Not to be a Smug Sam, but things are looking pretty good in the Barack-verse. The Times Online published an excerpt from my first book yesterday and I read just enough of it to remember that I’m a f**king great writer:
I was trying to raise myself to be a black man in America, and beyond the given of my appearance no one around me seemed to know exactly what that meant. TV, movies, the radio; those were the places to start. Pop culture was colour-coded, after all, an arcade of images from which you could cop a walk, a talk, a step, a style. I couldn’t croon like Marvin Gaye, but I could learn to dance all the Soul Train steps. I couldn’t pack a gun like Shaft or Superfly, but I could sure enough curse like Richard Pryor.
That is good shit, people. Scratch that, GREAT shit. Ralph Ellison, may he rest in peace, can lick my literary balls. Figuratively, of course. Seeing as he’s dead.
And the news finally broke about how my website gets twice as many hits as Hillary’s. Twice as many. For every misguided soul who confuses the hair on Hillary’s upper lip for a sign of true leadership ability, there are two Barack-a-maniacs just chomping at the bit, ready to go.