Friday, December 14, 2012

A Kwazily Kwanzaa Kwistmas

As an urban militant straight outta Compton--and who also just happens to be gay--I've gotta shout out loud how incredibly racist I find the white songwriting community to be for ignoring the black holiday of Kwanzaa. This ancient tradition, which dates back to pre-Tupac times, is due reparations for this blatant disrespect. Reparations, that is, in the form of holiday Kwanzaa songs. You can keep your forty acres and a mule, you racist muthafathas.
     Kwanzaa, or "Kill Whitey," is from the African language of... um, from the original... ah, who am I kidding? "Kwanzaa" is a made-up word that's meant to be African-sounding. I think we succeeded.
     The above paragraph reminds me of the movie Skin Games, starring James Garner and Louis Gossett Jr. It takes place pre-Civil War, and Gossett, who plays a free black man, is sold over and over again as a slave in a money-making scam. Toward the end of the movie, he makes up African-sounding words to communicate with a group of new slaves just brought over from the dark continent. But I digress...
     Kwanzaa is constantly ignored or overlooked. For example, I saw the Michael Buble Christmas special the other night, and that racist honky didn't sing one Kanzaa song. Charlie Brown? Racist! Rudolph? Racist! The Great Pumpkin? Delicious!
     When I spoke with my old friend, Al Sharpton, about these deserved reparations, he enthusiastically agreed with me, and told me to "call back when there's a profit to be made. Now, if you'll excuse me, I've got to go comb my hair."
     Jesse Jackson was more pragmatic, and saw this Kwanzaa discrimination as a way to "stick it to those Jews well into the future. For my children, but not for my children's children, because I don't think children should be having unprotected sex."
     "What about your illegitimate children?" I asked him.
     "They're the government's responsibility. I didn't fight for civil rights in the 60's so I'd have to take care of my kids in my 70's. By the way, have I ever told you how Dr. Martin Luther King died in my arms?"
     "Uh, gotta go!" I hung up. He's tried to tell me that story only every time I've ever talked to him. A story, I might add, that's completely untrue. I happen to know that while Dr. King was busy being assassinated (and dying in MY arms, I might add) by Mark David Chapman--in an attempt to impress Jodie Foster--the good reverend was busy seeing Miss Rudolph--a juju woman--and trying to persuade her to help a friend of his who had been cursed with tiny feet.
     So, apparently, I was on my own. I went to N' Da Hood Records and spoke with the owner, Mr. Morty Lansky.
     "Get out of my office!" he suggested helpfully.
     Next, I went to Dissin' Dat Publishing, but the president, Mr. Bernie Siegel, was busy taking credit for songs other people had written.
     Last on my list was CEO Abe Rothstein at Whut'Chu Talkin' 'Bout, Willis? Productions. His secretary led me to his door.
     "Go right in," she flirted.
     I stepped through the door... and found myself back outside in the alley behind the building. There was an old wino relieving himself behind a dumpster. At least, that's what I hope he was doing.
     "Can I help you?" he asked me.
     Can he help me? Can he help me?
     Well, why not? I told him my whole story. He listened respectfully, occasionally taking a swig from a bottle of Boone's Farm Strawberry Hill he had hidden in a brown paper bag. When I was done talking, he stayed quiet for a few moments. Finally, he said:
     "Why don't you write one of your own?"
     "What?" I asked him.
     "Why don't you just write one of your own?"
     That caught me by surprise. I wasn't used to the concept of doing things for myself. Doing things for myself is the government's responsibility. The wino continued:
     "If you're waiting for some cracker to write a Kwanzaa song for you, you're gonna be waiting a long time."
     He made sense. I thanked him and left. He continued talking, for some reason. I don't know to who, as there was no one else there.
     "If I'm hungry, I eat," he said to someone I couldn't see. "I don't wait for some peckerwood to serve me no Grey Poupon."
     And so, my brothers and sisters, I offer you the first Kwanzaa song.
     Please, don't let it be the last.

     The Kwanzaa Song
I'm killin' me a white man fo' Christmas!
There ain't nuthin' no one can do!
I'm killin' me a white man fo' Christmas!
And next I'm gonna kill me a Jew!
Happy Kwanzaa, Everybody!
The Aw, Nuts! Humor Blog

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