While obese welfare kings and queens in lovely Sanford don their polka-dot clown suits every morning and buffoonishly strut and waddle before obliging television cameras for a Trayvon they wouldn’t know from stale margarine, we who live in the honest world grieve in obscurity.
My God, how they say their prayers every night fervently wishing that Mr. Zimmertman somehow turns white.
Repent ye liberals.
A week ago last night in the garage of a private residence in the crime cesspool of Inglewood, a lovely young father, 28 years old, was minding his own business, shmoozing with his 8-year-old son. Two left-wing punks, reeking of cowardice, slimily advanced toward Frederick Martin Jr.
No one knows why.
Mr. Martin’s proper instincts never left him, even as he was dying.
Heroically and undoubtedly unthinkingly, he threw his body across his son to save the child’s life. He did. The boy only was nicked. Mr. Martin, cut down in a blizzard of bullets, by unknown assailants, died later that night.
There aren’t three people outside of Inglewood, or anywhere in Los Angeles, who give a darn that Mr. Martin tragically was taken out.
The Left only cares if cameras are present. Then they can parade their undisciplined bodies and their raging ignorance to stage another I Hate America pity party.
No one on the Left gives a darn about Mr. Martin’s fate because he was black, you see. They reason, probably correctly, black punks eliminated him.
Black-on-black is common as oxygen, and about as compelling to the Left.
Ninety-three percent of black homicides are committed by blacks. No story there, pal.
Let’s go to Florida, boys.
