Using a word that’s perhaps the greatest oxymoron in the history in the English language, today we celebrate America’s first terrorists, the Pilgrims, as they began to systematically jack this land right out from under the Indians.
The word we use?
But who should be thankful for this, uh, giving?
It certainly shouldn’t be the Indians who being kindhearted and a bit naive thought they had enough to share and therefore should.
Nice going fellas.
It damn sure can’t be the Africans. Let’s say we were every bit as wild, savage, dumb and feral in Africa as we’ve been led to believe. How happy are we here? Put that bone right back in my fucking nose.
It can only be those Pilgrims. The Indians, after all, were Infidels that either needed to be taught to worship the one true God or get wiped off the face of the earth…
Wait a minute…
Where have I heard that before?
And the Pilgrims took and they took and they took. Sometimes they traded. Betcha $24 dollars in beads wouldn’t get you a tug job from a crack whore in Manhattan today, let alone the whole fucking island.
Think of the history like this: you’ve got a weed delivery, but you can’t find the house. It’s not only late and you’re tired, but you’re hungry because you haven’t eaten and you won’t have any money till you sell the weed.
You stumble across the gigantic house of a nice guy with a lot of property. You think it’s the Drop House so you go in calling the guy by the wrong name. Once you realize it’s not the Drop House, you still call the guy by the wrong name as sort of an inside joke. The guy doesn’t really like the joke but, whatever. There’s sort of a language barrier anyway. Still the guy, noticing how fucked up you are, not only offers you a bed for the night but a big heaping plate of food. It’s great food. Not the kind of stuff you’re used to at all when you’re from
You notice his wife has a phat ass too.
In the morning, you decide you like it here. Your own crib’s a dump, you’re behind on your rent and besides, if you go back to your own hood, you might get murked.
For a while, you just chill; eating the guy’s food, not really saying anything. You offer him a little bit of weed for some of his clothes and you start moving around from room to room to get the feel of the place.
But suddenly, the guy kinda seems like he’s getting tired of you.
So you decide to kill the guy, fuck him. You just take over.
You fuck the wife silly.
You move his son from room to room, always making the next room you move him into smaller than the last, and you start fucking the daughter too. She’s only 11, but the guy’s dead so… whatever.
Your boss comes looking for his money and his weed. You kill him too. Fuck him. Fuck ’em all. You kidnap a neighborhood Black kid and put him to work for you selling the weed.
Then you write the story of your life and tell all about your hardships and how you believe in fairness, right and goodness.
And you call this bizarre autobiography The Constitution of the United States.