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Goad on Goonew
#1
Don't feel stupid for not knowing who Goonew is/was.

Rapper’s Embalmed Corpse Hovers Over Nightclub Revelers in Dignified Memorial Service
It only takes one look at the face of recently-slain Maryland rapper Goonew, whose mammy named him Markelle Morrow, to realize that if he hadn’t been squashed like a furry black bug under the wicked thumb of white supremacy since birth, he’d currently be pursuing postdoctoral research in particle physics.

I’m sure that everyone reading this has a favorite Goonew tune, but there are so many of his gritty urban mating songs that I absolutely adore, I find it impossible to pick only one. To whittle down such an impressive oeuvre to one “superior” song would amount to a hate crime toward all of his other ditties. I feel his musical and philosophical complexity reached its apex with “Life or Death,” but if you’re looking for a quintessential example of his lyrical deftness and stratospheric verbal IQ, he climbed the mountaintop with “What It Was”:

She gave me the drop on the plug
Uh them niggas they knew what it was
Them niggas ain’t try me they knew what it was
I stay in the field I got hit wit’ a slug . . .
Whippin’ the crack givin’ aunty a hug
Bad bitch she let me nut on her butt

This is why we fought the Civil War: to drag young black men out of the cotton field and into the recording studio, where they can rhapsodize about ejaculating on their aunt’s posterior.

Tragically, like so many millions if not billions of rappers, Goonew was flushed down the aspiring-to-expired pipeline in March when he was shot dead at the sweet and tender age of 24. A suspect has yet to be arrested, but if news reports on black murder victims are to be trusted, it was likely a white supremacist policeman who was jealous of Goonew’s fancy sneakers.

To show their respects, friends and family members arranged weeks later to prop up his embalmed, sneaker-wearing corpse onstage at a Washington, DC nightclub as revelers swayed and shimmied and howled and hollered at the already dim memory of a man who was dim and not very memorable.

When footage of the cadaverous convocation was posted online, several racists compared it to the film Weekend at Bernie’s and besmirched the entire event as “disrespectful,” as if people who were complicit, consciously or otherwise, of the rape, flogging, torture, and systemic belittlement of aspiring young black corpses for 400 years — and counting! — had any room to run they damn mouths about respect. I mean, they was killin’ black people and hanging they bodies in public for centuries, so when black people kill black people and hang they own damn bodies in public, who is they to complain?

A local TV station tracked down Goonew’s mother, a woman with an ass the size of an air conditioner, who sat petulantly crowbarred onto a sofa with two other pouty black women and explained to a reporter that this is what Markelle would have wanted: “That’s how he wanted to go out. . . . He didn’t want people to be sad and cryin’; he always wanted people to be happy and having fun. . . . For all the negatives, people probably don’t even know nothing about us,” she said, slyly slipping in a double negative right at the end of that sentence.

The Washington Post rushed to the defense of Goonew’s corpse with an essay explaining “Why propping rapper Goonew’s body onstage wasn’t ‘disrespectful’.” It said that the ghoulish practice of posing cadavers in “lifelike positions” is known as “extreme embalming” and that there’s a funeral home in Puerto Rico that specializes in placing dead old ladies on rocking chairs and dead young boxers in boxing rings. It also said that “President Abraham Lincoln embraced embalming” and that his pickled cadaver was schlepped via railroad 1,600 miles en route to his Illinois burial ground as morbidly curious Americans ogled and touched him.

The embalmed corpse — covered with a rubbery death mask — of St. John Neumann, who died all the way back in 1860 right as Abe Lincoln was gearing up to free the slaves has been on display encased in a glass altar at his shrine in Philadelphia since his canonization in 1977.

So such macabre displays are clearly not only a “black thang.” What makes it black are the lyrics about splooging on your aunt’s booty.
“If you want to know who rules over you, just look for who you are not allowed to criticize.”

― Voltaire
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