To speak the dun-language...

My old buddy Irish Pirate writes:


can you stop with this "sheeeeeeeeeeeeet".

I just spent ten minutes googling various names you used and I still feel more lost than Barry O'Bama at an Alaskan moose hunt.

Please, remember white folks read this blog. Have pity on us. Include a dictionary with citations. A "blictionary" so to speak.

Now, my black people, I know what you're thinking. We live in their world and no one gives us a whitionary. No one explains to us why Gatsby couldn't kick Daisy to the curb, why cucumber sandwiches taste good, or why keg parties are fun. White folk just look at you like, Figure it out nigger. To be a black professional is to a be a five-year old kid, straight out El Salvador, dropped into a class where no one speaks Spanish. Except that five-year olds are quicker than us.

So I understand the impulse to tell Irish Pirate to step off. But given that he gave us a pretty humorous rebuttal to "Once you go black, you never go back," we shall indulge him. For the uninitiated go here and here. They are your friends. In fact, I'm gonna put em on my blog roll.

True Story. A few years back I did a piece on Erylah Badu for a magazine. They actually published a glossary. Like "White Folks Who've Never Had Overcooked Collard Greens, See Here."

UPDATE: Or you could just rock Big L...