The tone on OD as of late has been far too serious for my tastes. It’s a bore. I just can’t get into this recent drama like Hunter and Gregory – even my man Parrott, with his uncanny knack for sarcasm has been silent since the fedoras. I need my rofls!
So as a meager substitute till OD gets back on it’s feet and starts pumping out more lolz, I’m gonna delve into the world of black people, or their more formally used moniker – chicken bandits, and explain why they smell remarkably like ass and corn chips. You see I’ve always lived around these…chicken bandits, and because of this I have a deep, sage-like insight into their charcoal community.
I want to impart this wisdom upon the OD blog-o-sphere and particularly those who carry the heaviest of burdens here. Of course I’m referring to our omnipresent commentators we all love to hate, the anti-Nords and their whacky cousins, the Yockey-ites.
From the insatiable loathing of blonde women and their pubes (You know what I’m referring too!) to the fantastic claims of Francis Parker Yockey conceiving NationalMenshevikFreeMarketPrussianism on the shores of Guam, I offer them both, these weary band of warriors so sorely needed relief, but only for a moment. To recharge their batteries and then thanklessly waved them goodbye, marching back into battle.
But I digress. Chicken bandits. Smells like ass and corn chips. Got it.
Chicken bandits love convenient stores. Now the reason these places are designated as the local watering holes in any charcoal community is because they stay open all night. But wait! You cry, We’re neglecting the role of low- distilled malt beverages and Swisher Sweets! That’s the reason chicken bandits haunt Indian corner-markets and 711s. Well that does play into the equation, but you’re getting ahead of yourselves. We’re missing crucial steps. Bear with me.
Now chicken bandits have very odd internal clocks. Vastly different then white folks. So naturally they flock to these urban oasis in droves, consistent in their foreign, universal sleeping schedules.
As proof of this phenomena being present in every single member of the charcoal community, the brilliant film, Menace to Society uses the fictional character of Chauncy (played by the always enchanting Clifton Powell) to lend ethos.
“… I don’t get out da bed before two-ferty! Down’t com dis mutha f*#ka so eary nex time, nigga!”
Least I remind everyone this movie has always been the official looking-glass into the daily struggles of any chicken bandit worthy of the name.
Pushing forward. Since they don’t wake up till 2:30 if I’m interpreting the script correctly, chicken bandits must stay up pretty late as a consequence. We’re talkin’ 3 or 4 o’clock in the morning here. A pretty spot on observation considering white people are never around when chicken bandits congregate at convenient stores past night fall…
If this shotty logic holds true their numbers must swell at 1 to 2 in the morning around the convenient stores after playing dominos and sitting on the porch all evening. This leads to, when all the chicken bandits are scampering to get to a water hole, the creating of a super amalgamation all throughout the country because you see, it’s no secret that each convenient store has infinite amounts of varieties of Frito-Lays chips.
The aroma given off by the indefinite number crunchy snacks bellows forth an aura thick and heavy of corn chips for atleast three square miles. Academic research has revealed this. Clashing then with the chicken bandit’s natural smell of ass, due to their aversion to water. Look to Kool-Aid and their demeanor toward rain as proof.
And every evening as the attar (Frito-Lay cooks all their chips with sun flower oil now) slowly wanes, chicken bandits find themselves back at the communal watering holes every night. Yet it’s not to recoup their pungent sent but – you guessed it – to drink low-distilled malt beverages and smoke Swisher Sweets. Everything comes full circle in the end. There you have.
So settles why chicken bandits smell like ass and corn chips. The commentators finally got a few moments to let their hair down, but they suit up and fight the good fight.
Carry on my wayward son
There’ll be peace when you are done
Lay your weary head to rest
Don’t you cry no more.