EMBLEM OF JUSTICE: The Gift Of All Gifts

On January 23rd I turned culture wisdom. I feel real good, I'm not fat, I'm not bald and I can still knock a nigga da fuck out. Last Year I stopped smoking Black & Milds (Not Weed), started jogging again, started working out harder and I feel good in my old-age. It feels good not to be fat and bald-I feel like I dodged that genetic bullet that makes your hair line race to the back of your neck. I've been treating myself good and it has really paid off. I'm not a vegan nor a vegetarian, and instead of becoming an out-right foodie, I do extended Fasts at least 3 times a year. Essentially, treating myself good is the gift I've given myself.

It was the gift that my Earth gave me that flipped my wig. It was literally the best Born Day Gift of my entire life. My Earth presented me with an authentic Samurai Sword. I was utterly speechless. On top of my blog there has always been a picture of a Sword, and ironically the sword that the Earth blessed me with is very similar to the sword at the top of my page. The Queen told me to close my eyes and hold out my hands. I stood there with my posture similar to how members of the N.O.I. pray and then, she placed the sword in my palms: I felt the weight of the sword, opened my eyes and saw it's beauty. Wow! It was utterly amazing. It was hands down the greatest born day gift of my entire culture wisdom years on The Planet Earth.

I've held countless weapons: M4 machine gun; S-K; Mossberg; Glock 9'; Glock 45'; Glock 17; Sig; Mac 10; Mac 11; 380; A-K; Israeli Uzzi-you name it. As much as I love guns I've never seen a more majestic, regal and honorable weapon in all my days on the Planet Earth than the Samurai Sword that the Queen got me for my birthday. Never! Ever! Never! This weapon had a soul to it, an indescribable spirit that spoke to me. The sword had both a 'war' and a silent 'peace' pulsating in the blade as I unsheathed it. It meant a whole lot to me on a sentimental level and I'm not a sentimental person. It was a privilege to hold it. It is very sharp, however, in order for it to become as sharp as a surgeon's scalpel it must go to a Sharpener's Shop: a place where steel sharpens steel for-real-for-real.

The sword came with a Samurai stand, where I can kneel before it and meditate-it is absolutely beautiful. The folklore of what a Samurai Sword can do is not exaggerated at all-if sharpened to it's maximum capacity, coupled with a practiced swing, it can easily take off an arm, a leg, a leg, an arm or a head like sliced butter: literally. If stuck into the front of someone it will smoothly come out the back. I've had dreams of murder before-who amongst us hasn't? Usually my murderous dreams involve a Glock or a 12 gauge-but never a sword. Never. As I held the sword I sadistically imagined murkin a movafucka with the sword and with the insight of an empath I felt the terror that such a weapon would invoke in an individual seconds before their death. A cold chill ran through me as I practiced my amateur like swing of the sword. Swinging the sword temporarily planted fear in me-a fear that quickly turned into an honorable awe and respect of it's majesty. It was a profound moment in my life, because I was holding the object that I represent: THE ONE AND ONLY 'EMBLEM' OF JUSTICE.

Guns hold power but the Samurai Sword holds a power as well as a refinement. It makes you respect life and death. When your eyes follow along the horizon of the stainless steel blade you understand why the Quran says that the life of this world is as fragile as a spider's web, because with a sword your essentially one swing away from the reality of death. There is a responsibility that comes with the Sword; a code of honor; an indwelling peace; as well as a blinding decapitating rage of justice all wrapped in one.

How do I see the Mathematics of my attribute 'Emblem Of Justice'? Which was the question I posed to myself as I held the Sword. The sword has caused me to reflect indeed, after all, a sword is what an Emblem of Justice is. So how do I see my Now Allah Master Equal as it relates to Self? Well, closer examination of the sword let me know that if I swing-it's final, and something will be severed, either a relationship or someone's head from their body. There are no re-attachments after an encounter with a Samurai Sword. The 'finality' of the swing of a sword is similar to the squeezing of a trigger. You can't take a bullet back once you let that hot shit go, and if I swing this sword at another human being it's an instant expiration date. I realize 'Responsibility' and 'Wisdom' must come with an Emblem of Justice.

What is an 'EMBLEM'?

It's a symbol that represents substance-which is the representation of reality. Words are symbols that represents signs. Ultimately we communicate with symbols, signs and emblems. Supreme Alphabet is essentially composed of letters. The letter itself is a symbol that represents a Supreme Meaning. Our numbers do the Same. Each Number is a symbol which represents a quantity. Supreme Math turns the basic numbers of our numerical system into Math by transforming the simplicity of quantity into Divine qualities.

You have the Mercedes, Cadillac, Masonic and the Eagle of the United States: all are emblems. The Emblem OF Justice in my time is the Understanding of the Sword that was used in Muhammad's Times which is the Holy Quran(My Cee) and thus this is the reason I desire to one day become a Qari and a Hafiz. Also The Quran is beautiful like my Sword.

Many have said that my writing can sometimes sting, especially when aimed at others. Many have also said I have the ability to deliver succinct expressions that can sometime cut painfully to the bone. Believe it or not-it is nothing that I try to do, sometimes I just think an inherent meanness exist as an integral part of my character. Meanness is not unrighteous it just is. The reality is-is that I have the ability to hurt with words, which is not good. On the flip side of that coin, my words can also inspire and teach thus I must know the edge of the 'ledge'. On the 'edge' of that ledge is where I must learn greater responsibility in my writing and also refinement with the actual sword itself.

'OF' is the Cipher Father, it's weird to have a preposition in your attribute b.u.t. with Supreme Math and Alphabet the meaning of this preposition becomes grammatically transcendent. The Cipher of Fatherhood urges me to truly BE a guiding force in Da Young God's life . He's knowledge build-in college, and that is the proper serautal mustaqeem (The Straight Path) to be on at his physical degree.

'JUSTICE' is truly a penalty or a reward. One side of my sword is sharp and the other is flat, proving penalty or reward.

I love boxing and can throw a punch or two and Now I want to learn the science of how to truly use a Samurai Sword-not to cut someone in half-b.u.t. to learn the correct movements of sword play:
C-A-P-T-A-I-N & L-I-E-U-T-E-N-A-N-T.

I thank my Earth LUMINOUS for such an exquisite gift-I love HER very much. Thank You.

May My Sword Never Shed A Human Being's Blood, but if a movafucka wantz it-a movafucka can get it. Early!!!

EMBLEM OF JUSTICE

A Slither Of Hope

They gave him a free ride: a four year athletic scholarship to play football, he was the fastest middle linebacker the coaches had ever seen. He could pick up a lapsed coverage on an open receiver, tight end or running back. And more than anything he was the cherry on top of all of Kansas's blitz packages. And before any hole on that line could open he was there to stop any running back from rushing through. Needless to say he was the opposing quarterback's worst nightmare. Milton Davidson: All American Whiteboy..Pro scouts had been eyeing him hard, good grades, good stats: 7 sacks; 6 interceptions; and he was at the bottom of every pile-up, signifying that he was the first to make contact on 90 percent of tackles on the field. He was a beast. Milton was a team leader.

His secret to his tough play was raw pork. Yelp! Raw pork. Of course he had a good regimen of steroids, but it was the raw pork that was the gas in his football tank. The pork wasn't completely raw, but it was close: semi-cooked. He'd put whatever cut pork in the pan for 7 minutes only, doused it with a ton of salt, put it between two slices of bread, with thickly spread mayonnaise and bit in like he was entering heavenly salvation. He thought that cooking the pork all the way through defeated the purpose of the pork which he had heard was high in protein. He got free pork loins from a butcher shop off campus. The head butcher was a big University of Kansas football fan. Milton Davidson had been getting the free pork cuts for four years. In his four years of football at Kansas he'd heard a lot of things about how to increase strength. An assistant defensive coach once told him that raw pork worked well with steroids and gave an athlete the maximum advantage. He used 'Testin' steroid cream everyday and every three weeks he'd get a shot with a syringe filled with anabolic steroids in his left ass cheek. Afterward he'd workout-heavy reps, squats, bench presses etc. All American Milton Davidson would admire his muscular body in the mirror after hard workouts, aside from the acne on his back from the steroid use-he considered himself a Caucasian Football god. After his pose down in the mirror he would eat four pounds of raw pork-at least four pounds of raw pork. The NFL scouts want size and mass, weightlifting had become a routine, second nature. What Milton didn't know is that he had a few very large tapeworms growing in his colon, as the result of the raw pork. The worms had been growing in his bowels for four whole years. Not only had he been feeding the worms raw pork but by him taking steroids-the worms had also been growing abnormally large because of his heavy steroid use. The worms were big, strong and firm like their host. The worms had grew to the length and girth of actual snakes, if not bigger. They were ready to come out of their host, all they needed was a push.

Him and a few of his teammates went to a Mexican restaurant off campus one night and they dared Milton to eat the Hell Fire burrito, it was a 15 inch burrito made with the hottest peppers on Earth. Milton accepted the challenge and was cheered on by his teammates and the beer drinking college crowd as he bit into the flaming hot Hell Fire burrito. When the peppers got to his lower intestines it disturbed the parasitical snake sized worms incubating in his stomach. The hot peppers caused the worms to uncomfortably twist, and slither wildly. It was the first time he had ever felt the parasites move deliberately. With hot lips from the Hell Fire Burrito and a stomach that seemingly had a mind of it's own, he rushed to the toilet, pulled down his pants, recklessly placing his ass cheeks on the pissy toilet seat and he grunted like he was attempting to bench press five hundred pounds. The parasitical snakes in his stomach were stubborn-they didn't immediately come out, instead they moved around, causing indentations of their slithery movement to form on the outside of his stomach as evidence of their presence inside of him.

His teammates followed him in the small bathroom laughing-thinking everything was Okay: just a case of the bubble guts. They knocked on the stall door, laughing as the All American Football star grunted for dear life.

"Yo dude-you OKay??!" John Kacheveski the Defensive Tackle yelled.

With a voice sounding as if he was completely in distress, in a weak, defeated tone he uttered "I gotta shit. It won't come out." What made it worse is that his lips were hot from the Hell Fire Burrito. The snake sized worms were in his colon looking for a way out-they opened gaps in the cement-like fecal matter impacted solidly on the walls of his intestines causing air bubbles to form, making Milton let loose heavy ass, stereophonic farts, unnatural farts, buzzsaw sounding farts that seemed to never end. The five minute fart symphony stunk up the small bathroom in the Mexican restaurant so bad that it caused the Cornerback and the Nose Tackle to leave the small bathroom with their faces scrunched up tightly.

"Dude are you Okay?!!" John Kacheveski asked again--asking if he was okay was the closest thing he could offer to medical help. The snake sized worms in his colon continued to slush around, slithering in the midst of the undigested pork and shit in his bowel. He farted again and the fart was heard in the restaurant as other patrons ate. Everyone heard the five minute fart-it was unnatural-causing people in the restaurant to ask for their checks. They wanted to leave.

One of the snake sized worms sensed a way out, taking the same sliding board way out that shit takes through the lower intestines. As Milton, the All-American Middle Linebacker strained on the pissy toilet seat, the tapeworm on steroids squeezed his grayish, white head out of the line backer's asshole. It was the first time the tapeworm breathed air, the new atmosphere caused the snake like tapeworm to wildly wiggle with an explosion of movement. The linebacker yelled as the super sized tapeworm with the girth the size of a baseball bat was painfully expelled from his rectum. His eyez rolled to the back of his head as he shit out the snake. It was the Granddaddy of all tapeworms. A five foot tapeworm wildly slithered from the middle Linebacker's asshole, spewing blood and excrement all over the toilet bowl. Smaller worms easily fell out after such a big hole in the rectum had been made. His asshole looked like someone had stuck an M80 firecracker up his ass and lit the fuse.

Milton Davidson fell off the toilet and hit the stall door head first. His teammates tried to open the door but Milton's heavy 255 pound body was wedged between the toilet and the stall door. The slushing sound of the tapeworms on steroids splashed around in the toilet bowl. The splashing sound made the football players look at each other as if to say, "What the fuck is that?"

Finally, they got the door open and dragged their All Star middle linebacker out of the stall onto the bathroom floor. The defensive end was the first to look in the toilet bowl and the 340 pound man screamed like a 12 year old girl when he saw the slithering tapeworm attempt to raise up like a King Cobra preparing to strike.

"Ahhhhhhhh!" He screamed, slamming the toilet lid shut.

"What is it Mike?" The rest of the defensive players asked.

"It's a fucking Cobra dude! He shit a fucking Cobra!"

It wasn't a Cobra but it had the striking deliberation of a Cobra. The tapeworm hit the underside of the toilet lid causing it to jump.

"Mike, sit on it-for God sake dude don't let that thing out!" The 340 pound Defensive End sat on the toilet seat but still the strength of the tapeworm was pronounced as he felt the dull thud hit from the underside of the toilet seat's lid causing the big whiteboy to jump as if he were in a car rolling over a bump.

'Thud! Thud! Thud!' That tapeworm wanted out bad, and worst off--it was strong. Real strong!

"Flush the fucking toilet Mike!!!" Jovon Washington the outside linebacker yelled. Flushing was a good idea. Mike flushed and the tapeworm wiggled even wilder, struggling against the pressure of the flushing toilet. The tapeworm wasn't going anywhere. After surviving the vacuum like suction of the toilet flush the five foot tapeworm struck the underside of the lid with a crazy insane violence causing the 340 pound Defensive End to bounce on the toilet seat with each wild slam from the tapeworm. As the tapeworm became more violent the rest of the team dragged Milton Davidson out of the bathroom, pants still down around his ankles, bleeding profusely from his rectum, everybody in the restaurant got up yelling at the sight of the path of blood created from the bleeding middle linebacker's ass. They laid their teammate down on the floor. He looked up at his teammates and weakly whispered, "I think another one is about to come out!"

Number 88, Mustafa Hamid was a Sophomore Wide receiver from D.C.. He was at the Mexican restaurant with two white Cheerleaders named Hope and Chastity. He got up from his table and yelled, "What is yall crazy white motherfuckers doin now? And why is Milton bleeding from his ass?"

"Call the police!" The Mexican restaurant's owner yelled to his heavy set wife Marta. He thought a fight had broken out, but a fight wouldn't explain the gaping gash at the center of the Middle linebacker's ass. And then it happened-the Great grand daddy of tapeworms bust through the asshole of the middle linebacker. It slowly slithered out, squiggling, flopping, writhing, wiggling with a red blood stained tip, marking its grayish-white head. 8 feet in length and the girth of a baseball bat. It came out violently, destroying what was left of number 56's asshole. Milton would need reconstructive surgery on his ass.

The two blond Cheerleaders, Hope and Chastity froze, but not Mustafa-he used that 4.3 speed of his to get ghost, leaving the two white chicks at the table. Chastity jumped on the table and Hope fainted. Too bad for Hope. The tapeworm slithered quickly over to Hope, and searched for an orifice on the cheerleader's body. The tapeworm found her mouth and the 8 foot, bloody, shitty tapeworm slithered down the throat of Hope.

Emblem

PS.
Don't Eat Pork!!!

Take Mario Puzo's Dick Out The Back Of Your Throat

Mario Puzo's novel 'The Godfather', and Francis Ford Coppola's adaption of transforming the book into a film has caused the phenomenon of the Italian Mafia to set the world ablaze. Puzo was the first writer to let outsiders into the world of the mafia. Prior to The Godfather, Hollywood had plenty of black and white shoot 'em up Gangster flicks featuring the likes of James Cagney, Humphrey Bogart and others, but nothing rivaling the cinematography, drama and symbolism of The Godfather. America has since overdosed on the 'Mafia' brand and Hollywood has employed a select core of Italian American actors to sell this cinematic drug of choice to the American public. Robert Dinero, Al Pacino, Joe Pesci and James Gandolfini as Tony Soprano are just a few. Their masterful portrayals of Mafiosos have caused Italian blood to temporarily flow through every American's veins at one time or another. One of the art forms that has been effected the most by mafia films is Hip Hop. Hip Hop over the last 20 plus years has figuratively speaking put Mario Puzo's dick in the back of its throat, glamorizing half-original crime-from Wu-Gambino's-to 3-6 Mafia-and numerous other hip hop acts. The fact that so many Hip Hop artist have infringed on gangster films, by employing voice-overs, mafioso motifs in advertisements as well as excerpts from mafia movie dialogue to make their music more appealing is not original at all. I'm sure such massive copyright infringement pays for some big-time copyright Lawyer's summer home somewhere in the Hamptons.

Rappers have rhymed the names 'Pacino', and 'Dinero' countless times and many rappers at one time or another have referred to themselves as 'Don'. Yeah right: Don Mulinyan!

17 years ago when my son was approximately 18 months, I use to have VCR tapes that held hours of Barney episodes- Barney non-fucking stop. My son could watch that purple Dinosaur endlessly. I even began to learn the shows by heart myself. Similarly, I knew a dude who would watch Godfather 1, Godfather 2, and Godfather 3 over and over again, so much so that he developed the ability to parrot the entire trilogy effortlessly. In his defense, he claims that he was extracting 'jewels' from the movie-not for purposes of crime but to understand the mafia code of honor from Sicily known as 'Omerta'. He'd watch all of these movies that explore criminality, while never himself committing an actual crime. Watching mafia flicks over and over again in my opinion is unhealthy and can possibly lead to a delusional perception of self: fantasizing about being 'Made' is not fly. A grown man knowing all the words to the Godfather movies like my son parroted Barney-is not cool. It's actually sad, it's kinda like jackin' your dick to a porn flick but instead the individual masturbating busts a nut by mouthing to himself silently, "Lucca Brazzi sleeps with the fishes."

One thing I've learned about The Godfather, Mafia films, and Hollywood 'shoot 'em ups' is that no music plays when you kill someone in real life, you don't say anything cool like 'Leave the Gun- get the cannolis."; you don't kill a Police Captain and flee to Italy for five years, freely roaming the mountainous country sides of Sicily with Italian bodyguards until the 'heat' in America cools down. Mario Puzo sold a dysfunctional bill of goods to an already violent American public. America has always been ultra-violent-from the Revolutionary War; to gangster films; to video games; to TV. America is no stranger to violence.

Last night I watched 'The First 48', a show that investigates real murders, interviews real witnesses, and to the shows credit-it shows that there is nothing glamorous about murder. Tony Soprano murdered someone every week on the HBO original series 'The Sopranos', and strangely, I can't recall one episode in which 'T' saw the inside of an interrogation room. The Sopranos starts off real cool, catchy theme music while Tony drives over the bridge to his million dollar home in Jersey, smoking his cigar, blowing smoke, and looking out for the feds in his rear view mirror. Bottom line: Hollywood actors get theme music and real people don't. Everybody who has ever put in 'work' knows that there is no theme music in the game. Back in the day I once listened to 'Only Built For Cuban Links' before I rule cipher borned a dude. I was listening to the track entitled 'Spot Rushers'-anyway, that'z the closest I've ever come to theme music: a Goddamn Wu-Tang CD! In reality, there is no theme music, no editing, and no cinematography-just some dumb, impressionable kid, sitting in an interrogation room crying for his mommy, ready to cop to any deal a homicide detective or prosecutor puts on the table. Next, the poor kid will find himself standing before a white Judge looking at years in the penitentiary-years equal to the numbers on an average wide receiver's football Jerzey or worse: life-in-prison.

Every time I watch a gangster flick I remember that it's a Hollywood film crew that makes the Rain, Hail, Snow and Earthquakes around the actor. Tom Cruise is on a Motorcycle in a spy flick with the white bitch Cameron Diaz on the back, she flips around and holds two sub-machine guns and shoots at the cars in hot pursuit all while travelling at the terrific speed of a 120 miles per hour on a Ducchatti Motorcycle. In real life, both of the white people would be dead-even a super secret agent like Cruise. But with a little Hollywood trick-knowledge, Tom and Cameron can humorously flirt with each other in between the loud burst of automatic gun-fire, as cars flip and explode on a busy highway interstate during rush-hour. Get da fuck outta here!!!! Guns are loud: loud-loud! Accidents are deadly, blood flows indeed, and there are no stunt drivers waiting in the wings, and if there were; they'll be charged with homicide. And when said getaway stunt driver is taken into custody by cee cipher punks, placed in that chilly interrogation room he'll do his best to live up to the toughness of his tattoos for about 5 minutes. He'll start to hear phrases like '25 to Life' spew from the mouths of both the good-cop and the bad cop. He will quickly snitch and explain how it was all your idea. He will then realize that murder is not as cool as Don Corleone, Lil Wayne, Gucci Mane, 50 Cent or Mario Puzo made it out to be. There is no theme music to murder and one doesn't stroll away with a 'Michael Corleone' Gangster lean as the strings of the Godfather's violins cry. THE WHITE MAN WILL PUT YOUR BLACk ASS IN PRISON UNTIL YOU DIE(*and he won't blink).

The jewels I take away from Gangster flicks are that very few niggas got paid while they were being made, and if they did get a few dollars-it was probably for sweeping up the movie set after the film crew was done shooting for the day.

A black guy is sweeping up after a long day on the set of a gangster flick; Al Pacino is leaving his private trailer with the 5 pointed-star on the door as a testament to his celebrity status; and the black guy who's sweeping the floor waves at Al and says "Good Night Mr. Pacino."

Pacino steps into a waiting limo, wearing shades and the wave from the black guy sweeping is not returned by Al. Al Pacino, Robert Dinero and Marlon Brando don't give a fuck about your black ass, so mind your business, keep sweeping and take Mario Puzo's dick out the back of your throat.

Bada Bing,

Don Emblemo Justiano