far too many black almost-men are too cowardly to tell their proud, loud, weak, white-washed black woman to woman-up and assume her natural position, which is under his authority.”
“Dis nigga!” the silverback grunted agreefully. “And third: today—this day, now—statistically speaking, a thousand black murderers will murder a thousand black babies, in the womb. You fake-black-power cowards frantically word-police your white superiors, while ranting and raving over every random dead violent thug that the anti-white Zionist media feeds to you—thugs like Trayvon Martin, Mike Brown, Sylville Smith, George Floyd, and the rest. But meanwhile, you sit back while lazy, crazy black bitches holocaust your kids daily.”
“My niggas! dis white nigga be right den a mufucka!” the crowd agreed, their skin whitening by the grace of Mormon Jesus, as the sinners began to accept white truth and wisdom.
“So there are plenty problems facing the black community—but I am certainly not one of them. And I am not going to play into the divide-and-conquer game tonight by invading powerful black thought with my weak white opinions. Instead, I will respectfully stand aside and listen quietly, as you all calmly and rationally discuss real black problems and real black solutions, without quickly devolving into a hilarious shouting-match that transitions seamlessly into fighting and gunfire. Hotep, my niggers.”
The audience all immediately dropped dead from their overwhelming respect for Lindquist’s run-of-the-mill common sense.
And they lived happily ever after—except they were dead.