I am utterly terrified. I am often collapsed under my desk, trembling, clothes askew, in the fetal position, usually in a puddle of my own sick. My skin glistens with the sweat of a nameless fear, and my mouth is open in a silent scream. My pants are drenched in urine, and the smell of loosed bowels fills the room. The horror of my anxious terror looms like a sword above my numbed brain and nonfunctional mouth, as I, hyperventilating, gasp for the air that is never enough.
Or not.
As long as we're all talking so openly and speaking as a black man, I will volunteer that no one regrets more deeply that I white capitulation to the racial extortionists. It's always been clear that when the black marauders take over the first victims will be the nearest; to wit, decent blacks living in their midst.
I was approached back in the 80s by some character with a petition in support of Farrakhan. When I refused to sign it, he said "that's OK brother, but we'll remember you in the revolution."
Halfway through the second sentence, I knew the author’s name without looking... Laz, you magnificent bastard!