“I’M RUNNING FROM THE PIGS SO LISTEN UP! I GOT SOME THINGS TO SAY! FIRST OFF…OW! MUTHA…ARGHHHHHH…DON’T TASE ME, BRO!”

Welp…my best friend got tasered again. Not surprised at all. Homeboy dumb as hell. I love the dude but…shit…rap music completely messed his whole life up. This the homeboy Kesha Bear; I’m just tryin’ to help the boy.

Look, I’m older than ol’ boy. I was 2 looking at him chillin’ in a baby seat on top of a big ass floor model TV. Thank God his parents ain’t put me with him at first because I ain’t need a lil’ nig slobbin’ all over me. That boy ain’t care about anything besides putting electronics in his mouth and throwing them out his presence when it shocks him. My boy was born stupid, I know. That fool sat for months on the top of that TV in Atlanta sucking on G.I. Joes he dropped in his diaper. I ain’t finna judge the guy; he was born without etiquette.

I was born August 28,1984 in a J.C. Penny factory in Plano, Texas. As soon as my eyes were sewed onto me, I was in a box headed to College Park, Georgia. Those suits can suck my stuffing; I told them I wanted to be shipped to L.A. because I heard this Reagan guy put some good dope and automatic weapons in Compton. That was right up my alley at the time; if the Fabric-Cloth Rag Doll Provision of ’85 would have passed, I would have been sent to a Black family in Watts equipped with guns in my midsection to kill these bothersome Black people. I lost the vote but I won something else, I guess.

A Negro family presented me to another Negro family on the night of January 2, 1986. By this time, I figured these Moon Crickets would be my final destination. However, when I saw that little big-headed Mocha child emerge from the legs of some lady, I knew I found my mate.

This kid was a petty Negro but he shared my racism at an early age. At little over two years and seven months, I was laying beside him when his father gave him a handful of little green G.I. Joe action figures. My homey bit the heads off every last one of those toys, threw them off that TV and mumbled ‘fuck the police’. I knew right then this was my guy for life.

Since that glorious militant moment, Anwar became the raging racist I always knew he could be. At nine, he forced a white kid to run on a treadmill, only to trip him up and break his nose. He laughed like I taught him to. At twelve, he threw a kid off a trampoline, breaking his ribs. What did my guy do? Back flips cackling after every sniffle from that little dork.

My man is 27 now. I still chill in his room. I remember when his stupid roommate, dumb friend, and naïve mother kidnapped me. They dressed me as that coon Trinidad James and placed me back on my man’s dresser. He laughed. He fuckin laughed. He let these Negroes- Negroes we have fought so hard against- embarrass me and dress me up as a remedial, snaggle-toothed fool. I was inseparable with this dude for 26 years. Anwar, A.J., or whomever this fool calls himself nowadays is dead. I called Chucky; you better make peace with this fool ASAP.

Now he’s running from persecution. Please stop him. We haven’t been cool since he ‘All Golded Everything’ my person. Fuck that guy. Please shoot, stab, or tase this man. HEEEEELLLLLP!!!! Not me! Not me!! Point those things at HIM! C’mon man! Don’t…don’t….AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH…

A.J. Armstrong is best friends with a borderline racist stuffed bear. He is also the creator of The Fly Hobo and His World of Oddities.