Tuesday, November 23, 2010

I'm Tired Of Making Excuses for Obama and Floyd Mayweather Jr.

I've had Obama's back like a movafucka during his political trials and tribulations. Personally, I feel Obama should have went full throttle into National Job creation-but the Prez was stuck on health care reform. Health care reform is not a bad idea, but it should not have come before tackling the unemployment situation that plagues the country. Many Americans would rather have bad health and a job than be healthy and homeless. The God's heart was in the right place, but I can't keep defending him (Obama). He gotta bust a grape quick or he's gonna go out like Jimmy Carter: done after four years. Not only have I've been defending our First Black President, I've been defending Floyd 'Woman Beater' Mayweather. I can't do it anymore-I have to call it like I see it.

I've been saying shit like "Floyd's waiting for the right moment to take the fight with Pacquiao...He wants the Pacquiao fight to be on his terms...He's psyching Pacquiao out before the fight...He wants the majority of the pay-per-view gate..etc..etc..blah..blah..yada..yada..yada." After Pacquiao's November 12th fight with Margarito I had to resign as Mayweather's lead defense Attorney. Saturday was the first time that I've seen Pacquiao fight from the first round to the twelfth round-and I saw just why Floyd is hesitant to sign on the dotted line. I've seen Pacquiao's knockout highlights on youtube and those highlights only show a few punches. When you watch the whole fight you see everything. What I saw was amazing-and honestly I can't call a winner in the possible fight between Mayweather and Pacquiao. Pacquiao weighed in at 144 pounds and only gained 4 pounds after the weigh-in going into Saturday night's fight. Margarito went into the fight at 165 pounds. Margarito was also 6 inches taller. Despite all of Margarito's physical advantages in terms of size, Pacquiao beat Margarito the fuck up, bad, breaking Margarito's orbital socket in his eye. Margarito had to undergo surgery last Tuesday.

I've seen many of Floyd's fights and he is a perfect boxer both offensively and defensively-his hands are freakishly fast and he's a boxer who is always thinking. He has never been in a real tough fight. Nobody has really made him work for a victory and outside of getting touched by Sugar Shane in the second round of their fight, he's never really been hurt. He recovered after Sugar touched him in the second round and then Mayweather proceeded to whoop Shane's ass.

Beating up Margarito is no big deal-Shane did it and I'm sure Floyd can beat Margarito, so let me make that clear. It's not that Pacquiao beat Margarito-it's the way in which he did it. Pacquiao fought him at 148 pounds while Margarito weighed 165lbs, if you know anything about weight-17 pounds is a universe in boxing. Outside of the heavyweight division, 17 pounds is everything. In the heavyweight division a 217lb fighter can be pitted against a 234lb boxer and the fighter weighing 217lb may easily knock out the fighter weighing 234lbs. Conditioning plays an important role in the outcome of a heavyweight fight because fat may work against a heavy fighter relative to a smaller heavyweight's muscular conditioning. B.U.T. in lighter weight classes, weight is the world, 2 or 3 pounds may mean the difference between the power to knock someone out or someone taking your punch as if you only threw a feather. Pacquiao intentionally came in lighter for the fight against Margarito because he wanted a speed advantage. Cool! If you're fast and you're in a ring against a bigger man-the bigger man is going to try to trap you by cutting off the ring, getting you against the ropes and beating your ass. If a fighter has a height advantage he's gonna strive to dominate via a reach advantage, tagging the shorter boxer at will. This was not the case in Pacquiao versus Margarito. At one point in the fight Pacquiao hit Margarito so hard to the body-it appeared that Margarito began dragging his right leg like a cripple. Pacquiao's punching power for his weight is freakishly powerful. Freddie Roach has described Pac-Man's punching power as just as explosive as a bullet being fired. He noticed it 9 years ago when Pacquiao was raw and unrefined. So what's Floyd's problem? Why is he hesitant in signing on the dotted line?

At first I was like Floyd wants to control the highest percentage of the Pay-Per-view gate because he's the piece with the magnetic. Not no more. 60's minutes did a piece on Pacquiao about a month ago and they showed just how popular he is internationally. He is a congressmen in the Philippine's and his popularity is such to the extent that he's been predicted to be the future President of the Philippines. He's a statesman and beloved by his country while Floyd Mayweather is beating up his baby mama, taking her Iphone and threatening his own seeds. Something is going on in Floyd's psyche-he's worried. He hears about Pacquiao and probably watches his fights when nobody else is around. The world of Boxing has proclaimed Pacquiao the pound for pound best fighter in the world. Mayweather is 41 and 0 and Pacquiao has won 8 titles in 8 different weight divisions: from fly weight to super welter weight. Is Manny on steroids? Naw! They would have found some evidence by now. Floyd Mayweather Sr. started that steroid rumor-because he saw just how hard Manny punches, which bares witness to just how freakishly hard Manny punches for his size.

Skill wise: they are equal in lateral movement, however Pacquiao has this odd ability to throw a punch from odd angles where as Floyd throws punches from conventional angles. I would have to give Manny the edge in punching power and I call their hand speed equal. Manny's hands are just as fast as Floyd's hands. In terms of fighting in the pocket, Manny is dangerous, while Mayweather is smart. Manny has Floyd sitting on the side of the bed every morning thinking and this is why Mayweather is hesitating to sign on the dotted line. I understand Mayweather's struggle against fear.

Many summers during my youth I had to fight a dude named Parish. Everybody in the neighborhood knew I could throw hands, and everybody knew Parish was just as good-if not better. He was my weight, my height and matched my skill-if not surpassed me in skill. Those summer mornings I had to eventually come outside and I knew it would end up with me and Parish fighting. A whole summer of fighting this one dude-the shit was nerve racking, stressful and weighed on my mind heavily. I'd walk out the house and soon as I stepped on the block Calvin would instigate the fight by yelling "Let's get ready to rumble!" And I think to myself "Here we go again." Floyd has what I had then-an apprehension, a fear of losing, a fear of getting hurt. I did my best against Parish on those early summer mornings on Patton Street. If I tagged him, it just made Parish fight harder. Parish is doing 17 years in the penitentiary and I'm a writer. Oh, how we take different paths in life.

Floyd will come out of the house and fight Pacquiao next year hopefully-not only will he fight Pacquiao, but Floyd will more importantly be fighting his own fear.


Peace
Emblem

Sunday, November 21, 2010

The Devil Said, "Fuck 1914. I ain't Goin No Where!"

Half of you that are reading these words are doing so from a 'smart phone'. 'Smart'? A hand held device that is 'Smart'? The first dude that I ever saw with a cell phone was Pony-Down. The first nigga to really put me on: 'on'-'on'! The nigga was walking and talking on a phone the size of a brick. I was fuckin' amazed. Two years later I was calling my mom from my Audi. "Mom I'm talking to you from the car?"

"Oh my lawd!"

That brick ass sized phone can now fit in a pocket, link us to the net, GPS and social networking sites. That IPhone 4 is a movafucka. Now, predict the history in advance: what kind of devices will be dropping in Christmas 2029???

"Then why did God make devil?

To show forth his power that he is all wise and righteous that he could make a devil which is weak and wicked and give him the power to rule the Earth for 6000 years and then destroy the devil in one day without falling victim to the devil civilization, otherwise to show and prove that Allah is God, always has been, always will be." The understanding build is a movafucka! Why? Cause 'One Day' ain't came and da devil has basically said, "fuck 1914 nigga.' I'm hangin' around a little longer to see what I can fuck wit next." The devil is healthy as a horse. Every time I turn around I see a colored person joggin.

"Morning!"

"Morning!"While their Joggin and shit. White bitches be doing cardio, Tae Bo, Sweating to the Oldies, jogging and pushing their infants in speed strollers for seven miles wearing Nike shocks, shades and sun block. Some Colored people go hard with health and some go hard at McDonald's. But no matter what, I'm sure we can all agree that the devil is still on our planet and it's wayyyyyyy past his bedtime. It might be a good ideal to get philosophical with the understanding power degree in the knowledge to culture the cipher. Smoke some weed and say some Harlem fly shit like, "When you make knowledge born of the knowledge of your culture the devil expires jack." Make sure you sound like Goldie in The Mack when you buildin.

The devil has hung around a little too long. Why? because niggaz been doin the mathematical electric 'all being born' slide and slipped. The devil is continuing the grafting process, grafting more advanced devils. Another devil on top of the one we already have? Then why did devil make devil? New and improved devil! You damn right. What is that next 'real devil'? A.I.-not Allen Iverson the point guard, but Artificial Intelligence. Do the knowledge on this dude named Ray Kurzweil. He won the Carnegie Mellon top science honor in 1994, and was named inventor of the year by the Massachusetts Institute Of Technology. The white boy said fuck 1914! How so? He predicts that computers will become aware of their own existence by 2029. He predicts that computers one day will become self realized beings, "I think therefore I am" on some Rene Descartes type shit.

IBM's computer 'Deep Blue' played former World Chess Champion Gary Kasparov and dusted the champ. Gary said, "I felt the computers intelligence." When you play chess you can feel the strength of your opponent's thoughts and ideas. Deep Blue not only made strong moves but Gary said the computer 'created'. In chess you create. Now computers can beat humans in chess. What's next? In order to understand that we must ask ourselves-what is 'thought'?

Thought is described as the ability to manipulate logic, symbols and memory. Memories are recognized neuro pathways in the brain. Now imagine a computer perceiving itself, learning, comprehending and aware-claiming to be conscious. a computer that learns at a geometric rate? What will communications be like in 2029?

Ray Kurzweil in his book entitled 'The Age of Spiritual Machines' predicts that in the year 2029 a $1000 device's unit of computing capacity will be equal to that of approximately 1000 human brains. Permanent or removable implants(similar to contact lenses) for the eyes as well as cochlear implants are now used to provide
Input/output between human users and worldwide computing network. Direct neural pathways have been perfected for high bandwidth connection to the human brain. A range of neural implants is becoming available to enhance visual and auditory perception and interpretation, memory and reasoning.

Automated agents are now learning on their own and significant knowledge is being created by machines with little or no human intervention. Computers have read all available human-and-machine generated literature and multimedia material.

There is a widespread use of all encompassing visual, auditory, and tactile communication using direct neural connections, allowing virtual reality to take place without having to be in "total touch enclosure."

The majority of communication does not involve a human. The majority of communication involving a human is between a human and a machine.

Their is almost no employment in production, agriculture, or transportation. Basic life needs are available for the vast majority of the human race.

There is a growing discussion about the legal rights of computers(The Computer Civil Rights Movement) and computers ask man, "What does it truly mean to 'be'?"

The Turing Test will be a test given to determine if a computer is truly self aware. Many computers will pass but controversy will persist about whether or not machine intelligence is equal to human intelligence and all it's diversity. Computers will passionately proclaim their consciousness. Most humans will accept that a computer has become a true and living entity. "- Ray Kurzweil "The Age of Spiritual Machines. Pg 281"-cop that book!

Basically what I got from the above passage is that the white man nor his computer don't intend to go any damn where, any damn time soon. And our asses get no reward in regard to the destruction of the devil civilization because our assess didn't get up and go to work. Devil still here like a movafucka. Look around: don't you agree?

How does Kurzweil's predictions effect The Gods and Earths of 2029?

Emblem already knows. Some Gods and Earths gonna go 'Happily Naturally Neural' meaning-no neural apps or upgrades-they proclaim that their all natural. They will mock other Gods and Earths with neurap upgrades by saying that they fell victim to 'neural nurse's needles'. The Nation will consist of Old Head Gods and The Pin head Gods. Pin heads gonna have tremendous info on lightening tap because they will have plenty of neuro apps downloaded in their third. Imagine downloading all known branches of math into your neuro net and then building? And then they'll be the Old head Gods who brag that they got 120 the old fashioned way: they memorized it. They will claim to be the real-all true and livin Gods. The throwbacks.

Then there will be those individuals that down loaded knowledge wisdom cipher into their neural networks in less than 5 seconds. They will be screaming 'N' is for 'Now'-this ain't yesterday's Koran Old nigga." Some Gods will have computer Generated Earths. Queen will be nagging and all God gotta say is, "Computer stop! Go to Beyonce 'check up on it' video 2009" And the queen will disappear and Beyonce will appear in a fine mist singing 'Check up on it'.

The Devil is on some determined idea shit just like his Father Yacob. I can show and prove his determination. A little over a 100 years ago Orville and Wilbur Wright try to fly a wooden plank off the side of a barn and are successful. Now, a hundred and seven years later The Air force has F22 Stealth Raptors that can break the speed of sound at multiple mach(2,3, 4 times the speed of sound.). Imagine that, falling off the side of a barn one day and going from New York to Iraq in a little over an hour in a super sonic fighter Jet the next. All because two white boys smokin weed in Ohio decided to fly.

Go to a public place and look at all the people twittling their thumbs, playing with their 'smart' phones, see how interested they are in their phones-peep it and multiply their thought times their actions and you will see the future. The phones we have now will look like ancient relics in just a few years-so imagine 2029?

BlackBerry Awake Commercial: 2029
"I had my BlackBerry Awake installed in my neural network and have full 12 G wide Global Network coverage. I can speak to my friends anywhere on earth without moving my mouth. I can quote any book on Earth verbatim. I've had problems with calculus, until I downloaded the history of human math into my neuro-net. I can multi task in my head: play games, watch a movie, and take a virtual trip anywhere on Earth or in the solar system all from the comfort of my own home. When I broke up with my girlfriend three years ago I was depressed. My BlackBerry Awake gave me advice and cheered me up-it has a great sense of humor. For my birthday my BlackBerry introduced me to my girlfriend Jenna-she's a conscious computer generated image, we've been in a happy relationship for nearly two years now . I love my computer generated fiance. All thanx to the BlackBerry Awake-my new best friend." Now at Wal-Mart for the low price of $499 if you sign a two year contract today.

Peace,

Em Digital

Friday, November 19, 2010

The Father and My Father: Papa Was a Rolling Stone

One of my earliest memories of my first Universal Parliament was that of an older God being escorted out of the auditorium of Harriet Tubman because he was overcome with emotion over ‘The Father's’ death. The God was distilling and wildly yelling, "They killed my Father! They killed my Father!". It was the late 80's and personally I didn't understand the older God's grief because I've never personally met 'The Father', B.U.T. it's obvious that The Father meant a whole lot to a lot of people-he was loved and I will forever honor him as the author of Supreme Math, Supreme Alphabet and specifically as the first one to escape from the prison house of the Big G and Little G syndrome that was synthesized in the N.O.I. teaching of Allah coming in the Person of Master Fard Muhammad. The Father by his actions essentially said, "If Allah came in the person of Fard and Fard is half original-Allah gotta be in the person of my black ass!" It took a whole lot of courage to deduce such a conclusion during a time when Elijah's word was absolutely bond to life. As a young man I was drawn to the determined idea of 'The Father', especially after coming from the humble beginnings of the N.O.I. as a child. 'The Father's' actions Show and Prove that he was/is indeed 'The Father' of the Gods and Earths, the modern father of our social equality amidst this urban culture and more importantly he set up the foundations of the personal, and the unique reality of 'I God' culture as well as what I God culture means. It means that each one of us is suppose to see I God culture in an original and creative light. Fuck 'Clone-a-God' and 'Clone-a-Earth' and following some other nigga'z cee-whether it's my cee, your Enlightener's cee or The Father's cee-cee for your damn self Nigga. Be your movafuckin own self-don't be no fuckin' follower parroting another niggaz understanding. Movafuckuz who try to lay down a certain way that we are all suppose to live out this math are on some bullshit-be your Goddamn self-that is truly Knowledge of Self. No two people manifest the same right angle: my right angle is not your right angle and your right angle is not my right angle. Just because one nigga eats faggot ass leaves every goddamn day and calls it righteous don't mean it's wrong for me to eat steak. Fuck that Self Righteous bullshit. I God culture is more important to me than just what you eat or being a national flag waiver and singing the Enlightener at an NGE event. Don't get me wrong-I love my flag waiving brothers and sisters-they are definitely right and exact and I applaud them and all of their national efforts toward community upliftment: food drives, winter coat drives and school supply drives etc.: that's truly building. They are the said persons of that ability indeed. National flag waivers in this culture establish and hold this advocated society together like glue and that's peace. Our National group organizers are indeed the greatest amongst us. Admittedly, I'm not a National Flag waiver-because I have an intensive introspective personality, basically too many niggaz at one time get on my movafuckin nerves. I'm just being honest and spittin my personal truth on the square.

Back in the day I taught and screamed 'I God' culture to the mountain top, not no more: I'm done screaming, done with yelling and for the most part done with enlightening on a one to one basis: I have one more student left and he's in his knowledge to culture ciphers. After him-it's a wrap. I love being quiet, minding my own business and I love to be immersed in my own thoughts. If I've learned anything from my elders in this Nation it is to listen more than speak and to shut da fuck up-because them old niggaz will talk to you til it's time to return back to essence.

My sole expression is in my writing-it's the realm in which I feel most comfortable and at peace. Movafuckuz call 'talkin' building-I ain't on that talkin' bullshit too tough. I'd rather be somewhere smoking a blunt, sippin’ hen, balls deep in my Earth and watching Sports Center.

I'd make a horrible deacon at the NGE Episcopal Church. For those Gods and Earths that are heavily involved in the perpetuation of I God culture via a budding black church format, keep doing what ya doing-you are indeed the greatest. Activism brings change b.u.t. lazy ass Emblem is just a selfish ass writer lost in a paragraph and in the fine mist of a weed cloud. Which is why I give mad props to 'The Father': he influenced the youth of his time and put a twist on Asiatic culture that will forever be remembered by generations to come. I was only equality months old when 'The Father' returned back so I'd be speaking upon that which I do not know if I were to come out of my face with "The Father said this-that and the third..." or even worst if I said that, "Such and Such God said the Father said such and such." Fuck hearsay! I knew nothing about his character, his habits, or what he said. Everything that I've ever heard about 'The Father' was usually from a balding elder God embellishing grandiose stories about 'The Father' to shield their own dirty religion of eldercentricity. My born degree in the knowledge to culture the cipher implies that we should take nothing on face value not even bald old farts who are secretly dreaming about snagging one last piece of young pussy with a good 'Father said' story as bait. Nigga Please! Admittedly, my knowledge of 'The Father' is limited-and I won't front like I knew him. Never! What I do know is that Gods and Earths from back in the day called him 'The Father' for a reason-he was a father figure to many young people who were fatherless. Fatherless boyz and girls gravitated to the man for guidance.

I-on the other hand was in no way Fatherless. My Father means much more to me than just being referred to and relegated to the words 'Old Dad'-he's 'My Father'. 'My Father' is a cool old movafucka-he's straight 85-85 to da movafuckin max and he ain't trying to hear nuffin about culture. He calls culture that 'black shit'. He's George Jefferson times two. The closest he ever came to knowledge of self was fucking a chick once that didn't have a perm and who wore a toe ring. He still brags about fuckin that 'toe ring wearing' cultural chick to this day. Other than that he don't give a fuck about that 'black shit' as he calls it. He once heard Farrakhan speak for five minutes and all he said was, "Dat Nigga cool" and from there he kept it movin. He doesn't know the difference between the various aspects of black culture-and doesn't give a fuck. My father don't know the difference between a Hebrew Israelite, Moorish science, Sunni Islam, the bow-ties, or the Five Percenters. To him we're just a bunch of broke ass niggaz talkin' that black shit. Only thing My Father wants to hear that'z 'deep' is the bottom of a piece of pussy making a gush-gush sound or the wrangling of cash at the bottom of deep pockets. That cultural black shit is bullshit to him. My Father can be found either in Atlantic City or in Vegas winning. I've heard stories about how 'The Father' use to always win at dice, b.u.t. I can't honestly attest to the alleged fortunes 'The Father' won while shooting dice on them Harlem street corners because I wasn't there. When it comes to my Father however, I've personally seen him double down on a black jack dealer and win a few grand. Once in Vegas I was working a slot machine from dawn til late morning and I got up for a second, and my dad sits down and nails the same slot I was sitting at for $1,200. I was sick. He stays winning, he goes to the casinos when he feels 'it'. 'It' is a weird type of knowledge of Self that he has-he always wins when he feels 'it'. This feeling of 'it' is the closest he comes to knowledge of self. I really love my Father, all 85 percent of that movafucka.

From the time I was a shorty-he always had a fly ass whip, fly ass crib and has always kept himself well groomed. In Vegas he showed me a big stack of money-I smiled and thought to myself that he's a frontin ass old head. I fucked him up in Philly last week by taking him to Red Lobster twice and pickin' up the check without blinking. Honestly, it felt good to feed my Father. I'm glad I fought him for the Red Lobster check. My Father is a materialistic ass Virgo and he's as superficial as they come, bossier than George Jefferson and funnier than Redd Foxx. He's a real fly old dude and I love him a whole lot. If anybody runs up on 'em with some rah rah-he will blow their brains out. He's never naked (without a gun). About wisdom years ago he drew his gun on two niggaz who attempted to rob him while he was coming out of Walgreen's. He's a retired cop, retired marine and a Vietnam vet who's heavily into guns, good hygiene, clothes, cars and the vanity that comes with maintaining his fly persona.

I got love and honor for both 'My Father' and 'The Father'-both of 'em cool as fuck. All my physical brothers have been to college and are working at good justice cipher borns and doing well. He did a good job raising us and maintaining a presence in all of our lives. Neither 'My Father' nor 'The Father' were perfect-they're 'men' and being a man is to embrace your imperfections. This is the only way to truly move toward a personal journey of refinement regardless if you consider 'refinement' a part of the math or not.

The best part that I preserve from 'The Father' is that being God is no big deal-not at all. Ponder this: the whole psychological projection of the mystery God begins from Man's imagination and thus finally after agreeing that the Only God is the Son of Man and consciously refusing to lose no more time searching for that-that does not exist-shall we again return back to a mental death? Many amongst us with knowledge of self still are searching for trillions-trying to take on the qualities of some damn mystery God that does not exist. God is a damn 'man'- a 'man' who wipes his ass after taking a shit; a man who eats and drinks when he's hungry; a man who wants some pussy; a man who gets sick from time to time; a man who gets old; and a man who ultimately dies. God doesn't levitate, walk on water, nor can he raise his hand and split the Hudson river like it's the Red Sea. God is just a man and he's not a goodie two shoes-he's just a man. In my mind that idea that God is just a man is thoroughly conveyed to me via the life of 'The Father' and 'My Father'. God being 'just a man' is the true reality of divinity. I can't stand a spooky ass God unconsciously thinking that they’re the Biblical second coming of Christ or the Quranic manifestation of Allah come to flesh. Nigga please! I'm just a man and being 'God' is no big deal. "Yes I fast and pray Allah, that when Allah in his own 'Good Time'"-'Good Time' being the operative phrase: have a Good ass Time. I'm sure 'The Father' had a good time being God and 'My Father' has a good time being a man. God and Man are one in the same, flip sides of one coin. When I think of 'My Father' and 'The Father' I think of that old song by the Temptations from back in the day, "Papa was a rolling stone, where ever he laid his hat was his home..." meaning Papa kicked it hard nigga.

Peace,

Em

Wednesday, November 17, 2010

Ervin 'Sonny' Toland (Jan 4, 1927 - Nov 8, 2010): 'The Cat'

Funerals bring families together. Last week my mother called and told me that my Uncle Sonny returned back to essence. Wow! 'Sarge' returned back-it fucked me up because he was so full of life. I traveled to Philly from Cipher He I Cipher-My sister traveled from Harlem and my mother traveled from Money Earnin Mount Vernon to Power Hill to honor him.

He was a very consistent man-you could literally set your watch by him. He was a member of the Prince Hall Masonic Lodge for 56 years, a retired Master Sergeant in the United States Army for 35 years, he retired from his job at Women's Medical Hospital after 36 years, he was a member of Jones Tabernacle Church for 82 years and Church treasurer for 40 years. At his funeral Ms. Hattie, a neighbor from across the street said he was one of the members of the block committee that helped turn Patton Street (the block I grew up on) into some what of a Village.  Mr. Toland or Mr. Sonny, is what he was called around the neighborhood-I just called him 'Cat' and he called me 'Cat' back. Remember that song T.R.O.Y.(They Reminisce Over You) by Pete Rock and C.L. Smooth? Everytime I hear that song I think of my connection to my Uncle Sonny. He was a hardcore, A.M.E. church man in church every Sunday. As much as the young conscious generation berates Masons as an evil society-my uncle ain't know shit about any wild Masonic conspiracy to take over the world-he considered them his drinking buddies who could barely drive home after a night of playing cards and drinking hard liqour-least of all take over the Goddamn world. I don't get into all that conspiracy theory shit about masons. "Your Uncle is a mason-masons put Flouride in drinking water" this one God said to me once, wide eyed, as if I should be made aware of some latent evil Prince Hall Masonic plot. Prince Hall Masons are just movafuckuz like Gods is just Movafuckuz: they're just niggaz in America trying to pay a Goddamn bill like everybody else.

The Army played Taps at my uncle's Funeral in honor of his 35 years of Military Service. I was presented with his flag after his funeral. He was my uncle but he considered me his Grandson.  My mother gave birth to me at the age of 16, and she brought me home to 1926 N. Patton Street where I spent most of my childhood. My Uncle and Aunt looked out for my mom and dad who were both teenagers at the time of my birth. My mother was actually married twice in that small North Philly row home. The first time my mother married my Old Dad and the second time she married my sister's dad. When my mom was at work my Aunt Corrine and Uncle Sonny use to try to feed me pork chops. I'd fall asleep at the table before I'd eat a goddamned pork chop-my feet would be dangling from the kitchen chair. My uncle Sonny would tell me that there were hungry kids in Africa that would love to have a pork chop, and I'd tell him to give the pork chop to them hungry ass kids in Africa to eat (I didn't say 'ass'). Once when I was about four my Uncle asked me what was Santa Clause getting me for Christmas and I told him that Santa Clause was Yacob's grafted blue-eyed devil. I called all pictures of white Jesus-'the Devil' which led my Aunt Corrine, my Uncle's wife to think that my mother was brainwashing me. My aunt use to spy on the Minister of Mosque Number 12 who at the time was Jeremiah Shabazz-my Aunt use to tell my mom that Jeremiah was a gangster-and my Aunt was right-Jeremiah Shabazz was a notorious Philly Gangster indeed. My Aunt and Uncle didn't succeed in un-brainwashing us out of the Asiatic World, instead it took the death of The Honorable Elijah Muhammad in 1975 for my mom to take off her headwrap and for me to take off my bow-tie.

Patton Street was a block of athletic boys-we played everything but Golf and the few girls on the block we all physically fought for at one time or another. The day of the  funeral when I stepped on Patton street I heard my name "Yo Teriyaki". Niggaz around the neighborhood called me Teriyaki back in the day (long story). Darryl quickly told me how many of my boyz that I grew up with were dead: B-Bombs; Jazz; Dirty Aaron; Dookey; Glenn; Pickalo; Wes and White boy Tony-Tony was just light skinned but we called him 'White boy' nevertheless. Even a few of the girls I grew up with had been murdered which put in perspective why Philly is always in contention with Detroit and Chicago to top the Nation in homicides and that'z why I left Philly-fuck that! My childhood friends who had been murdered use to knock on my door and ask my mom if I could come out and play-it was deep to find out that they had been returned back to the essence.  Darryl's nick name was 'Klute'-Klute told me Dirty Aaron became a Gangsta because I called him a punk back in the day: I ain't buy that-nor did I take that guilt trip.  Aaron made his own choices as a man and was shot up for the choices he made.

I fought Klute a hundred times easily-one minute we were playing-the next minute we were fightin'. I fought Dorian who eventually changed his name to Knowledge another hundred times: one minute we're playing-the next minute we're fightin'.  Me and DaGod Knowledge had a peace build-he told me that he had become a Mason for economic reasons. I didn't Judge him because niggaz gonna do what niggaz gonna do.  He asked me if I still had enough guns to hold off a small band of Iraqi insurgents and I told him, "You Goddamn right!".

For those that don't know, I have three brothers and one sister and  had a chance to see everyone of them while I was in Philly.  I'm the oldest. Naya (my sister) is the only child that my mother had after me and my Old dad had three other sons: Keith and Kevin (Twins) and my brother Andre. Me, my father, and brothers all watched the Pacquiao/Margarito fight-which was mad beautiful because we had guns under couch cushions, under the bed, in the closet, on our persons: just one big happy gun loving family watching the fight!

My father is a retired cop and an ex-Marine who taught us all how to bust shotz and he also imparted a deep love for the sport of boxing-all my brothers can shoot and fight. That was the first time that me, my father and my brothers have all been together to watch a big fight. Funerals have a way of bringing Family together while simultaneously taking you down memory lane.


My Uncle wasn't a perfect man-but he was a good man. R.I.P. Cat.

Peace,
Emblem

Tuesday, November 16, 2010

The Illusion Of Randomness

Mathematics is proof of intelligence. We often think of math in terms of numerical symbolism. The symbolism allows us to reason with the abstract via the utilization of a system. To be systematic is to deal with the proper order of things. The root of civilization is pointing to the proper order of things: Example: "Where Knowledge and Wisdom of the original Man started..." Reasoning with abstractions are tasks that transfers intelligence from the theoretical to the actual reality which proves 'maker'. Maker implies creativity. That which causes trouble amongst those that are creative is 'devil'. We create with both art and science. The creative and the scientific amongst us are the righteous. Tell us what and how the Devil is made? To make devil one must begin by grafting and separating the 'Art' germ from the 'Science' germ in the blackman's creative mind. Math runs through the fabric of both 'art' and 'science', thus they are one: also known as 'State of The Art'(cutting edge science) and not: a Bachelors of Science or a Bachelors of Art-art and science are not separate as Western culture would have you believe. All creation is mathematical-even that which appears to be the most random and mundane. In terms of 'circumstance'-reason is behind every unknown and though vanity exist-nothing in and of itself happens in vane. Egotiscally something or someone may appear vane however their is high mathematical structure and system interwoven into the fabric of time, space and even the frivolity of vanity . This universe contains an infinitude of dimensions and mathematical intelligence is within every nook and cranny of every dimension.

Is there an actual point of 'no beginning'? Does consciousness have an origin? Are realization and awareness truly functional concepts even in the dialectical opposed concept of the Nation of Islam having 'No Beginning' nor 'ending'? Firstly: let us refuse to believe that a state of no intelligence can yield intelligence.

Can a physically finite being grasp 'no beginning'? Yes, only if the said person of that ability understands that they are indeed one with both no beginning and no ending.

We learn mathematics from a point of origin which proves knowledge to born and disproves 'cipher to born'. Knowledge is simultaneously infinite and eternal. The idea of 'No beginning' is proved by infinite beginnings that were infintesimal beginnings within the beginning(a beginning that never truly began). Every moment is a beginning even if it's the beginning of the end and thus the end marks a new beginning. Example: a piece of paper that can be torn in half forever; torn in fourths; torn in eighths; torn in sixteenths and so forth-indefinitely. Mathematically the example of the indefinitely torn paper proves 'no ending'. The abstract idea of 'no beginning' is also represented conversely by the example of the torn paper because of the inability to completely annihilate the paper into non-existence. Fundamentally the example of the paper that is indefinitely torn, correlates with all matter/energy in the universe. The example of the paper also correlates with the fact that energy can neither be created nor destroyed. Every moment in time and every abstract moment before universal intelligence emerged from eternity possessed and was possessed by the law of conservation: energy can neither be created nor destroyed.

The Black Mind's emergence from three stages of darkness was facilitated by way of a fixed point of origin. Perception/Realization/ Awareness have always been present. Material reality manifests from a fixed point, proving knowledge is the foundation. Prior to the material universe the energetic contents of the universe were bound to an eternal singularity(Knowledge). The emergence of the singularity is what many call the big bang or Allah manifesting from Triple Darkness.

The point of origin is a manifestation of a degree of time and thus there always has been and always will be a degree of awareness present in the universe. Understanding consciousness through time is Self Realization and thus randomness is an illusion. Randomness falsely tells us that the universe and the universe's origin are stupid, which is an emphatic now cipher. Randomness only appears to be random because a branch of math has yet to be discovered to systematize the illusory chaos of this so-called randomness within space-time. Nothing is random-reason is pervasive in everything. One reason is that Y is an integral component of X and X is an integral component of Y and thus in every unknown a 'why' is underlying, even if the reason 'why' is unknown at any given time.

Peace

Emblem

Wednesday, November 10, 2010

The Court Room Testimony Of Zahir 'Zafir' Ibn Mutalib: A 'Philly' Muslim

Docket# 318-64 Case #Phi-36529 a-4

The State of Pennsylvania
vs.
Zahir 'Zafir' Ibn Mutalib

When he was sworn in to testify the Bailiff exchanged the Bible for a Holy Quran for him to put his hand on.

"I, Zahir Ibn Mutalib swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth so help me God?" Zahir said repeating after the bailiff.

"You may be seated." The judge stated.

Her conservative, dark blue, pin stripped skirt suit that rode just above the knee was sexy-but lawyerly. However, the skirt wasn't sexy enough to win what seemed an unwinnable case. No jury would let him off. Attorney Alexander told Zahir Ibn Mutalib it would be in his best interest to enter an insanity plea, and let the doctors, lawyers, the jury and the judge decide . Zahir insisted on taking the stand and telling his side of the story-a story that made the jaws of the jurors drop.

"Mr. Mutalib describe for the court, the events that transpired on the night of November 15th 1991."


"Pogo was telling me, you gotta lock the dice in your palm when you throw 'em. Boom said if you throw the dice at an angle and from a certain height you'll hit your point everytime providing you hold the dice on the number opposite of the point you're trying to hit. As I was shooting dice I was fully aware that maisir (gambling) was unlawful. Maisir is forbidden in Islam. We were all in the room getting high, playing a friendly game of dice with the strippers and one stripper rolled a '2', '3', '4','5','6','7','8',9','10','11' and a '12 in numerical sequence. I had never seen anyone do that. That's when I knew for sure that jinn were in the room."

"And Mr. Mutalib what are 'Jinn'?" His defense attorney asked.

"Jinn are beings created by Allah and Allah has created them from smokeless fire. Jinns are kinda like ghost. My father told me that some jinn can manipulate and entice an individual's 'naffs'-"

"Mr. Mutalib can you explain to the court what 'naffs' are."

"Bad habits like drinking, smoking', drugs, gambling and stuff like that. They are my personal sins. These are the problems that can cause a good muslim to become a bad muslim. Naffs cause fitna and 'fitna' is confusion. This whole trial is because of my own internal fitna. Back then in the early 90's I had a lot of naffs and Allah Subhannu Watallah has since helped me overcome these naffs which were at the time leading me to torment in the grave and to the hell fire after I die. I needed to get myself right in the eyes of Allah Subhannu Wattallah. My father's been telling me stories about torment in the grave since I was a baby but I was hard-headed and wanted dunya(worldy pleasures), instead of jannat(paradise in the after life)."

"A few months prior to November 15th 1991 a jinn whispered in my ear and convinced me to stop making salat. So when my prayers stopped I mentally broke down-things went from bad to worse. Allah Subhannu Watallah doesn't need my Salat. The human being needs to make salat to glorify Allah and to maintain his or her spiritual hygiene. When I stopped offering salat I became susceptible to the 'wass wass' which is the 'whispering' of Shaitan."

After the stripper rolled the dice and the jinni made the dice fall in numerical order I freaked out. We all were high when she did it but I was high outta my mind. The fact is-I was so high I could see jinn all around the room. Me, Boom and Pogo had planned to trick an ounce of coke on three strippers from West Philly and have the party back at Boom's crib. The chicks brought a gang of jinn with 'em. The jinn were coming through the walls, and floating through the roof and coming out of the floor. The Jinn told me they were all a family. A big family of jinn-can you believe that?!"

"Mr. Mutalib could anyone else in the room see the 'jinn' besides you?"

"No. But I saw what the jinn were doing to the people at the party. To the best of my knowledge I was the only one who could both see and hear the jinn. By the time I found out that the marijuana was laced, the coke had me stuck in this weird head space. I was somewhere between horny, angry, and paranoid. Strangely, I was hearing my own thoughts in my head crystal clear. It was as if my inner hearing had become super sonic. That night I didn't trust anyone. My mind turned everything into a believable conspiracy. I could see each one of 'the jinn. They looked greasy purple and had blood shot red eyes. They played tricks on my mind and entered into my body like wisping demons made of smoke. While they were in my body-they caused me to freak out and murder the stripper."

"After I killed the girl, Pogo left immediately and Boom was screaming in my face. Boom has always looked like a dog, ever since he was a little boy. He got his name after Mr. Wade's dead dog, 'Boom'. Melvin looked exactly like the dog, so we started callin Melvin 'New Boom' and by the time we were in High School, just 'Boom'."

"Boom was barking in my face like a big mean black dog. I couldn't hear anything he was saying. The laced weed had me lost in my own world. It was November '91, about a week after Magic announced to the world that he had HIV. Magic's announcement scared me. Magic was my favorite player and I was depressed for an entire week after his announcement. If someone told a joke about Magic I was ready to fight. People say I look like Magic and when I play ball I mimic his every move. Though I lived in 76er land I was a Laker fan to my heart. I loved Doctor J, but I just have always had a sincere love for the Lakers. I couldn't imagine Magic dying-so, I became very depressed."

"When celebrity bad news impacts you to the point of depression- you begin to wonder if you have a firm grip on reality. Magic don't know me from Adam and I was in mourning? Magic's disease had something to do with setting me off. Later that night I emptied the clip in the strippers face. At the time none of us knew the weed was laced. The coke made my heart race and to make matters worse I was drinking Henessey straight. The Jinn told me that Carlos had sent the women to kill me, Pogo and Boom. Carlos was cool and he always sent tight bitches: excuse me". Mutalib looked at the judge quickly with eyes that apologized for the inadvertent slip of a cuss word."

"Carlos always sent nice looking' women our way but that night jinns were whispering in my mind confusing me. I had never met any of the ladies before but the weed laced with PCP made me distrust every single woman in the room and I didn't even know any of the ladies personally. Between the laced weed, the raw coke, Henessey straight and the fact that the Shaitan sent his Shaiteen to whisper at me-it caused me to have a chemical and spiritual melt down. The Jinns were yelling at me, telling me to kill the snake. The PCP made the stripper turn into a snake: it was the most vivid view of reality I've ever seen. A purple Jinn walked up to me and told me to put my 45 caliber in the girl's face. The gun caught her attention while she was dancing and I squeezed and kept pulling the trigger: bullet after bullet, after bullet entered her head. The PCP had me so out of my mind that after the last shot another purple jinn wearing a suit and tie walked up and stood next to me and told me a joke about Donald Duck while Boom was yelling in my face."

"The weed is laced. The weed is laced. The weed is laced. The weed is laced!!!!" Boom said up close in my face . Boom screamed at me very loudly but I was still in a trance listening to this jinni wearing the suit, talking about Donald Duck."

I was laughing at the story the Jinni was telling me about Donald Duck and after Boom finished screaming, he punched me in my face hard, knocking out my two front teeth. The PCP and coke had me so high that even after Boom punched me I was still laughing at the Jinni's story. A tooth had cut through my top lip. One of the knocked out teeth was firmly lodged in my top lip meat. Boom was on the ground holding me, screaming, "Why'd you do that Zahir? Why'd you do it?"

The other two strippers became hysterical after I shot their friend. One urinated on herself while running for the apartment door. I remember thinking that the stream of urine running down her legs and thighs looked like a skinny gold snake wrapping around her leg. The two strippers ran out into Boom's hallway. In the midst of all the commotion I was paying attention to the story the Jinn was telling me about Donald Duck bucking' up to go kill Daffy Duck over duck shit. Excuse my language Your Honor. The Jinn had me laughing really hard. It felt like I was looking at a high definition television in my head. The PCP in the weed allowed me to hear and see both Daffy and Donald really clear. The coke we were snorting made the bad trip worse. Both the ducks in my mind started shooting at each other and I found myself in the middle of a really violent cartoon. I was physically ducking to get out of the way of the imaginary bullets that the ducks were shooting.

After Boom knocked out my two front teeth my blood was dripping all over the floor. When the jinn finished his duck joke he told me I was going to rot in hell. That's when I saw the death angel come and violently rip the stripper's ru (soul) out of her back. My faith in the reality of Allah and the truth of the Holy Quran became 100 percent when I saw all of this. Yes, I pulled the trigger, but the jinni made me do it. Blood from my mouth was mixing with the dead stripper's blood. I knew then that-that meant we were both going to have to deal with being tormented in the grave and we'll probably both be condemned to the hell fire when we die. Allah ul ilam(Only God Knows)!"

"Parts blown from Adrienne Johnson's face caused her head to appear to have holes in it-it did have holes but in my mind the holes were similar to that of swiss cheese. It was surreal-I murdered an innocent human being. This girl was a stripper striving to make a few dollars for whatever reason and the Jinns that worked for the Shaitan whispered in my head and made me kill her. It's not fair that I'm being prosecuted. Yes, I pulled the trigger but the jinn spoken of in the Holy Quran were in control of my mind. If I would have kept up with my salat I would have had Allah's protection from going majnun(crazy).

The prosecutor didn't object or bat an eye. Zahir sounded like an idiot to the jury. The prosecutor kept his head down taking notes of Zafir's testimony.

"Three weeks later I was found wandering around Center City Philadelphia looking completely crazy. I looked like a dirty, homeless person. I didn't remember who I was until I snapped outta the PCP trip a month after they picked me up.
That's when they started me on psyche meds. I don't know what kind of meds exactly but whatever it was didn't stop me from seeing the jinns."

"My clothes were dirty-in a few weeks I went from a rather sharp dresser to a schizophrenic bum mumbling at jinn on the streets of Center City Philadelphia. My mama suffered from schizophrenia and that's why my father divorced her and fought to get custody of me and my brothers and sisters."

"Mr Mutalib when did you wake up or snap out of this alleged mental breakdown and did you at anytime recall that you murdered Adrienne Johnson in cold blood just two month prior?" The prosecutor was smooth in his line of questioning.


"The smell of my own defecation made people walking past me on the street get outta my way. For three weeks I had been going to the bathroom on myself. My own funk was so foul it snapped me back from the PCP trip. My two teeth were gone, and I was severely dehydrated when they put me in the ambulance. My clothes were funky, my hair had grew wild and I was babbling like a fool to the jinns. Me and the Jinns were playing a game of tag. The object of our game was to roll on the ground and tag each other. My memory is clear, and not at all spotty. I could see and hear those jinn that day as sure as you are standing in front of me now sir. I couldn't remember all of what I did or everywhere I had been for many of those days but I know that the jinn were real and it is the Jinn that are the ones to blame for the death of Ms. Adrienne Johnson: the stripper. Not me! The Jinn controlled me like a puppet. When the psychiatric people came to get me I was laying on Broad Street, rolling around in the middle of the street trying to tag the jinn because I was 'it'.

Next thing I know I was on a psyche Ward in Hahnemann Hospital. When they picked me up I was so filthy that the cops waited for an ambulance. They refused to touch me because I was very dirty. The cops didn't recognize me from the artists' sketch of the stripper's murderer that was posted in the Philadelphia Daily Newspaper a few days after the murder. I had grown a wild thick beard and looked completely majnun(crazy). "

"On the psyche ward I told the Doctors and Nurses that my name was Max Dasher and I was sent here to Earth to kill the whore who gave Magic Johnson HIV and avenge the death of Daffy Duck at the hands of Donald. The side effects of PCP gave me the mentality of a 6 year old living in a play world. Regardless of the meds I kept playing tag with the jinn. I still see 'em. There goes one right there standing next to the bailiff. I see you!". Zahir said pointing to an empty corner in the courtroom.

"Your honor the defense request a recess. My client is clearly tired and becoming delusional."

"Recess granted. Court is adjourned until 9 a.m. Monday morning."

The weekend was long, but Zahir's story was just as strange when he resumed his testimony Monday morning.

"There was no I.D on me when they picked me up, so on the psyche ward I was known as John Doe. While on the ward I threw feces on a Black male nurse named Big Mike. I meant to hit one of the jinns I was playing tag with but I hit Mike instead. Big Mike was rather upset and chased me down and beat me up really bad. He beat me so bad I remember screaming "Don't beat me daddy! Don't beat me". I cried like a two year old child. After Mike beat me he fed me my own defecation piece by piece."

"Two months later I recovered my mental faculties but I was still seeing jinn.Though I was seeing Jinn, I managed to remember that my name was Zahir Ibn Mutalib and that my father's an Imam in West Philly. The meds were making me better. Until I shot that stripper in the face I was sort of a wannabe neighborhood drug kingpin and Boom was my right-hand man. $4500 dollars was all that our little cocaine drug cartel was worth but in our minds we were destined to be kingpins. But at that point I just wanted my mind back. Though I remembered my name I was still seeing jinn and murdering the stripper didn't seem real-it was like a dream."

"Before I was admitted to the hospital they took my prints and nothing came back, and before I was discharged they ran my name for warrants and again-nothing came back. I was released from the hospital with enough bus fare to catch SEPTA home."

"Wearing nothing but thin hospital scrubs, a pair of old man shoes, and an old green corderoy suit jacket to keep the January cold air from killing me I made it back home. My father opened the door.

"Salaam Alaikum and where the hell have you been?" He asked.

The rest of this testimony has been redacted at the request of the defendant's attorney because the State is seeking the death penalty.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------.

Sealed by
Megan Jefferson
Court Clerk

Tuesday, November 9, 2010

Die By The Sword: Praise Does Oprah

"Over the past three months his story has captivated the world. He made a statement on Youtube claiming to be Allah and soon found himself the target of a beheading by Islamic extremist. He's a wanted man who's now on the hit-list of the terrorist group Al-Qaeda. Not overseas: but right here in America. Today my guest is Greatest Praise Allaaahhhhhh!" Oprah yelled at her studio audience and the studio audience cheered back. "Not only that but today I'm honored to have one of the greatest actors of our time who will be staring in the upcoming movie 'Back Against The Wall'. Where he will portray Greatest Praise Allah. Denzel Washingtonnnnnn!!!! Stay tuned we'll be right back."

Backstage they were dabbing make-up on Praise's face, making sure his mic was working and telling him to relax. Praise was calm. He was ready. Oprah was the Mount Everest of media. He was already a household name but being a guest on Oprah would launch Praise to icon status.

"We're on!" the producer's voice came over the studio's speakers.
Camera 2 zooms in on Oprah-Oprah looks into the camera with a serious look on her face and begins to speak.

"Imagine waking up with terrorist standing around you prepared to behead you-and imagine living to tell about it!" Oprah's voice was strong and firm. But just maybe her voice contained a subtle hypnotic suggestion? A hypnotic suggestion that said, 'cry'.

DaGod didn't know what had come over him. He started to distill on the couch across from Oprah before Oprah could ask her first question. What the fuck was going on? He was sitting across from Oprah crying like a little bitch. Not only had the Queen of American media made Mike Tyson cry but now DaGod Praise was distilling back to Earth in the form of drops of water.

"What happened?" Oprah asked with serious eyes that cut to Praise's core.

"I'm-I'm-I'm-not a muslim. I'm-I'm-I'm a Five Percenter and-and-and Al-Qaeda wanted to cut my head off and I defecated on myself." DaGod sounded like a blubbering idiot. She was giving him tissues and he was wiping his wet eyes and blowing his nose, trying to get a grip. She reached out and gently placed her hand on his thigh to console Praise, but he was still sniffling snot like a nine year old who had scraped his knee.

The audience was pindrop quiet while Greatest Praise got himself together.

"I'd like to thank my fellow Americans for their letters of support. There's no greater people on Earth!"

The Gods watching the show in Allah School in Mecca looked at each other like Praise had lost his fucking mind. Maybe he had: lost his mind. After all he had a Hanes Underwear commercial with Michael Jordan; A Gatorade Commercial where he kung Fu'd seven terrorist and took a sip of Gatorade afterward; and a McDonald's commercial where he bit into a McRib sandwhich with a smile and said, "When your out saving America you tend to work up an appetite and absolutely nothing hits the spot like the McRib sandwhich at McDonald's"

Eating the McRib was the last straw. The Gods printed up tee-shirts with a picture of Praise biting into the McRib and above Praise's picture, a caption read 'This Nigga Has Sold Da Fuck Out!' NGE sold the tee-shirts at Rallies, Parliaments and Family day gatherings. Praise hadn't donated one dime to Allah School. His popularity ratings amongst Asiatics were lower than Obama's popularity ratings amongst the Tea Party-particularly after he bit into that McRib sandwich. Praise said "Fuck it!" and for the price of ten million dollars he bit into that movafuckin' McRib sandwich like a goddamn pitbull. And he did it with a smile.

"You know Oprah, while I was doing the movie with 'Zel' I found it to be therapeutic-just being on the set as a consultant gave me great respect for the craft of acting. We've actually been talking about working together on another movie in the future."

"Praise! Praise! Praise!! Wake up-you gonna be late for work." His Earth Priceless yelled, walking from the bedroom to the living room where he was sleep on the couch.

Praise woke up, wiping crust out of his eyes, speaking jibberish, "I was on Oprah with Denzel-'Zel' was playing me in a movie called 'Back Against The Wall'. The Gods and Earths were mad at me cause I ate a McRib. I had a Gatorade commercial with Jordan cause I killed a bunch of terrorist. I was an Asiatic American Hero. A white lady gave me a million dollars to be my agent. A muslim from overseas wanted to cut my head off, a black ass African from Rwanda wanted to kill me. It was crazy. There was a white guy who knew 120. Even my brother Moteef was still alive. I couldn't believe it-the shit seemed so real Queen. I was even on CNN giving a press conference. The shit was so damn real! "

"You know what's real God? The light bill! After you wake up from Mystery God dream land-please go get that extention on the light bill when you get off of work today. We need that extention Praise. I told you about falling asleep in front of that damn TV!"

Praise angrily put his head back on the couch and mumbled under his breath, "Ain't dis a bitch! None of that shit was real!"

And DaGod Woke Up.

The End

Monday, November 8, 2010

Die By The Sword: The Meditation Of A Heroin Nod

At sixteen Moteef fell into the abyss of his first heroin nod. He nodded off for nearly an hour with his eyes wide open, slobbering and drooling over the 'Stock' section of a week old Wall Street journal. In the mist of that heroin nod the symbols and the numbers began to make sense. It was a eureka moment-an intuitive light came on in his mind. Unlike most dopefiends, Moteef had a plan: when he wasn't shooting heroin in his arm he studied the New York Stock exchange and NASDAQ in depth, discovering the underlying principles of how financial markets worked in concert . He was the first nigga to figure out who the fuck Dow Jones was. After reading dozens of books and after multiple needle marks in his arm he learned to play the market like Coltrane played his horn-masterfully. Yes, he was a junkie and he accepted that fact-but he vowed not to be a stereotypical junkie. At a young age he understood one thing about life: 'man must serve God'. Unlike his younger brother Ricky who changed his name to 'Greatest Praise Allah' and began to call himself God, Moteef chose another spiritual path: heroin. Heroin was his God-he freely and openly admitted that truth to himself. Like all Gods-heroin needed to be praised and Moteef swore an oath to praise his God faithfully. He paid tithes to his God by making a fortune playing the market. He could afford to shoot his God in his arm religiously-filling himself with the holy ghost daily. Moteef became very wealthy from playing the Market, purchasing a lavish home in Delaware where he comfortably shot up heroin in a luxurious hot tub filled with bubbles. Usually he found himself nodding in front of the huge flat screen TV mounted on the wall. The tub was his sacred sanctuary where he exclusively watched cable shows that dealt with the stock market or business.

That day finding a vein was torture on Moteef's mind. He was trying to shoot his breakfast in his arm. With his pointer and index finger standing side by side like two best friends he tapped the upper part of his forearm violently. Still no vein. Knowledge seed niggas make the worst dopefiends because they're black asses can never find a fat enough vein to shoot dope in, especially those niggaz that have shot as much dope as Moteef. His veins hid like scared prisoners afraid of getting shanked.

Moteef was watching CNN while preparing his 'works': heating the dope on a spoon; and kissing the heated dope with the syringe. With an old belt tied around his arm tightly he finally isolated a viable vein. But what he saw on TV made him put his morning prayer nod on pause. Why? Because his little brother's press conference was on CNN. His little brother Praise was answering questions like he was Obama-fielding questions from newspaper journalist and TV reporters-calling on them one at a time as they raised their hands.

'The little nigga use to pee in the bed' Moteef thought-now he had microphones from every major network and daily newspaper in the country hanging on his every word. Even the BBC had a microphone in his face. Moteef couldn't believe it. He thought that he was dreaming. But he wasn't: "It's Ricky! What da fuck!?!" He said to himself with a heroin filled syringe poised to be stuck in his arm.

"Bitch! Bitch! Come here!" Look at this shit!! It's Ricky! That's Ricky!" Moteef screamed for Kitta to come into the luxurious bedroom where the gaudy tub sat in the middle of the bedroom like a swimming pool. Kitta had been Moteef's girlfriend for over 20 years. They met in rehab. Moteef wasn't following the rules of his Heroin religion and briefly fell off in the late 80's when family checked him into an upstate rehab facility kicking and screaming. Meeting Kitta in rehab was 'love at first sight'. They were in the same support group-where they had fallen in love and learned to 'accept the things that they could not change'. So Moteef accepted what he could not change: heroin was his God and he could not and would not change that. Ever!

"My name is Moteef and I'm a drug addict!" Those were his first words to Kitta.

"My name is Kitta and I'm a crack cocaine addict and an alcoholic. Pleased to meet you!" That was her response to Moteef nearly 25 years ago. Now, here she was, rushing into the room like there was a fire. Kitta was a hyper crackhead who was in the middle of smoking crack when Moteef interrupted her blast.

Kitta had the most expensive weave of any crackhead since Whitney Houston. But before she met 'Teef' all she had was a little piece of pony tail tied with a rubber band in the back of her head. Just a neighborhood crackhead giving head for rock. Her life was a crackhead's nightmare before she met Moteef. For a dopefiend 'Teef' had it all together. His recursive personal formula was 'to serve thy God Heroin by simply being able to afford thy lord'.

When he called her to come see his brother Praise-his voice scared her so much so that her weave damn near untied itself from her tracks and stood up and pointed to the ceiling-startled to the point that she almost dropped her glass crack pipe that she grumbled, "Why do you do that!! You know I got a bad heart 'Teef!!" Both in their 50's and though she fussed a whole lot and Teef called her 'bitch' like it was her first name-they were still young lovers at heart. She hymmed and hawed in agitation while flicking the lighter that refused to produce a flame at the crack-pipe's tip. The lighter was out of butane. "Shit!" she mumbled under her breath. He had trouble finding a vein and she was out of lighter fluid-such are the pet peeves of dopefiends. Kitta had smoked crack so much that she was down to her last nerve. Literally.

"Look! That's Ricky on TV!! Look!" Moteef continued with surprise resonating in his voice as she entered the room. He didn't call his brother 'Greatest Praise Allah'.

"My mama named da nigga Ricky-Ima call da nigga 'Ricky'!" Is how Moteef answered people who questioned why his brother changed his name to 'Greatest Praise Allah'.

"It is him! It is him!! What happened?!?!" Kitta asked.

"Sh-Shh-shhh. Be quiet bitch! I can't hear!"Moteef harshly reprimanded Kitta.

"Diane Rollins: MSNBC-Do you know why you were singled out by Al-Qaeda?"

"Theological differences. Members of Al-Qaeda follow the Sunnah or way of the Prophet Muhammmad and I'm a Five Percenter-Five Percenters don't follow Muhammad per se. Three weeks prior to me being kidnapped I had made a statement on Youtube pertaining to the fact that the Black Man is Allah. Apparently an Imam by the name of Imam Abdul Ibn Masoud from Yemen somehow got wind of that Youtube footage and a fatwa was then issued by Abdul Ibn Masoud." Praise was suprisingly articulent, shocking federal authorities and news reporters. He spoke like he held a political office-holding back and refraining from street slang with ease. He sounded just as professional as a nightly news anchor.

"Jonathan O'Brien-Fox News. How did they kidnapp you?"

"They called my place of business. Told me they were interested in having some work done. I responded to their request. Went to the halal meet market in Brooklyn, and was lured to the back of the market where I was then knocked unconscious and tied up. When I had awakened a man was reading an Arabic letter into a video camera. Basically I had woke up into what can only be described as a living nightmare. Five guys in black hoods were standing behind me. One of them was holding a sword ready to behead me. I was absolutely terrorified."

"Jane Dolan: Washington Post:" Mr. Praise How did you escape?" At that moment a tall, professionally dressed middle aged white woman with blond hair stepped in front of Praise and put her hands over an array of microphones and whispered in Praise's right ear.

"My name is Francesca Styles Mr. Praise. I represent Bruenstein, Hyman and Bloomingthal: a law firm, slash Public relations firm. I have a Cashier's check in the amount of one million dollars in exchange for the exclusive rights to the story of your ordeal with Al-Qaeda. We promise a best selling book, a full length feature film with a major movie studio. Endorsements-you name it-we can milk this 'Asiatic American Hero' thing for all it's worth and make you a very wealthy man in the process Mr. Praise. We can put all this in motion as soon as possible, providing you agree to our contractual terms." The blue eyed, blond hair white bitch meant business. And her breath was as hot on his earlobe as the money she had in her hand. Praise could tell she was dead serious.

Greatest Praise picked up on her vibe instantly. The white bitch was making an interpretation of more gold. Falling victim to the promise of 'more gold' is what almost got his head cut off the first time. But this time the Bitch had a check in her hand instead of a sword. Fuck it! He took what was behind door number two. The white bitch essentially said, "Let's make a deal and asked him "Do you want to be a millionaire?" Praise without hesitation answered, "Emphatically Y equal Self!"

After her whispering discourse, Praise grabbed the mic, "I can't go into details at this time at the advise of council." Praise spoke those words immediately after Francesca's million dollar proposal.

Francesca Styles was a corporate attorney and immediately moved Greatest Praise from one tax bracket to another. Praise was introduced to her assistant: Kyle Weinberg- who was about to become Praise's best friend. He was a public relations spin doctor; a young jew white boy who understood the art of making a celebrity and best of all-he worshipped money.

"For legal reasons and for the safety of this very important American Hero we feel that it would not be in the best interest of my client, Greatest Praise Allah to go into detail about his heralding ordeal at this time. Thank You! "

In less than two minutes the Press Conference was over and in the next 20 minutes Greatest Praise Allah had robo signed 40 legal documents back stage and received a check in the amount of one million dollars. He was now a client of Bruenstein, Hyman and Bloomingthal. The firm was armed with the exclusive rights of Praise's ordeal-they would market him to the American public one movie; one book; one McDonald's commercial and one Nike commerical at a time. Madison Avenue had come strong with cash in hand, telling Praise 'More Gold' was coming.

After the press conference CNN went to commercial and Moteef plunged the syringe in his arm. When the heroin hit his blood stream Moteef floated into a place of esoteric enlightenment; a place that made his balls tingle: it was the refuge and sanctuary of a dopefiend's nod. It was Moteef's favorite corner in the entire universe, a place where he could view life like Coltrane viewed musical notes.

In Moteef's heroin stupor he could see all the angles that surrounded his little brother Ricky-and he drew up his brother's cipher like he forecasted the performance of a stock. Though he was an eighty five dopefiend-he wasn't your average eighty five dopefiend. Moteef found his brilliance in the fine mist of a heroin nod. When he got high he saw all the angles.

"Those white movafuckuz are preparing to pimp my little brother." He mumbled to himself in the mist of his heroin nod.

It didn't take a genuis to see that Praise was about to be pimped-or maybe it did: Moteef was indeed that genius.

To be continued...

Sunday, October 31, 2010

Die By The Sword: Akuza Dhinga Leaves No Living Thingz

April 17, 1994: 14 Miles South of Kigali, Rwanda.

"Kill them! Kill them now or we kill you!!" Barked the teenage Hutu commander of the rebel alliance.

The woman on her knees was Dhinga's aunt and the four month old infant girl was his cousin, both were relatives on his mother's side. His aunt was born Hutu but since she married a Tutsi her and the baby were now considered Tutsi. Her husband lay dead, dismembered and chopped up into multiple pieces. Dhinga's auntee Umado was on the floor pleading, begging, frantically screaming for her life, attempting to appeal to Dhinga's conscience. She pleaded for her life and the life of her child. Her cries were deep and guttural, rhythmic-almost musical. She held her newborn infant daughter against her bosom tightly, crying sorrowfully in an attempt to awaken her nephew's lost humanity. Maybe he could still be reached?

"Dhinga no! Please Dhinga noooo! Please!!!" She screamed crazily with wet eyes. Dhinga was high-hyped up like most child soldiers in Africa; drunk off alcohol; high from potent marijuana; and he and the other child soldiers had been injected with methamphetamin two days prior. Ultra hyped up off of drugs he'd been slaughtering Tutsis for nearly 48 hours straight, freely indulging in an orgy of blood.

His aunt had fed him and cared for him as a child during times when his mother worked menial jobs in Barundi. Sad thing was, he was still a child. How did Akuza Dhinga pay his aunt back? He lifted his AK-47 and aimed at the woman who looked like his mother-his mother's sister: his aunt.

His commander pushed the barrel of the assault rifle to the floor.

"Don't waste a bullet on this piece of shit Tutsi bitch. Use your machete!" His commander gave the order in a terrifying harsh African accent. Dhinga's commander was only fourteen years old, just two years older than Dhinga, but though he was twelve years old he was no stranger to murder. Following orders, Dhinga unsheethed his machete and skewered his machete through the back of his four month old infant cousin and into the chest of his aunt.

"How could you Dhinga?" They were the last words of his aunt. She stared into her nephew's bloodshot eyes before her eyes rolled to the back of her head and took her last breath. When he pulled the machete out the infant girl's back the machete simultaneously came out of his aunt's chest. The blood gushed like a fountain, painting the dirt floor of the shabby tin hut red. Falling from her knees to the floor still holding her dead daughter in her arms, Dhinga stood over the dead bodies in silence with blood on his hands and in shock. He had just killed his aunt and his first cousin. His commander put his arm around a despondent Dhinga and laughed an evil laugh.

"Dhinga! Dhinga! Pick up!" Mel's voice squawked over the cab's radio, waking Dhinga out of the same nightmare he'd been having for the last sixteen years. He'd been driving a cab in New York City for five years. Forged and fraudulent documents allowed him to get into America and flee the unimaginable horrors of the Rwandan atrocity. Though he wasn't physically in Rwanda-every night in his slumber he'd travel back to that bloody war torn country in Central Africa-revisiting the war crimes he had committed; murdering; pillaging; raping and untold other atrocities against the voiceless and faceless Tutsis. Sixteen years later the faceless souls still haunted him in his sleep.

"This is Dhinga." He said, snapping out of his mid-day nap, grabbing the steering wheel and clutching the cab's radio.

"Where the hell have you been? Get down to Grand Central-Tommy says that there are fares everywhere. What da hell are you doing? I've been calling you for ten minutes. Are you sleeping on the job again?"

"No! I'm awake boss. I'll get right over there." Mel was a prick and Dhinga hated his job. He was a killer-he had killed so many people in Rwanda that one time he literally fell asleep while slaughtering Tutsis. He wanted to kill his dispatcher. Dhinga wiped the crust out of his eyes, pulled out of his parking space and started toward Grand Central Station.

Dhinga pulled up to the cab stand and his first fare opened the cab door, wildly pushing a woman in the cab. "Get in the car bitch!" The man yelled. The dark skinned man spoke with an African accent. It was a familiar voice. Dhinga squinted in the rear view mirror, he recognized him. Where from? It couldn't be-not here in New York. As the African man sat in the back of the car with the crying woman, he told Dhinga his destination: "2235 Frederick Douglas Boulevard." The voice was unmistakable-it was his commander from the war. It was Rwabugiri from Kigali. The boy who watched as he murdered his aunt and infant cousin 16 years ago.

"Bugiri?" Dhinga asked in a questioning tone of voice.

The man's eyes got big, he hadn't heard that name in years-he immigrated to America under an assumed name. He stared at the cabby-recognized him from the war. They looked at each other for a second and recognized one another instantly.

"Dhinga!" He smiled. What chu doing here nigga? They both got out of the cab and embraced each other with brotherly affection. Bugiri looked wealthy-Dhinga looked poor. But they were both alive after living through hell.

"How'd you get here?" Bugiri asked.

"After the ambush when everybody got separated I stayed back. Starved for months in the bush, hiding. A white lady from the UNAMIR mission took care of me, fed me, gave me medicine and got me to a hospital in Europe. I don't know why she did it-but she took care of me, adopted me. And here I am. What about you-how'd you get here?" Dhinga asked with a smile.

"I hid in a cargo plane one night, next morning the plane took off and I ended up in Nigeria. A few years after living in Nigeria I got hooked up with a Heroin cartel. Now, I get that raw shit straight from Afghanistan nigga. I Make bitches swallow it in Africa and they fly it over here. The next time that bitch in the cab takes a shit it's gonna be worth fifty thousand dollars. Finally, a bitch that shits out money!" Bugiri laughed. "You still a killa nigga?" Bugiri asked with full blown American swag.

"Leave no living things!" Dhinga answered. That was the Hutu's motto when they raided Tutsi villages. They killed everything, from the elders to the newborns, from the live stock to the trees. They burned the crops and slaughtered the women after raping them. 'Leave no living things.'

"Well look man-I got a little something for you. 10 grand if you pull it off and every family member you kill is worth an additional one grand."

"Who's the target?" Dhinga asked.

"That nigga right there!"

Bugiri pointed to Greatest Praise's picture on the cover of the New York Times. The newspaper was on Dhinga's passenger seat. 'America's Asiatic Hero' with a picture of Greatest Praise under the headline.

"Why kill him-He's a hero?!?"

"Fuck that! Do you want the contract or not?"

"Yeah!"

Masoud's shell company wired a million dollars from Switzerland to Amsterdam and from Amsterdam to America. The money was in street escrow and the contract on Praise was open. The Yakuza; the Russian Mob; The Italian mafia, henchmen from the Juarez drug cartel and any other freelance shooter was welcome to take a shot at Praise. Everybody who was anybody in the underworld was slowly learning about the bounty on Praise's head. Masoud wanted him dead and he would stop at nothing and spare no expense. After all Praise was responsible for the death of Abdur Rahman: Masoud's son.

What Bugiri failed to mention was that the contract really paid a million dollars cash for the head of Praise and a hundred grand for each relative. Bugiri offered Dhinga 10 grand which is a pittance of the value of the initial contract. If Bugiri could get Dhinga to kill Praise and then pay Dhinga the least amount it would be ideal for Bugiri. Bugiri could potentially walk away with nine hundred and ninety thousand dollars and not fire a shot. Bugiri and Dhinga's arrangement was a long shot because in the next 24 hours, shooters would be coming out of the wood-works to murder Praise. Praise's head was now worth more than any amount of heroin the African bitch sitting in the back seat of Dhinga's cab could ever shit out.

To be continued...

Thursday, October 28, 2010

Die By The Sword: White Chocolate Got Jokez

The muzim climbed the spiral staircase of Masjid Al-Nur to call the adhan. Al-Nur means 'The Light' and the peeking sun-light glimmered off the three gold plated domes of the famed mosque. Al-Nur was the most lavish mosque in Sana'a and the pride of Yemen. The Muzim called the adhan beautifully and from high above the city-his musical cry of 'Allah U Akbar' emitted from several loud speakers and the city of Sana'a was reminded that it was time to pray. The Muzim's morning call to prayer struck the city with the force of a tsunami.

Imam Abdul Ibn Masoud was making wudu(Ablution before prayer). The only time he had ever missed fajr salat was in the late 80's in Afghanistan when a mortar shell exploded, killing ten other Mujahidin fighters and knocking him unconscious for two days. With only that exception, prayer was always better than sleep for the Imam and wudu was like taking a deep spiritual breath. While washing his feet in the Imam quarters of the masjid his trusted assistant Ali brought him a satellite phone in a suit case. Ali opened the suitcase and handed the Imam the secure phone line. The Imam spoke in codes and was brief in case his words were intercepted by the ears of satellites listening high above the Earth.

"As-Salam Alaikum.

"Wa alaikum salam."

"I haven't received my gift yet. Do they have my gift?" Imam Masoud said in a nonchalant tone of voice into the phone.

"Bad news Imam. Your son is dead." The person on the other end of the phone spoke in a somber tone.

"What?!?" He abruptly stopped wudu.

His 'gift' was supposed to be the head of Greatest Praise. Instead his son's head was taken by Praise. The Imam crumbled inside, collapsing to his knees in grief instead of prayer.

A can of Pepsi was on the table, along with a pack of cigarettes, a coffee pot, an ash tray and a tape recorder. NSA Special Agent Philip Durant had his underlings set up the video camera on the other side of the two-way mirror. Greatest Praise didn't like the set-up, he felt more like a suspect than someone who had just fought like a madman to stay alive. Agent Durant and one of his cronies walked in the room-he flashed his NSA badge and began to talk.

"Agent Durant-NSA. The National Security Agency intercepted an overseas call this morning. Apparently you've pissed off a powerful Imam in Yemen Mr. Praise. He slid an envelope with and 8 by 11 photo of Imam Abdul Ibn Masoud. You ever seen or heard of him?"

"Now cipher. I mean no sir!"

"Don't worry 'bout it Gaud I'm White Chocolate. I ain't study from 35 to 50 years for nothing. I know what 'Now Cipher' means.

Praise thought that the middle aged, grey haired white man was being sarcastic by coming out of the born degree in the knowledge to knowledge culture.

"Imam Masoud is an Osama wanna be-he's been looking to pull off a major attack on U.S. soil since Osama pulled off 9/11, but all of his attempts have failed. And your heroics have caused his recent attempts to fail. Bravo Mr. Praise."

This white devil was an asshole, Praise thought. "Glad I could be of service. Can I go now? And again: 'no' to your question-I've never heard of this fake ass Bin Laden movafucka." Praise slid the photo back to the white man.

"Well he's heard of you. This morning we intercepted a call from London to Yemen. Apparently one of the desert niggers you killed was Masoud's son." Durant used the word 'nigger' with no shame. How does a guy who owns a bootlegged, moving company manage to take out six Al-Qaeda operatives in the back of a Halal meat market? Who the fuck are you-the Black Jason Borne? At the NSA we've given you a nick name: 'Pookie' Borne. Thanx to you Pookie we found a stash of detonators, weapons, several pounds of syntex explosives, two ready-made bomb vest, a satellite phone and the building schematics of both a Wal-mart in Queens and the Guggenheim. Before you get your 'rich slave maker' on and sell your story to Miramax to cash in on the million dollar book deals soon to be offered and then go cry on Oprah: And before the medal of honor is being pinned on you by the President-we here at the NSA want to know how you did it."

Praise hadn't smoked since prison, but he took a cigarette from the pack and Durant's cronie gave him a lite. He coolly took a drag from the cancer stick, starred coldly at Agent Durant and settled into the hard chair.

"First of all my name is not Pookie. And to answer your question regarding 'how I did it'-about wisdom weeks ago I'm building with a young God-God just finished his one to ten. You know what one to ten is?" Greatest Praise asked in a kinda rhetorical manner knowing that the white man didn't know. But the white NSA agent shocked the hell out of Praise-he did know.

"The U.S. Government has learned everything about the Nation of Gods and Earths-especially in the last couple of years-you guys have single handedly managed to send up red flags in the FBI's National Internet surveillance monitoring room every 30 seconds since 9/11. The last name 'Allah' that you guys use alerts Homeland Security's Servers everytime the word 'Allah' is typed anywhere on the internet. 'Allah this' and 'Allah that' chatter day in and day out-you fucking guys almost crashed the system in 'O4 when Myspace was hot. We studied you guys for years before we realized that when you guys say 'bomb' it just means hollering at another God. The FBI and Homeland security spent a fortune on surveillance looking for a goddamn bomb in Allah School because one of your members said he was going to "bomb' some shit up". In final reports, all government security agencies have concluded that none of you guys pose any sort of threat to National Security. You guys are harmless, mainly just unemployed, under employed, under-achieving Negros that mostly still live with your mamas. And to answer your question Mr. Praise, 'one to ten' is also known as student enrollment or knowledge to knowledge the cipher in which the second degree refers to me as Yacob's grafted devil. One to ten is one of eight-excuse me-six black muslim lessons given by an ex-con named Wally Fard to another ex-con Elijah Poole in the early 1930's. The other two bodies of lessons that compose your eight pointed star are your Supreme Math and Alphabet that was given to you by your founder-the late Clarence Smith-who by the way was a mental patient-who you guys affectionately call Allah or the 'Father'. Mr. Praise I work for the NSA not the NYPD-we don't have our heads up our asses-we know everything."

Praise was shocked that the middle-aged white man knew such intimate details about the Gods and Earths. But he didn't let the agent know he was surprised. Instead he came back with a slick come-back of his own.
"My Father was never 'late'. Praise said, taking another pull of the cigarette.

"Father Allah was supposed to be here for this meeting" The NSA agent looked at his watch and mockingly said, "Clarence is late again-he must be on 'colored' people time, or shooting dice in the Asiatic World Projects. Oh! That's right-he's dead as shit-shot to hell in an elevator shaft in 1969. Ooops! My bad." Agent Durant's grin broke out into a hardy chuckle as he slapped the table in jest at Praise and the circumstances of the Father's death, boldly making offensive jokes about NGE's deceased patriarch. Agent Durant was a sarcastic son of a bitch and there was no shame in his game. He didn't give a fuck. The fact that Durant used the phrase 'Asiatic World' threw Praise for another loop. Did this white man know 120? Praise thought. This Devil used NGE terminology with the cynicism and sarcasm of a first born.

"So tell me Greatest Praise Allah-how did you kill the six camel jockeys and save thousands of American lives? Feel free to use all the five percent street slang you want because I've knowledged the cipher and I'm sure I can keep up 'Gaud'." The NSA agent grinned again, mocking how many Gods pronounce the word 'God' as 'Gaud'. He nonchalantly poured himself a cup of coffee, added sugar and cream and clanged the spoon against the cup as he stirred.

"Well, I get a cee Allah love lord on my power he one. Dude made an interpretation that I would receive more gold for my labor which was more than I was earning by buildin with the young God in front of Allah School. The guy on the power he offered me power add two and I fell victim to the promised ciphers. The ciphers sounded good because I needed the cream to fix my cee Allah rule." Praise stopped, grinned, knowing for a fact that the white boy ain't catch all that-but Praise once again underestimated the devil. Agent Durant took a sip of the coffee and had a calm look on his white face.

"Did they receive more gold?" Special Agent Durant asked Praise nonchalantly. Praise was shocked at how the NSA agent smoothly came out of 120. Agent Durant smiled the smile of an asshole and continued, "So you're telling me that the Arab trader made an interpretation and didn't give you the five hundred dollars he promised you for the moving justice cipher born? And instead of receiving more gold you got knocked unconscious with a tire iron when you walked in the back room of the halal meat market-am I right so far? And now that hunk of junk you call a cee Allah rule is still in need of a muffler. Don't you just hate it when traders make interpretations 'Gaud'!"

It was so weird to see a white man coming out of 120 with ease. With his mouth dropped in shock Praise nodded at Agent Durant's translation and summary of events. And how the hell did he know about Praise's muffler?

"Don't your degrees warn you that lying and stealing master the Original Man? Them desert niggers almost mastered you Gaud. You Original people are so damn naïve and gullible. I'm so glad to be a grafted Devil in the Wilderness of North America. As a devil I've mastered the science of the filthy affair and it makes me feel so 'George Bushy'. I must tell you Mr. Praise it's great to be republican and white; the best schools, the best homes in gated communities that keep the niggers out. In the words of Tony The Tiger, being a 10 percenter 'is great'" The NSA agent laughed real loud at his own jokes. He laughed so hard that his laughter was echoing off of the walls of the interrogation room.

To Be Continued...

Monday, October 25, 2010

Live By The Sword: Brooklyn Man Kills Six Al-Qaeda Terrorist

CNN Commercial:

"Don't you hate it when hemorrhoids flare up?"

"Oh my God it itches something terrible."

"Try New Super Improved Preparation H, it soothes Hemorhoids on contact. Super Improved Preparation H shrinks, burning, itchy hemorrhoids within 5 minutes. Preparation H has a new concentrated scientific formula that gets deep down into hemorrhoidial membranes, and our fast acting new formula knocks out burning, painful itch and discomfort in a flash."

"I'm an administrative assistant and boy sometimes my hemorrhoids are sweaty, hot, painful and itchy. I sit at my desk and wiggle my tush around in my chair just to scratch 'em to get some temporary relief. My co-worker Ed noticed I was kinda antsy at my desk and Ed gave me Super New, and improved Preparation H-it stopped burning, painful itch and it soothed my hemorrhoids on contact. Thank you Ed. And thanks Preparation H."

He hadn't called for knowledge culture days. She thought the worst; maybe he left her; maybe he was in jail; or maybe somebody returned DaGod back. Greatest Praise's Earth Priceless was ironing her clothes for work, watching CNN when she got the answer to where her God had been for the past wisdom weeks.

"Good Morning. Breaking story at this hour: A Brooklyn man was abducted 14 days ago by an Al-Qaeda terror cell right here in the United States. The man was taken to the back of an Islamic butcher shop in Brooklyn New York where six Al- Qaeda men threatened to decapitate him. Let's go to field correspondence Lester Zimmerman. Les what's going on."

Details are still sketchy but what we do know is that the man on the tape being escorted by Federal Investigators is 51 year old Greatest Praise Allah. From what we know he's a member of a black supremacist cult known as The Five Percenters-in which black men call themselves Allah. Apparently their ideology is so radical it sparked a response by Al-Qaeda operatives right here in the U.S. A fatwa was issued-a fatwa is an Islamic ruling or in this case an open contract on Greatest Praise's life. Authorities are telling us that the fatwa was initially issued from somewhere in the Middle East. The man was abducted, and somehow managed to kill all six of his captors, escape and alert police. Federal investigators have taken Greatest Praise Allah in to get a statement. We'll keep you posted as we get information. Back to you Robin."

"Thank you Les. A man in Iowa ran his pick up truck into a river while...."

To Be Continued...

Wednesday, October 20, 2010

Live By The Sword: Learning To Shut Da Fuck Up!

After Praise's comment Abdur Rahman had a very unpleasant look on his face, it was obvious that Praise's conversion to 'true Islam' was going to be more difficult than Abdur Rahman had initially anticipated. Sayeed looked at Abdur Rahman with an 'I told you so' look on his face. Praise read the eyes and body language of all the muslim extremist in the room and intuitively figured out that this was neither the time nor the place to be building like some debate driven God standing in front of Allah School arguing over if 'refinement' is a part of the math or not.

Praise needed to refine his approach to deal with these Al-Qaeda niggaz. He knew the blackman was God and to attempt to convince Islamic fundamentalist of such a fact would be counter productive to him being released. When Praise read the body language of the four muslims guarding him and peeped the other two he noticed Abdur Rahman's look of disenchantment, and the look of irritation that Sayeed gave Abdur Rahman. Praise at that moment decided to immediately travel on the path of the least resistance, a decision that came a bit late. His comments had already lit someone's fuse in the room. After his diatribe on how the 5 pillars of Islam correlates to the lessons and philosophies of 'I God' culture the body language of the muslims in the room quickly began to sour. The dead silence in the room said, "Let's cut this kafir's head off!"

Praise understood that religion was a drug and that these guys were snorting raw un-cut Islam with no twists or tweaks and also that this brand of Islam was what nightly newscasters truly meant as 'Islamic fundamentalist'.

Upon reading the cold current of air in the room, he attempted to quickly adapt, deciding to down-play his intelligence and completely dumb-down his intellectual prowess for tactical reasons. His 'understanding' had to come across as a lack of 'understanding'.

Wisely, he made the decision to open his ears and listen intently, and 'game' the muslims by appearing genuinely eager to learn about raw un-cut Islam. The goal of his strategy was to ultimately appeal to Sayeed and Abdur Rahman, listen to them and make them feel as if they were the wisest men in the world. Praise now understood that his earlier verbal discourse regarding the five pillars of Islam was ill-timed, out of place and that freely voicing his supreme mathematical cee at that time was indeed a blunder. In Grand Master level chess one blunder can mean checkmate-fortunately his single blunder wasn't enough to get himself checkmated, but it was enough to get da God checked-checked hard.

"I know Prophet Muhammad lived in Arabia but who was Prophet Muhammad for real-for real?" Praise asked in an attempt to clean shit up-knowing that he had offended the muslims. Consciously removing the intellectual arrogance out of his tone of voice, he squinted his eyes and contorted his face to form an expression that read, 'I'm dumb, black and ignorant. Please help me!' It was obvious to the muslims that Praise was running 'game'. Ordinarily his question about Muhammad would have put the muslims in the room at ease, but since his question about Muhammd came on the heals of his comments that cheapened the five pillars of Islam it made the muslims in the room suspicious. What Praise was doing was exactly what Sayeed had initially suspected: Praise would say anything to protect his neck and now the other muslims could see Sayeed's point. Praise was transparent and his acting poor. The muslims saw right through him and even though they saw through his agenda when the name 'Muhammad' came off of Praise's lips all six muslims in the room said, "Salalahu alayhi wa Salam!" simultaneously.

"What is 'Salalahu a lay-a lay'... how yall say it?" Praise uttered clumsily. Though the back room he was held hostage in was kinda hot with radiators hissing the eyes of all the men in the room were cold and their silence was frosty. The humor from the misunderstanding of 'Jordan' the basketball player and 'Jordan' the country was long gone.

"'Salalahu alayhi wa salam'-means 'May the peace and blessings of Allah be upon Muhammad'." Saleek answered, taking Praise's question as mockery.

"So who was he?" Praise asked. He thought asking questions about Muhammad would bare more fruit than if he continued to speak. A God named Knowledge once told him "Gods love to hear themselves build-so let them movafuckuz build while you do the knowledge!" So Praise took the best part of Da God Knowledge's understanding for himself and finally at that moment he shut da fuck up and quietly declared he would ear hustle from then forward before them Al Qaeda niggaz decided to cut his fuckin head off.

"Brother Sayeed may I speak to him about our beloved Prophet."
Saleek asked humbly. Saleek had been quiet during the whole ordeal. He was the largest of all six muslims, big for an arab but not bigger than Praise. His physique reminded one of an English Bulldog, his eyes were quiet and soft, not that he was soft, but his eyes had the sleepiness of a thousand and one Arabian nights about them. He took his time and circled Praise slowly as Praise sat on the floor nearly in panic-mode. Saleek was a deeply devoted muslim, born poor in Saudi Arabia he was raised in Yemen and now found himself living in America on a student visa like the others in the small Al-Qaeda sleeper cell. He was the first amongst the men to volunteer to blow himself up at either the Guggenheim or Wal-mart, preferably Wal-mart because he had visions of walking around in the electronic section of Wal-Mart and all of a sudden yelling at the top of his lungs "La ila ha ila La-Muhammad dur rasululah" and press the button to kill as many Americans shopping for big screens as possible. At 26 years of age he was anxious to give his life in the way of Allah. Not an intellectual scholar of Islam like Sayeed, instead Saleek distinguished himself by his passion for the stories of the sahaba's(Companions of the Prophet) devotion to the Rasul(Messenger/Muhammad). For as long as he could remember he possessed a deep desire to die in the name of Allah. The life of the dunya(sinful world) did not mean anything to him and his life and his death was solely for the pleasure of Allah Subhannu Watallah.

"The Prophet Muhammad Salalahu a layhi wa Salam was the best of all creation. He is the seal of all the Prophets. No other Prophet shall come after him. The Angel Jibril came to him and said, "Iqra! Iqra! Iqra!" Meaning 'Read', and recite and from that moment forward the angel Jibril began to reveal to him the Holy Quran." Saleek's voice contained anger and his anger became more pronounced as he continued. His accent was noticeably sharper as he became more and more blinded by rage.

"So that kafir shit you talk about a new Quran every 25 hundred years or 25 thousand years of history or whatever it is-is a Shaitanic lie and if you ever utter-" he dramatically paused, and bit his lip because his fury choked him up so much that, a tear drop fell from his right eye, swiftly catching a ride down his right cheek. It was obvious that Saleek's elevator didn't go all the way to the top floor. Saleek was a fanatic. He put down the machine gun he was holding and took out a 9 millimeter Beretta from his jacket and wildly swung the pistol, striking the lips of Praise-Praise quickly went from sitting on the floor to laying on the floor. Saleek stood over Praise, striking Praise repeatedly. Praise's mouth was filled with blood, after hitting da God approximately ten times with the god u now Praise was sprawled out on the floor barely conscious.

"If I hear those dumb ass lessons come out of your face again while Sayeed or any other muslim is talking I won't hesitate to shoot your black ass in each limb, then cut off both arms, both legs and I will see to it that you stay alive for hours before I cut your head off. You'll be begging me to cut off your head. I will truly show you the meaning of Arm, Leg, Leg, Arm, Head my friend. I'll cut your Kafir head off, put it on a prayer rug facing east and make you make salat the hard way. Try me! Keep playing with Islam like it's a joke." Saleek whispered in a cold voice of a killer, desperately wanting to make all of his threats 'word is bond'.

His ferocious temperament made the room quiet, it was obvious to Abdur Rahman that Saleek had a cannibal like hunger to behead Praise. Saleek had actually taken part in a few beheadings of kafirs in Yemen, and was now home-sick and desperately wanted to perform a beheading on U.S. soil. He hated the fact that Abdur Rahman spared Praise.

DaGod finally got it, he now understood the depth of their zealotry for Islam, their love for Muhammad and the love they held for their Mystery God. Praise had a headache but he finally got it: and needed to respect these movafuckuz even though they were hardcore mystery God worshipers.

Saleek was scheduled to blow himself up next week wearing a bomb vest made of syntex explosives. Life meant nothing to him and his death would be for the pleasure of Allah subhannu watallah. At that moment Praise understood that a man who wants to live is no match for a man who can't wait to die.

Praise's mentally grabbed at the phrase in the culture cipher degree in the one to forties: "I will give all I have and all within my power to see the day..." That one phrase in knowledge wisdom cipher got Da God through.

To be continued...