Hacktivists Expose Alleged Racist Sony Emails About Obama, Kevin Hart

106.7 WTLC

LOS ANGELES, CA ? FEBRUARY 11: (L-R) Clint Culpepper, President, Screen Gems, Amy Pascal, Co-chairman, Sony Pictures Entertainment and Chairman of SPE?s, Columbia TriStar Motion Picture Group and actor Kevin Hart arrive at the Pan African Film & Arts Festival Premiere of Screen Gems? ?About Last Night? at the Cinerama Dome Theatre on February 11, 2014 in Los Angeles, Calif. (Photo by Kevin Winter/Getty Images)
Activist hackers have exposed a bigoted email exchange between Sony Pictures co-chairwoman and a top Hollywood producer, underscoring how America’s racial divide is not just limited to encounters between Blacks and law enforcement. It also extends to the nation’s boardrooms, and business, political and cultural sectors.

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Before a breakfast of Hollywood bigwigs with Barack Obama last November, Sony Pictures co-chairwoman Amy…

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By Not Having Codification or A Code Cause The Rise Of The Funny Bone Negroes?

thesunatmidnightblog

We at the Tao Of Blackness Foundation plan to cover a lot of different topics in some of most usually way, to quote Boots Riley of The Coup, some the ideas here will be off the chain like Kunta Kinte with a Mac-10. Today its topic of the Funny Bone Negro syndrome.  What in the hell Funny Negro syndrome is the Funny Bone Negro syndrome?  In the book titled,The Negro Press in the United States by Frederick German Detweiler, the subject was broached ever so slightly. The Funny-bone Negroes are those who cringe at every insult or pun that the white man chooses to poke at him or his Race.

Did you the reader, as a Black person cringe when saw the image of Bruce Wills holding the sign saying I hate niggers? Do you often cringe when see or hear that some white person said negative thing about…

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What if there was a rule that nobody was allowed to enter a courtroom without a blindfold on? Would skin color still determine who got what charge?

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When Parenting Feels Like a Fool’s Errand: On the Death of Michael Brown.

Stacia L. Brown

I don’t want to talk about the boy and the sneakers peeking out from the sheet crudely draped over his corpse in the street, because I have been happy this month and it is so rare that I’m happy and that you, at age 4, don’t have to touch my knee or shoulder or face and say, “What’s wrong, Mama? You sad?”

I don’t want to think of who will go out on her hands and knees to scrub what’s left of the boy’s blood from the concrete. It will probably be a loved one, her hands idle after hours of clenching them into fists, watching what used to be her breathing boy lie lifeless, as she waited and waited and waited for the police and the coroner and the county to get their stories straight and their shit together and their privilege, sitting crooked as a ten-dollar wig, readjusted till it was firmly intact…

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Why I Hate New Orleans: a transplant essay

My city?

Andrew Marin . net

I hated New Orleans from the first moment I set foot in it. I hate Tulane for giving me a scholarship. I hate the Newcomb girls for being so ugly and overdressed all the time. I hate the all-night bar in the basement of the school’s university center. I hate that friends who stayed active in Greek life remained friends with ones who never joined it. I hate not attending a party school, and, more importantly, not living in a party city. I hate that my mom convinced me to visit and that my dad also fell in love with the city once he visited. I hate that my baby brother went to school next door after he visited during spring break.

I hate that I moved here over ten years ago, tried to leave, and came crawling back. I hate that it took me this long to write a…

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