I’ve been living in “The Hood” for twenty years, Greenmount and Twenty-fifth, and at this point I’m fed-up, an angry, little white man sick of being hunted. I’ve heard the same shit so many times for so long I could do a voice over for the autobiography of that degenerate race: “Whatchyou got white boy? Yo, shortyshortshort where you goin’? Yo, Cracker, this is our shid up in hea! Yo got some money fo me whiteboy? Yo, bitch-ass whiteboy, you lookin’ at me? White bitch! Go-on you muvaficin’ white bitch!”

You know, I’m sick of it. I don’t care if you don't work, collect welfare, get high and throw all of your negro trash on the sidewalk and make the world ugly for the rest of it. But is it too much to ask to keep your hands to yourself? Come on! I’m a little guy, five feet tall, barely. And I like my freedom. I know from experience that using a knife is just a way of handing your ass to the State’s Attorney. I tried fighting, God knows I tried—what a disaster. Christ, their teenagers tower over me. I’m smaller than their twelve-year-olds, a little white ape in the land of giant chimps and silver backs. And they attack in swarms, five niցցers and me, six niցցers and me, seven niցցers and me, too many niցցers to count while you’re getting your lights punched out and me. Now the mother fuckers are carrying knives.

I honestly think the only answer is genocide—that the lot of them need to be herded together and roasted in a fucking oven!

Now, the other day, I walk around the corner and this twelve-year-old kid puts a steak knife in my face and says, “Give it up, yo.”

First of all, I’m not a fucking yo, alright. Second of all, I’ve learned that I can’t trade punches with these assholes. I did did wrestle in high school and was pretty good. So I grabbed his hand and put it behind his back and did a trip and dropped his monkey ass onto the pavement and took the knife. I punched him a few times while he was down there and went on my way.

I worked last week driving a friend back and forth to a jab in Ocean City—earned forty bucks a day—he’s the executive chef for a restaurant chain. I love this new car—put two thousand miles on it last week. Went up to Northern PA to visit a friend who finally got fed-up with all of this Negro States of Their America bullshit and is living in a small town and loving life. My problem is I can’t sell the house and the hell if I’m going to let the government section-eight it to these fucking savages. That’s my family heritage. It’s not going to become a heroin shooting gallery or a crack-house. The day may come for me to love life in a small town. For today, having this car is my salvation and I’m glad to give you a ride, brother.”