Fruity Jesus



"Hel-LO, Boys!" Jesus



"Hoooray!" Jesus



Ugly Woman Jesus



Cuddly Jesus!



Rock Hudson Jesus



"Buddy" Jesus



Mucho Make-Up Jesus



Alien Anal-Probe Jesus



"Hmm HMMM" Jesus



Jesus Christ! Jesus



Fiiiiiine Jesus

 Sunday, January 14, 2001

Yo Jesus Be Gayin', Yo

Who You Think I's Talkin' To? Yeah, Me to Y'alls, Crackas

Del Rey yells, "Fuck your fucked-up Jesus, you fucks. The fuck was a fuckin' HOMO!"

Del din't even turn aroun'.

An' I knewed we in trouble now.

* * *

One a the stoopidest things a Brotha can do is travel.

Y'all crackas, so y'all don't know it. Y'all just crowds onna plane and jetsets whereva y'alls please and don' think nothin' of it beyond whetherin' you oughta grab yo'self some airplane insurance, yeah. Or decidin' on upgradin' yo AAA whens you takes to the road, yo.

Brotha has to take out life insurance to cover his lynchin' or a shot with a strap to the meat.

Y'all thinkin' to yodelf that I'm a lyin'. Y'all just don' know.

And damn if some Brothas just ain' got themdelfs any brains, yo. Specially my dawg, Del Rey. Del, he do himdelf a li'l too mucha that dank, yeah, an' he get himdelf some crazy thoughts, like all them rich fat-cheeked spooks hangin' it up in the Cruz, smokin' the Jane an' crowdin' out the room with they's patchouli stank an' talkin' shit from they's pieholes.

Anyways, Del an' I at Fat Sal's back a few years ago, an' I'm set on my high cuz I'd just dug out some dime bitch pretty hard on an' damn if my head weren't clouded up all sweet-like still. Fats just stuffin' his face wif some Philly cheese thang an' Del, Del's his usual delf, an' high, baby, he high. He was scopin' Fat Sal's mama's picture a Whitey Jesus, doe-eyed and ruby-lipped, hangin' from some wall an' he say,

"Daaammmn, he a pretty one."

But we useta him pullin' this kinda whack shit, yeah, so we just go on ignorin' his ass. But Del, Del is a higher than he oughta be when I'm a sexed-high on full effect, yo. Cuz when I'm a sexed-high, I'm open to suggestion. An' Del Rey, he's always suggestin' fucked up shit. So when he 'nounces we go hang it in the East Saint, I'm game. "You got duckets?"

"Nah man, nah. We ridin'."

Next thing I know, Del an' I in his old-ass convertable, some ride that ain't too tight but chromey enuff to fuck yo peeps up if you a checkin' too close. Just enough fo Whitey to know it be a Brotha's car and wonder if it hop to the hip (it don' cuz Del's caish goes to the thai stick).

Time comes and I knowed we fucked. But that's on 80 past Reno an' I don' even know if Del knowed how to get to Eastside. Now, when we drivin', we's gettin' a lotta looks ("Look honey! Niggers!") an' that ain't so bad, cuz all we hadda do is gift 'em with don't-blink-or-I's-gutpunchin'-yo-kids stares. But sooner or later, we gotta stop in on some hickville shit an' gas up.

A Brotha's hell is a village fulla crackas 200 miles away from the coast, yo. Fuckin' "Deliverance" style, yo, where the nearest Brotha be Uncle Ben and Sista Aunt Jemima. Towns-on-wheels where the black man is prolly gonna get jumped by 20 fat-bellied yahoos wearin' wife-beater tees an' week-old underwears.

Course, we gotta go to these digs, yeah, cuz between, say, Reno an' SLC, biggest burg be a place by name a Pocatello, Nevada, which means it be the biggest thumpyard a them all. An' we hafta eat. An' we hafta sleep. An' we hafta gas up.

So finally we's in a pit, drinkin' some Buds an' restin' our asses cuz they ain't no way we gettin' shut-eye here. An' soon some bored white-trash fucks come on in, swingin' they's guts an' scratchin' they's beards an' rubbin' they's necks as they collect at the bar. Jus' soon as they's gots themdelfs a good 5-1 advantage on us, they's start talkin' real loud, drawin' attention to themselves. They a drinkin', havin' theydelf's a real good yahoo time, an' then it starts comin' on, them murmurs turned up 'til they giggles 'til they fuckin' shouts, yo:



"So this nigger goes inna bar, right, an'..."

"Ha ha fucking niggers ha ha ha!"

"Fuck niggers."

An' more of the same. Cuz, you know, they has the numbers, they in they's element, they havin' a good time.

An' Del Rey, he's just kickin' it, yo. He ain't trippin' inna least. He just workin' his Bud like nobody's business. Me, I ain't shamed to say I was wiggin', what with the Whitey smack a flyin'. Del, he just noddin' once while, drinkin' the Bud -- that is, till we hears another neck shootin' the shit an' sayin:

"Jesus, he did tell Christians to love our brothers, but he ain't said nothing 'bout loving no BROTHAHS! HA HA HA!"

Del Rey yells, "Fuck your fucked-up Jesus, you fucks. The fuck was a fuckin' HOMO!"

Del din't even turn aroun'.

An' I knewed we in trouble now.

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Copyright © 2001
That Cavortin' Bastard 'n Crew.
Backs covered by No Apologies! Press, a buncha white grapes.