Usually because there’s even older intra-family pathologies, violence, and dynamics operating in the family that no one wants to remember, face or deal with.

I’m old enough to remember seeing The Nanny and thinking, “OMG, Bobbi Flekman got a TV show! That’s great!” Heh.

The cognitive dissonance is stunning, right? You’d think, for all the current white claims of being the cultural descendants of their vaunted ancient Greeks, that they’d never heard of “logic” before. ::eyeroll::

I see, so, Ms. Robinson somehow managed to get Maraj’s DNA on her daughter’s pajama pants so she could set herself up for a big payout from Nicki.

Well. I was hoping for something I could watch on YouTube afterwards, like Beyonce’s or Bruno Mars’ performances (I’m not into American football or stupid commercials), but him? Nah. Hard pass.

For every scathing diatribe, though, men like these just laugh and carry on. Something has to put the fear of God in them so they’d leave people alone! I wish I knew what.

So much for that moderating influence he was supposed to have, huh? So much for respecting the families of the fallen, eh? Kelly was standing there lying on the Congresswoman, and didn’t bat an eye. Rep. Wilson was with the Jacksons as a friend, but like everything else, they project the very same shit they’re doing…

This was the part I read in the original where I wanted to ask her what the hell she was on about:

Hey, I appreciate the impulse. No worries.

His daughter is 20? TWENTY?!?!?

Well, exactly just how much coke was Cross on at the time? That’s probably why he doesn’t remember. This makes me sad, because I love his work on Mr. Show.

::sigh::

“A SUBTERFUGE!

Sure, I’ll buy a Rambo gun! Isn’t there a song?

Welp, guess I’m a 4. I have and will continue to stand up for my people’s rights, have considered that I may not go out as an old lady in a soft bed, but no, I have no fucks to give about white people or their guilt-and-shame-avoidant fee-fees.

Yup. The smart, talented ones remake themselves into a Bowie (who grew up in the poor part of a drab suburb south of London; his parents “fled” Brixton in the mid- 1950s—the Caribbeans were moving in!).

I recently re-watched The Man Who Fell to Earth. which Casey was also in. I hadn’t seen it since my college film classes. It’s a weird movie. He’s good (though his scenes are brief) and Bowie’s good. Not sure what I think of it now as a picture, though.

How can I get gig with this man as a line producer? He’s just seriously doing the Lord’s work and I want to sign on.

How does he walk and breathe at the same time?

If a white man whose job is making parody songs (and one who’s old enough to be your father, to boot), has better flow than you do by levels of magnitude—and you can’t get it together after almost a decade? Then it’s time to pack it in. That goes for anybody in the game.