Hi there, I'm 6'1" white male Xtrabeing, welcome to the Fleshpots. Please don't be offended, but I like myself rather a lot. When stranger-girls shout out they want to have your baby to you, it tends to affect the ole ego a tad. 400 xwatchers come here daily and you're 1.
is desperately sought-after by all kids, Afro or white. But one little Afro bunny in particular sought the heart of an Oreo in white blonde women, in acceptance into the larger white society, and in the final act where he self-sabotaged himself as a means of punishing himself for the crime he got away with: so, 33 years for a so-what robbery, committed after he got away with murder thanks to an injust all-NOWSS (No One Wants Soul Sisters) black female jury.
Born in 1947, O.J. Simpson grew up in the golden land: California. Despite the presence of mexicans, mestizos, and marauders (negro wilding gangs), California was, is, and has shall be a White State. When you think Cali, you think Beverly Hills and Malibu, the coastal winding ribbon of highway, Sunset Boulevard and Hollywood. The teeming poor millions of Compton and Watts only exist so that maybe 4 or 5 of their “worthies” can grow up to provide a tough-guy Afro animalistic veneer to enhance California’s inherent coolness factor.
So this is how and where O.J. grew up, thinking these thoughts (insofar as he could assimilate them), feeling these downtrodden, oppressive feelings. It’s too bad whites aren’t desperately poor too, a lot more would make it to the pro leagues rather than becoming lawyers and businessmen. So O.J., with no hope for intellectual advancement or productive citizenry life in the normal sense, took the tried-and-true Al Jolson route of athleticism. He starred. He rocked. He was recruited.
Who did he align to in his mind? Why, gangs, of course. Now, I white god Xwarper enjoy the existence of ordinary gangs when they’re white and a temporary phase in one’s existence. You join, you go in, you stab a few fucks out, screw bitches like a horny wild otter, then you bail out and rule royally, strutting exorbitantly down the red carpet of life. But you don’t devote headspace to it permanently — that’s Nigger. And that’s how volatile O.J. would go on to kill a white slut who did deserve extinction at his hands (both of them got what they deserved) and swandive into the 500-foot-below Pool of Perdition.
The eternal “me-Gang” mindset may have helped O.J. on the playing field in the decade from ’69 to ’79 in the rounds of simple viciousness but it did him no credit in the white worlds of acting and business, the proper worlds, the just orbits. By the time he entered the world of acting in 1974 he was established in the public eye. It’s too bad he was too stupid a student and no autodidact to learn any of the lessons of history. Perhaps the Mann Act-criminal Jack Johnson could have told him a thing or two. Oh, but wait: that’s high learning, and by negroes. Nix that.
A few TV commercials running around like a buffoon and some other minor acting gigs as a dimwit (perhaps playing himself?) and this young athletic muscular buck found himself in the thin arms of Nicole Brown Simpson, a chick so stupid she challenged other white chicks for mind leadership and was mind-fucked into going into romances with nigger bucks. Good going, Nicole. Like that knife in between your titties?
In the glorious year of 1977, when Jimmy Carter was gap-toothedly smiling his way halfway to surrender to the Soviet Empire, and when Microsoft was beginning to translate from a twinkle in Bill Gates’s eye (hmm . . . someone with BRAINS???), dumb buck O.J. met dumb slut Nicole, and it was, naturally, love at first sight. A kind of communion, a kind of like-minded connection. One, a blonde who couldn’t resist abusing helpless other girls; one, a black, who could resist scooping up the skirt of a mudshark-imbibed tramp. Songs should be written.
Though they would divorce, Nikki would continue to go after black men, as part of her punishment for defying Big Woman — the herd-collective of women which determines everything among the cloned-filthholes-kind. Eventually, they sort-of got back together, but both were dimbulb hotheads in thrall to their own emotions and so, naturally, the buck fucked with his luck, enuff, to take a knife and snuff the tough buff Nik-slut. The end for her. Raise curtain on a primarily black female jury (does anyone want to be with them? their own men hate them) and the black women, manipulated by a clever negro lawyer who understood their jealous raging hate for white women who “took their men” (the white female prosecutor thought it would be sister-alliance time: good luck with that, narrowperspective blindeye) and O.J. got off.
In the end, in the final despicable act (not the murder), O.J.’s field-hand guilt caused him to commit a desperate crime where he couldn’t win and the prison gate was slammed echoingly on him for most of the remainder of his life.
Loser. Learning anything, Bio-Star readers? More to come. Soon on Bio-Stars we do someone slightly different — Bill Gates.