It’s Time to Bring Bill Cosby’s Ass Home


I don’t gotta forgive the muhfucca. He ain’t do me wrong.

And that’s what’s so bullshit about American celebrities issuing mea culpas; “And… I’d like to apologize to the fans…”

Meanwhile, I’m thinking, “Nigga, was you hittin home runs while you was on that cocaine? Cause if you was and you don’t hit no more now that you’ve stopped sniffing that shit, that’s when you apologize.

But maybe it’s fitting in Cosby’s case because a shamer will be shamed.

And Cosby made us Black folks feel ashamed.

But was he wrong?

The jobless buying Jordans makes about as much sense as an unpronounceable name atop a resume.

Cosby’s mistake was talking down to niggas as if he of all people forgot that aside from a lot of hard work, a little bit of blessing and a little bit of luck are involved in every success story.

So yeah, I’m bringing him back; Lord forgive me if he really is guilty.

He certainly did cheat on his wife.

Shes the one that’s gotta forgive him.

If I hadn’t used up my last conspiracy theory, I might suggest that the fateful night that then-unknown comic Hannibal Buress called Cosby a “rapist” onstage, thus reminding an indifferent world of historical accusations, had been a set-up.

Next thing you know, Buress had his own show.

And I do feel kinda guilty for even momentarily joining groupthink on Cosby when I know better.

Not only was Hitler right about it being easier to con a group than an individual, I grew up on Fat Albert, I mean, I knew Cosby.

Knew his work as a comic, knew his work as an actor, knew his astonishing generosity as a philanthropist.

But instead risking looking out of style and questioning why there was such an overwhelming eagerness to change my perception of a man who’s work I’d known since birth, shit, a man whose hand I shook, I found myself right on that same crowded line with everybody else, ready to buy them Jordans of media manipulation and opinion control.

I’m the type that would have joined the crowd in screaming for The Crucifiction.

I’m weak like that.

And I’m not even gonna play Matching Dysfunction, arguing that some of this country’s leaders not only owned slaves but raped and made babies with those slaves, babies which they then enslaved and that since many of Cosby’s accusers are white, it’s some kinda bizarro payback.


Ladies, if there’s even one of you out there who Bill Cosby has raped, forgive me.

I wouldn’t expect you to see him from my perspective just as I couldn’t see him from yours.

But, like I’ve written, if I were ever raped, I wouldn’t want money, I’d want blood. No amount of cash anywhere could help me sleep knowing that some man that had taken my butthole was still walking around casually thinking fondly of me doubled over.

America dehumanizes people into believing that everything has a price to the point where we expect that if a crime were committed or a wrong issued, it should immediately be assigned a dollar value.

Meanwhile, what kinda man are you if your mother, daughter, wife, sister comes home crying because Bill Cosby raped her and instead of immediately going to get the guns you start looking through the phone book for a lawyer?

Unless, of course, chivalry is dead, in which case we should all grab as much as we can and run for it; forfeiting the right to complain about anything except how little we’re able to hold.

About the Author

Dickie Bhee is a self-styled lunatic, a Renaissance showman, a Class A, Grade A buffoon, a nigga that believes in the greatness of Niggerhood a social gadfly and a genuine Man About Town. Also:

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