I believe Americans, by and large, do have sympathy for any person or group who’ve had life deal them a bad hand.
However, young black thugs, you’ve got to work with us a little bit because you’re kind of operating against the storyline the aforementioned are singing about y’all, and thus, making it difficult for us to soulfully commiserate.
Of what, pray tell, do I speak?
Well, homeslice, it goes something like this: For us to give a crap about your below-par existence we’d like to hear less and less about…
- Your ghastly grades in school
- Your ridiculous dropout rates
- Your colossal out of wedlock birthrates
- Your embracing of a musical culture that celebrates the shooting of cops and doing filthy, vile things to someone’s daughter
- Your love affair with drugs and alcohol
- Your #hatethem tweets aimed at white people
- Your flash mobbing and robbing places and people
- Your audacity to blame everybody and their dog for your odious behavior
- And your ginormous, misplaced racial chip on your shoulder
Yes, if you could/would chill on some of that stuff, well … That’d be great. That would make us crackers think, “Hey, maybe you’re serious about getting out of the ditch you’re in.”
Another difficult thing that makes it hard for us to believe you’re just poor, helpless victims of the machine is when a couple of teens from your crew gun down an innocent, twenty-two-year-old, white, Aussie student just to spice up the inherent boredom which accompanies the dog-days of summer. That act of uncut evil helps us not. Yep, that heinous stunt really makes all this “poor you” crap fly right out our windows.
And lastly, and I hate to be negative, but there was one more incident perpetrated by two black teens this week that also unraveled the sweet story Sharpton and the President would have us believe. It was the beating death of an eighty-eight-year-old, WWII vet in Spokane, Washington. That demonic deed, coupled with the murder of Chris Lane this week, makes it impossible for anyone with a brain to feel anything towards your personal dilemma except, “Whiskey Tango Foxtrot.”
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