I never really thought of Easter as a holiday growing up. Back then, Easter meant interminable treks through department stores, looking for new clothes. A longer than usual church service, where you sat scrunched up next to people because all of the once-a-year Easter visitors who came that Sunday.

The only saving grace was the food.

I still don’t think of it as a holiday, but S. does. Which means we have a feast, the kind that requires us to pull out a hundred dishes that will take two hours to clean up afterwards. A variety of wine. Scrumptious desserts. And then we sit down to eat after church, where I am now one of those once-a-year Easter visitors who makes everybody sit closer to their neighbors than they really want to be, and eat and talk for hours.

There is something about the languorousness of it all, the slow progression from your first serving to your second, the settling effect that allows you to begin digging into dessert an hour or so after the main course, and the warm patina a few glasses of wine give to the whole thing, that makes it feel positively Italian, if real Italian family dinners are as decadent and baroque as the ones we see depicted in the movies. It felt even moreso this year when the Resident Diva dubbed my brother “Luigi” out of the blue, after the Super Mario Brothers video game character.

The conversation is, loosely speaking, a round robin affair, with stories and gossip and imaginatively recounted memories that are poignant and hilarious and heartfelt all at once.

Which is how I learned who Waka Flocka Flame is.

How my brother, isn’t much younger than me, knows who this rapper with no album is is beyond me. But the Resident Diva, who was as surprised as I was that my brother knew this, took the storytelling baton from my brother and kept running with the tale about the rapper with the crazy name.

The name was so funny I kept saying it over and over.

Waka Flocka Flame

Then I open up my USA TODAY yesterday(yeah, I know, its a schlocky excuse for a newspaper, but hey, I’m a writer – a social and political commentator, no less - you gotta look everywhere for ideas these days) and I see that Michael “Money Mike” Steele has got all his executive rats jumping ship.

Waka Flocka Flame

I turned on the TV last night to see slimy Republican hatchet man Alex Castellanos, who was an unpaid advisor to Steele just last month, stare into the camera and call for Steele to step down. Castellanos looked as if the big money boys in the GOP had a gun in his back. If you ran diagnostics on the video with some super sensitive recording analyzer you could probably pick up a faint “TELL THAT NEGRO TO WALK THE PLANK! NOW!” coming through the Castellanos earpiece.

Waka Flocka Flame


Steele, looks like you are on the ropes. The way “Luigi” and I and a few of my other brown-skinned consigliore’s see things, your boys have two choices. They can offer you a cushy landing pad at one of these fake ass think tanks they pay to print up propaganda and drop $30,000 or $40,000 a month in your direct deposit for a year or two, to keep you quiet…

…or jump into this dogfight to get you out of office with both feet and risk having you spill the beans on the whole operation.

If I were you, “Money Mike”, I’d call in Waka Flocka Flame. Tell the board you are working on a “resurrection” of your chairmanship, and Mr. Flame is your first new “disciple.” Keep it simple - make him your “fuck you” consultant. From what I’ve seen in the videos on youtube, he is very, very good at saying “fuck you” with meaning – not Samuel L. Jackson type good, but pretty damn good for a rookie who says he’s only been rapping for six months.

Could you imagine Brian Williams having to report on that shit? "In today’s political news, RNC political consultant Waka Flocka Flame dropped the 'F-bomb' 37 times…in one sentence during a fundraising call before exhorting large donors to 'help us get our stacks up, bitches' for the fall election season."

Think about it, Money Mike.

You’ve got nothing to lose. You would make history. Who knows? The RNC board might even kick in a NetJets lease for 12 months “to ease your transition” if you brought enough real flavor to the office to scare the shit out of them.

That’s W-A-K-A F-L-O-C-K-A F-L-A-M-E

Blacksheep Political Consulting won't even send you a bill for this hour, Mike...

...but we'll be happy to let you take us to the strip club the next time you're in the ATL.



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