As many of you know, I don’t care too much of what people think. I don’t say that as some statement of my defiance and refusal to fit into the outsider’s notion of who I am. I’m saying that I refuse to pretend as though there are some things outsiders might assume about me that aren’t true.
For example, I love fried chicken wings. I even wrote a piece once about the day I refused to sweat what the white folks might think of me and tore into a bag of chicken wings right in front of them. Grease on my face and all that shit. If you’d have cut my cheek, I may have bled hot sauce.
And you know what? Those wings were good as hell. I mean tender and tasty and all that. And, as a matter of fact, I wasn’t mocked. The folks were jealous because they didn’t have chicken wings. Nothing wrong with loving chicken. Everyone does where I’m from, and you know where I’m from — Earth.
So, as I was saying — I don’t care what you think.
I gots to get me one of these here bottles.
That’s right. Obama’s got commemorative cognac. It doesn’t get much smoother than that.
(Well, it does…Remy…but that’s neither here nor there.)
And if they had the Obama de Ville? I’d be whippin’ it by Tuesday afternoon.