By Charles Oakley
Oak here. Yeah, that Oak—I ain’t go no where. This tree’s got some roots boy, I’m still standing, just might be startin’ to sway a little bit. I know I ain’t gettin’ any younger. This chicken might’ve laid its last egg in the League, but it don’t mean it’s laid its last damn chickenhead. I ain’t talking bout laying out bitches like Hill or McGinnis—I still throw bows and bloody fros of those punk-ass clowns—I’m talking bitches with pink toes and shaved ho’s. That’s right, I’m talkin’ white women. See, I don’t have them running legs to get up and down the floor no more like these kids today, but Oak knows more about what it takes to sex up a coal burning cracker than anyone in the NBA. Real good too. And since I got a few more rings around my trunk these days, I thought I’d pass along a few of my secrets to all you young brothers out there who might want do some snow flakin’, Charles Oakley-style.
#1. Remind her you’re black
Sound dumb? Then you’re dumb, punk. You probably don’t know polo from lolo, let alone what it takes to mash a fine European ho. Listen here: at night, what does your white woman do when she goes on off to bed? She closes her damn eyes is what. That’s right, even when it’s nighttime your cracker wants it blacker. And take it from Oak, you gotta be midnight. This ain’t so much for when you first start hittin’ them lily skins—I’ll get to that—it’s for when she starts getting all comfortable, coming with that “aren’t we all just the same” shit. Take if from Oak, when she starts in on that, you remind her what time it is: “Ain’t only one of us here that can scare the hell out of old white women, like yo mama…” She’ll love yo ass for it.
Secret #2. Remind her she’s white
After you wear this white dicksock a few times, she’s gonna start thinking she’s all down. Happens every the time. First she’ll start flipping to BET, then she’ll start singing along to your rap joints, next she’ll be talking all black poli-tricks. Listen, you can burn up a marshmallow, but it don’t make it chocolate—it’s just crusty. So when she goes from Gap to Sean Jean, take Oak’s advice: bust a nut on that high-water booty, and tell her to clean it up—you always wanted a white maid.
Secret #3. Wear fur
Touch is one powerful-ass sensation. And touching fur? That shit is like Caucasian crack for any sorority-bred white girl. See, all these chickens have grown up wanting to wear one, but they’re too damn afraid. If Tiffany goes off to the mall wearing some mink that’s whiter than she is, she’s gotta watch out for some crazy-ass red paint attack, but when I wear one at my car wash, all I get is white women to mack straight on Oak’s chocolate ball sack. The secret? Let her rub all up on you and that damn fur, but when she asks to wear it, don’t let her. Ever.
There’s the secrets boy, it’s up to you now. See, all these honkey ho’s want to get down and dirty with a brother, so you just got to work that balance of telling her she’s bad, while letting her know you the baddest. And I should know. No one’s badder than Oak.