Click to Subscribe
▶  More from Blog The Man Cave Guerilla Masculinity
In Defense of Fat Albert
Was This Member of the Guilty Legion Guilty Like A Ghost or Was This a Negro Roast?
In this Age of Ghost Guilt, when middle aged ghost wenches take sex tourism trips to West Africa for foot-long rot dogs, feminist man-haters constantly fantasize about being man-raped and Reparations Recover Agents are excused for excessive force by centuries old crimes by long dead ghost patriarchs, one of the mysteries of the universe is why the voice of the oppressed, Fat Albert, unghost chyle of childs, is being persecuted for getting a bitch high who came to his apartment for what appears on the face of it to have been a blatant sex-for rolodex arrangement.
First of all, if I become president, no man or woman is going to get nominated for anything unless they can prove that they manipulated, sexually exploited and invalidated a member of the opposite sex.
It will be a pimped-up administration.
Secondly, after being apprised of the low aesthetic value of the exploited female, and being moved to disbelief that the voice of Fat Albert might have sanctified her unsavory disrobing, I have hit upon the defense that should have been used against this wench, had I been advising Mister Fat Albert in court. In such a capacity I would have encouraged the defendant to answer in the voice of Mush Mouth, often ignored adviser of Fat Albert and the Gang:
“Well, Your Honor, when da spell of her infatuation was brokeded all up by a look in the mirror at her dilapidation, as I mixed our drinks, and I saw how danged ugly dis woman was, I—in a fit of abject negrotude, visual-bound to that horrific she-hound but duty bound to service that pale booty—I did what a nigga need do when luv be on the uglay line, and dropped some of my wife’s middle-aged-unhappy-bitch-medicine into ma drank, den when dem panties came off en I parcieveded da stank of dat skank, I doubled dat drink. In where do dat ged a dude?
Dis bitch wanna do da arm hook and I drink you drink toast—en dare you go…she drank my own retina-savin’ roofy.”
Furthermore, in case the persecution comes up with the trick question of why these white whores were seeking out an elderly man for companionship, the infamous educator would have been coached to stand up, drop his pants and say, “Hey, hey, hay—here comes Fat Albert!”
That is how the Defense never rests!
Your Trojan Whorse
If I Were King: This Guy Would Handle the Details
prev:  ‘If You Have the Horses’     ‹  guerilla masculinity  ›     next:  ‘Wolf’s Oil’
riding the nightmare
black & pale
broken dance
the first boxers
logic of steel
Add Comment