Greetings, what is up. Don’t answer I don’t actually care. That’s just the way I introduce myself, and if you androids don’t know by now, you may never, never know. So typical. Anyway, I’m here to talk, and you’re here to listen. So do your job correctly for once, and of course, my job is guaranteed (to be well done).

I’m about to talk, which means you’re about to not. Today, I want to hit a topic that’s been used and abused, like the childhood of most of you androids. I want to give you my take on “spygate (dun dun dun).” Settle down anrdoids, before I get into it, I want to let you know that you are not Tom Brady. You could not have done what the patriots did (win. At anything) even if you had a thousand video cameras in high definition, encircling the field and updating in real time, with laser vision and millisecond analysis.

With superpowers, you androids would have found it difficult to do anything. That’s just the way you are. So don’t look at Brady, and don’t even think about looking at me, just read, if you can. It’s not my fault you’re like this. Life is not Madden NFL football, and all your trophies, and android achievements in that android game, are android fakes of the real deal, cheap android imitations of the ones I have in my palatial estate. Guess what. They’re real. Guess what. Your’s aren’t. I’ll give you a five second break to go cry.

Anyways, I was sitting in my palatial bedroom, well, one of my palatial bedrooms, watching the worldwide leader (in sports. That’s Espn to you androids, I don’t know why I always have to explain myself with you people, but it’s getting really old). So while I was watching the worldwide leader, I noticed these comments from one “Tom Brady.” This Brady had this to say:

I wish people would try to study a game and focus their energy on trying to analyze the games better, rather than stuff that’s not important, like this whole camera stuff. I think it’s a way to sell newspapers and all those ESPN stations, they’ve got to fill the airwaves, too. Hopefully, we can move past it…I think it’s just kind of the environment right now,” Brady said. “I think that’s the way guys make it. They say the craziest things. That’s what ESPN has become. ESPN, to me, is like MTV without the videos. They just have highlights, instead.

Very funny Brady. But seriously though, that’s hilarious “Tom,” if that’s even your real name. Sorry buddy, but this stuff is important, because I do it. I do it, so therefore, it’s huge, it’s bigger than anything anyone has ever done. It has to be important. But you know what’s not important? Your 19 and 0 season, “Tom.” Wait, you droids and androids out there might ask, “What 19 and 0 season are you taking about J.August?” Well that’s just the thing droids and androids. That 19 and 0 season never happened. (The Patriots won 18 consecutive games to start the season, only to lose a bunch of ragtag “Giants,” in the final game of their season, the only one that really mattered. Where were the cameras then Tommy) You just don’t have the wit to decipher what I’m saying quickly enough. That word “decipher” is number 25 on the list of things people with brains say (the list I gave you).

But anyway, who cares, “Brady,” is right. He and his buddy Bill Bellicheat are normal human beings, not androids like you androids. Sometimes, they get the urge to cheat (well actually not sometimes, more like every week over the course of six years, but really, what’s six years amongst friends) and they take it. Unlike you androids, they actually did it well enough that nobody cared, at least, nobody knew. It doesn’t matter anyway, the camera thing was probably an honest mistake. So droids, stop asking me about it. Stop blowing up my inbox with your stupid responses. Stop calling my radio show and my highly rated award winning t.v. show, and my podcast, and my blog, and every other medium that carries my high level stuff to droid-town. That goes for you too, androids. Nobody cares. If you think life is fair then you only need to look at yours. Also, don’t think about calling me and asking why I put “Tom” and “Brady” in quotation marks. I’ll tell you right now to save us both some time (but really me since I’m the one who needs it more). I don’t really know who the guy is. I’m not a beat writer. I’m not a regular “columnist.” With great power (like mine) comes interns to dump responsibilities on. As a result I’m actually not as well versed on the sports universe as some of you androids assume I am, though really, keep on assuming. It’s served you androids well up to this point. Right?

Oh by, the way, Billy, I’m sure the time when your team got smacked around by an “inferior” team in that thing called the “Super Bowl” is available on, you guessed it, videotape. Though, it’s not the spy type stuff you’re used to, you’ll have to excuse that. Go out and get your copy bub, they’re selling like hotcakes.

Whatever. I was watching basketball on my 200 inch 3-d cinematic hydro-vision projector 5000 (that should come to droidville and android town on about the 5th of never), and I saw a game between the San Antonio Spurs and the New Orleans Hornets. Now I am not a daily or weekly (weekly means weakly, remember that one androids, use it on your “friends,” when you get the chance. But don’t force it, you’ll look stupid, and you can’t really afford that) columnist like some of these lesser sportswriters. (Stop trying to be me, lesser sportswriters, your low level, daily and weakly, stuff will stop mattering in 5, 4, 3, 2…..what did you say again?). I don’t talk about daily or weakly stuff, it’s just too small for me.

What do I talk about, well you androids know by now, I attack the big picture, androids, you dig? (that’s not a question as to whether you androids actually dig. I already know that you live underground, that’s not the point. When somebody asks you that, what you say is “yeah sir, I dig it. I can definitely dig that, since you said it August.) So what’s the big picture, you ask? (you ask since you can’t use your brain to think ahead), the big picture is this: The San Antonio Spurs could finally lose in this year’s playoff series, and for the rest of eternity. Yes! The prospect of that was so exciting, I used an exclamation point. I speak for the world (really it’s cool, it said I could), when I say that nobody likes the San Antonio Spurs, and if they finally lose, it would be great. Just great. So I am predicting a loss, and that, is this week’s (that’s a trick to see if you are paying attention. I don’t do weeks. I’m timeless). and that, is this moment in eternity’s

BOLD PReDICTION: dun dun dun.

Wait. What did you say, you said the spurs have lost already? You say they have never even won consecutive titles? Who told you to say that droid? I know for a fact, that you don’t know what that word “consecutive” means. Whatever. Anyway, the past doesn’t matter, and if you androids didn’t live in it so much, you would matter.

What else can I talk about in this moment in eternity before I retire (that means leave, not for good, don’t get sad) to my palatial heated indoor swimming pool. Alright, I guess I’ll talk about… oh yeah.

Stop it anroids. Stop. Stop stop stop. I know, I know. The bold prediction was not correct last time. You’re missing the point: a)You’re just an android b)Nobody cares c)It’s just horse racing, it’s stupid, nobody watches it.

And personally, I don’t care if you lost money, because I told you not to bet, betting is bad, and all the degenerates who bet and are calling looking for sympathy will not get it from me. I don’t do sympathy, I do success.

So stop. Stop. Stop blowing up my inbox with your stupid responses. Stop calling my radio show and my highly rated award winning t.v. show, and my podcast, and my blog, and every other medium that carries my high level stuff to droid-town. You don’t matter, I do. I will continue to make bold predictions, and in my world, I will be correct. Which, in case you don’t know, I always am. Because once again, I’m John August. And you are…well…I think you know by now.

what lies over yonder? it’s probably you.

You are the master of your own domain. Your reality is shaped by you. You are the one you have been waiting for all your life. Love yourself, embrace yourself, grab a hold of yourself and say to yourself “I am me. That is all I can be. The love I share with me is between me and me.” You are the king of the castle that is your world, you are the captain of your ship of destiny. When your mind is encumbered with the negativity of the naysayers, you drop your mental focus on all the beauty that you are endowed with by the virtue of being you. You have the power to make your dreams come true. You are the cloud that lets the sun shine through.

You are simply marvelous. Look into the crystal ball of your mind and tell you what you find. What could it be? Could it be you, and all that you do? Could it be the glue that is what binds you to you? Embrace your inner elmer and cut through the fud. No negative energy can pierce the bounds of your love. This is the most powerful law in the universe. You are the singularity. You are the time space continuum. You are the mc that was squared. You are E, you are Einstein, you are all that is in between, your are Feinstein, you are Weinstein you are shine, you are Sheen. Your greatness is all encompassing. Set your mind to a thing and it shall be done. You are sweeter than the sweetness of a hot cross bun. You are the great revolution, you are the thousand flowers in the springtime bloom. You are the promise of a great generation, feel the warmth of the you shine through.

Work you say? Nay, say no more, work is a hydra, a harlot, a whore. Work is the slave that the soul desires, till you shine through and set your soul on fire.

Skill you say? Nay, give yourself a slap, work is a cobra, a monster, a trap. Feel the inner embrace of the positive energy as it drowns you in the can-do warmth of the beauty of effervescent effulgence. Snap your fingers and the clouds will run, snap your attention and the heavens will be dun. Release the wealth of your face on the world, a blessing since the beginning of time.

Salsa dance with your inner mind, all the world is your stage, and you are the player. When you begin to understand the depths to which your wonder awes the world, you can walk in the consciousness of being who you are. You are the bean, you are the jelly. You are the universe. You are the world, you are the children. The brighter place is you, embrace the inner man, not the fu manchu.

You are the axis on which the world turns, you are not the soap opera, you are peace, your are tranquility, you are stability. What are you but good? Great. What are you but marvelous? Wonderful. All those who stand in your way, or want what you want will be bowled over by the power steering, automatic drivetrain and all wheel drive, that is the power of your mental oversteer. You are the roadster. You are the spyder. Feel the wind in your hair, as it whips your face in a warm embrace. You are the clutch, you are the wheel, you are the brakes, do what you feel.

You are the galaxy, infinity and beyond. You are the silk, and in velvet you are ensconced. Nothing is impossible except you not being you and all that you means. You are simply you, and there is nothing they can do. You are the life force, you can have what you say, you are the life force, so come out and play. Hey now, what are you? You’re an all-star. Hey now, what are you? You’re a rock star. Go play all-star, go play rock star. You are the milkshake, and the world is at your yard. You are the bard and the leotard. You are the harp, and you are the strings, you are a dynasty, the world calls you ming. You are the orchestra, piece by every piece, you are the symphony, the sweetness like Reese. You are the pleasant, the pheasant like geese, you are the vigor, the riser like yeast. You are a feast at the big boy’s table. You are the heat of the hot box cable. You are the cinema, you are the starz, your home is the box office, and the lot is your yard.

Nothing is hard, everything is easy, you are the lemon in the squeezy peezy. Open up your eyes and put yourself where you want to be regardless, irregardless, and irrespective of where it is. You can find yourself in the club, with your bottle filled with suds, you can fly yourself to the moon. Fly you to the moon. Let you play among the stars, you can see what spring is like on Jupiter and Mars. Fill your heart with song, and may you sing forever more. You are all the world longs for, all it worships and adores. In order words, please be you. In order words, you. You, and you.

Look, it’s a bird, it’s a plane. No. It’s you, and all that you do. Share Teh Seekrits with the world, so they can be more like you!

What is up. Don’t answer I don’t actually care. That’s just the way I introduce myself, and if you androids don’t know by now, you may never know. So typical. Anyway, I’m here to talk, and you’re here to listen. So do your job correctly for once, and of course, my job is guaranteed (to be well done).

The Kentucky Derby is upon us. By us, I of course mean me. Not you. You don’t own a horse do you. Guess what. I do. For the purposes of full disclosure, I will not reveal my horse’s name to you androids. That would be a conflict of interest. By interest I of course mean mine. What I will do instead is talk about the Derby. You know…well, then again how could you, you don’t know much. But, after the Derby, there is a race called The Preakness. After the Preakness, there is a race called the Belmont Stakes. If and only if a horse is great enough to win all three does he become the champion. Not a local champion like you androids, but a Triple Crown Champion. Not a recipient of the little participation trophies you droids buy at the Droid-Mart and give your kids. No. The Triple Crown Winner gets a real frieking trophy. As a matter of fact, androids, take notice, ban all participation trophies now.

Now, back to the derby. There are 20 horses running in it. I would give you the rundown and tell you how to bet, but I know nothing about the horses (or horses in general, because really, why should I). I don’t have to. I am pretty rich. Pretty frieking rich. You are not. Besides, why would I want to give you potentially life-changing information, I already give you this column, this manna from frieking heaven, but look at you. Frieking take a look at yourself. And you want derby predictions? Dream on. Androids.

My sources tell me about a horse named Big Brown. The horse is supposedly named after, of course UPS. This fact, of course leads to puns. I hate puns. Puns are not funny. Puns are not punny. Little sportswriters who want to capture the glory of my hilarity make these stupid puns: Can Big Brown deliver,? Said, the little sportswriter? No he can’t lesser sportswriters, so stop asking. Stop Already. Thank you. Anyway, if we compare Big Brown to UPS, then there is nothing to speak of. Big Brown sucks. I am a FedEx guy.

Big Brown once delivered a package to my palatial estate when I was at the office writing one of these columns from the bottom of my heart and the top of my head. Do you know what happened to that package? That’s not a rhetorical question androids. I know you’ve been brushing up on your list of things people with brains say (the list I gave you), but you anticipated (anticipation: item number 22) incorrectly. I wasn’t going to tell you what happened to the package, it was not a rhetorical question. I actually want to know. This is info I don’t have (imagine, with all my insider info and insider status, laugh out loud on that one). What the hell happened to my package, androids? Your cohort delivered it on a day when I wasn’t there, and on a when my servants were off. I never saw the package again. But I digress (digress: item number 87). Big Brown stinks.

How did I go from the Kentucky Derby to UPS? Versatility (versatility: item number….that’s not on the list…I can’t give it all to you androids. Know your place). But anyway, brace your ears for a scorching hot bold prediction.

BOLD PReDICTION: dun dun dun.

Big Brown will not win the Kentucky Derby. Why, you ask? Wait. Are you kidding? Do you actually have the gall bladder to question my prediction? Fine. Question it. I won’t answer. I really don’t have to. I don’t know why you ask all anything at all, you’re not Mike Wallace. Anyway, just know that the Big Brown spot on the carpet won’t win. Because Big Brown=UPS and UPS=bad. If I am wrong I will come, in my next column, to face your droids head on. Whether or not I am wrong, it doesn’t matter. Because I’m John August. And you are…well…I think you know by now.

Bless the blessed feast upon which your are beholden. Nay, bless Jove for the mere sight of it

On a day looked down on by Jove and blessed accordingly, I happened unto a restaurant, a place frequented by many, yet until now, not I. So into this blessed place I stepped. A beastly hunger suddenly descended into the pits of my soul. A fair maiden of the establishment presented me with words that were the healing of my ailment of sore hunger. “How may I help you?” vocalized the fair seraph. These words sent to me by the same force that brought me to this heavenly place.

Bless me I answered her bless me with the grand venison that mortal men need bare a God’s skin to taste. Embrace me I answered her, embrace me with the loaves baked for the sovereign yet that mere peasants are graced to gain a whiff of. And if there be drink then by heaven’s sake drown me, drown me so that I may never breathe again cruel air, bring that nectar hither and make it so that the taste never departs my tongue.

“Would you like fries with that?” asked the lady. Yes I demanded let there be fries, let their be fries till the heavens forget the scent of rain and know only the gleam of the potato in its highest form.

So I waited. “Good things come to those who wait,” as I was told in my days of innocence. Yet as I stood there I could not help but be overwhelmed as Chronus punished me. Standing there, the only interloper between myself and a tasteful mistress, a torrent of indulgence, a feast I was in no way worthy of, a blessed blissful bacchanalia for my palate. Curse you clock, I declared.

In that moment came my deliverance from persecution. The same hands that molded a bridge to my devotion and I, were the same hands that took me from my pain. It was that same fair angel who handed me to joy that emancipated me with the words “5.19 please.” The clouds in the sky parted, the sun showed joyfully upon my countenance, the birds of the skies sang a song of praise, the diligent ants stopped in their work to admire a moment of joy that would bring tears to the most hardened of men.

With trembling hands I reached into my pocket, searching for parchment that was vapid and valueless in every manner compared to the gift I was to receive. My fortunate fingers arrived upon the item that was to be happily given away in exchange for a blessing fashioned in the heavens and drenched in golden springs.

However as I gazed upon the object intended as the dowry for my waiting mistress, I came upon the realization that this was not the correct amount. I looked into the face of the homely Washington, I felt myself yearning for the handsome gaze of the liberator. Yet the Washington sat there mocking me with its meager, pitiable value. Utterly unworthy of occupancy within my trousers. In a fit of potent rage I destroyed the Washington and spread its ashes upon the ground. Many would come to the spot where I stood and know of the demise of the Washington.

What was I now to do? I turned my gaze to the angel that had delivered me twice before, perhaps there was another liberation within her purse. My foundation was shaken to hear her bluntly refuse. Suddenly I saw the true visage of the wench I had called an angel. Indeed I stood before a she-demon in disguise. How cruel, how evil how vile of a woman, nay a wench to ask how she may aid me, waive the aid in front of mine own eyes and snatch the remedy away, leaving me to stand in the pain of my disease.

I was not to be denied. A force came over me, it was the desire for what I was being denied and I began roaring at the foul woman. “Hear now harlot, you will give me the goods of this house, now, and I will vow to not have at you.” The beast scoffed at my words “Pay or get out” she challenged. The force that had came over me now left, leaving present only the longing to be with my maiden. I begged, I plead, and then the wench said “you can always pay with a credit card.”

Joyous me, I mouthed, the graces of Jove had returned to my predicament and my mistress was handed to me.

I am quite certain that you understand the present predicament we are in. Watch a news channel, turn to a radio station, open up a web page: I’m not there. Now I understand you people are quite busy at present times, bed bath and beyond is having a sale and there’s a Paul McCartney concert going on somewhere. I know none of you would deny the interdependent relationship we have, you give me my deserved airtime and I give you access to my people. This relationship I would say personally is the pillar that holds America. I am something; I would like to say, without tooting my own horn, that I’m like the Berlin Wall of America except with a little window so you can talk to the other side when you feel like it. But it seems to me that you have forgotten our arrangement. For the past 4 months there hasn’t been one single racist action on your part. I run to my dictionary to find a word to describe this: Unacceptable, Unbelievable, and Unfair. None of these words suffice, Unproper I think is fitting.

Now it would be very easy for me to insult you powder white, skin cancer getting, tofu eating, light liquor drinking, crackas but my older brother Martin Luther King taught me to do better than that, you might have heard of him. Tall, short hair, and he had this speech about dreams you might know, I wrote that. How can it be that you disgusting whites, who harbor such hate of other races such as: spicks, chinks, curry lovers, and African- Americans can hold your hate at bay. I know it’s there, so just let it out.

Now I been around whites and I know you people can be shy and I know what you’re thinking, “we might hurt someone’s feelings if we do something racist.” You couldn’t be more wrong, you see my people adore me. At first they might have the usual reactions: complaining and rioting and what have you, but later when they see what your racist action has brought about, they will appreciate your actions and even express their gratitude (though in much more different and subtle forms than you are accustomed to). Take Don Imus for example, Don Imus said something racist about the greatest race on earth. At first people were upset at what he said, but then I took over the situation, and used my tact and eloquence to resolve the situation, helping Imus get some much needed vacation time. I will send him a letter requesting a thank you tomorrow.

Now I didn’t want to bring up this next topic but you whites are damn stubborn, I know this because I am a studier of historic events that happened, and history alludes to the fact that you: whites, are indeed stubborn. The topic that I had alluded to earlier about not wanting to bring up is this: (see I actually bring it up because I am not shy like you whites; another one of your many many faults.) The topic is Slavery. My ancestors suffered immensely because of you white people, they were worked to the bone, fed bones, and beaten with sticks and stones, and don’t you dare deny it stubborn white man, I saw roots…twice. Considering this, I think you’d agree, despite your previously stated stubbornness that you should make right your transgression, and you can do this with reparations. This perhaps may not be the first time you’ve heard this word, for I am sure many of your people own dictionaries much like my own, and command vocabularies similar (but not equal) to mine. Though you may understand the meaning of the word I’m not quite sure you understand the word. What reparation means is to repair damage you have done to a certain race of people, like maybe perhaps the greatest race of people on earth maybe, by doing something good for their descendants. But wait, dictionary definitions are not always correct, exactly. The definition I gave you for reparations is what my dictionary says, but I know it’s wrong (I wonder why). Financially you honkies are quite healthy, but it wouldn’t be fair to ask you to give money to every African American in this country who has suffered from your enslaving ways. So there really is only one solution, instead of giving reparations to all African-Americans, give them to one, the greatest African American ever.

But who is the greatest African American ever? Who is this magical negro? Tough question for a honkie. I know there’s so many of us to choose from, but I and a team of high powered analysts who just so happen to be stars of their college communities, or as you call them, “community colleges,” have an answer. Anyway I and these analysts came to this conclusion the greatest African Americans are: Sacagewea (long story), Jesus (dont argue honkie), Fat Albert, Tupac, and I. Naturally Jesus would win, but he told me to go ahead and take this one. I hear from him, you honkies can’t because you’re fake Christians. That being said, it is only right to bestow the graces of reparations upon the greatest living African American which is me. I do not say this tooting, in any manner, my own horn I am simply stating what the research of fine scholars proves, but before you crackers start signing checks, hold your pens. In order to understand the reasoning behind the pen holding, I will bless you with an anecdote of a recent happening. On the Friday before the one coming, I drove to the Salon and inside I went to put my hair in a state of relaxation (that’s a perm cracker). As always I parked the shiny Bentley In front of the salon so that black elegance could stare at black elegance while getting more black and elegant. So what do I see as Boniqua starts to shampoo my gorgeous locks? A damn wetback giving me a ticket, some noisy nonsense about me parking on a bus stop in front of a hydrant. As the Lord Jesus Christ liveth, before whom I stand, I went out there and I gave that spick some hell. Saint Maria couldn’t deliver him from all that, but then that poncho wrote more tickets, but I’ll tell you honkies what I told that beaner: “I’m rich.” You wanna know why I said it? I said it because it’s true, I said it because I have money and lots of it, after all I am a head of a not for profit organization called a church. With that being said I really don’t need your money, what I need is what you whities can do for me that I can’t do myself: Spread a little bigotry.

Another thing about you hicks is your lack of creative ability. You are reading this letter right now, asking President Sharpton (you can start calling me that now to get used to it) how to go about creating racism for his glorious endeavors. Well honky as always, a black man has your ass covered. There are many ways you can go about bigotrizing. The easiest, and I believe most efficient way would be to say the “n-word,” (yes, that one).” Yes cracker, you are given permission say it. I’m sure you’re thinking, do I have to be near an African-american to say it? The answer, honkie, is no you don’t. That’s the beauty of this magic word, you can say it anywhere, and you will get an immediate response. What you need to understand is that saying this “n-word” creates a buildup. The mercury rises to the mellifluous sounds of this “n-word,” as your ass whooping commences. The kind of atmospheric tension I need for my sensitive operations, rises from this “n-word.” You see this word has mystical properties. It creates a time machine with African-Americans and hillbillies returning to a day where whites were better than the best race on Earth. Fortunately, now, there is always an African-American nearby to snap your white ass back to reality. But fret not my Caucasian cousin, (I say cousin because there’s this theory archaeological people are throwing around, though I highly dispute it, that all human beings come from Africa, which means, some way some how, you honkies are related to me, don’t get excited, it’s just theory). Before I told you about your relation to me I spoke of a great beating you would receive. What is important cracker is to know what this beating will lead to: An officer will come, the case will go to court, and news channels will report the incident, completely ignoring the fact that your ass was indeed whooped. And if the news can forget your ass whooping, so should you. As a direct result of your pain, a greater good will be brought about: I will race to the scene of the incident, I will report fervently on the case, and my face will be broadcasted all over the country. Justice will be demanded, and justice will be served.

Cracker, before I go on I would like to examine the word, “cracker.” You see, I adapted the word cracker to describe you honkies for one reason, and that is because it is a good way to describe you honkies. A cracker (the one you eat) is brittle, pale,bland, undesirable, bitter, and often pretends to be sophisticated. You crackers (the ones you do not eat) are the same. Now an African American can be described in a similar fashion, as some sort of cookie. An African American is a double fudge cookie. In the same way cracker is used to describe a honkie a double fudge cookie can be used to describe us, African Americans. Double fudge cookies are elegant, bold, refined, sweet, chocolatey, delicious, go down good in your tummy, put ‘em in the microwave and they come out all melty and soft and your mouth is watering while you watching them go round and round in the microwave, and then you eat all of them and you gotta run to the store and get some more but the store ran out so you have to sue the store for racial profiling against an African American who wants some damn double fudge cookies. African Americans are that too. Double fudge cookies are clearly better than crackers, and I know you would agree honkie so in turn you would also agree that African Americans are better than whites. But what is my point in brining up the clear dominance of double fudge cookies over crackers, African Americans over honkies? I don’t know.

Being a honkie, which you are, I know that you are not very intellectually smart. So you’re probably wondering why I want you to do something racist. It’s simple honkie. An act of racism occurs and happens then I, being a political activist, and political action star, political action hero, go to the scene of the crime to diffuse the situation, like a bomb in one of your honkie movies where the African-American dies early on. When the American people see I, fixing situations like this, they think things like “Wow he would be a great president because he has great negative situation diffusing skills.” After I become president, I will forever fix the problem of racism in this country. I will separate you crackers from the rest of society and place you on a beautiful island all your own, some place called “Rikers.” Trust me when I tell you honkies it is the perfect place for you. I know many people who have visited the island and they love it there, so much so that they go back there almost immediately after they come out. So if you honkies don’t do it for anything else, do it for yourself, do it for a much needed vacation, and if that doesn’t motivate you, think of all the lives you’ve ruined, and the African-Americans you’ve enslaved, think of how for once in your life you can stop being such a selfish honky, Think of someone besides yourself. It’s your turn white-boy, go. Do something racist. Today. I’m not busy this weekend.