Mortaljive: The Rest is Silence

There is no still point in all the Universe, and that is the rock upon which I stand

Tuesday, March 14, 2006


Lucky Africans After Winning Slave Lottery


General JC Christian has a post up about a sweet, dear woman who shares her ideas on why God wanted Africans to be slaves.

Adele Fergusen, a political comumnist for the Kitsap Peninsula Business Journal, wrote the following about the theistic wisdom of slavery in a column entitled Why do blacks continue to support Democrats? :

One of these days before I die, I hope to see a shift in the attitudes of so many of my black brothers and sisters in this great country we share, from perpetual victimhood, to pride in their achievements on the road from slave to American citizen.

Remember Ronald Reagan’s story about the kid who had to shovel a huge pile of manure? He went about it with such joy he was asked why and said, “With all that manure, there’s got to be a pony in there somewhere.”

The pony hidden in slavery is the fact that it was the ticket to America for black people. I have long urged blacks to consider their presence here as the work of God, who wanted to bring them to this raw, new country and used slavery to achieve it. A harsh life, to be sure, but many immigrants suffered hardships and indignations as indentured servants. Their descendants rose above it. You don’t hear them bemoaning their forebears’ life the way some blacks can’t rise above the fact theirs were slaves.

I repeat: The pony hidden in slavery is the fact that it was the ticket to America for black people.

Nevermind that she references the great empty-suit pitchman Ronald Reagan, a man who sold Borax as blithely as he did Chesterfields (now, granted, no one knew back then that all that black sputum everyone was hacking up could have anything to do with putting fire to tobacco rolled inside of paper tubes and then drawing the smoke into one's lungs--that's the beauty of the free-market: you will eventually find out the cause of your death, but on the terms of the manufacturer, not on the terms of those silly consumers). Nevermind that Ms. Fergusen unwittingly alludes to the core raison d'etre of the Reagan Administration (shoveling huge piles of manure). It's that she felt brave enough--yes, brave enough--to trod her philosophical wares out upon the Great Information Highway, to make her mark and to make the world a better place. She is The Reagan Gift Personified, the Delphic Oracle of the New Millenial Theocracy, the warbling canary in the cave of the Fundamentalist State. She is the crazy aunt who used to sit with us at the Thanksgiving Table, who smiled and brought the ambrosia. This bird has sprouted wings, and the feathery breezes of her New America will carry away all remnants of the sins of coherent thought. Amen.


Naturally, I wrote some lyrics:


Thank you god for slavery
Thank you oh, so much
Thank you for your loving hands
And for your loving touch

Ain’t no reason for the blacks
To agitate and be ragin’
Thanks be to the lord
He was their travel agent

Thanks be to the sky god
Or there would never be
A nation full of black folks
Thank you for slavery

Thanks be to Lord Yahweh
For shipping us the blacks
He saw they needed travel
And he liked the way they stacked

The Jews walked out of Egypt
Into the promised land
When they got their ticket punched
It was the good lord’s hand
He liked the way they said goodbye
To involuntary servitude
He turned his mind to Africa
And thought, hey, why not dude?

When he saw them on the farm
He chuckled with a grin
For god so loved the black man
He created the cotton gin

He loved to hear the crackin’
Of the whips and then the screams
When you have a master plan
Got to be on the Master’s team

Why these people complained so much
You’d think that they weren’t brave
The depths of all their pettiness
Put them all in shallow graves

When Mr. Lincoln came along
And Civil War commenced
God killed half a million
Of brother Americans

(repeat chorus)

(repeat opening stanzas)

(repeat chorus)


You can sing along with the Jivester here. And bring a guitar or a banjo or somethin'--it could use some musical accompaniment.


Original link for this story from Hominid Views.

Image of The Great Communicator from here.



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