So when I read and excerpted Fred’s post on the most recent #BlackLiesMurder rioting last week, I was reminded of someone I admittedly hadn’t thought about in a while: Acidman. You CF lifers will probably recall him; Rob Smith, his name was. He was a fantastic writer, one whose penchant for pulling no punches and just coming right and saying things that needed to be said a hotheaded loudmouth like myself could only envy. Fearless, the guy was. This was the post that brought him back to mind, and quite the little controversy it triggered at the time too, back in February 2004. Which surprised exactly no one, least of all Acidman himself.
I am becoming more comfortable with the word “nigger” since the 1960s. I had compassion for an oppressed people back then. But I watched them shit all over every opportunity handed to them for the last 40 years, and you know what we have now? Not a minority absorbed into our society. We just have a bunch of niggers running wild.
You can face the truth or you can run from it, but whatever the choice, it won’t change a damned thing. 49% of our prison population is black. Black wimmen have a 70% illegitimate birth rate. Only one in three black men (who AREN’T in prison) has a goddam job.
No people can continue down that track and ever hope to succeed in this country. That’s a fact, and I don’t give a shit what Maxine Waters and Jesse Jackson have to say about it. I’ve seen too many other people do it.
I saw the Vietnamese refugees arrive here after the war. Half of them couldn’t speak English, but they found jobs, saved their money, worked hard and made the American Dream come alive for them. Their children were all STAR students and now they have teachers, engineers, artists and businessmen rising from their ranks. They accomplished that task in ONE GENERATION and I know damn well that these people started with nothing.
I am sick and tired of listening to the niggers whine. You’ve had 300 years to make a go of life in this country, and you’ve fucked up every chance ever handed to you. Got-Dam! Don’t call me a racist. ADMIT THE GODDAM FACTS.
I heard a lot of old, racist red-necks say when I was a boy, “You can take the nigger out of the jungle, but you’ll never get the jungle out of the nigger.”
I hated hearing such talk when I was young. But I believe that they were right, after watching history for the past 40 years of my life. Nobody who ever lived in this world EVER had as much gelt handed to them by the government as “African Americans” have and nobody has EVER pissed away their opportunities so badly. That’s a fact.
Besides, how many “African Americans” ever saw Africa in their fucking lives, anyway? You don’t like it here? Go back to Africa. Live with no health care, corrupt dictators, rampant AIDS and nothing but a tin roof over your head. Give up your welfare checks, your VCRs and the “racist” society that you live in now. Go back to Africa, thumb your nose at me and tell how much better life is in “the homeland.”
I wish you fuckers would. The Democrats would have a heart attack, because you all vote like drones for them, but this country would be better off without you. If the truth hurts, so be it. I just call it like I see it.
Until you people change your attitude and learn to be CIVIL among yourselves, just shut the fuck up. Be a nigger if you want to, but don’t criticize me for calling you one when you act that way.
Reality is a bitch, isn’t it?
Well, yes. Yes, it is. And all the things Rob complains about above—habitual criminality and incarceration, illegitimacy, and chronic unemployment rates, along with the entitlement/dependent mentality—have only gotten worse in the years since. He predicted earlier in that post that he’d “never live long enough to see such honesty from ANY goddam politician alive today,” and he was right; he died in 2006, thereby blessedly missing out on the Obama era of “racial healing” and the murder of cops by BLM snipers. But his followup post hinted at the depths, wisdom, and raw soul that one might have missed if all they knew of him was that first one excerpted above:
When I went out for football, my daddy told me that I was a “natural” and that I could excel on the field. But he also told me that I was too weak, too slow and too small to play the position I wanted to play. He was correct. I started for four years on championship teams.
“Rob, the only way you’ll make it out there is to play smarter, work harder and be tougher than the bigger guys. You’ve got to want it more than they do. If you can’t do that, then your ass will ride the bench forever. You are not blessed with the physical ability to play the game as well as other people can. You have to outsmart them.”
As someone once said on this blog, I had to learn to play “above my weight.”
If my son were black, I would give him a similar speech. I would tell him that life ain’t fair and life ain’t easy. If it were, then any asshole could do it. But assholes don’t succeed. Hard workers do. And when you start out playing against a stacked deck, the LAST THING you do is make matters worse for yourself by acting like some fucking moron at the drop of a hat.
Why don’t so-called “black leaders” give the same kind of advice today? Yeah, son. Life is going to be tougher for you than it is for the rich white boy down the street. But don’t bitch about that fact. Become determined to overcome the odds, work harder, be smarter and want it more than he does. You’re never a loser unless you decide to be one. You can win if you believe that you are a winner. That’s your choice to make.
I hate NBA basketball. I see too many thugs and hoodlums on the court showing their asses like monkeys for me to tolerate the game. But these pricks are the role models for young black men today. Fuck sportsmanship. Fuck controlling your temper. Fuck the fans. Fuck the game. Hoo-ray for you.
I don’t like Tiger Woods, either, but not for the same reasons. Tiger is just so got-dam good that he has unbalanced the world of professional golf. When he is on the beam, no one else on the face of the planet can compete with him. I would like to see a more level playing field instead of one golfer standing head and shoulders above the rest.
But I’ll give Tiger credit for one thing. He ALWAYS comports himself as a gentleman, he plays by the rules and you NEVER see him nigger-up and do something ghetto-like in either his personal or professional life. Do you think that, just maybe, he heard a speech from his father a long time ago a lot like the one my father gave me? “Yeah, son, you can do it. But it’s an uphill climb. You have to try harder, work longer and want it more than the other guys do. But you can do it.”
Why isn’t that philosophy preached to blacks in this country today? Why can’t someone stand up and tell them to stop walking around with their hands out, begging for something for nothing, and learn to walk with their heads held high?
Never mind. We do have people giving such speeches and they are roundly condemned by the black community. Clarence Thomas is a perfect example. That man came from Pinpoint, Georgia and made his way to the Supreme Court of the United States. Now THAT is an uphill climb. I know Pinpoint and I know what opportunities Clarence had to start with. He learned to play above his weight.
Anybody can do it. You just have to want it badly enough. Too many people don’t.
And I brook no excuses for the crime, the unwanted babies and the crack-alley ghetto-behavior of far too many blacks. That’s not a racist comment. It’s goddam realism, and if you can’t handle the truth, go to work for the government. You’ll fit in just fine there.
I know the truth when I see it. Don’t piss down my back and tell me that it’s raining.
Lament his choice of words, his I-don’t-give-a-shitness, his just plain in-your-face, balls-out rudeness, all you like: anybody care to attempt to deny the essential truth in everything he just said there? Anybody?
Because if you do, you got a long, tough row to hoe, bub.
Now as it happens, if you look in the sidebar on Rob’s blog, you’ll see a blogroll link to this site in there. While I regret to say that we never met face to face, Rob and I were blog-buds for a good long while, and exchanged e-mails pretty regularly. I commented at his place, he commented at this one; he was a real character, an outrageous wildass that anybody who grew up in the South of old would recognize even from a great distance.
And as I said, the man could lay some words down. Reading those two old posts got me to digging through his archives (and profoundest thanks to whoever it is maintaining the site), and I found all kinds of worthwhile stuff there. Such as this:
I KNOW that anyone bound and determined to play guitar can do it, because my college roommate did. When he started out, he couldn’t even tune the piece of crap Yamaha he had, but he shopped up quickly to a fine Epiphone that he still owns to this day. He couldn’t tune that one either, at first, but it sounded a lot better out of tune than the Yamaha did. He knew basic chords and if I showed him a lick or a run, he would retire to his room and do it over and over and over again until he had it. On many occasions, I listened to his diligent practice as long as I could stand it, then kicked open his door, snatched the guitar from his hands, tuned it, and gave it back. “Yeah, that’s better now,” he said, picking and grinning.
Of course, one night I listened to him playing the same thing over and over and over again out of tune and I snapped. I kicked open his door, snatched the guitar from his hands, and beat the living shit out of him with it until he lay dead in a bloody pulp on the floor. Then, I hauled the corpse off threw it in the woods outside Noble, Georgia, where it has not been found to this day, but may be found tomorrow if they dig deep enough around the creamtorium.
Okay, I didn’t ACTUALLY do that, but I thought about it more than once. Today, my old roommate is an accomplished musician who has electronic devices with which to tune an instrument. He does well.
I started playing semi-professionally in 1974 on River Street in Savannah. My brother and I formed a folk duo and sang exquisite harmonies together. We weren’t half-bad and took our act to Athens when we attended the University of Georgia together for two years. Making music beat flipping hamburgers, and we actually supported ourselves fairly well playing the motel bars during that time. I left journalism school in 1976 and became an advertising copywriter. My brother stayed, went to law school, and became a maggot.
I was starving to death writing, so I went back to River Street, auditioned for a job as a solo entertainer and launched a five-year career as a one-man barroom band. I didn’t intend it initially, but I had more fun, made more money and met a much better variety of people in the bars than I did writing copy, so I quit my REAL job and pursued music full-time. It was one hell of a ride. Looking back now, through the filter of time and my current miserable condition, I believe those were the best days of my life. I know I must have been unhappy a time or two, but I can’t recall a single instance now. I remember keeping vampire hours, running through women the way Sherman went through Georgia and generally not giving a damn if the sun came up in the morning. It was a time of irresponsible, glorious bliss and I wish I could go back and live it all over again. Of course, I would require my young body back again to make it worthwhile.
From that, one might easily see why I would get along so famously with Rob. We understood each other; lots of common ground in those paragraphs. Especially the bit where he refers to lawyers as maggots.
Those of you who have been around the blogs awhile might remember some liberal asshole or other’s sniffy reference years ago to America—the real one, not the twisted, dysfunctional parody of it to be found in the coastal cities—as “Jesusland.” If so, you’ll like this:
The bowel-plugged yankee whinebuckets who tear their hair and scream about the ignorance in Jesusland don’t know what they’re talking about. Those prick-fiddles have a lot more in common with the French than they do the people of Middle America. They claim to be “intellectual” when they don’t have a lick of common sense. They claim to be “compassionate” when they spew hatred at anyone who disagrees with them. They claim to worship “diversity” when they scorn anyone who thinks differently than they do. They claim to be “tolerant,” which is a cosmic joke.
I may live in “Jesusland,” but it sure as hell beats that “Bizzaro World” those deluded fucknuggets inhabit. I’ll tell you an honest truth. You’d have to scour Jesusland far and wide to find a fire-and-brimstone fundamentalist preacher more sanctimonious and intolerant than a northeastern liberal. And the preacher is one hell of a lot more honest about his beliefs, because he doesn’t try to pretend to be something he’s not, unlike a liberal.
We like to keep things simple. We like God, guts and guns. (Pickup trucks, good dogs, pretty wimmen and some of the best cooking on the planet aid in our struggle against the oppressive forces that other people see closing in on our country when we don’t. We’re more concerned with killing fire ants than we are with Global Warming. After all, we have hot weather ALL THE TIME down South.) Yeah, we are a quaint, provincial bunch.
Just a note from Jesusland, where I live, and where I am happy in my blissful ignorance of important issues.
As perfect a little “fuck you” to douchebags richly deserving of it as you’re ever gonna find, right? Rob saw fit, in his generous, open-hearted way, to cast a few pearls before the swine in his next post:
Wisdom from Jesusland:
*Don’t name a pig you plan to eat.
*Country fences need to be horse high, pig tight, and bull strong.
*Life is not about how fast you run, or how high you climb, but how well you bounce.
*Keep skunks, lawyers and bankers at a distance.
*Words that soak into your ears are whispered, not yelled.
*Meanness don’t happen overnight.
*Never lay an angry hand on a kid or an animal, it just ain’t helpful.
*Don’t sell your mule to buy a plow.
*Two can live as cheap as one if one don’t eat.
*Don’t corner something meaner than you are.
*It don’t take a very big person to carry a grudge.
*You can’t unsay a cruel thing.
When you wallow with pigs, expect to get dirty.
*The best sermons are lived, not preached.
*Most of the stuff people worry about never happens.
Yeah. We sure are ignorant in Jesusland.
Sure ’nuff. This one was pretty prescient, and underscores a highly acute knowledge of liberal tactics for its era:
I don’t like double-standards.
I also don’t like a lot of words in the English language. Take “penis,” for example. That’s about the most obscene-sounding word I ever heard. It’s even worse than “ointment.” I LIKE Roscoe, but I don’t claim to have a “penis.” Penis sounds like some kind of intestinal parasite you pick up in a Third World country because you didn’t boil the water before you drank it.
How about “vagina” or “clitoris?” Those words sound like medical conditions where the doctor calls the family in to inform them that the patient has less than 24 hours to live. “The vagina has spread and we can’t stop it. Plus, a case of clitoris has set in, also. I’m afraid that our most powerful antibiotics won’t do any good.”
Try “cock.” Yes, if you want to see my cock, I’ll show it to you. It hangs right between my legs where a “penis” is supposed to be. But I don’t have a penis. I have a cock.
I don’t want to see your “vagina” or your “clitoris.” Let me see your pussy and let me play with The Man in the Boat. We can make beautiful music together as long as we get our language straight.
Words. If you want to detect a true liar and a con-artist right away, just check the language. That’s how “gender” came to mean sex, a “woman’s right to choose” came to mean abortion and “moderate Rebublican” came to mean a fucking RINO. Dishonesty made stone.
And all you people who de-linked me can kiss my Cracker ass. As Jack Nicholson said in A Few Good Men: “You don’t want the truth! You can’t handle the truth!”
A lot of people can’t.
They sure can’t. Hell, a lot of people are opposed to the truth, frightened by it, despise it, and are so intent on seeing it supplanted by their bong-stoked dorm-room counterfeits of serious thought that they’d just as soon see some of us imprisoned or hung by the neck until dead to prevent its ever being spoken out loud.
Rob Smith’s caustic, brilliant, penetrating prose was the best refutation of those self-righteous fuck-knuckles that I can imagine. I sure miss him, and I’ll for damned sure raise a glass tonight in honor of his cherished memory. All the above excerpts stand as prime examples of the basic rule that no matter how things might change, they still stay the same; Truth, it turns out, really is Eternal. I’d be willing to bet that in Heaven right now, the angels are standing slack-jawed and wide-eyed in horror and disgust at whatever Rob is saying to them, not knowing whether to throw rocks or head for the hills…and God His Own Self is having a good, long belly laugh over it all. Rest easy, my friend, wherever you might be. You might be gone, but you damned sure won’t ever be forgotten.