Not “famous people,” no.
Just belly-slithering frauds like yourself who merely (and perversely) aspire to some kind of useless and pathetic notoriety at the direct expense of a people whose struggle made your grubby-handed, bag grabbing existence here in America possible.
That’s what gets you picked.
And you can bet your bottom grant dollar that if and when I ever do decide to sit down at the desk with you on my mind, you won’t be ready for what follows.
But tell whoever told you I was coming for you that they got it twisted. Why would I need to come for you? There’s an entire movement going through you right now. Do you not see it? I can see it. I can see it when you panic tweet like this for an entire afternoon. And I know it’s just a matter of time before I’ll be watching you mourn your disgraced reputation in the movement’s wake, the sad and wretched and obscene little techno-grift that you tried to make for yourself.
The movement is already writing your ending, Mutale. I’m just here as a reader.