If you were waiting for the first white nonsense of 2016, you sure didn't have to wait long. Pissed-off peckerwoods with big-ass guns took over an empty federal wildlife refuge building like some true American Heroes, right here in the Great Northwest. Among them is the son of one Cliven Bundy, the one-time Fox News darling caught on tape talkin' 'bout "the nigra," like he just sprang out of Tarantino's skull, Athena-style.
Lil' Bundy is clearly gassed off the Constitution (a fickle bitch if ever there was one), white privilege (how you mad about "stolen land" when it was literally stolen from Native Americans to begin with), and the juice his daddy got from backing down Uncle Sam in Nevada—but for now, him and his mossie are bicken back without the boys on his helmet. How is that possible?
It's obviously an insult on top of injury (after injury, after mortal fucking injury) that armed white men—literally the worst—can threaten to kill authorities and occupy shit at will while black folks have been getting gassed, kidnapped, and murdered, without consequence, on the regular, for doing far, far less. (For protesting, for shopping, for driving, for playing!) And yeah, we're incensed that these guys who call themselves "patriots" and a "militia" are not called what they are, which is terrorists. But I'm thinking, this time, though—how exactly would it help if these guys were called that? Answer: about as much as the video of a cop shooting a 12-year-old to death would help get that cop indicted. About as much as the limits of credulity could stretch to explain how Sandra Bland hung herself with a trash bag.
Like, I don't want Feds and police to swoop in and do them like they do us, I want them to stop doing us like that! Or do we think that merely naming this evil will shame these white terrorists who feel so emboldened (whether they rep NASCAR or a badge) into acting like humans—or those good Americans who let all this happen on their watch? They'll still get a Whopper with cheese if they want—even Dylann Roof got to have it his way.
Shit's ugly—and if you actually thought we were gonna leave any of that in 2015, that it wasn't in fact going to get worse this year, then I got some stolen Paiute land for you to occupy.
Meanwhile, back at the ranch, beef rules the day once again. I stay hearing rumors of shake-ups and beef, and then Fatal Lucciauno—the rapper most fucked over by racist (and wrong) local music-industry politics over the last decade by my count—releases a kinda-intense eight-minute dis called "Domestic Violence," aimed at Neema and a local white rapper whom I truly can't take seriously because—seriously—he named himself after a character on Friends. Really? No one told me life was gonna be this way.