I have designed a set of playing cards which I intend to market to the hip-hop community. Just the backs, though. I don't require anything to do with the fronts. Friday afternoon. Dear Oracene Williams if you are so intent upon expressing your solidarity with the working classes as to wear that I HEART NY tee-shirt to your internationally-televised courtside seat for both semi-finals of the U.S. Open, then please buy up part of the stadium and fill it with the tired backsides of some portion of the thousand or so poor black people who have been working there at the equivalent of slave wages for the past two weeks and putting up with Williams-hating white folk shit throughout that time—because they have remained steadfastly loyal to your daughters, and to you, the whole family's most ardent fans and loyal supporters. Put these people in the stands! But no, you're content to sit with the usual posse marking a spot in a vastness of pale.
I'll get my sister to see if she can't interest some of her connections in the music and recording industry. Saturday afternoon. I hate the violence. I hate it. I hate the violence. I hate the violence. It makes me—I hate the violence. Why is it necessary. I hate it. Clearly—I hate the violence. I hate how clearly it's racial—how clearly it's real. I hate the self-hatred. I hate the violent reactions. I hate the violence. Motherfucking slave traders and slave owner fucker fuck-alls—the worst thing in history, ever—you horrible men.
Essential to strike while the iron is hot. Matchtime. Leaving the locker room. Venus coughs for the cameras. I predict Serena wins in three. Every year at just this time I receive tremendous pressure from my own father to become rich and famous. He thinks I ought to make it big writing about professional women's tennis. He doesn't understand why I don't just write something funny and smart about women's tennis and post it on a major media chat board, get it seen, get it picked up, get a job covering tennis, traveling everywhere, pick up a book deal, be able to fly my family to lots of big matches—he's so frustrated on my behalf. Truth—I wanted this too. I even formed a plan to write a controversial essay for the internet called, 'How to Beat the Williams Sisters.' I imagined its steady and increasingly dramatic digital infiltration of the women's tour as the other women read it and found that it worked. Then I'd be in—a star guru with special privileges and a laptop.
Sistah Black Jack Playing Cards. Venus Number One Mandala Playing Cards. Swiss Miss Versus Venus Mix Mastah Blastah Mandala Sistah Amuse Me Playing Cards. This plan's sole flaw was my inability to think of a single practical suggestion for beating either Williams sister other than to step inside the baseline on a return of serve and take one full in the chest while displaying neither fear nor pain. Rattle them. (Don't do it Jelena!)
Get this Jay-Z to throw my new playing cards in a video, get Brandy giggling over her pack in a fan magazine, get with Benihana on a worldwide distribution plan. Oooh jeez I just hope I don't get SAMPLED before I sign the deal. Sunday morning. Dear Oracene great lipstick and congratulations. Second set 6-2 3-all was all I managed to see but it dazzled my eyes. Thank you and just let me say that I was wrong and I'm sorry. Here—please take my card.


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