Al Sharpton’s Blog

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.

The other Al on this website convinced me to do a commercial campaign with Pat Robertson about the dangers of global warming. He's spending 300 million on it, most of which is going to me I think.

Everyone is saying that Pat and I are strange bedfellows, which is absurd. I can't speak for Pat, but I prefer the company of bedladies. I like my women like I like my justice: completely legal, swayed by my influence, and with a nice moral rectitude (by this I mean her rump and anus).

You might be surprised to know we did the shoot without a script. We had plot points to touch on, but for the most part we were just playing off each other. Here's the transcript:

Pat: Hey black guy, I know that sun damage won't give you melanoma, but global warming will be bad for your people too.

Al: Black people can get skin cancer as well.

Pat: And AIDS.

Al: White people planted AIDS in African monkeys to get rid of us.

Please take a few minutes and watch this anti-Obama video from Pastor James Manning.

From one outspoken pastor with a funny voice to another (your voice sort of sounds like mine on helium), maybe turn down the vitriol a notch or twelve. You started out strong with humor:

“Obama is a Macdaddy! You don’t get your campaign started with a big-chested white woman. She must be a 54-D. Double D. That’s the first place I saw his name. On a pair of great big ole tits. Obama is a long-legged Macdaddy!”

Long-legged? You sure you aren't mistaking him with the roadrunner? But then the gloves come off:

“I haven’t trashed Obama. His African in-heat father went whoring after a trashy white woman. He was born trash. I said he was born trash!

Listen, I'm jealous of Obama too. He has the world wrapped around his finger the way Jesse, me and you never will. But did you hear those audible gasps from the crowd when you said the trash line? Can I suggest an edit -- rubbage. It's a cute sounding British word. It'll go over better. Next target: your parish.