Hey there, you fat, black, racist, cunt. I see you there, looking at me in your rearview mirror. You were just about to go when you saw The White Man pull up behind you and decided that it was much more important that you play your game than that you actually get to where you were going on time. In fact, it's much more important to fuck with The White Man than it is to do anything else in the whole world.
I know this because I deal with big, fat, racist, black bitches like you every single day, everywhere I go. And it's always the same game. It's the game you and your fat, black, herpes-infested, narcissistic, all-about-me friends sit around bragging and laughing about every day on your cell phones instead of working or watching your kids or doing much of anything else. It's your only real passion, besides pampering your fat diva self.
You would have sat there blocking me for an hour if I had let you, wouldn't you? Yes you would, bitch. I know you. I know you better than you know yourself. I've analyzed you and all your whore friends for a lifetime. I know your game and all the rules better than you do.
My momma used to play your game. Only she wasn't a racist pig, like you, bitch. She was a screaming feminist, which is exactly the same thing, only they're consumed with the hatred of All Men instead of just White Men. And the thing about my momma, she didn't have no cell phone pressed to her big, fat, Jerry Curl head to flap her cow lips into while she was fucking with The Man in traffic. No, all she had was ME.
Yeah, she'd mumble out loud to me, "you're just passing me BECAUSE I'M A WOMAN!" And then she'd floor the gas pedal to prevent the guy, whomever he was, from getting around her. It didn't matter to her that she had been going 30 mph in a 55 mph zone and it didn't matter that it was perfectly legal and appropriate for The Man to pass her. No, she was just like you. She was consumed with a hatred and a desire to attack every Man she saw. So she'd get in front of The Men and go as slow as she could, tapping her brakes to bring him in closer. Then, and this always amused me, she'd get MAD at The Man for being behind her.
"Quit riding my ass! You're only riding my ass BECAUSE I'M A WOMAN!"
At this point you might think she'd be relieved when The Man went to go around her since she was supposedly so upset about him being behind her in the first place. But no, her hatred scrambled her brains, much like yours are, you fat racist water buffalo, and so she'd scream some more when The Man tried to go around her passive aggressive sexist crazy ass. She'd floor the gas and go from 30 to whatever speed was required in order to block The Man and prevent him from getting away from her misandric-crazy ass.
When I was finally old enough to drive, all this knowledge of these crazy, man-hating, feminist bitches who lived in my hometown came in really handy. I learned how to play the game in such a way as to leave the screaming bitches even madder when it was over than they were when it began, even when I didn't ever pass them. But that's another story. Suffice it to say that I know you very, very well, bitch, and I know how to play you like a fish on a line.
You nearly shit when you saw me turn around and suddenly reappear at another intersection just down from you, didn't you? You were so panicked that I was going to pull out without you being in front of me to block me that you didn't even look to see if it was clear for you to go. No, you pulled right out in front of a Cadillac, driven by another Black Woman (how ironic is that) and came screaming down the road, nearly hitting me just so you could stop me from getting away. I could hear that 6-cylinder Nissan Maxima engine screaming and rattling as it tried desperately to take in all that hatred and use it for fuel to propel your fat buffalo ass down Germantown Parkway as quickly as possible.
A White Man is threatening to get away!!!!!!!! Oh NOOOOOOOOO!
I'm going to hazard a guess here, and speculate that the brakes on your car don't wear evenly, do they? I'll bet the front pads on the driver's side are always wearing out on you, while the passenger side still has plenty left. Am I right? You don't even know because you hire Mexicans to do your brakes for you, don't you, bitch? And they try to tell you, but you don't like what it implies about your fat diva self, so you have them "talk to the hand", right Queen Latifah?
I do want to compliment you on that lovely Christmas tree air freshener that you have hanging from your rearview mirror, though. That looks fabulous. It doesn't quite get the funky smell of your sweaty, drooling, overstretched, overused, diseased cooter out of the car, though, does it? It still smells like ass and Jerry Curl inside your car, no matter how many air fresheners you buy at AutoZone. And that drives you nuts, doesn't it? You blame the car, right? You blame the leather seats and swear you're getting cloth next time, right? Except you won't. Leather is a status symbol and your ego is much more important than getting rid of the funk. Anyway, deep in your subconscious you know it isn't the seats. It's your herpes hole. It's you.
How mad were you when I ended up in front of you anyway? You must have been pretty upset at losing The Game because you gave up completely and pulled off the road the minute I had won. I mean, you didn't even TRY after that. Shit, my mom and her feminist bitch friends used to chase our teenaged male asses all the way down the Parkway trying to get BACK in front of us so they could lock up their brakes, which I'll have to admit was fucking crazy, but that's what hate is all about. That's feminism. That's black racism. That's the name of the game. And you lost, bitch. You lost and so you took your toys and went home to cry in your cellphone.
Do you pray to God with the same tongue that you use to curse The White Man? Did you ask Jesus into that racist heart of yours? Do you suppose he was able to find any room in there, considering how you keep it all stuffed full with hatred of The White Man, hatred of the last man who dumped your diva ass, and a secret hatred of your own girlfriend for being prettier than you? I'm willing to bet that every Sabbath day you and your fat diva ass are in some church, raising your hands in the air and dancing like James Brown while you say "praise Jesus! PRAISE Jesus!" You call it praise time. And after praise time, you pray to God, asking for a million dollars, asking to be famous, asking to be thin, asking for a man who won't run away from you, asking for The White Man to die. And God never seems to answer, does he? Why do you suppose that is?
I'll bet when you die and go up to Heaven, you're going to find a surprise. I'll bet they're going to tell you that there is a little technical difficulty in that you never made any room in your heart for Jesus, or pretty much anyone else at all. So he couldn't get in. And so, unfortunately, there is now no room for you.
I could be wrong. Who can say? I'm not God. But I know you. I know what's in your heart. I saw it in my mother. I see it in random black racists at the grocery store, at WalMart, at the bank, in traffic. It didn't surprise me one bit when you cut off another black woman in your desperate attempt to get to me and prevent me from pulling out. Because I know you. Because I know what's in you. It isn't just about race. It's about hate in general. It's a cancer and it's eating you up so completely that you don't even notice how your total selfishness affects the people around you, including your black 'sisters and brothers', and not to even mention your many, many children who beg you for your love, but never fully receive it.
How can you love them fully, when you're so busy loving only yourself?
I know you. I know everything about you, from where you've been to where you're going. I know what you're going to do with your shopping cart when you see me coming down the aisle. I know what you're going to call me when you walk straight at me in the mall, expecting me to move to the side and let you run over me, only to be surprised when I lock eyes with you and don't yield one inch more than you do. I know where you're going to walk when you cross the parking lot and see me coming in my truck. I know whose face you're going to slam the door in as you walk into the store ahead of me. I know what you tell your children when you think I don't hear. I know what you say about the black men who left you because they couldn't take one minute more of your selfish, abusive personality.
I know you and I can play you with ease any time I want to.
But I can't save you from the darkness you live in.
No one can do that but you.
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