The Simulacra of Bio-Mysticism & The Orgasmic N!gga Time Bomb

An analysis of the Forbidden Fruit making everyone rich with orgasmic spasms.

Popular Black culture is like the Pornhub web portal that makes the whole world cum.

Its ambassadors are Orgasm Inducing Organisms (OIO) who are more commonly known as “Black People.” These Black ambassadors are often disenfranchised ghetto occupants who make panties and thongs moist while facilitating flaring penile erections dripping with precious precum for golden goblets.

Many non-Black humans resent Orgasm Inducing Organisms while patronizing their romping shops of erotic pleasure. The OIO is despised by the haughty Homo Erectus. Still, the OIO will always exist, because they make the world cum hard! The global economy is fueled by creamy vaginal spasms and wild ejaculations of white-hot semen.

Within the context of this blog post, the Homo Erectus is not the familiar relic of Darwinian theories of evolution. Instead it is one who actively, or passively, supports the creation of simulacra. A simulacra is a caricature, an external representation of The Real that is falsely made to appear to be The Real.

The Homo Erectus is eager to stroke the object of its desire without truly penetrating the creamy core of allure. Lay back while I disrobe my thesis. I won’t hesitate to spill for the thrill.

Today, white soccer moms are dancing on beat to Afrobeats, Asian teenage boys are making trap music, middle aged white men are freestyling, and pale-skinned Arabs are wearing fitted jeans and Jordans, because that’s what Tyrone is wearing in Brooklyn, New York.

Hip Hop is just one facet of Black pop culture, but it is at the center of the larger world culture. Hip hop music is played in elite nightclubs, strip clubs,  commercials, television shows, movies, shopping malls and at sporting events. Hip hop slang is used in New York Times articles concerning global politics of the highest import.

At some point, everyone has watched video pornography by choice, but most won’t openly talk about it for any other reason than the fact that it made them cum. In like manner, the entire planet is immersed in some form of Black pop culture. However they may not make it a topic of conversation among Orgasm Inducing Organisms who shape and mold world culture by making everyone in the world cum. They do this through the arts of biomysticism that only organic Black bodies can practice.

The Homo Erectus breaking its silence would be like you seeing the pornstar you regularly masturbate to in the meat section of your local supermarket, walking up to them, and telling them to their face that you masturbate to their image and movments on a regular basis. This would be uncomfortable for the indulger in porn who normally sees the pornstar as a sexual fetish tool, a mere means to Get Off, like that classic Prince song.

Suddenly the direct encounter has the watcher entertaining the remote possibility that the pornstar isn’t just an empty husk for their personal pleasure, but an actual human being with complex feelings, thoughts, and other internal dynamics including a love for 93% lean ground turkey. No good.

Rather than face these complex feelings, the Homo Erectus hides its seething lust for the pornstar while in the pornstar’s immediate presence. They hold on to the simulacrum, the external vestiges of who the pornstar is, by interacting with them superficially and exclusively through pornographic web portals.

The Homo Erectus never penetrates the superficial shell to get to the true core of the pornstar because the only thing they ever desired from the start was a superficial relationship with them, a simulacrum of intimacy. This aptly describes the relationship that many non-Blacks have with popular Black culture, most notably, through contemporary hip-hop.

Racism is usually a violent resentment of one’s own projected homoerotic desires.  Rather than express this resentment towards the self, the hater transfers their hatred to The Other, the mysterious object of their desire. The Other is an OIO. The racist looks at the OIO and sees both the height of human potential and that which he will never be all at the same time.

They love what makes them cum so they want to own it as a tangible possession for eternity, but they can’t. This is why Vince McMahon and so many other billionaires seem to be turned on by the vision of big black penises.

The Homo Erectus, true to its  name, erects an entire civilization that is a projection of its  ideal self—a glossy superficial being completely empty inside. The racist aspires to become a living Simulacrum to capture his intangible prized possession within his own tangible being. Hence we have a nation of simulacra—caricaturized ideals in the form of the nigga and the swagged out Homo Erectus.

I went to junior high school in East New York, Brooklyn in the early 1990s. This is the same part of town that rapper Jeru the Damaja references in his song “Dirty Rotten Scoundrels.” I can’t tell you how many times my Columbia jacket was nearly stolen from me.

I wasn’t as lucky with my white Lakers game hat, though. When I was 13-years-old a grown man with grey hairs on his face robbed me at gunpoint with a .22 pistol in front of my school. I saw him way ahead of time, but my guard was down because in my mind, at that time, “adult” equated to being “just, righteous, and responsible” in most cases (especially if I didn't suspect them for being a crackhead who was a prevalent figure throughout NYC back then) so I thought I was safe. I was dead wrong.

Every day I came out of that school building looking over my shoulders with my Columbia jacket on. Much later I learned that Columbia was the name of the feminine spirit behind the doctrine of “Manifest Destiny” in the colonial era of thievery through “discovery” of occupied lands.

Clearly, I was willing to suffer for fashion. As students, we had school uniforms, but I stopped wearing mine in the 7^th grade because I wanted to distinguish myself from others through my appearance. Even then, I hated wearing any piece of clothing that I saw everyone wearing, even if it were “in style.” Although Columbia was a popular brand name at the time, the colors on my jacket were uncommon compared to the ones other people wore.

Unlike today with social media, mediums for personal self-expression were scarce commodities for young Black men of my generation. We wanted to convey our uniqueness by any means we perceived necessary. We all came from different households that shaped and molded our FAMILY cultures.

However when we left our families to be amongst each other in the classroom, or in the streets , there was no unifying cultural identity that spoke to our common experience in a way that fostered collective character development.

Hip Hop culture was inspiring to many of us. Still at that time, it was essentially a Latchkey Kid culture without the benefit of responsible adult mentorship and guidance. It was centered around visually impaired young men giving instruction to blind young men feeling their way around in the dark corridors of life. 

Our overlapping communal culture didn’t reinforce our respective family cultures which often—despite that turbulent era in New York City—gave us solid principles to live by. But as impressionable youth we were confused by the absence of CULTURAL CONTINUITY between the micro world of home life, and the macro world outside of it. This ultimately contributed to the organized confusion, in our communities and in our minds.

Some brothers were able to monetize their grossly exaggerated ghetto war stories which had a high market value among the amalgamated corporate entities we call the United States of America. Very few of its angel investors have been interested in purchasing stock and shareholding in the naked humanity of young Black men.

Instead whole industries were shifted and driven by the simulacra, the outer shells, of daily ghetto life. The mean-mugging screwface became a lucrative manufactured product of the U.S. corporation in the quest to manifest destiny.

The Black savage with bloodshot red eyes, mustard suede Timbs willing to do anything for a dollar is one of many archetypes in the ghetto universe. Yet he was made to appear as the standard bearer for Black masculinity, as opposed to the abhorrent departure from it that he actually was.

By the way, the word “hustler” was originally a term used for a male prostitute who put hot franks in his mouth like Slimer from Ghostbusters. A business man makes money from quality products and services that he takes personal pride in. A hustler will do anything for a buck because he only thinks short term. I’m now convinced that reparations for slavery is the only thing that will keep Black hustlers posing as artists from juggling alabaster nuts in their mouths.

The celebrated savage constantly tells one of the biggest lies that we’ve all heard from several rappers who are promoted by liberal hipster media outlets: “I’m just talking about the ONLY life I know as a nigga from the ghetto.” Bullshit. You’re talking about the caricatures you can sell to people who only want to put money behind a sensationalized version of Black manhood.

I’m not going to totally shit on a poor Black man’s opportunistic come up, but let’s call it what it is. It’s “The Culture.”

Within this perverse inversion of reality lies the vital essence of what I call Race Porn Economics. Stocks shoot up like hard cock with no sock under a fox—a beautifully bruising bonecrusher with chewy nipples and a tight twat.

In this artful Simulation of the old Wall Street slave auction scene, the Black buck gets fucked for luxury whips, fast bitches, designer clothes, and stacked bucks. For more insight into cultural simulations I recommend that you read Simulacra and Simulations by Jean Baudrillard. I’m quite certain that he’s the man who has influenced Kanye West’s disjointed commentaries on the ever-restrictive simulation. There are some profound perspectives expressed in that classic work of postmodern philosophy, which will be a provocative read for some.

Wall Street in New York City got its name from the fact that there was a long wall along that area in which African prisoners of war were bought and sold to the highest bidders after being carried off of berthed vessels that docked at the bay. Most of the land between Manhattan’s South Ferry and Wall Street today is actually land fill. 

In colonial times, New York City’s Hudson River extended further inland towards Wall Street where African POWs were sold to build the new plantation economy. This economy is still intact because it is the product of a self-replicating simulation that spans numerous centuries.

The famous bull statue in the Wall Street area on Broadway brings to mind the Bull of Apis, which was a totem for the god, Ausar (Osiris), who is Lord of the Underworld and guardian of the dead. The Black god is overseeing the souls of numerous Black POWs buried under the financial institutions of Lower Manhattan right now.  

On any given day, you will find tourists from all over the world lining up to take pictures holding the bull’s massive testicles. Based on the looks on their faces, they all love the bull market. It makes their Kundalini rise.

In like manner, the fossilized predator spirits of Krampus and Zwarte Pete are reinvigorated by criminal codeine soundbeds that arouse the shallow imaginations of European consumers who want to hear a dead god spit bars that support his spiritual dismemberment for a few dollars more.

Don’t mistake what I’m saying here for Left Wing vs Right Wing political propaganda. Both constructs are two sides of one body controlled by the same head. The Bizarro World’s A.L.L.A.H. consists of a deformed  Arm, Leg Leg, Arm Head.

I highly recommend that you read The Occult Technology of Power: The Initiation of the Son of a Finance Capitalist into the Arcane Secrets of Economic and Political Power. It will give you a better understanding of this social dialectic.