Why I Hate Niggers and Especially Nigger-Bitches Even Though, Technically, I Am One

by Miss Ann Thrope

Don't think you can afford to laugh nowadays as the Jews drag us into their Shemitic family feud with their fellow dune coons! Breathe. Inhale. Hold it. Now release. And stop bogarting and pass it, fer chrissakes! Did you flunk sharing in Kindergarten? Stop watching the Tel-Avivision for a minute. It will only make you feel even shittier, watching The Zombies wave that limp, used Kotex sanitary pad formerly known as the Stars 'n' Stripes.

Have you ever had relatives that embarrass the phuck out of you? That made you wonder if this is God's idea of a sick joke; some sort of undeserved karma that makes you wince every time you're reminded that you share the same family tree with these cretins? You know the ones I'm talkin' about. That's right. THEM. And unfortunately for you and me, THEY LIVE.

No one would suggest that you "hated yourself" for admitting that these types exist, right? No one would infer that you are trying to "deny who you were" merely for pointing out your family's pathologies, and their attempts to out-do each other in the pissing contest for putting the "funk" in dysfunctional.

Well, it seems that I have earned some sort of cosmic retribution, although I'm driving myself crazy these days, trying to figure out what I could've ever done to win this spot on God's shit list. Aside from being born! I'm so desperate for answers, I've stooped to asking the Van Impes to put me on their prayer list. INDEFINITELY. Extreme measures, indeed. WAIT -- I found Jesus! Do you know he's been hiding behind the sofa the WHOLE GULDURNED TIME?

That em-BARE-ASS-ment that I described, my friends, is very similar to the feelings I have currently for many of my fellow "African-Americans" during these days of: jacking Whitey's gravy train for more gub'ment cheese; and reverting to blood-frenzied savagery in the urban jungles. Friends of Niggas don't let niggers buy gold teefes and Glocks on layaway.

I am the daughter of '60s black intellectual artists who flirted with Black Nationalism (and each other, obviously) during the heady days and purple haze of the Summer of Love. My father was a teacher at New York's City College; my mom was one of his students, a starry-eyed black hippie chick refugee from the North Shore of Chicago. Why do the Jews want Israel, anyway? Aren't the North Shore and Florida enough?

My mother dragged me to the S.F. Bay Area (the belly of the P.C. Multi-Kulti beast) when I was entering Kindergarten to chase her Utopian rainbows of social justice, 'wimmins rights,' and all the weed she could toke. I have baby photos of me in our former growing room! I was weaned on a figurative and literal hybrid diet of grits AND granola; corn bread AND tofu, and was exposed to the counterculture of black and White artists, intellectuals, musicians, and lefty-type political activists before I was teething. I was probably one of the very few black girls in my very integrated public school who learned how to walk on hardwood floors while my mother played Sun Ra records, and read Tarot cards in clouds of dense incense and Columbian smoke.

You get the picture. I was a freak even before I was conscious of it. I defied all conventional labels, and to make things worse, I was part of that gun-point-granted 'freedom for diversity' otherwise known as bussing. That would be code for "Pickaninny Potluck." Only "Guess Who's goin' in da pot?" And guess who's shit outta luck, Whitey? If I was that White bus driver, I'd have put on my best Miss Prissy accent and said, "Miss Scarlevitz, I don' know nuthin' 'bout bussin' no Bebe's kids!"

My mother should've known that I was going to have problems when I came home from nursery school crying, because the project bunnies were calling me "white girl." Now mind you, they weren't getting this perception from my skin, as I was a light-bronze-complexioned child with a thick, long shock of wavy black hair. Clearly a black child, albeit somewhat light-skinned until summer, anyway. I was too young and innocent to even know what being a "white girl" was. I just knew by the way that they were taunting me that it wasn't the thing to be.

I asked my mother through sobs if I was "white," and my mother looked at me, horrified, trying to figure out who and why anyone would torment her child with such dumb-ass nonsense. My mother is dark skinned and mixed with some Irish blood; my father is pretty light complexioned and a straight up black Seminole of Afro-Indian descent from Florida. Yep. THOSE Seminoles. Crazy MoFoes who engaged this country in the longest, most expensive and fiercest battle EVER against Whitey.

I came out with light-bronze skin, almond-shaped dark eyes, Tomahawk-chiseled cheek bones, and symmetrical, sharp features to rival those of any ski-jump-nosed, potato-chip-lipped, freckle-faced White child. That's why I've never been jealous of White girls, unlike most Chimpettes. Thank God. Genes are funny like that. I am definitely a chip off my father's block. I have the reddish-brown skin to qualify as a bona-fide mongoloid negress, yet the racial phenotype of my White and Indian relatives is undeniably visible in my face. So Nigger Bitches, don't hate me because I'm beautiful. Hate me because yo' NIGGA thinks I'm beautiful! Oh, wait -- THAT'S why you called me "white girl" in the first place, huh?!?

So why were these kool-aid-drunken Bebe's kids torturing me with accusations that I was "White"? It certainly couldn't have been my medium red-brown skin. Strangers of all races would stop my mother and comment on what a pretty child I was, and my peers asked me constantly what I was "mixed with." Adults of all races were always bewitched by my huge brown eyes, bronze skin, small lips, tiny button nose, and precocious, sassy charm. I never gave any of this multi-racial attention to my ethnic Afro-ambiguity much thought, as I knew I was just a li'l black girl too busy to care; setting up lemonade stands, going to summer camp, gorging on Now 'n' Laters, and raiding local plum trees with my integrated neighborhood's kids.

There were maybe two or three White families still stuck in our newfound working-class "changing" neighborhood, and these White kids befriended me. They told me in hushed tones that I was "different from those other Blacks," and their supposedly "racist" parents invited me into their homes, whereas the project jungle bunnies did not get extended the same birthday and sleep-over invitations. Nyeah, nyeah, nyeah! Seriously, I don't say this out of some twisted exclusivity, this is just a fact.

It should be pointed out that in retrospect, maybe these White kids' families were "racist," yet they trusted me over the rest of the little savages to be civilized in their homes. These Whites may or may not have been racist, but they were discriminating, as they recognized that I had what's referred to in Ebonics as "home trainin.'" Meaning that they knew I wasn't casing the house when I looked for my kickball in their shrubbery. So if they were in fact "racist," it couldn't have been just because of "brown skin." If they were so-called "racist," then why did they make an exception for me? Because they knew they'd never have to worry that I'd stain their furniture with Jherri Curl Juice, that's why!

      Mongrel's purgatory... This is when my life became a mongrel's purgatory. On the one hand, here I was, being raised bi-culturally by my hip swingin' sixties Afro-mama steeped in Afrocentrism; yet told by the niggers on the school bus that I was a "White bitch" at the tender age of six years old by monkey bitches who were repeating the third grade for the third time. It was surreal, to say the least. I wasn't even a White girl, yet I was being made to pay for their 'sins' just because I resembled Jane Goodall more than I did her furry friends!

My fellow "brethren" would try to sexually assault me, and beat me up when I resisted, and the "sistas" would spit in my hair one day, and then volunteer to braid my wavy, thick "good hair" they coveted the next. Confusion doesn't even begin to do explain what I was going through. Add to this volatile mix the fact that I had to learn ESL (that would be Ebonics as a Second Language) just to survive at school, and my lil' White buddies tried valiantly to protect me in vain from the jealous wrath of my "own people." I would ask my mother "why?" All she could say was, "They're just mad because they think you have something they don't." And what would that "something" be? An ATM card instead of a check-cashing card? Sense enough to know better than to lease furniture and DVD players on a weekly basis from Mr. Schwindler?

It only got worse by the time I was nine years old. My public elementary school was now a festering witch's brew of savage, gub'ment cheese-eatin' 'hood rats, PCP "loc'd out" Mexicans known as 'nortenos,' glue-sniffin' poor White kids, and upper-middle-class Birkenstock-clad White kids. A sprinkling of Asians kids who had sense enough to stay the hell out of everyone else's way.

Upon entering fourth grade, I was given a scholastic assessment test, and for one hour a day, I was spirited out of the class with almost exclusively White and Asian students, except for one other black boy and girl. I heard whispers that this was "the gifted class" from my fellow peers, and felt the burning hatred of the rest of the niggies left stewing behind, so illiterate they couldn't even crib notes if they tried, poor things. We "gifted kids" learned about "hypotheses" and "theories" and other scientific, esoteric sounding mumbo-jumbo, and I went about my business, reading and writing, absorbing information constantly. Although I will confess, math has never been my strong point. At least I know how to count change back, unlike most of these retail retards! The teacher was impressed with how quickly I mastered English vocabulary, articulation, comprehension, and grammar. My fellow pickaniggies were not, unfortunately for me.

I tried to adapt to my new environment, saying things like: "I'm finna buy some Lemon Heads at da sto'," and "I'ma axe you a question." My mother would ask me, "Do you think you're going to get a job talking like that?." To which I would respond, "But Lateesha's cousin got herself a GOOD job stealin' checks from da post office!"

The knee-grows started figuring out that I was a closet thinker, and they always "axed" me things like, "Why you be readin' so much, guhl? You thank you smart? You thank you White, huh, bitch? She thank she betta den sum'body jes' cuz she kiss up to dem white folks." I started hiding my books in between the pages of Ebony magazine just so they'd get off of my shit.

So I started adding things up: It was not just my racially ambiguous look but apparently my budding intellect that got these knee-grows' underoos all bunched up. Hmmmmm... Ok... So it was bad enough that I looked like a "White bitch" with a really dark tan, but I also had the nerve to actually try and learn something!

The worst ones were the light-skinned project niggers with features that wouldn't win a beauty contest in a simian compound at the zoo. C'mon, even if you're a liberal Whitey, you know what I mean. I think they hated me the most, because deep down, they knew that just because they had light skin, they still looked like Albino King Kongs. Huge, soup-cooler lips and nostrils spread so far across their face, you have to do a double take to check the hands for a little screaming blond chick slipping out of their opposable thumb-less grasp. They hated me with an intense passion, a passion more white-hot than any white-trash blind-hater could loathe me with!

It was, and still is one of the most bizarre aspects of my life, this warped mixture of hatred, envy, admiration, and desire from ghetto chimpazoid niggers.

I was raised to expect and be prepared for Liberal-White and closet-racist supremacism, but coming from "my own kind"? I knew I was fucked when I realized that getting good grades and being a thinker meant you were a "sell-out to da Black race," no matter how well one spoke or spelled Ebonics amongst the Afro-sheen and cake-cutter set! This reaction stung the worst, and it was these experiences that made it clear to me I was being forced to choose sides, as it were.

Hence, the nigger hatred began to take root deep within the bowels of my hard heart. If the only choices were to be a 40 oz. malt liquor-slurpin', gold-dookey-chain-wearin', ignorant, shit-talkin' Kwaneefa ghetto cunt, or "a White bitch," then I was ready to register as an honorary "White bitch." Like, Kewl! Where could I sign up? Would my honorary "White Bitch" pass get me into Oreo Paradise and away from Nigger Hell and Mongrel's Purgatory? If so, I promise to do the Carleton all the way there!

The Berkeley Jews and guilty White liberals mainly look upon a nigger's jungle-boogie antics with awe and reverence, and turn a blind eye to black juvenile violence, crime, illiteracy, and general rowdiness, so I hold them accountable. See no evil, hear no evil, smell no evil, NO. I hold them liable for making smart black kids choose between dumbing themselves down, or being ridiculed by niggers as "selling out to Whitey." They created these hell-holes known as inner-city public schools, and they know exactly what they're doing when they excise tracking programs from school curricula in the name of egalitarianism. Trying to feed us bullshit, and telling us it's just chocolate gelt left over from last Channukah!

Nigger bitches have a fetish with hair, probably because the majority of them can't grow any past their ears. I have experimented with all the different hair styles and lengths, natural and "faux" colors, and textures ever since I grew up singing along to Madonna as a teeny bopper, like most young girls in big cities and suburbs have done and still do. That is one of the privileges of being a "girly-girl," right? (Most people don't realize how many White and Jewish actresses and actors do the same with their hair in Hollyweird.) I didn't cut my own hair for five years once, I just kept it braided, and it sprouted past the middle of my back beautifully.

Whatever, right? WRONG. I had nigger bitches coming up to me cooing, "Ooooh, you must got dat Indian in you wid' all dat haaar!" (So? What's your point? What the hell does that have to do with the price of food stamps in Oakland?); or, "Is all dat yo' haaar!? (Again, WHY DO YOU CARE? SHOULDN'T YOU BE WORRIED ABOUT WHERE YO' BABY'S DADDY IS? OR IF YOUR REPARATIONS WILL COME IN TIME FOR THE NEXT FUBU SALE?).

You want to know why I hate them? Let me tell y'all something. "The Dozens" is a time-honored tradition in the Black community. Niggers have killed the art of the dozens. You guys have bowling, squash, skiing, hockey, rugby, mini-golf and such. Ghetto niggas have perfected the sport of the quick comeback, the cruelest insults about "yo' mama," the cold-hearted "diss." In the old days, the dozens was a relatively harmless way of blowing off intra-racial steam, and preparing one for the petty indignities of post-integration's White-liberal and Jewish supremacism. It honed your edge, and prepared one to be ready with the quick comeback when necessary. I love it, and I think it keeps one's wit sharp. It is cruel, but hilarious. Nowadays, it can get you killed, regardless of race. So in other words, if you are a knuckle-dragging, shit-talkin' nigger, you can verbally abuse and humiliate ANYONE without expecting to get tongue-lashed in return, based on sheer intimidation alone. If you say something back like "Why don't you get a job instead of waiting for Whitey to break you off some reparations, Tyrone"; or, "Can you buy Magic Shave for those nasty razor bumps on credit?" that is grounds for you to get free, crude cosmetic surgery with a rusty, dull box-cutter. I have seen these bitches slice each other up in the hallowed halls of our divershitty- filled public schools. Come to think of it, that primitive surgery is an improvement on some of these ugly-ass African-booty scratchin' nigga bitches! A lot of these Nigger dudes are nuthin' but bitch-made bitches on the "down low," too. They probably buy AIDS cocktails on lay-away, shit!

Nowadays, nigger-bitch egos are too fragile to bear the brunt of a smart-assed, sassy comback. I never venture into Niggerville, USA, without a HUGE can o' pepper spray, because the guilty White liberals' hands are voluntarily tied by Jews who indulge, no, encourage nigger savagery to terrorize the local gentry. To remind everyone of how powerless you really are when it comes to the criminal justice system. Most likely to cause division amongst Blacks, alienating the civilized few, and making folks in general justifiably leery about ALL BLACKS. Can somebody please tell me why the KKK is still around? They can hang up their robes now, because the niggers are doing a fine job of taking up where they left off! I'm less worried about a cross burning on my lawn than I am about a broke, dope-fiend nigger burning me with his empty crack pipe until he gets his next hit from the dope-man! Shit.

The prettier you are, the more nigga bitches itch to slice you up, or otherwise ruin your face and hair. Nope, Latrina bitches don't hold a monopoly on the razor fetish. Nigger bitches can't stand the sight of symmetrical beauty, because it reminds them of what they will never have, unless they sell enough food stamps to be able to afford Michael Jackson's plastic surgeon! Or at least his chimp's vet.

A nigger bitch is apparently big 'n' bad enough to say or shove her ghetto booty into whoever she wants; say whatever the hell she wants to anyone, and wherever, be it on the subway, or in the good part of town, (Especially there! Wouldn't want the niggies to know...oops, I mean think we're racist.), at the movies, but she is too fragile to absorb the verbal insult she provokes, so she lashes out violently. With minimal or no consequence. She maybe be as slow and stupid as the ignorant, nigga-bitch heifers who work for the government (I don't know about you, but I'm convinced that civil servant nigger bitches got their jobs only because they were too retarded and lazy to fill out welfare forms), but she's smart enough to know that her behavior wins the favor of the Jew Birds. You wanna talk about a "sell-out"?!? These nigger bitches sold themselves out to the Hebes for enough shekels to buy a few gold teef and some foot-long, fake-diamond-encrusted nails. Hey, are gold teefes, .99-cent-store hair-braid extensions and nails exempt from Kosher taxes?

The worst of the nigger bitches is the one who jumps her flabby, ashy ass up and down, flailing and screaming "GENOCIDE!" on Ricki Lake if someone suggests she get her tubes tied, instead of cranking out dozens of fatherless, neglected, and abused crack-head babies. Um, excuse me, but somebody forgot to tell me that crack is a pre-natal vitamin supplement. Oops, my bad. I must've dozed off again during the federally funded program, "Nutrition for crack-head nigger bitches in the first trimester"...The liberal judges and Jew lawyers who refuse to permanently sterilize and JAIL crack-head mothers deserve to have THEIR OWN children taken away and raised by these nigger bitches, so they can better appreciate the "love" these women apparently have so much to give.

So, White Folks, I have a news flash. Black folks hate niggas, too! No matter how much I hate niggers and niggeresses, I reserve the brunt of my hatred for liberal Whites and Jews who encourage nigger pathology at the expense of civilized Black folks. The Tel-Avivision tries to convince the youth of the gentiles that you ain't "keepin' it real" unless you act like a savage ape on a steroids and Red Bull cocktail. The creators of Tel-Avivision use nigger pathology to advance their agenda, then toss it out like three-year-old gefilte fish at their will. They grind up impressionable, gullible minds like so much expendable matzo meal with their vampire fangs, then projectile vomit it back at the thinkers, and cry "HATER!!" if you have even a halfway functioning gag reflex or bullshit detector.

So, White Folks, my family tree is being pruned, too. As is yours. I'm sorry that the people who are terrorizing you all over the globe currently share similar DNA with me. Oh, but I am the Black sheep of my Afro-herd in the in the worst way! So before you assume that we Blacks are all baaaaah-bing along to the raps of "our" sheep doggy-dogs like Al "Do-Rag" Sharpton and Jesse "Baby Daddy" Jackson, remember the relatives (that you're reluctantly related to, too) that embarrass YOU by trying to convince your friends to buy those Amway water filters and diet shakes. You can pick your nose, and you can pick your friends, but...)you know the rest).

If it gives you any consolation at all, take note that Niggers, White Trash, Liberal Xtians, nebbish neo-cons, Extortionist Jews, and anyone else acting along in this Theatre of the Absurd who defies Nature's Laws are being separated like the wheat from the chaff. And never forget that "today's mighty Oak tree is just yesterday's nut that held its ground."

MISS ANN THROPE

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