America’s newest race, the Celebrity.

And while no one in this room would deny the basic premise of ‘civil rights,’ we’d argue forever and a day about what constitutes ‘equal treatment under the law’ as defined by the very articles of the Constitution this defendant is accused of violating.

power. I’m a farmer: we segregate in an effort to give every tree, every plant, every poor Mexican, every poor nigger, a chance for equal access to sunlight and water; we make sure every living organism has room to breathe.

I was the fool who, as topics like railroad car allotments, Bantustans, and alternative music were raised, was too cowardly to stand up and say, “Do you motherfuckers realize how ridiculous we sound right now?”

Black people don’t even talk about race. Nothing’s attributable to color anymore. It’s all “mitigating circumstances.”

This traffic-court jester did more than tell jokes; he plucked out your subconscious and beat you silly with it, not until you were unrecognizable, but until you were recognizable.

That’s the problem with history, we like to think it’s a book—that we can turn the page and move the fuck on. But history isn’t the paper it’s printed on. It’s memory, and memory is time, emotions, and song. History is the things that stay with you.

Unmitigated Blackness is simply not giving a fuck.

And nothing, from the hungry jungle cat to the African ferryboat, is more dangerous than a white person on what they think is familiar ground.