"Listen up, 'foo. You need religion. Something more than the things of 'dis here world. Materialism is wrong. . . . . Don't look at me that way, 'foo! All dat gold is part of my costoom! How else am I supposed to connect to da' bruthas, unless I grab day attention? Whut-- I don't need no costoom joolery, 'foo! I be a 100% REAL black man! And ta prove it, I'll stick my foot up 'yo ass! 'Doubting Thomas' muthafuckah!"
"You need something to rest yo' bedrock of faith on, like how all dos kids in the eighties' invested their faith in me! But there's a force out there bigger than Mr. T, don't you know-- and if you say
'bankruptcy' I'll clobber 'yo ass! 'The A-Team', 'Wrestlemania',
appearances at the malls, action figures, everything. . . . . but it wasn't enough! Mr. T loved the high life! Fast cars, fast women, mansions, motorcycles, and gold chains! I was lost, but then I was foun'! Served up in court for 29 paternity suits! They took dis nigga for all he was worf!"
"I decided I had to get right with God. So I went into my local Episcopol church, where all those honkies were that objected to dis here brutha sawin' down those 100 acres of trees (-- stickin' it to the man!), and went up to the green-frocked minister and said: 'I'm leadin' the liturgy, 'foo!'. He ran off and I prayed on my mother's spirit-- who raised six children on a $87/week welfare check while cleanin' houses six days a week-- to release the burden on me and hire Johnnie Cochran on credit. Wouldn't you know, but the Good Lord delivered! I be a free black man in 'de corrupt legal system! And I thank God and his angel (-- Johnnie Cochran!) for cutting my chains and making me free as a bird. And how I do sing his praises!"
"You better believe it-- I prayed for a miracle. And so should you, if you question the sincerity of my mission found in enlightened peace, 'foo!"
"Make checks payable to 'Mr. T Ministries' or I'll kick 'yo ass!"
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"You want a-nuther song? Well I ain't plain' one mutherfuckin' note until someone comes up here and puts sum money in my god-damned tip-jar! You know I only came here for one purpose. . . . . to take yor fuckin' cash! Why, I could make more profit puttin' out my meth-head neighbor's asshole and ringin' a bell, hollerin' 'Man for sale! Man for sale!'
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
(Rheeee of Crickets)
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("I heard that, Missy!")
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