All these years, I've gotten it wrong. So wrong.

Before I go any further, let me make sure you remember who I am. AL SHARPTON. I used to be the most talked about, Googled, face-attached-to-a-dartboard black activist out there. And now? Yesterday's race baiter.

Jesse Jackson, my first instinct was to criticize. But only after your second round of headline-grabbing do I realize your genius. The key isn't to call out other people for foolishness, Tomfoolery, and a fool's gold. The key is to race-bait with your own comments.

Jesse, I have so much to learn. Will you teach me? I want our mentor-protege relationship to warrant a montage to a really cheesy 80s song.

What if I said John McCain is gay? Do I need to have a reason or is there no method to your madness? I think Nancy Pelosi has a penis.  And that John McCain had gay sex with that penis?

Am I getting warm? Jesse, let me know! I'm your # 1 fan!

Well if you needed any proof of the Good Lord's graces, here it is. On Friday I asked Him to provide an outrage because it had been a slow summer, and not 3 days later He delivered. And what dramatics! Our old buddy Imus. Sometimes I think I'm one of God's favorite children. (Maybe not the smooth-talking funny son, but the oldest one who takes out the garbage without being asked and keeps the other rugrats in line.)

On Monday when talking about football player Adam "Pacman" Jones run ins with the law, Imus asked "what color is he?" I think the answer was obvious:

Yellow.

And after he got the answer, Imus said, "There you go. Now you know." So Imus is anti-Asian. Given his previous anti-Black statements that shouldn't be a surprise. What is a little harder to figure out is what races the ghosts who chase Pacman represent:

It's dangerous to make assumptions about hate, but I think it's a safe bet to say the ghosts represent the following races and that Imus despises them as well:

• Red - Native Americans
• Blue - Eskimos
• Pink - Gay Japenese people
• Orange - Buddhist Monks on fire

It's been quiet around here for a little while. I'm not bored ... just ... it's quieter than usual.

Okay fine, here's the deal: I had plans for Saturday, and it was something that was gonna be like an all day thing. But they just called and canceled, like literally just got off the phone ... and now I got nothing. My weekend is suddenly empty. And all my friends are busy because I told them I was gonna be busy.

I'm just saying ... it might be cool if something happened that really pissed me off. Then I'd have shit to do. Nothing big, I'm not picky. Maybe a sports announcer can say "negro" while referring to a brother athlete, or a white police officer can get let off for beating an African American gentleman who was escorting his momma to church. Yeah, that'd be good. See, I'm already starting to get a little pissed off just thinking about it. And that's good.

Nothing kills time like a good ol' fashioned boycott, and let's just say I've been listening extra-hard to Howard Stern and those Opie and Anthony fellas, and the second they slip the "N" word, I'm gonna rain down on their ass like the next Katrina.

Let's get up to speed real quick. Spike Lee recently criticized Clint Eastwood for not including any black soldiers in his two films Letters from Iwo Jima and Flags of Our Fathers. Eastwood then told Spike to 'shut his face', which in turn led Spike to say, "we're not on the plantation." This will probably cause Eastwood to re-retort with something even more bad ass like: "I don't give second warnings" or "Today is a good day to die". Most likely, the spat will then dissolve into "your mom doesn't shuts her mouth", etc.

I've reflected on this issue, and you may be surprised to learn that I side with Spike on this one.

Whitie has a long tradition of usurping things that belong to us: Rock'n'Roll, the Jew-fro, Halle Berry's fine self. But what I just found out is a whole new level of hijacking.

The next valedictorian of my alma mater Morehouse's graduating class is going to be some white dude! (By alma mater, I of course mean metaphorically -- I dropped out of Brooklyn college to tour with James Brown and never graduated college.)

And guess who's memory this kid evoked when justifying why he accepted the honor:

"What Morehouse stands for at the end of the day, and what Dr. King epitomized, it's not about black or white, it's about the content of [a person's] character. It's about me, representing Morehouse in that light -- not as a white man or a black man."

Ick! Gag me. It's always MLK they quote. Well I took the time to survey a few other influential black leaders and am happy to report back their quotes. (Ed. note: Since all of these sources were dead, I took the liberty of guessing what their responses would be.)

Frederick Douglas: "I had to sneak into a shed to learn how to read. Did this guy face any hardships like that? Didn't think so."

Nat Turner (slave rebellion leader): "That rebellion may have been a bad idea. But not as bad of an idea as letting this white kid be valeDICKtorian."

I made another long-winded analogy today. This one was about Hillary not leaving the race.

"The worst thing in the world is when an entertainer doesn’t know when the show is over. The audience is gone, the lights are down, you’re getting ready to cut the mics off and you are still on the stage singing. It’s over, it’s all right, it’s over. Come sing another day, but this show is over for Sen. Clinton.”

The paper didn't print the rest of the quote...

"You finally step off stage and wander through the dark halls back to your dressing room. As you enter, your image in the mirror catches you off guard and you jump inside your skin. Then you realize that you wouldn't have minded if a strange man was waiting for you in the dressing room. The mysterious man in the trench coat is romantic to you and it would be a nice change of pace from the same old routine. But alas you are alone. You slip out of your dress and notice your sagging bosom. The body you picture in your mind was 20 years and 2 kids ago. You light a cigarette and take a long drag, holding it in your lungs and picturing the smoke filling up your body like it does a car with the windows up.

It's been exactly 13 days since the Sean Bell acquittal or as I refer to it, "Black black guy day". You probably noticed that I haven't posted on this blog in the past two weeks. Most likely you assumed it was because I was too sad-- that the tears streaming from my face would find the cracks in my keyboard and fritz up my hard drive. Or maybe you thought I was too angry and that I would try typing by pounding my fists on the keyboard. For instance,"This is an outrage!" would be translated to the very illegible: "lkshde!sjkfbn%@kjgK&S!"

Well actually the reason I didn't blog was because I was attempting the world's first blogging strike. As it turns out, no one really cares when you go on a blogging strike. Go figure. So we had to think of other protests. Hunger-striking was out of the question due to my affinity for fine Italian cuisine. (Also for Southern, French, Ethiopian, Tex-Mex, Pan-Asian fusion and molecular-gastronomic food).

So we were in a bit of a protesting slump you could say. But then we thought of something ingenious. The most annoying protest in the world!

Ok. I get it legal system. This is a make-up call for OJ. Like in sports when the ref blows a call, and he makes up for it on the next play by favoring the team the unfair call went against. On the cosmic scale of racial injustice, we're just about back to reconstruction era mentality -- when blacks were technically free, but couldn't own property.

The head of the police officers’ union, Patrick Lynch made an interesting statement this morning:

"Every time a police officer goes on the street there is never a script. We have to deal with circumstances as they come."

Fair point, suspiciously-named Mr. Lynch. We need to write a script for how to deal with people loitering outside a night club. Allow me to mock up a draft:

Last night the lovely Lady Vols of Tennessee defeated the upstart Stanford Cardinal squad to capture the women's NCAA national championship. Despite many awkward one-handed shots and play that appeared to be happening at 1/10th the speed of a normal hoops game, it was a magnanimous achievement.

The major accomplishment wasn't that the Lady Volunteers repeated their championship from a year ago, rather that no shock jock pointed out that the consistency of the losing team's hair was of a coarser, frizzier variety than the victors.

In case you didn't know, it's the one year Imus-versary today. Most of you are probably wondering how I celebrate/mourn the day after the women's collegiate national title game.

First I wake up and have a large breakfast. On an empty stomach, indignation can quickly turn into indigestion -- the number one enemy of a civil rights activists (other than riot dogs). Usually I eat 9 eggs, and 3 bowls of afroflakes. (Really they are just regular corn flakes that I draw over the label of.)

I spend the rest of the morning role-playing as Imus. I dress up in overalls, a cowboy hat and put one of those straw pieces in my mouth. Then I comb my pretty white hair (100 times -- not a stroke less), I cover my body in fresh lilac pedals and shave the hair off around my nipples.