Michael Brown was a hideous thug who got himself shot! I think that just about sums it up. See you tomorrow. Just kidding. I spent last night reviewing two videos concerning the recent resurrection of Saint Michael. Some documentary producer came up with less than thirty seconds of surveillance video “proving” that Brown’s visit to the convenience store the night before his death was a dope deal. The producer contended that Brown plopped down a bag of weed to pay for some cigarillos, and then, upon the film showing Brown returning the smokes, claimed the huge thug was asking the clerk to hold them for him until the next day.
A lawyer for the store showed the entire video to reporters. You might say he fleshed it out, which, considering Michael Brown’a size was a considerable amount of fat boy. The real story was a lot more insightful that the previous ”Mr. Brown Goes To Washington.” Brown comes into the store. He goes to the back to get some soda. In fact, he got two. Then he approaches the counter. The clerk rings it all up, but instead of handing over cash, cause you KNOW he ain’t got no plastic, Brown reaches into his right pocket and lays a bag of ”something” on the counter.
Now, you can’t tell what’s in the bag, let’s be honest. The video is poor black and white, which is really nice, because if everyone is the same color it helps ease the race card a bit. One could only conjecture the contents of said bag. Well, first off it IS a bag. Simple. Now c’mon, big fat guy buying Swisher Sweets (who really smokes those?) and produced a little corner of a sandwich bag with something in it instead of a five dollar bill. You think? Ask yourself. What would a cop do if he came upon Michael Brown acting this way? Well, we know what he’d do. He did it the next day.
The two clerks behind the counter begin looking at said bag. Upon realizing that Brown believes this to be legal currency for all debts, public and private, one puts his hands behind his back, and the other points to the door. Brown retrieves the bag, puts it back into his right pocket, and attempts to leave with that and his goods anyway!. You can see from body English that the man at the cash register begins to demand return of the goods. Now there’s a logical reason for this. Directly behind him is yet another employee who’d been stocking and preparing for the 1:30 AM closing. So there are three. We can assume that Brown can count because when asking for the cigars he rejected the two-pack preferring the five-pack instead. The skinny old man whom Brown would subsequently assault the next day is not there. So, you have to ”axe” yourself. Did he suddenly find Jesus, or did he smell retribution in the wind? I’d opt for the latter. Brown returns the stuff and exits with the cashier hot on his tail making sure he’s gone!
These highly provable facts did not deter more death threats, more demonstrations, and more ”outrage” from the neighborhood. It is totally ignored that a cop shot the ”Gentle Giant” the following day for exhibiting the exact same aggression! Of course, as you know, the town of Ferguson deified Michael Brown shortly thereafter and half the girls therein claimed to have his baby, can I get an ”amen?”
We draw several lessons from this. First off the denial of the community about what Michael Brown really was, was being the key word here because society is better served when folks like him get promoted to the ”was” category. To try to excuse what the film really shows is along the same lines of a pedophile saying he’s concerned for a thirteen year old girl’a safety while holding a six pack of beer in one hand, and a pack of Trojans in the other when Chris Hansen comes from behind the curtain and asks, ”What’re you doing here, Mike?” Then there’s the word ”documentary.” It sounds like there’s some federal regulation insuring the truthfulness of what you see. Au Contrairé! Documentaries are agenda driven. The producer proceeds toward a foregone conclusion no matter what the facts are or how many edits he has to do to get there. Last, but not least, is the legacy. How is that legacy perceived by the people, and more than that, the kids.
In the alleys and playgrounds of Ferguson there are some little boys playing. Playing ball, tag, or maybe a new improved version of ”cops and robbers.” They choose sides, and who they’re gonna be, when one shouts, ”I’m Michael Brown!”
Bill the Butcher