Dear Friends,
As we come midway between Christmas and so-called Black Pride Month, I'd like to share with you a story my father told me each Christmas. It concerns a certain gent named Blackie Claus.
Blackie Claus lives at the South Pole, where he collects welfare checks for his hundred-and-ten dimwitted children, which he had with a hundred-and-eleven different babymamas (none of whom he married, of course). While it is Blackie Claus's job to make and distribute toys for all the darkie children of the world, he prefers to drink huge flagons of malt liquor, rape white women, and listen to the cacaphonous howling of fellow shade "musicians." Out of pity for the children of the world, the real Santa Claus sends a shipment of toys to the degenerate Blackie Claus every November, whereupon Blackie promises with a straight face that he will get his applesauce together next year.
On Christmas Eve, Blackie Claus gingerly hops through the urine-soaked tenaments. He takes the fried chicken and crack vials left for him by the nigra children and leaves them some of the bounty that Santa Clause had generously donated. But, in the end, he pawns most of the shipment for pornographic magazines featuring big-bootied African queens.
And that's how spades celebrate Christmas!
If you don't believe me, maybe you should consider the companion story about a woman who didn't believe in Blackie Claus. Shaquina Scrooge was an uppity, educated negress. Some even say she could read and write. She brayed on her haunches day after day, "Ain't no Blackie Claus, ain't no such thing!" So, on Christmas Eve, she heard a booming voice from the hallway of her flop house. "Ho ho ho! I'ze gwanna peel yo cap!" And, lo and behold, it was Blackie Claus. He threw her down on the bed, only his eyes and smile visible in the dark, and scalped the unbeliever. She begged and pled for mercy, but he savaged her with his apelike member and then smothered Scrooge with her commemorative Good Times pillow. The next day, Shaniqua Scrooge's hair had already been sold to the extensions market, and was woven into the braids of a less prideful Afro-female.
Yours in Him,
BAB
As we come midway between Christmas and so-called Black Pride Month, I'd like to share with you a story my father told me each Christmas. It concerns a certain gent named Blackie Claus.
Blackie Claus lives at the South Pole, where he collects welfare checks for his hundred-and-ten dimwitted children, which he had with a hundred-and-eleven different babymamas (none of whom he married, of course). While it is Blackie Claus's job to make and distribute toys for all the darkie children of the world, he prefers to drink huge flagons of malt liquor, rape white women, and listen to the cacaphonous howling of fellow shade "musicians." Out of pity for the children of the world, the real Santa Claus sends a shipment of toys to the degenerate Blackie Claus every November, whereupon Blackie promises with a straight face that he will get his applesauce together next year.
On Christmas Eve, Blackie Claus gingerly hops through the urine-soaked tenaments. He takes the fried chicken and crack vials left for him by the nigra children and leaves them some of the bounty that Santa Clause had generously donated. But, in the end, he pawns most of the shipment for pornographic magazines featuring big-bootied African queens.
And that's how spades celebrate Christmas!
If you don't believe me, maybe you should consider the companion story about a woman who didn't believe in Blackie Claus. Shaquina Scrooge was an uppity, educated negress. Some even say she could read and write. She brayed on her haunches day after day, "Ain't no Blackie Claus, ain't no such thing!" So, on Christmas Eve, she heard a booming voice from the hallway of her flop house. "Ho ho ho! I'ze gwanna peel yo cap!" And, lo and behold, it was Blackie Claus. He threw her down on the bed, only his eyes and smile visible in the dark, and scalped the unbeliever. She begged and pled for mercy, but he savaged her with his apelike member and then smothered Scrooge with her commemorative Good Times pillow. The next day, Shaniqua Scrooge's hair had already been sold to the extensions market, and was woven into the braids of a less prideful Afro-female.
Yours in Him,
BAB
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