I know this heifer ain’t got her feet on my couch!
Yeah, I said “my couch.” They take taxes out of every one of my social security checks, part of which goes to taking care of the White House, so I don’t care if it costs the American taxpayers two cents or two-thousand dollars–I put in on that couch, which makes it partly mine.
My grandson showed me the pictures on InstaSnap and Bookface with that white woman perched on the couch in that miniskirt kneeling like a Jazzy bell with her hair uncombed as if she’d just left the juke joint on a Friday night. I told y’all–you can’t trust that white woman as far as you can throw her. I see her all the time on TV between watching my stories and movies on the Hallmark channel, lying through her teeth. I don’t trust that woman or her alternative facts. She looks like the white lady who told that lie on that little boy named Emmett. She probably uses Jiffy cornbread mix and tells people she made it from scratch. You should know there are three kinds of people you can’t trust:
- A liar
- A thief
- White people with two first names.
Trust me, I’ve lived a long time, and anyone named James Earl, Jimbob or Kellyanne will stab you in the back with a rusty screwdriver.
And she was just skinning and grinning like a Chesire cat. Probably because she was in the room with all those Black men. She probably thought she was about to get some action!
And why were all those educated black man in the room anyway? Did they think the president was about to give them some money? They should’ve known they can’t depend on white folks to help them get no education. Back in 1927 I saw white people chase a man for three miles for reading the Bible. They said he was acting uppity. The whole reason we invented HBCU’s–we used to call them “negro colleges”–was because we knew white folks wasn’t gonna give us no education. They looked scared. They looked–how do the kids say it–“shook.”
Especially this guy:
Why are they kow-towing to that new President, Donald Trump. Hmph! I could tell something was wrong with that boy the first time I saw him. Every time I see him I wanna slap the taste out of his orange, butthole-looking mouth. He looks like he was on the executive board of the White Citizens Council. He definitely isn’t going to do anything to help our people. I’d bet a bag of chitlins against a million dollars that he laughed his candied yam-colored ass off as soon as those brothers left the room. Probably used the n-word, too! (I know, they all use it, but he looks like he says it all the time. Like Jeff Sessions used to do, back in my day. I wonder whatever happened to him?)
Anyway, I don’t know why y’all even mess with Donald Trump. He looks like he carries a gold-plated Bic lighter his daddy gave him to light crosses on people’s lawns, but you think he’s going to sign an executive order to give black schools money? Child, please! I don’t even know why y’all were so surprised when he won! Did you forget which country y’all lived in? I was a grown woman with 7 children before we even got the right to vote, so I remember how America was, and these fools are gonna go meet with the people who said they want to “make America great again.” Great? When?
When this nation was so racist, the only colleges we could go to were the ones represented by the schools in that meeting?
When they wouldn’t let us vote unless we took a literacy test and paid a poll tax?
When they strung us up from trees for reading and writing?
When our children needed armed soldiers to go to their schools?
When they sic’ed dogs on us?
When they sprayed us with fire hoses?
When they bombed buses instead of letting us ride them?
Child, let me tell you something:
Our entire history in America is as nasty and crusty as the bottom of that white woman’s feet. The worst part of that picture is not that beige, paid-liar lady putting her feet on your grandmama’s sofa…
It’s the 100 black leaders we charged with educating our sons, daughters and cgrandchildren, standing in line, smiling and waiting while Donald Trump wiped his feet all over them.
Now let me fix you a plate before my stories come back on. You gon’ make my pressure rise.