Most people don't realize that I'm The Sh*t. When they see me, I'm quite sure they make many assumptions but never are they along the lines, "I wonder if he's The Sh*t? He looks like he might be but I can't quite tell from this angle." I've grown accustomed to it but I have to admit it can be frustrating at times. It's not their fault. When I'm just standing there, not being particularly amazing, I can see how I could get confused with regular cats. Not that I think I deserve the same accolades as say, a Michael Jordan…

Scratch that. Yes I do.

If people only knew, I would most likely hear whispers as I waited with my children for the bus every morning. "Is that really him? Is that THE ROOSEVELT FRANKLIN?" For my part I would feign humility and modestly say, "Why yes. Yes I am.

"My brother had a friend in college who went through something similar. In high school Shayne had been in a group who were extremely popular called, The Yellow Boys™. Back then all one had to do to be popular was be a light-skinned Black. The Yellow boys reigned supreme. They attracted all of the pretty girls and as a result they also brought on the hatred of all the guys who weren't Yellow Boys. Naturally this lead to a lot of fights. I imagine they won and lost their share but this only lead to increase their notoriety. Shayne, enjoyed his time in High School to the utmost. It was fun being The Sh*t for four years consecutively. Like most young people he couldn't imagine it coming to an end. Of course, despite his lack of imagination, all of his fame came to a crashing halt as soon as he entered college. The University of Illinois had about thirty thousand students, many of whom were The Sh*t at their own schools. Of those, the ones that rose to the top were the athletes. Like the outsiders at his school before, The Athletes drew Shayne's hatred.

On one particular day he happened to be walking down the quad behind a popular basketball player. Two young coeds flanked him on either side, gushing. Shayne walked behind them mumbling to himself angrily. The more they walked, the more the coeds gushed, the more angry he became. Finally as they reached the middle of the quad he couldn't take it anymore so he yelled at the top of his lungs, arms flailing, mouth frothing,

"HE'S NOT THE SH*T!!!

I'M
THE
SH*T!!!"

Given the situation I think this response was completely appropriate. I know exactly how he felt. I have the urge to say the same thing every time I see Michael Jordan.

One Point

Happy Birthday to Me

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