Why Donald Trump Turning The White House Into A Gangster’s Paradise Is Not a Black Thing
No, being gangster is no longer regulated to the streets of Compton or the cobblestones of Brownsville, NY. Something remarkable has happened and you would have to be alive and breathing to believe it.
There was that time when a well-educated and impeccably spoken man won the ticket to the highest office in the land. He was groomed for greatness — and once he became great there was concern from detractors — that suggested perhaps his opulent presence would deviate from the standard that the United States of America has always righteously adhered to — under the compass of privileged White men who are born to inhabit such a thing.
There was the prayer and solemn promise to God to offer up first born sons with skilled features and ordained futures — as long as the Black man in The White House had every chance in heaven to fail miserably by his own hand.
He would be a walking grenade, waiting for the right spot to explode the green off of the acres of his honored inheritance. His questionable background that filtered into realms of the obvious qualms about Kenyan bloodlines and Hawaiian ties — tied into a bow of surrender.
His affiliation with the public, specifically artists with a penchant for spewing out verses that praise his arrival and defeat those who are trying to defeat his existence — would translate into the bait that sets off his departure.
He hangs with the unruly crowd, which will gloriously turn his white as snow mansion into a heathen’s paradise — and ultimately prove beyond a doubt what it means to have a Black man in The White House.
As it turns out, America’s very first Black president was a solidified stud.
He had the amount of class that you can’t earn by accumulating needless nights at the Trump Tower of your choice. He wasn’t perfect, but he was flawless in the eyes of those who dreamt of his ascension with quiet perseverance — only to be met with the more gorgeous implementation that took centuries to concoct on our behalf.
President Barack Obama was no saint.
In fact his errors mandated the demise of innocent lives, and there is also the issue of a community that buckled under his regime — due to the impediment of Whites hating Blacks, and wanting to feel the power of that hatred through the bullets that sprayed the streets — and disinfected the pollution of diversity.
This epidemic dissolved what it means to be American without the security of blue eyes and hair straighter than a line at the DMV.
By the way, America is now Great Again.
This happened not too ago. It was a devastating occurrence that happened expectedly due to the fever pitch of the White working class population — that didn’t give two fucks about Hillary Clinton, and wanted very much to be under the regime of a White wealthy businessman — with all the bravado you can’t internalize.
He promised to wipe out the hopes of generations by whiting the landscape from the darkness of progress under the shield of a forced moonlight.
Donald Trump is now your leader in chief. Sending that reminder fills me with pleasure and disdain.
I love that we are suffering under the thumb of a Reality TV star who likes to fondle women at will while pledging his millions to deals that aren’t drawn up to help the advancement of mankind. The disdain is erected from the depths of my soul that cringes at the thought that it actually took a White man to turn to The White House into a gangsters paradise.
On a Wednesday night like any other, except this particular episode should’ve been logged into the columns of recognition by comedians who don’t need my coaxing to figure out what to do with this shit — President Trump without the aid of his daughter Ivanka and her Brooks Brothers model of a hubby, Jared — welcomed the dregs of our suffocating society to his extravagant abode.
Sarah Palin, Ted Nugent and Kid Rock made a pit stop to pay homage to the man they worship with the reverence of a well cooked corndog — that glistens with mustard and ketchup after a long day of shooting at the sky — like displaced warriors.
These individuals ravaged their social media platforms with evidence of their dinner date, but what really stood out was the photo beside former First Lady and Presidential candidate Hillary Clinton.
The smelly trio nazied their way from fingering Clinton’s contribution to the nation and beyond to ransacking the primates of law and order — that was designated by the Black man — who was supposed to be a thug in a suit under the disguise of Whiteness, but ended up being the only thing that we all desperately need right now in order to restore sanity.
I was part of the remnants of British imperialism — dressed up as an expanded frock that supposedly exposes wild humans to the fundamentals of civilization. I was a history buff who wrote miles and miles during exams about the jihad wars — and the reason why Lord Lugard Avenue is the traffic nightmare that may or may not have to do with White men — forcing literature on an already armed society.
We are fucked up!
You, me, and we. We can’t escape the consequences of electing a self-made tyrant who seamlessly hijacks the bible of duties that were supposed to remain sacred under the guise of colorful imprints — that assign White men with power to the alter of justice.
Trump has trumped any doubt that we truly hate ourselves.
I hate you and you loathe me and we love this space we’re in — because it cuddles the fury that arises when we want to step outside of ourselves and become heroes or heroines — straddled by the defeat of what it means to lose or win big.
Except victories require a clean slate with cheers and a parade of souls in your corner without the strain of doubt or fools in uniform saluting a chief who fucks racists and fondles boobs that are really bullets in disguise.
We are gangster! And it took a fucking White man to get us here.