Could August 6th, 2009, have been a worse day for me? To prove so would be difficult, given three of my favorite things:
- iconic filmmaker John Hughes
- the Boston Red Sox
- my lifelong plan to snake my way into the American presidency only to reveal myself as a black person and do all kinds of scary black stuff to you fool-ass crackers.
What happened on August 6th, 2009?
(1) John Hughes up and flipping died
(2) the Red Sox got absolutely murdered by the Yankees (as a result of the "senior citizen starting pitcher" gag presumably set into motion by Ashton Kutcher)
(3) I, while searching for a long-buried personal document, stumbled upon a copy of my birth certificate (which I had retrieved many years ago in order to apply for a passport and then filed away)...only to discover that it is not a birth certificate--but rather, a "certificate of live birth".
Point '3', Exhibit 'A' (as in, "Ah hate dem white folk!"):
In light of the recent razor-sharp detective work of patriots such as Lou Dobbs, Bizarro Arianna Huffington and the on-air Muppets of Fox News in their holy quest to unmask America's current president as the partially black person that he truly is, you can bet my secret warehouse full of fried chicken and watermelons that there ain't no way, no how I'm ever again going to try to pass myself off as an American citizen.
In fact...it'd probably be best for me to leave the United States altogether and start my life anew in some exotic foreign location. Hawaii, maybe.