The majority of people that read the New Yorker can, in fact, read. Most people that read the New Yorker are progressive people, people who understand that this world can’t continue to be the same. Hell, the New Yorker is named after New York City, the greatest city in the world, filled with people who, I hope, understand that our government needs an overhaul. So why do we have this cover? I’ve heard rumors that this is a satire, that the New Yorker is criticizing people who actually think Obama is a militant fiend bent on world destruction. So, instead of having a cover that might help this new movement, the movement of putting into office a man that isn’t a complete moron, we have this cover. A cover that reaffirms fears and mocks a man and a group of people that want to make our country at least a little better. This magazine is suppose to be the end all for writers. If you make it into the New Yorker, you’ve won basically. I don’t read the New Yorker much. I won’t be reading it at all anymore.
Funny story. So I was in Wal-mart doing that stupid vendor job that I hate, when a guy has a question. I don’t really work there, but I’m smarter than the trolls that do, so I helped him out.
“I need to burn a disk for a presentation,” he said. He was older, white, professional.
“What kind of presentation?” I asked.
“Prostate cancer,” he said. Then he preached to me for about ten minutes about it. Prostate cancer. There will be free screenings soon in my area. Screenings that put a camera up your ass and check to make sure nothings growing. Half way through, I noticed he kept saying “your” and “their” we referring to the people who don’t get tested.
“Talk to your people about it,” he said. Oh, that’s right. I’m black. And all black people talk to each other. At the next black people meeting, I’ll bring it up. Hey, guys. We need to go get our prostates tested. Don’t worry, its free. And maybe they’ll give us free chicken and play gangsta rap. I heard P Diddy gets his prostate tested like a mo-fo.