George Zimmerman Wants Us to Kill Him


The idea that the criminal always returns to the scene of the crime is twofold.

The first part is the idea that he somehow fucked up and left evidence or some other information that would directly point to him.

The second part imagines that he almost wishes to be caught. That his internal gloating has become so celebratory that it would be worth paying the price for his crimes if only people could know that he’d been the one responsible.

This is where we are with George Zimmerman.

After selling the gun he’d used to murder a teenager, he’s now imagining himself as the Avenging Hand of God and making us aware that he’d killed the child of Sybrina Fulton and Tracy Martin because “they didn’t raise their son right“.

You’re right to think that even he’s a little surprised that things have gone this far.

I mean, he probably knew he would get away with the murder itself, but probably not to the extent that he has.

He knew that Black lives were expendable; the fact that anyone can take one and practically no one ever suffers for having done so except occasionally other Black people taught him that.

And he knew he’d find sympathy from the kind of white Americans that always see any reason for killing a young Black male as absolutely justifiable.

But he was probably a bit shocked that his bullshit worked so well.

I mean, how dumb are people that they would believe that you would have to defend yourself against someone who, if you hadn’t have approached them first, never would have even been aware of you at all?

And how could people believe that you’d approach a young person respectfully after they’d heard the dispatcher’s tape on which you’d predetermined the kid to be you an “asshole” – despite the fact that you’d never so much as seen him before – and it was understood fully well that you took the precaution of making sure you braced for the confrontation you planned on provoking by packing a gun?

A fair, blonde-haired blue-eyed boy with a Western European surname who died by your hand under the same circumstances would by no means have been explained away so easily.

No, those were the boys you wouldn’t have even have had the guts to confront.

Your half-Latino ass would be the Nigger to them.

But against a real Nigger, you could be almost white.

And gee, that must have felt great!

But now, unlike the accident murderers and war-made killers that will forever wake up in night sweats horrified by a world that could make atrocities that claimed lives seem necessary, your heroic status among a reprobate crowd coupled with whatever vague morality still clings to your psyche, has gotta have you on a bad head.

And if there’s any kinda religion in you, you’re probably figuring that it would be better to resolve this shit in this life than the next.

That’s what has you actually out there calling for death.

You’re spitting in the wind, whistling past the graveyard, being so disrpectful it’s like you’re daring Trayvon’s mother, father, or maybe even the Black community at large to g’head and finish you.

And predictably, as opposed to the suicide that what’s left of your conscience demands you to commit, you’re expecting us to do your dirty work.

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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