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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