The Righteous Mind
Excerpt from  Sermons In The D-Block Lockdown

Yo-yo-yo! Lemme give some shouts out to my homies in D-Block, Freakmasta B an' tha P.D. who be pimpin' them punks to me. We gonna burn dis muthuhfucka down, y'all! I's gettin' all feisty! Fetch me that punk ass white boy, so I might be havin' my way with his creamy caucasian booty. Get me the wig, too. You know, the blonde one. That way he be lookin' like Vanna White while he be slobin' tha stank off my johnson. Yeah, and gimme somma that trank... Say what? Whatchoo mean we ain't gots no mo' trank!?!? You best not done gone and blazed it all up, or else I's gonna have T-Bone here slip you tha shank summin' propa! I ain't playin' you nietha’. He gonna be workin' it up and down yo' riiiib cage like you was a xylophone! Bitch, I know you ain't been smokin' my trank!

Anyhoo, I’s here today to tell ya’ll ‘bout tha good news. I ain’t talkin’ no my -lan’ -lawd -done -kicked -it -and -my -bitch -gots -my -money good news, or none uh dat I -just -got -outta -county -and -I -dun -slipped -dis -fly -college -honey -a -roofie kinda news nietha’- I be droppin’ some science ‘bout Gubmental Involvement. See, yo’ ass done gone without tha Gubment fo’ long enough. You done been workin’ fo’ a livin’ ta make tha ends, slavin’ like Harriet Tubman over a hot stove ta cook up yo’ own crack rock, watchin’ it fizzle n’ pop in da pot all by yo’ lonesome sef… Ostraciiiized by tha community ‘cause you stank from smokin’ rock all day. Yo’ eyes be yella like big ole lemons and them chiluns be all frightened when they see yo’ ragedy, basehead ass stumblin’ down tha street. You can’t watch a bassetball game without hearin’ “just gimme tha rock!” and wantin’ to run to tha bathroom and hit that pipe summin’ propa. ‘Cause that’s life in tha ghetto… That asshole minister up in that church don’t be understandin’ that. He gots himsef a white bitch slobin’ his johnson behind the pulpit while he be preachin’ to you, all the while you gots to go to prison to get tha same thing. Now that ain’t right.

Don’t nobody understand that smokin’ rock is a hard day’s work, nobody but me and us good folks at tha Fid Waaauud Church O’ Gubmentology. We understand yo’ pain… gettin’ awwwl sweaty from that toxic psychosis… gums bloody from smokin’ that crack… Lips burned from tha pipe… Some punk ass, dope slangin’ hustla done bust cap in yo’ chest ‘cause you said, “Ihhhl suck yo dick, maaaan, pease jes’ gimme some rock… c’mon, jes’ one dime”. That’s some hard up shit right there, mah bruthuh. Some days it make you wanna lie in wait behind some bushes… jump up and stab some fat white dude in tha neck wit a flathead… stone cold ice that muthuhfucka… bloooood be oozin’ tru yo’ fingas and he be screamin’ like that lil’ high-ho yella bitch who done rolled her eyeballs at you last week and you had ta tie her stank ass to a chair and go repeatedly upside her head wit a phonebook until she be gurglin’ and funky, sticky, white shit be leakin’ out her ears… you gots that hostile, not-so-fresh feelin’.

I also know that be the kina feelins you be needin’ just ta make it today, dawg. You gotta be hard summin’ propa, or else some punk ass playa gonna creep up and gat yo’ ass while you in tha bathtub.  Then you just be sittin’ there, dead, wid a stoopid ass look on yo’ face like Goofy, waitin’ fo’ some HPD coroner ta tag yo’ foot, wheel you down to tha morgue, cut off yo’ johnson, stick it in a jar, and preserve it fo’ science or them days he just wanna whip it out and satisfy his wife witch yo’ blacksnake. You be makin’ tha scene, but you gets these otha feelins… Bad feelins’… Some days you be thinkin’ ‘bout all them lil’ G’s that ain’t gonna make it to they’s 9th bertday and you pour down half a 40 oz. in advance… ‘cause they ain’t never gonna 10 and therefo’ old enough ta sip one witch you…

Stop that shit! Ain’t nobody care ‘bout some nappy headed delinquent who just gonna pop a cap in yo’ ass as soon as he gets hold of a nine. ‘Specially you. Don’t waste no 40’s on no punk ass delinquents, ‘les theys the kind you can put in yo’ Glock. You be a victim uh yo’ RIGHTOUS MIND, sucka. See, long tiiime ago tha Forces Of Orthadoxy… we’s call them dudes FOO fo’ short… done swooped down in a flyin’ hooptie and space-ganked yo’ momma… They done implanted yo’ ass wit a Righteous Miiind just so you be a punk ass FOO and be cryin’ like a lil’ bitch at all them sad movies. It a conspiracy, homey. So you best git outta yo’ righteous miiind, FOO, ‘cause if you be cryin’ like a bitch, I’s gonna FUCK YOU LIKE A BITCH. Yeaaaah, boyeeee. ‘Cause that what prison be all ‘bout, FOO. We learn ta sep-a-rate ourseves from our righteous miiind, les’ our big black mandinko of a cell mate roll us over in our sleep, spread them cheeks, and pack our fudge so deep that ain’t nothin’ commin’ out our ass fo’ tha next six months but blooood…