On White Jesus and AKA's (and Deltas and Sigmas and...): A Hater's Rant

I exist on the internet.  This is only a mild exaggeration.  Since I'm rather public on the interwebs, I of course get Facebook friend requests from folks I've met earlier on my path: school mates, homies that I used sit next to on the bench during basketball games, the younger brothers and sisters of old friends.  Sometimes I get requests from people I don't remember ever having conversations with, but the mutual friend feature usually gets them a pass.  I often infer that some of these folks friend me if only for them to look at my pictures and be able to say with assuredness, "Oh, look! She's (obviously) fucking bitches such a dagger now.  I knew that."  But that one high school rumor about me is for another blog, another time.  I, again, digress.  The point is, I'm on the internet social networking A LOT.  (Yes, "a lot" is two words.  Take note.)


I really need folks to stop reppin' so hard for Jesus and their sororities and fraternities on Facebook.  Maybe it's just the people on my feed, but I suspect it isn't.  There are people on my feed who treat white Jesus like double coupon day: he saves them a lot.  And they want you to know it.  Constantly.  I want to Kanye them: Listen Shareese, I'm happy for you (and Jesus), and I'ma let you finish, but buy one get one free is one of the greatest savers of all time.  My friend list is rife with apparent internet missionaries.  Which, I guess makes perfect sense.  My homie Jive reminded me that the internet is for "porn and heathens."  Still, I'ma need more than a status message to save my soiled-ass soul.  And the life-changing message probably won't come via your Facebook update.  (I ain't saying that you didn't can't get the call.  What I am saying, however, is that the number of calls per capita in Fort Wayne, Indiana may be a little suspiciously high.  You might want to get caller ID, because it ain't always Jesus on the other line.)  I know you're crunk for Jesus, and that's cool, but how often do you have to remind me that Jesus is the homie?  I mean, can we put a cap on this?  Your Jesus tweets and status updates need not match nor exceed the number of parables Jesus told. Just because Jesus isn't/wouldn't be tweeting--because he'd be busy walking on water or incarcerated with the rest of the brothers--doesn't make it your Christian duty, k?  You ain't even saved.  You were at the club so late Saturday you slept through both Sunday services anyway.  Blasting Jesus statuses neither ameliorates nor compensates.  Moving on.

For my frats and sorors over the age of 24: F'real?   Listen, I know it took you 9 weeks and cost you half a Pell Grant and 2 semesters of academic probation to cross the burning sands with your suitemate, but when can we move on?  (And when is it okay for me to reach into my computer and break your fucking pinky?)  Serious, dude, you're 30.  Must you throw up the gang signs in every picture?  Did you even graduate?  Why are you still going to homecoming?   Don't you have kids?  The neos don't even know you, and rumor has it you ain't paid your dues anyway.  Remember last year at the Sigma's homecoming party, and you didn't know/remember any of the line dances?  That was a message...from Jesus: time to move on to the next phase of your life.  I know you still think pledging was the best diet you ever went on, but crossing in the Spring of '99 should not be the zenith of your adulthood.  There's so much life to live, plenty of time to accomplish something else--like the community service your fraternity swears by.  With all the money you save from no longer buying crimson and cream paraphernalia, you could adopt a black kid, or start a college fund for your own damn kids.  You remember your baby mama, right?  She wants her support money, player.  (Don't make her call Judge Mathis.)  Let's put the fraternizing and sororitizing (is that even a word?) on pause for about, say, thirty years.  When you're 65 you can take it up again.  Old black ladies running around in pink and green are super cute.  Barking 38-year-olds in gold combat boots?  Not so much.

Look, I ain't saying Jesus and the Greeks ain't cool.  Toe-may-toe. Toe-mah-toe.  It's just that everything (especially the original Hov and those who rep mad hard for the National Pan-Hellenic Council) is better in moderation--except for Dairy Queen and Chick-Fil-A.


I feel better now.

That is all.