Did you know there’s some motherfucking cotton company in Texas called “Samuel Jackson”?

Naw, of course you didn’t, unless you’re into cotton. Which ain’t likely. More likely, you’re into weird Japanese porn and that World of Warcraft bullshit my neighbor’s kid is playing all the got-damn time.

But yeah. There’s some motherfuckers out there in Texas who have a got-damn cotton company, and they call that shit Samuel Jackson. Sure, they left the ‘L.’ out, but got-damn, I didn’t spend most my motherfucking life fighting for Civil Rights and acting in shitty movies just to see my got-damn name attached to no got-damn cotton gin company. I might as well be getting me some 40 acres and a got-damn mule if they gonna use Sam Jack to sell cotton.

So Oliver Stone -- the motherfucking has-been that never fucking was -- is making a movie about George W. Bush, the has-been that never goes the fuck away.

Now, you motherfuckers might think I'd be all pissed off and shit that they ain't asked me to play Colin Powell, but that's just bullshit on a hot plate. I ain't got no interest in playing that motherfucker pussy-ass bitch.

Naw, man, I'm pissed off that Olly Stone ain't asked me to be his Dick Cheney. I'm tired of being typecast as a badass black motherfucker--I want to play a badass white motherfucker who shoots elderly lawyers in the face when they get between him and a got-damn target.

Let me give you a got-damn example of how motherfucking good I'd be as Cheney.

Motherfuckers are throwing down with my man Obam over his comments that there are some bitter got-damn voters out there. Certain people are calling my man Obam a "Chardonnay-swilling elitist" for even suggesting that people in America are pissed off at all the shit our elected got-damn officials been doing in our name for thirty got-damn years.

You know what? Ain't got nothing to do with elitism: poor people drink Chardonnay too--they just got to skip getting some decent motherfucking health care in order to afford that shit. Hell, even the motherfucking homeless manage to get at some primo Chardonnay from time to time.

All this protesting over the got-damn Olympics is beginning to piss me the fuck off.  Y'all like to say the torch run is a symbol of how we’re all "one"  living in peace but the truth is Nazi Germany started that torch shit to prove just how much it fucking ruled to be an Aryan motherfucker in a world of half-breeds and darkies. Shows how much fucking foresight those Nazis had--they weren't pissed off about Muslims.

Know what really unites the nations of the world? Violations of human rights. Track and field events don't got one motherfucking thing to do with making us all feel like we're unitied. If we really want to use the Olympics to promote global unity, then we got to get us some new got-damn sporting events.

Here’s my proposals. Suck my dick, IOC, if you ain’t  approving this shit:

Event 1: Bataan Death Run and Obstacle Course

The beauty of this event is that it takes place on a giant fucking treadmill that has no "off" button, so the wounded will need to keep their ass in motion if they hope to win. 

Added bonus: knives set up neck-high along the track, meant to slash the jugulars of anyone who gets too got-damn close to the motherfucking edge.

Even better: Takes place in complete fucking darkness. We gonna watch that shit in nightvision.

I was listening to NPR this weekend.

And I bet all you motherfuckers never thought I'd begin a blog saying that, like I ain't got nothing better to do on a weekend than sit around bitching about snakes and the got-damn influence of the metric system on American fast food.

Sometimes a brother's just got to sit back and take shit in, you know what I'm saying? If I were hardcore all the motherfucking time, I'd've done blown out my frontal lobe with a stroke. So I was chilling. Glass of wine. Smart stogie. Warm, nipple-teasing breeze blowing. Some cheery got-damn sunshine basking down on me like a hot semi-porny Angelina Jolie jailbait picture. NPR on the radio.

Turns out those NPR people got a new feature going on. It's called "In Character," and this is what they say about that shit: Great characters: What makes them? What does it take to create them? Why do they matter? NPR's In Character series joins with readers to explore these questions.

I was gonna lay a blog about Dr. Martin Luther King, jr., today, but came to a grim fucking realization: I might have Civil Rights cred but you motherfuckers wouldn't even know the good Dr. had been killed if it weren't for some fucking white Irishman. So fuck it. All I'll say about MLK is that he was shot for being too got-damn black; forty years later, there's a man running for president that we ain't gonna vote for because he ain't black enough.

That's either some motherfucking progress or severe motherfucking retardation--I ain't sure which.

So since some drunk Irish motherfucker was too busy writing half-ass lyrics about a slain African-American instead of picking IRA shrapnel out of his pale white ass like everyone else in his own got-damn country, I'm gonna have to pick me another motherfucking subject to talk about. Fucking Bono owns the MLK assassination.

I'm just gonna say the headline. I ain't reporting the got-damn news, but you need to know the headline before I launch into what is going to be one pissed-off motherfucking tirade.

The headline is Police: Man Had Sex With Picnic Table.

And yeah, you read that shit right. The man wasn't arrested for having sex on no got-damn picnic table. Homeboy was arrested for having sex with a picnic table. And, homeboy's taste in furniture non-with-motherfucking-standing, there's a lot about this headline--and about the accompanying got-damn article--that pisses me the fuck off. Go read that shit. Then come back here and let me enlighten your ass on the whys and wherefores of police bullshit.

You read it? Alright then. Let's get this tirade going.

In the first fucking place, you can't have sex with no got-damn table. Unless that table's moving around and making moaning noises like it's in the Beast's castle (and you know the Beast was doing all kinds of deviant sex shit with his furniture before that Belle chick showed up), then you ain't fucking it. You're masturbating.  Calling a masturbation session with a table "sex" is like saying "nose-picking" is a finger-bang.

I just got a letter from some Hillary Clinton supporters -- what the fuck is this shit?

Dear Mr. Jackson:

Several states and millions of Democratic actors have not yet had a chance to cast their votes.

We respect those actors and believe that they, like the actors in the states that have already participated, have a right to be heard. No one should endorse or support a Democratic candidate until all actors have made their voices heard. We firmly believe this, and we know that you, a supporter of democracy as well as the star of Snakes on a Plane,  must agree that this is a time for patience and not a time for endorsement.

Mr. Jackson, we saw Black Snake Moan last night, and know how sympathetic you can be to white women in distress. We would hate to see your own career fall into distress just by supporting a candidate before all the votes are in.

In my last post, I introduced you to film auteurs Fred and Sharon. You got some precious got-damn shit going on you want preserved for the fucking ages? Hire Sharon and Fred to video that shit cause pictures ain't enough, motherfucker–-you got to videotape it. And there ain't no need to argue with Sharon about it neither because she's got some cool, calculating eyes that say "I'll cut you where you stand, motherfucker, if you don't let us make a movie out of anything you got going on."

And Fred? You see his got-damn tie? That tie would scare the fuck out of a got-damn blind man. Just look at it:

     That tie ain't the tie of a sane man.