Those were the days....

So now people are fabricating their memoirs. First there was the ‘Million Little Pieces’ guy from Oprah who was found to be a fraud. I only know any details on this the same as many Americans, from South Park. If it wasn’t for Parker and Stone, I wouldn’t know that Tom Cruise and John Travolta were trapped in a closet. Then the holocaust joint was found to be false. And now some white bitch from an upper-class neighborhood is claiming she was raised half-cracker, half-native American in East LA by a black step mother who made her sell crack for the bloods. And her brother was gunned down by those same Bloods. I think someone should call up Vanilla Ice and let him know that he was just a decade+ too early. Nowadays, it’s perfectly acceptable to be Caucasian and make this shit up. Well not perfectly, but book publishers don’t check that shit close enough. So what does this mean? We don’t lead interesting enough lives. People have to embellish themselves into harrowing tales. This tells me another one of two things. Either many Americans wish they were black, or we just enjoy hearing how fucked up life in the hood really is. Sadly, I fall into both camps. But I don’t get a perverse pleasure out of hearing how fucked up the hood is. I like hearing people tell stories they’ve been involved in or heard from other people, no matter if it’s bustin caps in whitey from QB or fighting bear with your bear hands from Omaha. Take for instance this last aforementioned ‘memoire’. She now says she heard the stories while doing anti-drug counseling or some shit in LA. Now why couldn’t she have just written a book called ‘N!&&@z iz Krazee? I mean if the publishers thought the stories were good enough to be published, shouldn’t they still be left out there for the general readership to peruse? Other than the title of course....