Making Up Dreams is Harder Than it Sounds

I did not need a whole entry for this, because that title... sums it all up. I'm just trying to avoid doing my school work, and Shannon is being a good kid and not talking to me until it's finished. So I have no distractions besides this blog here.

I finished my English... and my History presentation, but there's something about making up 10 dreams and then analyzing them when you know them to be false, that doesn't seem all that appealing to me at the moment.

Instead I will write a story about a man named Evan (the names have been changed (barely) to protect the innocent). Evan lives in the far off land of Minnesota, where there are no ghettos and certainly not enough black people to engulf him into their culture. Nevertheless, Evan is a wigger by definition. He talks black, acts black, and even has fitted hats with the most ridiculous things stitched into them.

Now Evan has a slight birth defect, which may be the reason that he was so easily influenced by such a misguided rap culture. It's barely noticeable to the untrained eye, however I have found that when you put your mind to it... it's definitely there! Allow me to explain, Evan's cheeks are about 7 sizes too large for the rest of his head. For the sake of description, picture Gerald from Hey Arnold... got it? Okay, now instead of the tall afro, replace it with a fitted cap and then color him white. And yeah, there you have it.

Evan spends much of his life talking to fat kids on the internet convincing them that he is not only black... but also the coolest black kid you will ever meet. He uses code words for sex, and always says he's skipping online gatherings to get some. However, much to everyone's surprise Evan trips over his own cheeks one night on the way to his mom's bedroom, and hits his nose on the floor HARD! In a moment of panic, he grasps his face and stammers backwards. His older sister had left her now ex-boyfriend laying outside her room, and to Evan's surprise right in the middle of the hallway floor. I say to his surprise, because while holding his now bloodied face, he trips over the large human mass and goes flying down the stairs of his house.

Now Evan new better than to go downstairs until morning, because his dad had just laid down a brown lacquer on the floor that took several hours to dry. Tumble, tumble, tumble, SMASH! Right into the molasses like material.

The moral? Oh you're going to love this one. Simply put, "Good things come to those who wait." Now this small, pathetic, white boy is a living breathing black man. After the swollen nose, and the new polished exterior, you could shove him into the Apollo Theater and have him read poetry about police brutality without so much as a snicker.


I love myself sometimes.