You pull your crack pipe out and break it against the floor. You pick up one of the largest shards and start sawing at your wrist. You open up a vein and blood starts pouring out. You get even dizzier. The light in the room fades away. You are dying...
You see a bright light. Are you in Heaven? Glory halluljah! Home to Jesus!
Then you realize you are laying in a hospital bed. Somehow, someone found you dying in the bathroom and your life was saved. You see the calendar on the wall of your hospital room and see that it is a week later.
While you are regaining consciousness, the Reverend Al Sharpton storms into your hospital room. "Dear boy! What has happened to you is a tragedy!" he proclaims. "The poor and the black were left to die in that city. The situation was so horrible that many, just like you fell into despair and tried to end your own lives. This situation cannot be!"
"Yessir, Reverend," you say, still trying to get your head around the situation. "It wuz all fucked up out there."
"It most certainly was," Sharpton says. "And we cannot allow it to happen again. Myself and some other prominent black leaders are putting forth a campaign to blame this situation on the Bush administration. We would like to use you as an example of the plight of African-Americans in the city of New Orleans who were neglected during the crisis. Will you help your brothers and sisters in the community?"
Just last week, you were a petty thug, stealing tape players out of cars to score your next hit of crack. Now, you're about to become a political symbol like Cindy Sheehan. What else could you say? "Sho' nuff, I do it."
"He refuses to answer questions from adults as though we were adults and falls back upon platitudes and phrases and talking points that does a disservice to the goals that he himself shares with the very people he needs to convince." -John Stewart