Marky Mark hisself never deigned to enter these diaries.
Not even one.
White racist trolls did, though. And every week.
To there weep and moan that mebbe black/brown/weird prisoner people should be there, in the prison, and that anyway too many of them were pretty much animals, roaming wild and way too free, with big buck knives, seeking to drag frail pale wildwood flower white women into the bushes, to there commit upon these young lovelies Unspeakable crimes.
The fierce feisty Criminal Injustice gals tried every which way but bombs to deal with these nimrods.
But, every week, still, they came.
A mammoth spirit and soul drain.
Occasionally, when one of these idjits would enter a Diary with an actual cross or swastika carved upon his or her forehead, Meteor Pokey, the some-time Indian, would at last ban the bugger.
But by that time the gals were usually so enervated that, if made of weaker stuff, like me, they would have long since been permanently hooked up to an opiate IV.
Marky Mark eventually dealt with this problem by unleashing his banned Armando (and, as always, sancho pitiful panza, faithful at Armando’s knee, the nebbishy knee-muncher Turkana), to take out his site’s black people, all 23 or 24 of them—specifically, his site’s uppity Bigger Thomas, Adept2u—and, thereby, drive into exile anybody who there gave a damn about black people . . . except Denise Oliver Velez, whom he, craftily, boosted onto the front page.
Where she has served as the target of white-hot racist white-rage, ever since.
And Marky Mark’s way of saying: see! I have on my front page a feisty Negro! Like that Indian! What’s his name? The Blades guy? Yeah. Meteor Blades! Feisty! Indian!
The women of Criminal Injustice, while not formally blackballed from the site, were nevertheless, in this Purge, made to feel very unwelcome.
And even if that had not been so, they were not going to stay there anyway. Not after the Marky Mark-through-Armando white-purification project. So they up and left. And they never have been back.
And, in the course of things, when stay-behind nebbishy white boys started creeping in on little cat feet, to try and flich the diaires the CiJ women had left behind on dKos, the fierce feisty CiJ women went in and erased those, too.
Time passes. And, in time, comes Michael Brown, and Ferguson.
The sort of thing the CiJ women had been saying, there on the Marky Mark blog, years before. When Marky Mark couldn’t be bothered.
In the news, now, day by day, come boiling, one upon another, white-hot tales of white-ass badged and gunned motherfuckers shooting down black men, for no sane reason.
And, from the news—because the people on the Marky Mark blog are lard-ass cheetos-stained wanking basement-dwellers who do nothing on their own, but just grab from somewhere some news, and then screech about it—these stories come to dominate the pages of the Marky Mark blog.
And, lo, eventually Marky Mark gets a revelation. He will appoint to his front-page a writer who shall specialize in the very subject that the CiJ feisty females covered like a blanket, on his site, years ago, before he drove off his blog the very same sort of black people now getting shot in the street that he suddenly decided to care about.
So what does he do? Marky Mark? He soberly intones that “police-state excesses are issues that we as a community have embraced,” and then hires for the position, the position of righteous crusader against the police, and police state, “Shaun King,” a five-star five-alarm glow-in-the-dark shameless con-man who is some kind of three-fisted combo of Elmer Gantry, Huey Long, and Wile E. Coyote.
He wildly beats his meat for people to “sponsor a beautiful child in need,” but then, once you click through, you are assaulted by a demand that you vomit forth $49.99 per month to enroll in his “Full Access To Life Goals University.”
For, you see, he would “like for you to consider making me your coach and guide through life.”
Presumably, as your coach and guide, he will teach you how to raise $500,000 for Haitians devastated by an earthquake, but somehow only pass $200,000 along, while meanwhile securing a nice fat paying job for yourself.
He might also, in this coaching and guiding, tell you how to hoover up money from people on the intertubes by telling them you’re going to write a book, and then give those people the back of your hand as they scream till their lips bleed that they want a refund, because you haven’t delivered . . . but you have meanwhile tried, repeatedly, to shuck them for even more cash.
He might also, in his coaching and guiding, shucking and jiving, teach you how to move, through the magic of the intertubes, three times in two days.
After spending just a couple hours on this person, I would not believe him if he told me the sky was blue, lest I checked it for myself. But I will note that he does say he hails from Kentucky. Which is the state of Rand Paul. Mitch McConnell. And people who violently and repeatedly fuck pigs. And then call it love.
The only question now is whether Shaun King’s inevitable king-hell mammoth bring-down probably wrist-cuffed scandal occurs while he is sucking at the teat of Marky Mark, or whether Marky will be spared, by King having, before the boom does fall, flitted elsewhere.
What we do know, for sure, is this: Marky Mark is dumb as dirt.
Sure, he sucked after King, because King the con man passes himself off as some social-media genius, and that’s where Marky Mark wants to take his empire . . . to keep it an empire.
But can the man, Marky Mark, do no vetting? Does it bother him at all that people are screaming all over the tubes that King owes them money?
What do I know?
Maybe, all over the tubes, people say Marky Mark owes them money.
For I don’t know. I haven’t looked.
What I really don’t like, is, as I review the above images, before publishing: Marky Mark, Charlie Armando McCarthy, Shaun King: they all look the same.
And he who don’t look the same, is Michael Brown.