You don’t look happy.
“Thinking, motherfucker. Black man can’t have a neutral look on his face without getting shit?”
“You saying but you got nothing to say. Got nothing to say, don’t say nothing. Just shut the fuck up and be in my presence.”
It’s a dialogue-based interaction, Mr. Davis.
“So write some fucking description, you lazy motherfucker.”
You see that Hugh Hefner died?
“Fuck him. White man stays in his house having bitches bring him money and people want to build statues to him. I do it and I get arrested. Sissy-ass in his pajamas.”
Hef did a lot for civil rights, Mr. Davis.
“Ever get his head split open by some racist pig cop just ’cause he was standing on the sidewalk?”
“Then he didn’t do a lot. Motherfucker did some. Besides, you ever see black bitches in that magazine of his?”
Once in a while.
“Yeah. Once in a while. Buried with a bunch of other bitches in the back of the issue. Centerfold wasn’t for n—–s. Maybe once in a while you see a brunette. Other than that, it’s like the bad guys won the war.”
I asked you to stop using that word.
“And I asked you to shut the fuck up. We are at an impasse.”
“Hef was a pimp. People loved him for it. I did that same shit. Got locked in jail. Now tell me I can’t say n—-r, you symbol-of-fucking-systemic-oppression motherfucker.”
You have a point, but you don’t need to be such a dick about it.
“You telling me how to protest now?”
“Good, I’m gonna go swimming.”
“Now I’m swimming.”