Peter Parker picked peppers, and Run solved crimes. Humpty Hump fell down, and Tupac died.

Basically, what I’m saying is…everybody has a “thing.” Not necessarily a talent, but a “thing.” Some type of distinguishing quirk that is you, and only you. Its your thing. Do what you wanna do. I cant tell you who to sock it to.

Por ejemplo:

“Yo, you know Jimmy?”

“Nah, yo,  I don’t know no Jimmy!”

“C’mon, son! You know Jimmy! Jimmy from the block that do the robot every time we go to Subway!?”

“OOOOooOOOOooh! THAT Jimmy!”

See. A “thing.”

Mine is extrapolating racism. I’m like the Dr. House of this Whites Only Pies sh*t. And being that I’m such an astute diagnostician of discriminatory actions, my friends will often refer to me when they need assistance in determining whether or not something is ostensibly racist. Mostly my white friends. My black friends know what time it is when they get racisted on. Most of’em anyway. Some of’em still be on that Tia and Tamara sh*t.

Moving on…read this:

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I like bagels.

Do you like bagels?

You know who loves bagels?

White women with miscegenated babies.

Actually, that may not be true at all. I cant say with certitude (no Wiener) that all white women with miscegenated babies really loves bagels…I was just at a loss for a casual and sagacious introduction to this post.

LEGGO!

(yeah, I like doing that now.)

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Hol’up.

Wait.

Y’all n*ggas hatin’ on what, now?

Fried Kool-aid balls?

LEGGO!!!

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Okay, before we hop into the thicket of the post, I think it’s important to know that…I’m a gangsta.

And gangstas dont dance…we boogie.

We also tend to respond erratically to what may appear to be some incredibly infinitesimal sh*t that we ignorantly misconstrued for some incredibly monolithic, disrespectful-a**, non-gangsta sh*t.

For example, accusing Spiderman of imparting Jim Crowisms.

It happens.

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Apparently, with great power comes great responsibigotry.

Spiderman, you a**hole.

I’ve never been so let down in my life. This must be what it feels like when snitches get stitches. I say that because I imagine getting stitches hurts. As a child who treated major lacerations with a pound of Vaseline, band-aid, and subsequent a**whoopin’ for doing whatever dumb sh*t it was that got me injured in the first place, I wouldnt really know what getting stitches felt like. But if it’s something that snitches get, I don’t see it being a pleasurable experience at all. I also aint no snitch. Cause as I previously mentioned…snitches get stitches. And stitches hurt.

Anyway. Point is. You really hurt me, Spiderman.

You a**hole.

I cant believe I still used to wear you on my underwear. My booty-balls are disgusted right now.

You guys are probly wondering what happened, huh?

Oh, you’re not?

Well, this what happent.

I retire from an arduous days work, in hopes of easing the tension with a good read, and come across an old issue of Marvel Tales: Featuring Spiderman, where I found this ol’ Clint Eastwood-in-Gran Torino- Super spade hatin’- a** bulljive…

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