Rich white guys are getting in trouble, and losing millions for what they say; not what they do, but what they say, because it is what they believe. If they do not repent and adopt orthodox beliefs they will [in economic and social status terms]roast, stew, or burn.

I have no particular affinity for the rich as I have been poor for 47 of my 51 years, and, more importantly, am poor right now.

I have no particular affinity for men, as they are ugly, their asses are narrow and generally hairy, and their breasts range from non-existent to dreadfully atrophied.

I have no particular affinity for white people as they have generally ostracized me for my dealings with other races, and where it comes to blacks, have embarrassed me by association by showing a dreadful yellow streak. I do not like being associated with cowards.

But, if it is against the news for the owner of an NBA team to say that he is equally afraid of black youths in hooded sweat shirts as he is of white tattooed skinheads, than it will soon be against the law for me to say it, even in private, and therefore to think it. Personally, I would stone the man on principal, as I have found black youths in hooded sweat shirts and white skinheads with tattoos to be so cowardly, effeminate, and unworthy of the criminal menace attached to their social profile, as to make fearing them a womanly act. And, as my idea of manhood is closer to the ideals of such vaunted ancient philosophers as Manlius Man-Butcher, and Liver-Eating Johnson I can barely stand the thought that my regressive Neanderthal pigment and genital equipage would bring some to equate me with this collector of ghetto athletes and raptor-crested Eastern European goons.

Who is that bald Balkan NBA star with the velociraptor crest anyhow? I only watch NBA games at the bar with George Thorogood blasting in the background.

So, having properly eviscerated Mister Cuban in absentia, it is time for a crackpot history lesson for those of you who do not understand why black male youths have become the martyrs of our culture, feted at every turn, excused at every fall, and yet somehow relentlessly persecuted in actual fact to the point that we have more of them in modern prisons than that cross-dressing faɡɡot Jeff Davis [There you go Jack. See if you can piss off the KKK and gay rights queers all in the same sentence—booyah!] ever dreamed about having on the cotton plantations.

So, how does the fact that black men are sainted heroes oppressed by conservative male whites who are ‘genociding’ them, even as they are being excused and protected by females, gays, tree-huggers and Muslims [wait, over 10 million black penises were cut off by Muslim slave traders walking slaves across the Sahara…]wash with the fact that 9 out of 10 black murder victims are killed by black males?

The Man, who is rich, is white, is definitely a dude, might even be American, and who numbers less than about a hundred dudes, gets what he wants; and what he wants is less black dudes, and more scared-to-death willing-to-vote and ready-to-buy-Chinese-made-stuff white people. This morning, at 5:31, I listened to a street rapper chant:

“Yo, dis joint [Baltimore] be mines,

My bitchez be fine,*

‘Cause ma dick do shines*

En da niggas respect dis nine [large caliber handgun]”

*As a writer I would have inverted these two lines. It would just make more sense.

Contained within this sublime metaphor is the truth that black youths convinced that old white dudes are oppressing them will 1. Kill each other in vast quantities, and 2. Scare white folks into voting for whoever they are supposed to vote for.

So, angry black guys and scared white guys make for an easily manipulated social duality. [Women are scarred to begin with so they are a built in voting block.] The problem is, those black dudes that improbably survive to late middle age, and there subsidized mothers, and all of the other mothers who feel for those subsidized mothers, and all of those gay dudes who wished they had vaginas, and all of the Mexican dudes who wished they were tall enough to be owned by Mister Cuban, will eventually rap to dey selves:

“Dese white news reporters keep sayin' we cool,

en Da Man be cruel,

but, at the end of the day,

we all behin’ bars

and Da Man be sittin’ by the pool—

at his own bar!”

If you are really The Man your first line of defense is that dumb white skinhead with the $10,000 in tattoos who still doesn’t own a house. Your ghetto banger will say, ‘Yeah, that white skinhead with the fat ugly wife and no credit rating, he’s keeping me down.’

The problem is, any of those ghetto bangers who make it to forty, will look at that same white skinhead at 40, with no teeth in his head and no car, and an even uglier wife, and say, “What up Yo? Dis dude can' even afford a dentist visit, en he still takin’ da bus! No way is dis dumbass mofo Da Man!”

As a hedge against just such a ghetto epiphany had during some dice game over this skinhead’s biker wallet that he swapped for a hit of crack, you need a more probable The Man: enter Mark Cuban, a super rich, and not even entirely white, white dude! All you have to do is to get his dumb do-gooder ass to say something less than laudatory about young black men, like ‘The ones who wear hooded sweat shirts to conceal their guns scare me’, and there you go instant ‘The Man’; the Darth Vader of McMansionville.

They call it Christmas now. But, back when dudes like Manlius Man-Butcher ran shit, it was called the Saturnalia, after Saturn, the god that drank the blood of slain gladiators—for whom this was not exactly a favorite time of year—and liked to see rich dudes humiliated once a year just to remind them, that even though he wasn’t Jupiter, he was the next biggest player in heaven and they were still just punk-ass mortals!

Feel me yo? Saturn was keepin’ ‘is shit real. So, once a year the poor got to do what they want, got to party with the rich, and even play jokes on them.

This kept the rich dudes humble—in terms of the immortal perspective—and, more importantly, let the poor blow off steam pretending that they and their dumbass opinions really mattered. In turn, the rich—who have that nagging propensity for being smarter than the poor—realized that the Saturnalia equated to a nice pressure valve, and made crowd control easier, which is more necessary the richer you get, as the richer you get, the more poor dumbasses there are out there for you to control.

About 1830, when some back-talkin’ fool who thought it was actually important to be able to read, named Freddie Douglass, was a slave on a Maryland plantation, he noted that every year—on that very week that Manlius Man-Butcher would pretend he was a servant during Saturnalia before resuming a year of rape and pillage—that the slave owners actually made the slaves party! This was that good old pressure valve. Imagine your boss saying, ‘Call out, get drunk, and get high, or your fired!’

Fast forward to a world with much richer rich people, and many more poor dumbasses. Those dumbasses are basically hypnotized by an economy that is Christmas [which is the more developed form of the original Saturnalia] all year long. The average poor American kid today gets more material possessions in his first year of life than Attila the Hun or Gilgamesh took from all the dudes they jacked over a lifetime of jacking dudes who jacked dudes all year long.

So, in a world where it is always a party, always a feast, and most people are still essentially slaves, and black men are encouraged to be excessively well-armed and violent and are being jacked by cops to the point that getting locked up amounts to a family reunion, you need to have that other aspect of the Saturnalia as a constant go-to pressure valve. In the modern world where the Saturnalia is forever, the poor cannot possibly starve, and the liquor store is open seven days a week, a poor dude needs to see rich dudes on trial all year long—but mind you, not the real powerful rich dudes that jack entire economies, own nations, and bitch slap presidents behind closed doors, but those dumbass rich dudes that own ball teams.

You feel me Yo?