Hello, my name is Jack. I am a police officer. I live in New York and I kill minorities. My boss, the NYPD Police Chief told me to kill minorities, so I do. If I meet my quota of 12 minorities killed a week for 2 months straight, I get a raise of 5 Canadian dollars. I guess it's a good deal. I hate spics and I hate slant-eyes. I used to hate black people, but that was until I learned about their AMAZING powers. Due to this, I don't try to kill blacks anymore, much to the distress of my employer. The only way I can meet my quota is by running into the nearest Alldays during a robbery and kill the Indian (FROM INDIA!) security guard , who probably the day before handed me a delicious donut, however, as delicious as donuts are, he gave me a donut with pink sprinkles, so he had to die. I'm no fag. Fags are a minority, so I kill them. Anyway, blacks have MAGIC powers. I think it comes from a unique combination of fried chicken and watermelon , but the most potent ingredient of all to this mixture is malt liquor. Somehow, this creates a near never ending energy source to fuel their bestial bodies. It gives them extraordinary vision, hearing, speed, agility and extra long penises. Though countless hours of experimenting, I think I've almost come with a formula that matches them people's recipe for disaster. With just the right proportions, I get a slight increase in my skills, but I think most of it is caused by the intense urge to run to the bathroom and empty my bowels of the foul food I've consumed. Is this why they're so powerful? Is this why they dominate all sports? I don't know, but I must find out some day! Anyway, I'm a police officer and I kill minorities. Minorities are what is wrong with this country. They are poor, so it makes the otherwise perfect city of New York dirty and ugly. Certainly not a fit place for us good Christian folk. I go to church and teach the Sunday School class. I tell them how bad minorities are and why they should tell me where minorities are so I can kill them. A few parents have told me that this is a terrible message for children, but I beat them mercilessly with my night-stick, usually for several hours. If they manage to survive, and few have, I report them to the mayor for extermination from the Taliban. This is where my trouble began. I had just beaten a parent to near death and was about to report him to the mayor when lo and behold and Negro jumps out from the ally and stabs me with a piece of sharpened plastic attached to a chicken bone with a liberal amount of gum. I pulled out my gun and was about to shoot the man, but, in the blink of an eye, he grabbed my wallet and my handcuffs and then attached the handcuffs to my wrists and the third story fire escape of a building in Queens. My gun was fit snuggly in my rectum, which, to say the least, was slightly uncomfortable. That night I was forced to listen to the sounds of the evil creatures fornicating and their horrible, horrible "wrap" music. I can't get the words, "Where my dogs at?" out of my head and I fear I never will. At one point I almost thought the music was good! The next day was horrible. I had managed to fall asleep, but when I awoke my wrist was as sore as the dickens! I wanted to cry for help, but I didn't think those people would help me. All I could see for blocks was Negroes, and I was getting worried. Would they try and rob me again? I didn't have any more money so maybe they would become enraged and their super powers would overcome me and eviscerate my frail frame. As my wrist started bleeding, or rather I opened up the wound again, I decided to take a chance and ask for help. I think I was merely delirious from the blood loss, several of them had thrown empty 40 ounce bottles of liquor at me and cut my face and legs, their amazing arm strength impresses me, but I yelled, "Hey, niggers, get help for me before I kill each and every one of you with a hammer coated in watermelon juice!" A few hours later, after the riot ended, I was carted off into an ambulance, so the desired effect was reached. I had escaped their horrid domain, sans my hand, as it was ripped off when an African-Minority jumped up and grabbed my ankles. He then gave me a good tug and my wrist exploded into flying pieces of bone and flesh. Oh! the beating I received. It was one I'll never forget. The ebony fists flew like a nobody's business! In the melee I lost over half of my teeth and almost a quart of blood. I needed extensive plastic surgery to even come near my former Caucasian glory. My beautiful white skin, which had never had a single blemish, was turned blue, purple and red with dried blood. My children became frightened and thought I was a minority so they hit me. Luckily, I don't feed my children "soul" food or else I may have died. But I digress. Back to the savage walloping I received. I was laying on the ground, barely holding onto consciousness after my three story fall. I saw the shadowy figures circle me with a quickness the likes of which I will never see again. It was like blurs made by propeller blades that are moving very fast and not slow at all. When the first blow connected I flew across the street and into a trash can full of KFC boxes. I was saturated with grease and felt as if I was absorbing their essence through osmosis. It was an awful feeling, I tell you. The beating did not stop there, oh no. The can I was resting in was lifted up, as if in a show of their super-human strength, and thrown five whole feet! From there I was stomped on and now I have the word "Timberland" permanently inscribed on my rear end. Now, I may be missing a hand and have a mongoloid-like appearance, but I learned my lesson. The black race is superior to me in every way, except for intelligence, but I am the most intelligent man in New York, possibly the entire East Coast. The African-Minorities really pack a punch. The Spic-Minorities usually just yell, in an effeminate voice, "No mas, senor piggy!" and the Slant-eye-Minorities try and do some sort of "martial kung-fu-kwon-do", but I just shoot them in their small penis and laugh. But I will never again kill a Nigger-Minority. Their vengeance is great and their fury mighty like that one mouse with the cape. Boy, did that little super mouse make me laugh back when I was little.
a lot of effort...didn't read past the first mistake I found...NY cop getting a raise in Canadian $$$?
