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2020.07.27 11:52 27JJuldacket Da-ting Si-tes for Married Cou-ples

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2020.07.04 17:51 ezgo22 Underrated Audio Dramas: First Half of 2020

So according to u/thecambridgegeek 's AudioDramaDebut Twitter feed, he's tracked 625 audio drama/fiction/RPG debuts in the first half of 2020 alone. That is quite the avalanche. Many good shows got their due recognition but some may have fallen through the cracks. I've a curated list of debuts from late 2019 to now, that still have 20 or fewer ratings on the iTunes store. Links are to landing pages with multiple subscription options or RSS feeds. If you have suggestions for shows that I may have missed, please feel free to add in the comments. If you're interested in past posts I have made on this subject, check these links out: 1, 2, 3 , 4, 5.
There's also been interest in supporting podcasts by Black creators so I've highlighted the relevant podcasts.

  1. Verity Weaver (Space Adventure, Philosophy, Complete): If you were given the chance to escape into the illusion of a perfect life, would you take it? Verity Weaver is a gritty, honest, and immersive science-fiction audio drama about reality, identity, and what we owe to the universe.
  2. Genius by Tracey Houston (Sherlock Holmes, Romantic Thriller): Sabine Moriarty, a brilliant but reclusive mathematician, is caught between her criminal brother Jim and his rival- Sherlock Holmes.
  3. NORA by Shadeaux Public Radio(Horror, Complete): These recordings were emailed to us without explanation. The sender has not responded to any questions. We cannot confirm the veracity of the information contained within, but believe that the creator of these recordings is acting in good faith. The woman, who calls herself NORA, is investigating a strange series of events that wander between the boundaries of perception and reality. There is some suggestion of organized crime, paranormal influence, or perhaps simple madness. We will continue to make these available as they are sent to us. They present no danger to the listener and seem to provide a source of support for the creator.
  4. Inco by ItMe (Space Opera): A Sci-Fi story about a disgruntled information seller, a mysterious space boy, and an android doing her best.
  5. COVID39 (Science Fiction, Current Events, Black Creator): Twenty years after Covid-19 brought the world to a standstill, a man and a woman who were quarantined together as kids question the validity of their current romantic relationship. They salvage audio recordings left by their parents during the pandemic, our present, to come to terms with their trauma. This is a fictional audio drama that points out the humanity of our fateful present and examines the future we are helping to create for our children.
  6. Putting 2&2 Together (Drama, LGBTQ): What do you do when the sh*t has already hit the fan? A former comic book artist out to re-invent himself. His estranged sister who isn't ready to forgive. The mild-mannered accountant who loved them both. And the ever-expanding world around them all. Join Tommy Hanson and friends as they become the best versions of themselves by "Putting 2&2 Together."
  7. Georgie Romero is Done For (Comedy, Supernatural): Georgie Romero has risen from the grave, driven to solve the mystery of her former human life with the help of an inept witch and a cynical ghost.
  8. Have Monster, Will Travel (Comedy, Cryptids): There are very few moments in your life where you can do something radical for someone you love. Meet Riley and Render. Roommates. Best friends. There's just one small hitch. Riley is a young career-focused woman with a little bit of burnout and Render... well, he's a monster. When Render admits feelings of sadness over not knowing who he is or where he comes from, Riley makes a bold choice: find his family, whatever the cost. Have Monster, Will Travel: they're just two best friends on the adventure of a lifetime.
  9. That Damned Hotel (Comedy, Supernatural): The place: Hollow Grove Hotel, a lovely establishment that's been the site of only a few (dozen) murders over the years. Also, it stands over a portal to hell, so it might have a minor demon infestation. But, no bedbugs!
  10. Desperado (Folklore, Superpowers): Blood magic, Voodoo magic, old gods, new gods: We've got it all! Follow the story of misfits from all over the world, as they try to survive and protect their heritage from modern-day crusaders.
  11. The Pasithea Powder (Science Fiction): On a faraway world, Captain Sophie Green is recovering from a war that ripped her planet apart and left her personal relationships for dead. Among the many atrocities committed on both sides was the invention of Pasithea Powder, a drug with memory altering properties. Thankfully, the drug has been eradicated and only a handful of scientists—now political prisoners—know how to recreate it. When Sophie sees one of those scientists walking free, she has no choice but to turn to an estranged friend for help.
  12. The All Arcadians (Fantasy, Comedy): The All-Arcadians is a fantasy radio play following a team of misfits attempting to find their way in the magical land of Arcadia. Through their series of dungeons and dragons inspired misadventures and conversations- chock full of pop culture and meta-references- the Arcadians learn who they are and what they mean to each other.
  13. Mage and Machine (Science Fiction/Fantasy): A mysterious teenage sorceress escapes from her tower and teams up with a cyborg ex-con with a shady past, as they try to stay one step ahead of the ruthless Royal Sorceress bent on imprisoning them both.
  14. Connie Cosmos (Space Opera): Equipped with only her communicator ring, robotic arm and quick wit, Connie Cosmos fights all manner of fearsome foes. Join Connie and all her equally compelling friends as they tangle with the great galactic evil of Zander Zar. Can our heroes stop evil and still find their way back home to Earth? Find out on the exciting first season of Connie Cosmos.
  15. I Want Everything (Comedy, Surreal, Complete): Two young strangers appear in a dimensionless void. They learn from their unwilling and flatulent guide that they have been summoned to undertake The Bidding. The Bidding is a difficult, no, nearly impossible task. The most likely outcome for the summoned is death ... but completing The Bidding is their only way home. What is the curious purpose of these quests? Who are the mysterious Stewards who oversee the process? What ancient prophesies drive a conflict that threatens to engulf our heroes and the vast Hachne Empire? What happens when a Giant meets a social influencer and why does everyone dream that someone else has taken their spoon!?
  16. The New Colossus (Drama, Complete): A family of frustrated, attention-starved artists flocks to the seashore. One of them has a gun...what could possibly go wrong? A darkly comic reboot of Chekhov’s classic THE SEAGULL, this rollicking tale examines the pitfalls of making art and making love in modern day America.
  17. Peer Gynt (Satire, Folkore, Complete): A full cast audio drama adaptation of Ibsen’s classic play.
  18. Greyhounds (Historical Fiction, Complete): Greyhounds charts the trials and tribulations of every day life during the Second World War for the residents of Shuttlefield village. From a disastrous production of Henry V in aid of the Spitfire Fund, to a bittersweet street party on VE Day, follow the lives of those on the home front with a touch of comedy, a taste of Shakespeare, and pure vintage flair! (The podcast feed lacks the last 3 episodes, which are available via the website)
  19. Fire Bird (Folklore, Complete): Fire Bird tells the story of Prince Ivan Tsarevich, youngest son of a powerful Tsar who leaves the comforts of the Mortal Lands to venture into the Wilds, where creatures of myth still dwell and danger lies around every turn. Unknowingly drawn into a deadly battle of wills by an immortal sorcerer . . .A labour of love for its writer, Fire Bird weaves together different renditions of the phoenix story with established Slavic folklore to tell a unique version of the legendary bird’s tale.
  20. Dueling Pistols (Historical Fiction, Complete): Both men raised a pistol for the chance to start again. One would pull the trigger to protect a friend. One to eliminate an enemy. Of the seven witnesses, one man had just struck gold, one spoke a psalm to clear away the sins of his son, and two men present were no men at all. The town Madame was there, her pockets lined with treasure. The Mayor was there, believing himself a king. The Sheriff arrived as they were counting out their paces; but not even he would attempt to stop these dueling pistols. This is a historical fiction story set in the gold rush era. The story is inspired by a wine named Dueling Pistols.
  21. Temujin (Historical Fiction, Complete): Fallen aristocrat Jamukha is surrendered to the camp of his sworn brother and rival, Genghis Khan. Told from Jamukha’s perspective on what might be the last night of his life, TEMUJIN: AN AUDIO DRAMA tells the story of two young warlords caught between empire-building and tender brotherhood. TEMUJIN: AN AUDIO DRAMA is an audio-only historical drama, and an adaptation of the Central Asian epic The Secret History of the Mongols.
  22. Blake Skye: Private Eye (Noir, Lovecraft): Down on his luck gumshoe Blake Skye only had two options: take the job or die in the gutter. But worse things than death lie waiting in the shadows of the City. What madness and horror await, and can our intrepid investigator survive it? Find out, in this thrilling drama that mixes Raymond Chandler and H. P. Lovecraft in an exciting and modern cocktail of danger, romance, suspense, and cosmic horror from the mind and mouth of S. J. Ryker, with new episodes the last Sunday of every month!
  23. Kiss: The Audio Series (Serial Killer, Erotic, Black Creator): Some believe that a kiss is one of the most intimate connections that two people can share, but when it comes to Washington, D.C.'s Lipstick Serial Killer; a mere kiss could easily equate to death. The "Kiss of Death," as she is known to the public; preys on attractive, unsuspecting men with only one objective in mind: TO KILL! Sealing each murder with a sinful kiss to the frontal lobe, The "Kiss of Death" plots to destroy every man in her path for as long as she can.
  24. Destination: Earth (Space Adventure, Complete): A riveting sci-fi audio drama about the search for long-lost planet Earth.
  25. The Disappearance of Cedar Hills (Science Fiction, Noir): Broadcasting from The Orion Theatre, Orion Radio presents The Disappearance of Cedar Hills. Join us as we dive into the long lost tapes of famous Private Investigator, Thomas Larson as he explores the mysterious town of Cedar Hills.
  26. The Adventures of Dick Cutter, Private Detective (Comedy, Noir): Dick Cutter, Swansea’s greatest - and only - hardboiled detective is down on his luck, down on his debts, and down to his last oreo. When the wife of a missing physicist hires him, Cutter hopes for a quick and easy case. However, on the mean streets of Swansea, not everything is as it seems. Join Dick Cutter, Private Detective, on a rip-rolling adventure involving mad scientists, Vladimir Putin, drunk hoovers and innuendo. Lots and lots of innuendo.
  27. Omegaman (Superhero): Omegaman is set in an alternate reality of the United States where in 2008, a real life superhero appeared: Omegaman. The story begins in 2019 centered on a reporter visiting a prison specially designed to house supervillains. Her assignment? To interview some of the more prominent villains (some super powered and some not) about their first encounters with Omegaman, in search of uncovering a secret conspiracy.
  28. Tomorrow, The Void (Science Fiction): Light-years away from a dying Earth, humanity’s last hope rides aboard the Dellingr, a ship on course to a distant planet to start life anew. Follow the five crew members on board, far away from all they knew and loved, tasked with a mission that is falling apart in unexpected, strange, and horrific ways. Are all the classic sci-fi’s wrong? Is love really the answer to everything? Or was this all doomed from the start?
  29. The Green Horizon (Space Adventure): Irish comedy audio-drama that focuses on a na'er - do - well captain and his rag-tag crew as they traverse a war-torn Galaxy in search of fame and fortune. Their journey brings them across many characters and many dangers that they must deal with the only way Irish people can; with a bit of ingenuity and a lot of luck.
  30. Path of Legends (Fantasy, Folklore): Magic is forbidden in the Kingdom, but when three children come upon an abandoned wizard's workshop, they cannot help but explore it. While looking through an old spellbook, Philip suddenly vanishes into thin air! Now his sister and best friend must set out on the journey of a lifetime to find where he has gone and bring him back...
  31. Monotony: The Musical (Romantic Comedy, Musical, Complete): HERBERT HANDLER III is a timid accountant with smudged glasses who dreams of a life free from spreadsheets -- and free from his tyrannical boss, MR. MCGIVER. But he can’t just quit! Accounting was his deceased father’s chosen profession, and what was good enough for his dad should be good enough for him! And yet, the thought of devoting his life to accounting is fueling Herbert’s nightmares. If only he had the courage to live life on his own terms, free of his father’s expectations, like his boss’ cute son, Theo.
  32. VOID (Science Fiction, Post-Apocalyptic): Set in the year 2083 the Earth is now a desolate, radioactive wasteland after years of pollution and deregulation have taken their toll. A group of survivors living underground is now the only hope for our future as they endeavor to leave the colony on Earth to venture into space in search of a new home planet working desperately to keep mankind alive.
  33. The Sheridan Tapes (Horror): In 2018, famed horror writer Anna Sheridan disappeared, leaving behind only a box of mysterious cassette tapes. Detective Sam Bailey is tasked with piecing together what happened to Anna Sheridan from the seemingly impossible encounters she recorded, but as the scattered pieces of the puzzle come together, Bailey discovers that the picture is even stranger – and more dangerous – than it seemed.
  34. The Nonbinary Carrie Bradshaw (LGBTQ, Slice of Life): The Nonbinary Carrie Bradshaw is a fiction podcast about four queer and trans friends dating, crying, and waiting for the subway in New York City.
  35. Address: House of Corrections (Historical Fiction, Black Creator): Unfolding against the backdrop of ugly southern tradition, the great Migration North and Detroit’s former glory, "Address: House of Corrections" seamlessly weaves between the time periods of 1947 to 1968 and follows the journey of MERRY, an ex-con and recovering addict, from a rarely seen Black woman’s point of view.
  36. Being Socially Distant (Comedy, Current Events): Emily is nailing homeschooling with virtual museum tours, a fun-filled Viking project and regular yoga in the garden, as well as whipping up something from the pantry for date night with husband Steve. Pippa is getting to grips with new levels of online dating that only the desperation of two kids in lockdown could push you to, whilst Kate is a ticking timebomb holding all the shit together whilst her husband cycles round the countryside looking after his mental health.Working from home, competitive parenting, sexual frustration, homeschooling and stuffed hamsters - three households all managing in their own way. Emily, Pippa and Kate Skype, Zoom and Houseparty their way through the day whilst negotiating relationships with cooped-up partners and the constant requests for more screen time. Sound familiar
  37. Society of Supernatural Safety (Supernatural): The story of Hal Erickson, his friend Laurel Nare, and his various supernatural friends and pupils whom he meets through his secret government job. However, every one of them have quite a few secrets, including Hal.
  38. The Others by Manic Bee Media (Horror): Mabel, a young troubled botanist takes a job on a space station bound for a new world and a new life. But when the ship collides with unknown debris new alien life finds her instead. Mabel must outwit her pacifist AI and win a war against the aliens if she hopes to survive.
  39. Darian Blue (Private Investigator, Black Creator): Private Investigator Darian Blue is THE one to call when you need answers. Is it a man's world? Not when Darian Blue is on the job.
  40. SENTINELS: Point of No Return (Space Opera, Black Creator): Five hundred years in the future, corporate control of humanity is total. The TransCorps own everything; Earth, the dozens of colonies across the Solar System, and the very genes of their workers. The second-class Genens of the System are oppressed economically and beaten down by prejudice, until a cataclysm forces the pure-gene Sentinel security force to integrate. Can a conscripted crew of young people from very different backgrounds change the System enough to save humanity? Or will they destroy it?
  41. Dead Sirius (Zombies, Magic): Follow the story of Sirius, a man who took matters into his own hands when the zombie apocalypse began, and joined the ranks of the dead before they could force him to. Now a walking, talking, thinking corpse, how will Sirius handle the later stages of the zombie invasion?
  42. CovenCast: A Disaster’s Guide to Magic (Magic): Life is forever changed when the Rivera sisters, Pilar and Carmen discover they are witches and now apart of the supernatural world. They recruit their closest friends to start a coven...and a podcast.
  43. Lady Lucy (Historical Fiction, Black Creator): Lady Lucy is an audio drama inspired by Shakespeare's "Dark Lady" Sonnets, 127-154. Between running her brothel, fighting the Church, murdering her friends' abusive husbands, and pretending to be a poet, the last thing Lucy needed back in 1586 was a surprise visit from her former flame... Will Shakespeare.
  44. Finsbury (Comedy, Multiple Universes): In which Jack Fiscock tries to get his tumultuous life back on track by moving in with some unexpected flat mates and loses his most prized possession… in another dimension.
  45. Archergeddon! (Comedy, Complete): Welcome to the village of Bambersham where preparations for the Easter Fete are in full swing! Jane Barkley (Mel Giedroyc), the newly appointed chair of Bambersham Council, needs to organise the raffle, sort the tombola... Oh, and stop the world from ending (but most importantly, organise the raffle). From a deadly virus to a horde of the undead, can the most unlikely of villages survive the apocalypse?
  46. Really Important Person Book Club (Satire, Politics): An audio comedy drama where every episode the current president of the USA sits down with a figure of note to discuss a not very carefully chosen book.
  47. The Haven Project (Science Fiction, Post-Apocalyptic): This post-apocalyptic audio drama will immerse you in a world where climate change has severely affected agricultural production, and humanity's survival is threatened by food insecurity. The citizens of Haven are a minority group that enjoys plentiful fresh food, partly thanks to their location in the now-temperate north, and partly due to proprietary technological advancements that they keep under wraps. How long can Haven thrive in this bleak world, and how will they deal with the threat of Outsiders? Explore some of the causes of food insecurity, as well as some real-world advancements that might help us overcome it in this interdisciplinary educational initiative from Feeding 9 Billion.
  48. The Pogley Wood Murders (Comedy, Mystery): In these troubled times, why not travel back to 1937? Listen to the murderously funny ongoing saga from Pogley Wood and Morlington Hill, the sleepy Cornish villages steeped in folklore and supernatural goings-on.... Join our intrepid local police force, D.I. Arthur Sixpence, Sgt. Dingle, Constable Knibblett and forensic expert Miss Betty Swallocks as they solve a series of murders - never a week passes by without one!
  49. Majoring In Me (LGBTQ, Black Creator): In 2006, Tritan Steele arrives at Hamilton University. And if being a freshman at a school far from home wasn't enough, he's dealing with his newfound sexuality, his recent healthcare, and resurfaced old familial wounds.
  50. Sticks Shift Incorporated (Science Fiction, Mystery): What would you do if the company you worked for started to feel a little bit off? And not just in a criminal enterprise kind of way, but in a reality-bending, defying laws of nature kind of way?
  51. Vampire Needed (Supernatural): A team of supernatural beings, led by their human Aegis – a loremistress named Roy – have been tasked to remove a ghost from a building. But the threat of a ghost is not the worst problem they come face-to-faces with.
  52. Triple Six (Thriller, Complete): A Texas couple head for Las Vegas to rekindle their marriage. When an international underworld of gangsters and gamblers kidnaps the wife and forces the husband to play twisted games to win her back.
  53. Ex Pat (Romantic Comedy): A comedy about an interracial and international romance between a Filipina American gal and an Irish guy and the culture clash that happens as a result.
  54. Flies in the Jar (Crime Thriller): Two friends embark on a journey to take back what was stolen. They’ll have to face the past in order to understand the present.
  55. Null/Void (Science Fiction/Fantasy): Null /Void is a science fiction audio drama about a young woman, Piper Lee, whose life is saved by a mysterious voice named Adelaide. Piper soon uncovers a malicious plot by a monopoly of a tech company and must work with her friends and an unusual ally to help foil their deadly plot.
  56. Novitero (Space Adventure, Heist): Banished from her home due to a mistake that cost her half her family's fortune, Princess Cesaleza is left with a choice: find a way to make up the lost funds or leave her home forever. When a raid unites her with a group of wanted criminals, Cesa creates an unlikely alliance with the crew. She explains her financial problem and her plan to fix it.
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2020.04.20 04:31 DXD4226 Colorism and Black relationships

After this Blueface and Roddy Rich situation, and various Tik Toks and Twitter posts with Black men degrading Dark skin women has really opened my eyes about colorism. I stay in Atlanta and I see a lot of Black couples. I don’t want to sound ignorant, but I rarely see young Dark skin couples unless they stay in low income areas or and most of the kids are out of the wedlock. Most of the Black men in my area date Black women lighter then them. Not significantly lighter, but I still don’t see Dark skin people dating. Most of the Dark skin women I see date White men. I also see Black men of all skin tones dating interracial. I never really looked at it as colorism but people just enjoying what they can , but it really made me think......
I honestly don’t watch music videos at all. I love the music, but not the videos, but I hear a lot of people say there aren’t any Dark skin women in rap/R&B videos so idk. They also say they don’t see athletes dating Dark skin women. I can vouch for this as I’ve follow a lot of the young athletes and most of their SOs are Light skin, White, or Latina. I also hear places like California, Minnesota, Las Vegas, and the UK; the Black men there are colorstruck to the highest degree. I’ve been staying in Atlanta my whole life so Idk. I’ve been on various sites and the Black men say it’s not true while the Black women say it’s true. I honestly don’t wanna bring this to a Black man bashing session because I honestly love Black women and I’ll vouch for both genders. I just want to know if Black men have an affinity for Dark skin women. I just want to hear your voices
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2020.01.02 14:49 jordanbeff Album of the Year #2: Quelle Chris - Guns

Artist: Quelle Chris
Album: Guns
Listen
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Spotify
Apple Music
Bandcamp
Background
One of Detroit’s true odd-balls, Quelle Chris got his start in 2006 with fellow wordsmith Denmark Vessey, forming the duo known as Crown Nation, releasing their debut LP $lutbag Edition in 2008. Linking up with Danny Brown shortly after, Chris is credited as a writer for many of Brown’s early work, even going as far to produce several tracks on The Hybrid. In fact, they ran in such a tight circle that Quelle used the same beat from Danny Brown’s XXX on his 2011 debut solo album Shotgun & Sleek Rifle; (Quelle’s “MTFO” uses the same beat as Brown’s “Nosebleeds”).
Quelle began his rise to underground prominence after his 2017 album Being You Is Great! I Wish I Could Be You More Often was met with critical acclaim, landing at #26 on Anthony Fantano’s end of year list, #11 on Rolling Stone’s best rap albums of 2017, and #12 on bandcamp’s end of year list.
Quick to follow up what was clearly his best album yet, shortly after getting engaged to legendary underground MC Jean Grae, these two came together in 2018 to release their collaborative effort Everything’s Fine, which was somehow even more well received than Being You Is Great. It was awarded Best New Music by Pitchfork, and was hailed as the best album of 2018, landing at #1 on bandcamp’s end of year list.
After two albums in back to back years, both of which are widely regarded as his best works, a big question arose. Could Quelle keep this hot streak alive? Would he be able to continue making his unique, odd-ball flavor of hip-hop work in his favor, or would his nasal tone and eclectic beat selection come off as self-indulgence for the sake of self-indulgence? On March 29, 2019, Chris was given the chance to confirm whether his past two albums success were an outlier, or if he would finally cement himself in this decade’s underground hall of fame.
Album Review
In Quelle’s own words, from his bandcamp page:
Guns is an arsenal of both sounds, styles and subjects. At its core it’s about things that can be weaponized for good or evil, including ourselves. The words we say, what we fear, how we love, how we live, what we ingest, what we believe in, who we idolize, shit like that. Somewhat a sonic study of the question “do ‘guns’ kill people or do people kill people?
On Guns, Quelle examines not only the obvious sources of violence in American society, the literal guns, but the root cause(s) of where these violent urges stem from. “Guns” simultaneously acts as a metaphor for how institutions are weaponized to hold people down, as well as the weapons we have to fight back against an inherently corrupt system. Quelle explores these concepts with beautiful intricacy and depth.
LITERALLY (more patriotic than pie)
With a title like Guns, you might expect Quelle to utilize an aggressive sonic direction, using the beats to act as a metaphor for the loud and violent state guns exist within. However, Quelle instead opts to let his pen sprawl the concept. With the opener “Spray and Pray”, producer Dane sets the tone of the album with a simple kick and snare pattern featuring a thicc snare, while a tall, walking bassline backs the drums, creating an unsettling, yet simultaneously comforting vibe for Quelle to spit his socially conscious bars with his trademark mellow and monotone flow. At only 1:30, Quelle is able to pack a surprising amount of thought provoking bars into the brief track.
Quelle sets the lyrical tone of the album, nailing several major points regarding gun culture in America with multiple tightly packed one liners. Mentioning his original friend cohort and their eventual lifestyle change, concluding that a 401k is more useful than an AK-47. Commenting on the culture surrounding gun safety that he has experienced; where young people refuse to utilize their safeties, and how that mentality translates into adults who are intentionally reckless with their arms. The most poignant piece of commentary here is found in the bridge, where Quelle uses “all guns for hire” as a metaphor for the massive lobbying power provided to the NRA, who use that power to spread misinformation regarding gun violence in order to maintain the current status quo.
This song ends abruptly, with Quelle seemingly getting ready to go in for a second verse, when he is stopped short by…
Praying the climate changing, this game maintained by the youth
Watching 'em run and gun 'til they grow up to be like (gunshot)
...you guessed it, a gunshot. Quelle uses the opening track as an opportunity to create a library of generic gun violence talking points, almost in an attempt to get them out of the way. This is what the album would be if he were to address this deeply nuanced topic from a strictly surface level perspective. Instead, we are blessed with Quelle diving deeper into the social and cultural aspects of gun violence on the following track.
We then dive directly into the title track “Guns”, opening with a cascade of jazzy piano keys and a super smooth synth chord progression to compliment it, which then breaks into these double time opened snare claps, providing Quelle an up-tempo, bright and colorful backdrop to spit hyper conscious lyrics, beginning with the foundation as to what drives American’s obsession with guns.
Not unlike many different cultural phenomena, Quelle views the American fanaticism with guns as a learned cultural expression. He provides a few examples of how a weapon, that ideally should be used for protection, can be normalized in a person’s youth to the point where it’s not viewed as a weapon anymore. If a twenty-two caliber bullet is viewed as “more patriotic than pie”, or if you learned how to fire a weapon before you could even spell, then gun use has been deeply ingrained into your psyche and is now a standard aspect of your life. However, it’s not simply the presence of guns that has been normalized; it’s the misuse of these weapons as toys, and their appropriation as status symbols that has been normalized. The bigger your guns, the stronger you are. This is a fallacy that Quelle builds around for the duration of this album.
In the second verse, Quelle is able to extrapolate the idea that guns are an integral part of American culture, imagining himself in the shoes of someone who was raised with this world-view, reacting to some of the proposed gun control measures.
They hollering give me back my bullets, Lynyrd Skynyrd, new Van Zants
If you own it, then you'll pull it, maybe so, probably not
They spend billions like civilians won't catch trickle from the top
Just to protect or to progress what but little bit we got
Bruh-bruh, I'm your friendly neighbor, I stay on yo block
I protect and service, I big game, buckshot
Ain't no cracking that code, ain't no safety on locks
Might as well get you one, procrastinating will get you popped
After reeling from the unsurprising animosity to the proposed gun control measures, Quelle attempts to bargain with this “person” (not really an individual, more a representation of a group think). As their “friendly neighbor”, he understands their desire for protection in their neighborhood. Quelle states that even he arms himself; although, it’s likely with a hunting rifle or shotgun. Eventually realizing that there is no “cracking that code”, or getting through to them. If they are not willing to listen, nothing will change, and his only logical course of action is to arm himself at an equal level to his neighbor because, as stated, “procrastinating will get you popped”.
This verse does an excellent job of illustrating how the gun control argument in America has progressed on both sides. Instead of being clearly biased, Quelle presents viewpoints from both sides of the argument; showing how deeply ingrained guns are in American culture, and why people might be hesitant to willingly give up an aspect of their culture that they have always known. Simultaneously, it also illustrates the reaction that some people might take when their ideas to curve the widespread violence are immediately rejected; a reaction that will not only not solve the crisis, but exacerbates it. The idea that “if everyone has a gun, we would have no gun violence” only provides a sense of security on an individual level, not a systemic one.
All this is subtly expressed through Quelle’s 16 bars. As he progresses in his career, Quelle’s pen has become more and more impressive. Listening to the guy who once wrote a song called Super Fuck spew these incredibly socially conscious lyrics is almost shocking.
RACE & THE LAW (for the black, for the white, it’s for all)
“Color of the Day” is a simple skit track, taking a subtle jab at law enforcement, and how simply performing mundane activities (walking, shopping, swimming, driving) “while black” is enough to get someone stopped by the police. Really, the skit is meant to provide some context to the following track, “Mind Ya Bidness”.
Sounding like something straight out of a 1980’s video game, and further confirmed that’s exactly what Quelle was aiming for, with the music video, the self-produced “Mind Ya Bidness” is a representation of a few things. On the surface, it’s an ultra low-key flex track, with Quelle describing his night at a club. Obviously, the first thing he does before he even leaves his house, is get baked with his wife. But don’t try to take his weed, he’ll have you praying for mercy. He then heads out to the club; the catch here being that Quelle doesn’t like to stunt.
I ain't tryna stunt, I post in the back
Can't eat with them niggas, most them niggas is actors
You ain't got no homies, all your homies is rappers
If Quelle’s at the club, he’s hanging out in a back room with his ride or die friends and a shitload of weed. He mentions how he can’t hang with these “actors”, likely meaning other rappers that are putting on a facade. You may have more heads in their section, but they’re not your homies. They’re just dudes who are trying to get put on and chase clout.
The chorus outlines a small bit of social commentary with a double meaning, connecting the mellow flex-track to the overarching theme illustrated throughout the record.
'Cause me and mine 'bout to shine, that's for motherfucking sure
Feeling VIP, fill a zip full of motherfucking smoke
We got brown, we got white and some motherfucking Guinness
If Quelle feels like it’s a VIP kinda night, he’s gunna take a zip of weed and head out with his friends. In this case, it’s a mixed crowd (figuratively and literally). He’s got black friends, he’s got white friends, and he uses “Guinness” as a metaphor for his mixed-race friends, as well as the literal interpretation of drinking beers.
And ain't nobody here tripping, so mind ya motherfucking bidness
This is the double meaning that Quelle is implying throughout the song. If a group of dudes are just chilling and not causing a disturbance, then there’s no real reason for someone (a police officer) to not mind his business and leave them alone. Chris’ poignant social commentary, speaking on the systemic racism that plagues law enforcement officers throughout the US, is illustrated in the music video as well; after being welcomed into the back room of the club and bartering with a dude, he is chased by a pig and put in handcuffs, while a white dude smoking a bong right behind the pig is ignored and gets off scott free.
I COULD STAND IN THE MIDDLE OF FIFTH AVENUE AND SHOOT SOMEBODY AND I WOULDN’T LOSE
“Mind Ya Bidness” ends with this real life quote from our Orange In Chief , delivered via vocal snippet collage, introducing the topic found on the following track.
Imagine; it’s 2007 and presidential candidate Barack Obama gets in front of the press and starts talking about the strength of his campaign. He says, “I could stand in the middle of Fifth Avenue and shoot somebody, and I wouldn’t lose any voters”. How do you think this would have been received? I can tell you now, he would have been ostracized by the media and would have lost all the political support he had, nearly immediately. But Donald Trump, a person who had been in the media’s spotlight for ages before he announced his candidacy, can say this and be met with a room full of applause. LAUGHTER. A ROOM FILLED WITH PEOPLE LAUGHED AS HE STATED THAT HE COULD MURDER PEOPLE IN BROAD DAYLIGHT.
And then he went on to win the fucking presidency.
“It’s The Law (Farewell Goodbye Addio, Uncle Tom)” opens with a plucky, walking bass-line, backing these off-kilter, slowly marching kick-kick-open-snare patterns, creating a beat that’s almost dragging its way through the track; an apt backdrop for the subject matter tackled, beginning with this skit:
It's God's and Nature's Law
That man attempt to prevail over his fellow man
Better to remember, that God is white
Would you mind repeating?
God is White; and as long as God is white
We will prevail over all other races
Both of these short skits are meant to outline white privilege; the former in a very real, recent vein, and the ladder in a more conceptual, abstract lane. It’s been well documented that Jesus Christ was not white, yet he is continually portrayed as a white man. Why? Why do people who worship Jesus, the supposed Son of God, insist on viewing him through this white-washed lense? It’s all about control. As long as God, or the Son of God, is white, they will prevail.
Both of Quelle’s verses on this track are packed full of metaphors and imagery that depict how white supremacy has been a keystone building block of the foundation of the United States. I’ll breakdown the subtleties of his first verse, as I find it to have some of the most intriguing metaphors and delivery I’ve heard this year.
Let he who is without cast the first 'Get-out-of-our-country'
Oh, the hypocrisy
Another tongue in cheek ode to the democracy
To help normalize the day to day atrocities
Quelle digs into this concept with brilliance right off the bat, repurposing one of Jesus’s most famous quotes (John 8:7) to call out the double standard of people calling for a wall to keep out “criminals and rapists”
By the law of the land, as planned by the man upstairs
From Lehem with the long blonde hair
The USA was intentionally founded as a country with religious freedom, yet it has somehow been misconstrued as a “Christian Nation” by any number of religious fanatics screaming for America’s laws to more accurately reflect the “morals of the Bible.” Quelle directly references the fact that Jesus, who was born in Bethlehem, Israel, a middle eastern country, is generally depicted as having long blonde hair.
Oh, the irony
All these multi-culti hatin' whities
Who fetishize some brown on ivory
AKA bless the USA
In the true blue bloods who trust, American Way
Quelle continues to poke holes in their logic, this time with a beautifully executed double entendre. The first of which being that white supremacists, who so vehemently hate black culture, fetishize the words of a brown-skinned Jewish man as the “law of the land”. The second of which being the fact that in todays society, southern states, which are generally associated with rampant racism and hatred of black culture, search for ebony and interracial porn at a far higher rate than the rest of the country.
Hate in the name of love
Sin ain't a sin if the pen pushes them vs. us
From under the ship to behind the truck
Behind the truck to the back of the bus
Now we makin' it?
Or going back where we was?
Progress is a long road
So buckle up
The treatment of African-Americans in this country could easily be viewed as a sin. That is, unless the laws of the US condone it, and until not that recently in terms of our country's history, they very much did. Quelle outlines a brief history of how the rights of African-Americans have progressed in the US, ending with a question. Have we made it? Have we reached a point where African-Americans are considered equal? Or have we regressed? Either way, buckle up, because progress is a long road.
This is easily the best verse I’ve heard this year. Not only is it unbelievably witty and well-written, but it’s delivered with such ease from Quelle that you might not even pick up what he’s talking about on first listen because his flows are so smooth and his rhymes are so tightly packed that you just want to listen to how effortless his raps are.
This song ends with the final iteration of the chorus...
It's the law, it's the law niggas
It's for me, it's for y'all, it's for all of us
For the straight, for the coochie and the ball lickers
It's the law, for the black, for the white, it's for all
...which then brings us back to the Donald Trump quote that initially lead us into the song. This is meant to drive the point home that laws are meant for everyone; except the 1%. If you’re part of the 1%, you are more than welcome to threaten murder on national TV; hell, it might even increase your poll numbers. And while historically, the law has been used to oppress people of color, Quelle now realizes that it has moved past just oppressing one race. It’s used as a mechanism to hold people in their current social class, and does not apply to people with money. Class is the new race, which is better for the oppressors, because it’s not illegal to discriminate against poor people.
GOD (and so will I… why not?)
Religion was touched on lightly in the previous track, the implication being that religion is the basis for the laws that have been so effectively weaponized to discriminate. “Wild Minks” follows in the tracklist, continuing the theme of religion; this time with a much more metaphorical and abstract approach.
The track opens with a lone piano note, and a few simple piano chords following shortly after. A very mellow kick-kick-kick-snare pattern that sounds like it’s been sat on eventually breaks into the track. Quelle added a layer of what sounds like vinyl static to the background of this track, making it feel distinctly lo-fi compared to the rest of the album, which sounds tightly polished and clean. Maybe this is due to the Mach-Hommy feature, whose vocals are consistently muddy and mixed down, even in his own music. Either way, this lo-fi hissing does detract from the verses spit on this song, making appreciating the subtle concept even more difficult. From a sonic standpoint, I’d say this is the low-point for the album. However this sonic shortcoming is more than made up for from a lyrical perspective. “Wild Minks” is, without question, the most complicated and abstract concept approached on this record. I’m going to do my best to break it down for you here, but I urge you to read the lyrics a few times before you read my explanation. A big part of what makes this concept so unique is the perspective from which Quelle writes his verse; blending true aspects of biblical scripture with absurdism, and using that as a metaphor for today’s society.
Quelle’s verse here starts out referencing Matthew 3:4, referring to John’s shirt of camel’s hair and his leather belt as “Wild Minks”. He then lays down an intricate and descriptive verse about John The Baptist and how he lived; detailing his affinity for substances, his desire for lavish compensation, his expansive housing, his high quality furs, his expensive diet, and how he’s considered to be cultured and refined by his friend group due to these things.
Wait, back up. John The Baptist wasn’t materialistic, was he? He’s considered a Saint in the Christian faith. How could someone who enjoyed such a lavish lifestyle be a literal Saint? As it turns out, very little Quelle details in his verse here is true about how John The Baptist lived. So why fabricate this detailed verse about his lifestyle? What am I missing here?
Quelle ends his verse with the perfect summation of the subtle metaphor outlined in this track:
Johnny boy wore wild minks, and so will I
Why not?
Chris uses the “wild minks” that John The Baptist wore as a metaphor to illustrate how religious scriptures can be easily lost in translation, and misinterpreted in ways that are far, even polar opposite, from their original intention.
If John The Baptist wore wild minks, what’s so wrong about me wanting to do the same? He was a Saint, after all. First off, a shirt made of camel hair isn’t exactly comparable to a “wild mink”. Even if that’s what it was referring to, during the time he was alive, the fact that he was wearing a wild mink implies that he was living in harsh conditions; he likely hunted those animals in order to stay warm and survive. However, in today’s society, a wild mink coat is considered a lavish and expensive luxury. Viewing this scripture from a strictly surface level perspective might allow one to interpret that living a materialistic lifestyle is condoned by the Bible.
His lyrics here reflect the absurdity of what it would have been like if John was to live with lavishness, with delicate complexity, such as:
Feasting on meats that was bled from the throat
Lambs and goats
Wiping the grease from said treats on the sleeves of his coats
Matthew 3:4 literally states that John’s diet consisted of locusts and honey. Quelle outlines the habits of today’s ultra-wealthy and re-appropriates them into the context of John The Baptist; making you realize the true absurdity of the way the 1% lives today, a lifestyle that has strayed quite far from what their “God” would condone.
Quelle’s verse here very subtly summarizes how scripture can be intentionally misinterpreted for personal gain and selfishness, expressed using extremely complicated and deeply coated metaphors, all of which sound buttery and smooth flowing from Chris, thanks in part to his complex rhyme schemes. This is undoubtedly the most subtle concept in the whole album. No joke, it took me a full week of dissecting these lyrics and studying John The Baptist to piece this metaphor together.
P.S. Fuck you and your shitty DMCA takedown requests Mach-Hommy!
YOURSELF (i par up bar for bar, pa)
While the first half of this album beautifully details the many ways in which our society is designed to hold people back, the second half of this album is about how we can combat it. As individuals, we don’t have the luxury of being able to design our country to benefit the few. We must operate inside the system we’ve been born into, and Chris is aware that the most powerful weapon we have to fight back against a corrupt system is our own success. This is what “Box of Wheaties” represents.
As some of you might already know, Quelle Chris recently changed the beat on "Box of Wheaties", presumably due to sample clearance issues. When I discovered this, I went to check his Twitter to see if he mentioned anything about it, and the very first thing I saw was this series of tweets that Quelle had recently pinned. He basically goes off on hating the streaming service industry, and how we are just borrowing music from Big Brother.
Really the most essential thing to take away from this, is that buying music is arguably more important than ever. By exclusively streaming music, you don't own any of it. It can be taken away in an instant by any number of frivolous lawsuits artists are slapped with on a regular basis. But, if you buy a physical copy of an album, no one can take it away from you.
I'm extremely lucky to have had the foresight to download the album to my phone, which has not yet been changed. However, one day when the data is corrupted, I will have no option but to re-download the tracks, and I will lose the OG version of "Box of Wheaties". BUT, I have the album on vinyl. And although it was pressed with an illegal sample, there is no court that can take away my vinyl. I have that version forever now.
Initially, I wondered if I should have my review reflect the original version, or the updated version that new listeners would experience. However, it’s clear from his tweets, this new beat is not what he envisioned or wanted for this album. He put out the version with this sample for a reason. My review will be reflective of the original version.
The beat on “Box of Wheaties” (originally) samples Les Hurdle - You’ve Got What It Takes, taking the smooth guitar melody and jazzy drums, pitching them down, and looping it to fit into the slow groove of 88 BPMs that “Box of Wheaties” so comfortably rests at.
Chris opens this track with a super catchy chorus, featuring a flurry of internal rhymes and the smoothest delivery you can imagine, listing reasons as to why he thinks you should find his face on a box of Wheaties, a place historically reserved for “Champions”.
Chris has been grinding in his profession for a long time. He’s been making music for well over a decade; at this point in his career, he’s 15 albums deep. If you had paid attention, he believes you would find his work is worthy of a spot on a Wheaties Box.
Now, if Wheaties were to start including artists (musicians, writers, actors, etc.) on their prestigious boxes, would Quelle qualify? Based on his overall discography quality at this point, I would say no. In my opinion, he has three albums that are worthy of true praise and accolades, all of which came out within the last 3 years. But that’s not what Chris is alluding to with this metaphor. His point here is, being confident enough to believe that he deserves the Wheaties Box spot is a major factor in manifesting that reality.
The way Quelle delivers this hook with absolute confidence in his ability, even mentioning that his raps are good enough to “par up bar for bar, pa” with any rapper in the game today, is an attitude that society could benefit from. Put in the work and know that the accolades will follow. This is exactly what happened with Chris’ work. After grinding for 10+ years, he finally began getting noticed in 2017 with Being You Is Great. Everything’s Fine was named bandcamp’s AOTY in 2018, and he has what I consider to be the best album of 2019 with Guns. But it starts with knowing that you belong there. Your thoughts manifest your reality. Put in the work and know it will come, and it will.
SLEEVELESS MINKS (smoke em if you got em)
If “Wild Minks” represents the many ways that the elite live to excess, “PSA Drugfest 2003” represents the limited ways that the 99% live in excess. Since most of us don’t have money to blow on lavish clothing, cars, or homes, we’re forced to find ways to cope with the stresses of living in this near-dystopian wasteland, and there is nothing more cost-effective at doing so than drugs.
Acting as the follow up to his song “Drugfest TooThousandToo" from his 2015 album Innocent Country, Chris takes the concept previously explored and amplifies the message. In “TooThousandToo”, he utilizes a crowds’ reaction to his mentioning of certain drugs as the litmus test for what drugs are good and what drugs are bad, eventually concluding that weed and mushrooms are the favorites from the crowd. In 2003, Chris has evolved his opinion, throwing caution to the wind with his drug choices. This is made clear right off the bat with his opening line.
This town ain't the right size for you and I
Six million ways to fly, who's tryna die?
Chris is rapping from the perspective of the average American, looking for ways to cope with the insane stresses that the elite have forced us to live with. He isn’t looking to be picky with his high, he just wants it to distract him. He starts with the spliff, but quickly graduates to harder drugs as the weed and nicotine high “got lame”; moving up the drug intensity scale as our drug tolerance increases and our social and economic injustice tolerance decreases.
When that shit got lame, we spiced up the game
Brought out the blades and lined up cocaine
Prefer it off white, but albinos, okay
To balance out the jump, we rolled it up Js
Making one last bible reference in the chorus here, he relates the American people to the sinners of Sodom and Gamorrah, implying that we would rather be dead than to continue to live in the wasteland that we currently exist within. And let me tell you, in a certain sense, he’s not wrong.
LOVE THY NEIGHBOR (trust me tho i seen it)
The track “Sunday Mass” is sandwiched between Drugfest and “Straight Shot”. This short, one verse song, delivered by Bilal Salaam, is essentially a laundry list of mass shootings from the past few years. Bilal refers to the Pulse nightclub shooting, the Las Vegas massacre, and the Texas shooting that occurred in a Baptist church, amongst others. This is used to set up the concept of the following track.
“Straight Shot” is a representation of a couple things. One, it outlines some of the hopelessness that many of us experience due to the long-term impact of the many weapons that society has pointed at us, be they literal or figurative. We get to watch our neighbors be executed by mad-men with guns on TV on a semi-regular basis, and then walk outside to a world that is literally designed to oppress you and make you complacent. It’s not difficult to see how the combination of horrors we are subjected to regularly can make people feel like there’s no point in being here. I know for a fact that I’ve experienced it, and I’m positive plenty of you have as well. Two, it’s a reminder for people who are feeling this way that there are reasons to stick around.
Featuring a verse from Brooklyn native Cavalier, "Straight Shot" is easily one of the most gorgeous and well composed songs on this record. Melancholy piano keys and a single bass note opens the track, followed shortly by Quelle singing the incredibly soulful chorus. He seems to be on the brink of crying, with his voice cracking as he sings along. A skeletal drum kit comes in after the first iteration, followed by a choir of voices singing the bassline melody, before the full drum kit kicks off Quelle’s verse.
Chris opens the track with a verse that’s very light, describing himself seeing the good in the world. He paints a picture of himself enjoying life; making the music he loves, laughing at his past pain, and stopping to sniff the flowers. He recognizes that he’s preaching to the choir, as his fanbase are generally people who might be aware of the issues he’s been outlining during the past 35 minutes.
Cavalier follows the chorus with a verse that paints a diametric view of the world. He describes his time on “this pitiful stone” as a Sisyphus Stroll, and his desire to leave it all behind. However, Quelle’s perspective in the previous verse has brought him back from the brink. Using absolutely gorgeous imagery to describe his misery, and his eventual conclusion that there are reasons to continue on; Cavalier realizes that the powers that be are the ones making him doubt his worth, and if there’s one thing he loves, it’s an underdog story, and standing against the ruling class in today’s society is about as big of an underdog that you can be.
EAT THE RICH (i’m tryna burn this bitch down)
The lead single for Guns, “Obamacare” features this absolutely haunting, choppy synth lead pounding away until a short piano melody erupts into the enormously heavy, and honestly sinister beat drop. On the surface, “Obamacare” seems like a simple flex track, with Quelle laying down ultra-confident bars, painting a picture of other rappers being terrified to take Chris on. However, watching the music video, you begin to realize the secondary meaning that he’s attempting to outline; anarchy.
Quelle’s hook game has been massively improved, even from his last few records, with the catchy chorus starting off with lyrics that any anarchist would be proud to chant in the streets.
I'm tryna burn this bitch down, I ain't tryna break in
Fuck your opinion 'bout us, to me don't mean nathan
I brought the wave, brought the rain, brought the lake in
Eyes on the cake and yours is for the takin', wait man
Lyrically painting a picture of a society that is sick of being oppressed by the ruling class and is finally ready to rise up, Chris’ anarchist nature is made very clear in the music video. The chorus features a robber burning down a building and making off with a comically sized money bag, while a cop, in an ironic twist of fate, is stuck behind bars, as well as a literal lake of blood rising while pieces of cake, depicted as boats, float around the blood lake.
If you were look at this from a surface level perspective, you would likely see a flex track, as Quelle’s second verse particularly comes off as “look at how much better I’m doing than you”. But watching the video, it becomes clear that he’s rapping from the perspective of the 1%. We see Chris and his “friends” sitting around a table, playing cards, while his verse details some of the privileges the 1% live with; being able to gamble money away while people in the lower classes would significantly notice a few more dollars in the paychecks. Their neighbors are high ranking pharmaceutical industry members with access to any drug they can imagine, vacationing together in southern beach houses, eating steak and eggs until gout forms. These lavish lifestyles are bound to anger the lower classes, who are literally starving. Hence the chorus’ overt “eat the rich” themes.
ROMANTIC LOVE & LEGACY (and when i win, we win)
Following “Obamacare” as a much needed positive note(s) to end the record on, the album’s love song, which features Quelle’s wife Jean Grae on the refrain, might seem a bit out of place on this album at first glance. However if you’ve made it this far into the review, you can likely conclude that Chris is making the point that finding the right person allows both of you to muddle through this hellscape known as our society with a bit more ease. You hold each other up in times of darkness, and celebrate big in times of light. One person’s victory becomes our victory. Quelle and Jean married in mid 2018, and if you were looking for a compelling reason to keep going on “Straight Shot”, Quelle is letting you know his with “You, Me, & Nobody Else”.
Finally, we are brought to the closer “WYRM”. This track shows Quelle ruminating over the idea of his legacy, and how he will be remembered when he’s gone with absolutely gorgeous lyrical expertise, particularly in his first verse. He’s aware that most people who are born into this world are forgotten sooner than later, and the only way to be truly remembered is if you have a worthwhile legacy. Calling back themes previously mentioned throughout the album, he feels like he's done enough to be remembered, but don’t we all?
Will you remember me?
Am I just a moment for few to see?
Another black face rapping nigga on a cash chase?
Dozen for a dime, penny for your mind at one time?
Chris is aware of the saturation of rappers in the game now and worries that his legacy will be downplayed and forgotten due to the direction he took his art in. Rappers who are making music just for the money are a dime a dozen lately, and he’s concerned that his legacy will be tarnished due to those who aren’t in it for the right reasons.
Overview
This is by far Quelle’s best album to date, in my opinion. Guns does an unbelievably gorgeous job identifying the many ways our society has been oppressed into submission, while simultaneously summarizing how we can rise above the few and be better people for it with intricate detail. Chris’ lyrics are sharper and more layered than they've ever been, and the self-produced beats are beautiful beyond words. Guns is not only a milestone for Quelle Chris’ career, as this is by far the most cohesive and conceptually brilliant piece of work he’s ever released, but it also represents a breaking point in our society, as well as the framework for how we can better ourselves and the people around us on the long road ahead. Quelle has nailed every aspect of this project, stringing these 13 tracks together into a album that is far greater than the sum of its parts.
9.2/10
Favorite Lyrics
Talking Points
  • How does this album compare to the rest of Quelle’s discography?
  • Do you think I’m reaching with some of the points I made during this review?
  • What are your favorite lyrics?
  • How do you think this album will be looked back on in 5 years?
submitted by jordanbeff to hiphopheads [link] [comments]


2019.06.09 20:08 rhonnie14 I Went To O.J.’s House (Part 1/2)

Amongst all the unpopular opinions in America, mine may be the most unpopular. Or at least, the most hated. O.J. Simpson didn't kill Ron Goldman or Nicole. There, I said it. That's not guilty beyond a reasonable doubt. That's not we can't prove he did it, but it's likely. That's fucking innocent. And no, I'm not the Caucasian-media-driven caricature of a black conspiracy theorist. Not at all. I'm a thirty-year-old middle-class white guy. I've got no dog in this fight. I didn't root for Juice during the 70s or admire his status as a crossover icon in all those movies and Hertz ads. Due to my youth, I've also got no claim in the emotional war zone that was his 1995 murder trial. I go off the facts. And regardless of what Oprah or Fox News wants you to believe, the "mountain of evidence" actually resides in O.J.'s innocence.
Remember when FX's The People Vs. O.J. Simpson claimed O.J. never asked detectives how Nicole died? That was bullshit, trial footage at 1:58. Or when ESPN's O.J.: Made In America insinuated O.J. wasn't taking his arthritis meds so the gloves wouldn't fit? Doctors signed off on O.J. taking the meds, trial footage at 7:49. Want another lie from this Oscar winning "documentary?" Try the fact O.J. didn't have a single cut or bruise on his body when he left his house on that fateful June night, trial footage at 1:30. Yeah, that's right. Goldman and Nicole's bodies (particularly Goldman's) were covered in defensive wounds yet there's no marks on O.J.
Juice wasn't in a hurry to get through the airport either. Less than thirty minutes after supposedly butchering two people in one of the biggest rage crimes in American history, O.J. was described as being friendly as he signed autographs at the airport. Witnesses didn't see a single cut, scratch, or bandage on his hands. Why is this important? The very next day, O.J. was examined by L.A.P.D. No cuts or bruises were on his body except a few cuts on his hand he got from smashing a glass in his Chicago hotel room. An overemotional reaction he had after hearing about Nicole's death. Chicago police found bloodied glass in the room. A hotel clerk even said O.J. came downstairs to get a bandage for the cut. The chauffeur who picked him up from the hotel took note of the fresh bandage. And everyone on that plane ride back to L.A. described Simpson as being completely distraught. He was in a rush to get back to L.A. as soon as possible... interesting for a guy deemed unquestionably guilty.
So without a single cut, where did the supposed incriminating blood evidence come from? Regardless of how Geraldo wants to spin it, the blood evidence is shit. At the prosecution's insistence, two samples were tested specifically to disprove the defense's theory that the blood was planted. The samples came back with EDTA, a preservative used in lab test tubes. Experts agree it was too much EDTA for the blood to come naturally from O.J.'s body. Or from eating Big Macs like Marcia Clark claims. Furthermore, the blood on Nicole's back gate wasn't seen in any of the initial crime scene photos. Rather, it was somehow inexplicably discovered in July... weeks after the entire crime scene had been washed down.
And that takes us to Detective Mark Fuhrman, the man who discovered the glove on O.J.'s property. Again, one of the gloves had a small amount of O.J.'s DNA, the other didn't. Aside from the fact the gloves didn't fit, O.J.'s DNA wasn't even found on the glove's fingers... nor did either glove share a cut similar to the one O.J. got in his hotel room (remember, he had no cuts on the flight to Chicago).
The glove Fuhrman found was also still wet even though it'd supposedly been rotting in the June heat for over seven hours. No dirt or debris were found on the glove either even though the back alley of O.J.'s home was heavily wooded with leaves, berries, etc.
So back to Detective Fuhrman, the guy did more than say the n-word. On his infamous taped conversations with Laura McKinny, he said "nigger" well over fifty times. Fuhrman also admitted to hating blacks and interracial couples, lying under oath, and planting evidence. On top of this, he'd gotten L.A.P.D. sued years earlier for shooting at an unarmed black man and planting a knife on him. If you believe O.J. is guilty, you have to do two things: you have to ignore all the facts and evidence, and you have to take the word of a racist white cop over all the witnesses supporting O.J.’s innocence. Mark Fuhrman is your guy.
On the other hand, is O.J, a great guy? Not really. He’s flawed. He hit Nicole back in 89. But regardless of the well-publicized hearsay, he didn’t hit her any other time (Nicole said this in court in 92, Nicole’s sister Denise said the same during the mid-90s). Juice never hit his first wife Marguerite Whitley. So yes, his abuse was inexcusable. But an idiotic motive considering as recently as spring of 94, Nicole was trying to get back with him.
This isn't even counting how O.J. never reacted with rage or jealousy toward Nicole's romantic relationships. Keith Douglas Zlomsowitch, one of Nicole's former lovers, admitted that O.J. had seen him and Nicole making love in Nicole’s living room. The very next day, a calm O.J. told them in private that they should be careful about doing things out in the open in case one of the kids walked in. One of O.J.’s best friends Marcus Allen even said that when he told Juice he had sex with Nicole, O.J. reacted calmly and was only upset because Allen was engaged at the time.
So yeah, none of this excuses O.J.’s lone case of domestic violence. But the context shows how exaggerated O.J. and Nicole’s volatile relationship was so the prosecutors could have a sensational motive.
I get that what I'm saying isn’t what Oprah, Geraldo, or the alarming number of celebrity black apologists have taught you. This isn’t what the racist Howard Stern taught you either when he advocated for lynching Mr. Simpson. No, what I'm telling you are facts. Not lies and bullshit.
People hate me for it. I suppose you will too. Go ahead and serenade me with your downvotes. I don't give a fuck. Throw out soundbites like Bruno Maglis (the Enquirer photos were supposedly taken during a rainstorm... not great for a pair of "pristine" Suede shoes), all that blood!1! (EDTA), the Bronco chase (O.J. believed he was framed and panicked), If I Did It (written by a ghostwriter, an easy 500k for O.J. after years of pleading his innocence onto deaf ears), a "failed" polygraph (nevermind the fact that Gary Ridgeway, the most prolific serial killer in American history passed a polygraph or that Ted Bundy did so twice), or the horrific civil trial that inexplicably allowed hearsay evidence.
And where has all my research left me? My family doesn't talk to me. I don't have close friends. Needless to say, no girlfriend. I'm alienated because of my beliefs.
But the biggest rift my "unpopular opinion" has created is between my dad and I. The emotions of this case run that deep. In many ways, I too was a victim of this trial of the century. Alongside the integrity of the American media, so went my All-American family.
My mother and father never got along during the trial. Even as a child, I remembered their bickering. Constant, ugly bickering. Mom's belief in O.J.'s innocence was actually what got me interested in the case. Particularly as a stark contrast to the O.J. Did It industry we've all been bombarded with.
My dad had the popular opinion. Their disagreement over the case opened a nasty wound between them. My parents divorced soon after Juice's acquittal. And as I grew up, I tried to stay close to my folks. My mother the introverted hippie, my father the more assertive and outgoing type. I was more like mom... no friends, artsy rather than social. On the other hand, my dad was friends with many of the people in the small town he lived in. The small town he thrived in as a local accountant.
For mom, O.J.'s plight was tragic. Yet another sad example of the horrors of being black in America. To my dad, Juice had played the race card.
While my dad and I used to be real close, my own interest in the O.J. Simpson case brought about the same tensions that had killed his marriage. Him and I argued more. He resented my opinion. Like most of you, he never could see anything past O.J. Did It, No Questions Asked.
My dad's brown eyes would berate me with the same sharp ferocity of his irate words. His temper was quick. And it only got worse as he got older. Particularly whenever O.J. came up.
Once mom passed a few years back, my dad and I grew even more apart. I think he blamed her for pushing me toward the case. But the reality was that their divorce was what fueled my interest. I came to the realization that mom was right all along. Yet she was crucified for that opinion. God knows how her own family and friends treated her for being the one white woman who believed Mr. Simpson was innocent.
But I think what really set dad off was my career. You see, my penultimate project began back in 2013: my O.J. Simpson webpage. I knew on-line there were people like me. People who did know more about the case and who had bothered researching it.
Over the years, my site garnered a cult-like following. And dad was pretty pissed about it. As he got older and his brown hair grew thinner, his eyes only became more narrow and cold. And so did his resentment toward me. The few conversations we had always ended in arguments. There were shouting matches about the case. Shouting matches about race. Shouting matches about mom.
I'd have loved to see him be proud of my work... but that was wishful thinking. His mind was made up. I couldn't worry about pop anymore. I had to worry about the new generation. Younger, more open-minded people like me.
As the site grew, my friend Pearse helped me land interviews with some of the biggest names from the trial for his podcast. I started uploading feature-length documentaries rather than YouTube videos. My analysis on the O.J. case made me an expert. Not to mention a hero to those who knew the truth. Hell, I even got advertising money.
My site was doing well. However, it wasn't mainstream media. I wasn't making much money. So imagine my surprise when the ultimate project came up. The most audacious thing my webpage had tackled yet: an interview with the Juice himself.
It turned out O.J. Simpson loved my work... I guess there's some consolation for never having my dad appreciate it.
I was surprised yet overjoyed when I got O.J.'s e-mail. I consulted with all of the people I'd been interviewing. And to my utter joy, everything checked out. I soon got Simpson's Vegas address.
The news would've excited my devoted fanbase however, I wanted to keep it a surprise for now. Outside of telling Pearse and a few friends, I kept the trip a secret. I doubted O.J. wanted me telling the world anyway.
But I did tell a few family members. Rather than congratulate me, they gave me the usual cliched jokes instead ("don't get hacked). I even got the nerve to tell my dad, but he just grumbled before hanging up. He always preferred my fiction. I guess it was for the best I hadn't told him about the O.J. book I was working on...
The following week, I packed my bags and left for Nevada. My buddy Pearse came along for moral support. And to be the cameraman.
O.J.'s handlers were there waiting for us at the airport. In their suits, they resembled Secret Service. But hey, I couldn't blame O.J. taking some precautions after all the death threats. His posse was very professional though. The exact opposite of the crazy Vegas crew who helped him "steal" his memorabilia.
From what I understood, O.J. had been staying at one of his friends's mansions. A Microsoft millionaire's house. He'd let O.J. crash there since Juice couldn't leave the state. Not that O.J. had it bad considering how lavish the mansion was. While modest compared to the rest of the neighborhood, the place was still glorious. There was privacy galore. Tall trees surrounded the yard, concealing the house and iron-pike fence from outside view.
Once our van pulled up into O.J.'s driveway, I took a deep breath. Pearse and I had made it. Here I was about give an exclusive interview with the man America considered a monster. But who in reality was a tragic victim.
The spacious and pristine yard had gaudy lawn ornaments. Pretty sculptures. Huge sprinklers and, of course, a nice pool.
Pearse was told to keep the camera off until we got inside the house. For security purposes. Me not being an asshole mainstream journalist, complied out of respect for the Juice.
Inside, the mansion was more in line with what I'd expect from O.J. Clean, impressive, stylish. And yes, flashy.
We were told to wait in the living room. It was in here, O.J. had his memorabilia well on display (apparently, he'd recovered most of the stolen items). There were old jerseys, posters, movie props, game balls, trophies. Hall Of Fame accolades. The Heisman. Not many people seem to realize O.J. Simpson was a Hell of a player. I could tell he had his guests wait here on purpose. A nice humblebrag. Then again, who could blame him? This shit was amazing.
Amongst the collectibles were more cultured items. Artwork, portraits, classic novels, some sick fucking vinyl. I could tell most of these belonged to O.J. The guy was a fucking connoisseur.
Framed family photos still had their place in this mancave of O.J.'s glory days. Pictures of him with Marguerite. Pictures of him with Nicole. But the most frequent images I saw were kids. Children, teenagers, college photos. O.J.'s smiling children seemed to swarm all around Pearse and I. And it wasn't creepy in the slightest either. In a room that could've (and probably was) a vanity tribute to the Juice, somehow, the children's photos took more precedence. They were what I remembered most about the house.
In a corner of the room was a framed photo of O.J.'s deceased infant daughter Aaren. A cross hung right above it. A collection of Angel figurines stood on both sides of the lavish picture frame. A sincere shrine for Aaren.
Using the camera, Pearse was all too happy to capture the scene. The mansion definitely a big step up from Pearse's garage studio.
Emerging from a long hallway, our man of the hour entered the room. Orenthal James Simpson. Even at seventy-one, he looked effortless and smooth. Quite debonair in a brown suit he'd consider modest but most likely cost a couple grand. The guy had style. And he also knew he was gonna be on camera. No wonder he had his Hall Of Fame ring on.
O.J. stuck a groomed hand out toward me. "Steve, how are you," he said in his eloquent baritone. A voice that hadn't lost any of its charm after all these years and traumas.
Overwhelmed by nerves, I forced myself to complete the handshake. "I'm doing okay," I responded, a slight tremble in my voice.
As if he sensed my nerves, O.J. flashed me a warm smile. "Alright. I'm glad."
His handshake was strong yet there was a soft touch. And his hand was fucking huge. It practically engulfed mine. No wonder he could hang on to that football.
"It's an honor to meet you," I added.
"Likewise." His voice even trembled like mine. Not from nerves but emotion... appreciation. "Likewise, Steve."
I introduced him to Pearse, and then the interview began. I was simultaneously surprised yet glad to see it was just us three for the interview. I'm sure O.J. appreciated the chill vibes.
We toured the rest of the house. The guest rooms were well-furnished. There was also another mancave, O.J.'s destination for Saturdays and Sundays during football season. He played us some of his old highlights via YouTube. The guy just couldn't help himself. I saw a bunch of golf gear in here as well. The sport definitely still O.J.'s go-to hobby.
Later on, we checked out the kitchen and dining room. A back balcony overlooked the pool. I even saw little yappy dogs running around the back yard. I was surprised they weren't even full-breeds. Just regular old mutts. We could hear their incessant barks all tour long.
To my surprise, O.J.'s bedroom itself was rather plain. Not flashy like the living room or mancave. Just a few pictures of his mother and Aaren placed next to religious figurines.
However his closet was another story. Hell, it looked it'd been converted from a bedroom. A Sex And The City wet dream. Rows and rows of clothes. All of them name brand, all of them collected over the years.
Overall, O.J. was very welcoming. Even humble. He talked to Pearse and I about how his stay in prison had changed his attitude. He'd gone through years of (understandable) anger due to his mistreatment by the media. He had a chip on his shoulder. But the experience of just being another inmate, another number, changed his outlook for the better. He missed Florida. He missed L.A. But he wasn't too upset as his kids came to visit him quite often. Las Vegas, and this house in particular, had become his "home away from home."
We planned on doing the bulk of our interview in O.J.'s cozy study. There we had a glowing fireplace, comfortable chairs, and perfect lighting. A small coffee table the only barrier between O.J. and I.
Even from where I was sitting, I saw how the bookshelves were stuffed with every literary classic imaginable. I figured O.J. probably hadn't read most of them, but shit, it was still an impressive collection.
One book in particular caught my eye. Unlike the books around it, this one resembled a scrapbook. No title on the spine. It looked old as Hell. Did O.J. own a first edition Book Of The Dead? Or the Necronomicon?
Gazing around the rest of the room, I saw O.J.'s framed memorabilia from the Roots shoot (costume, props, etc) right next to a pair of glass doors leading to the balcony. I could tell the memorabilia meant a lot to him. In an acting career based more off his charm and good looks than talent, appearing in Roots was a rare proud moment in his film career.
Like an annoying yet cute soundtrack, the dogs continued their barking well into the night. I suppose they were chasing squirrels or whatever other critters were lurking about. Maybe they were still after Pearse and I, for that matter.
A few of O.J.'s bodyguards stood by the study door. But they were quiet and kept their distance. They must've known how much an interview like this meant to O.J. One where he wasn't pleading his innocence to a buzzard or some other indifferent asshole. Instead, him and I were talking like old friends. Comrades.
We started off the interview in simple fashion: O.J.'s background. Orenthal James wasn't born a millionaire athlete. He came from nothing. From the slums of California all the way to the gridiron on the USC campus. Truly the American Dream. O.J. went into great detail about this. The anecdotes on the hardships he and his mother faced. His glory days as a USC superstar. And then when he cemented his football legacy on the Buffalo Bills.
When it came to his playing career, I could tell O.J. was most excited about his tenure with the Bills. They were a small market team he embraced. He also loved the Bills Mafia, the team's zany and enthusiastic fanbase. The Bills had some winning seasons with Juice leading their offense. After all, he was a natural born star and leader for that long-tormented franchise. And to this day, they still treated Simpson with respect unlike the alma mater that ultimately disowned him.
Throughout the interview, I could tell O.J. struggled at times to remember certain names and dates. Our conversation switched to CDTE and other brain/memory issues that had been attributed to playing American football. Awhile back, O.J. had been diagnosed with this (in addition to arthritis). While football is still a violent game, in O.J.'s heyday it was a fucking blood sport ("It was a different era, man," he told me). Not much padding or safety precautions. Illegal hits were the norm. Nothing was off limits. Not even your head.
The grave seriousness of the topic removed us from the nostalgic vanity that had accompanied O.J.'s reflections on his career. Our conversation soon shifted to the tragedy that would haunt O.J. Simpson. And forever tarnish his name.
I was surprised to see O.J. be so open while discussing that fateful June night. I knew he usually avoided the topic out of contempt for a press that had ignored his words in favor of misquoting him and making him look like a lunatic. But he was comfortable with us.
We discussed everything. From Mark Fuhrman to the planted evidence to the lack of a cut or bruise anywhere on O.J.'s body (Goldman was same height as O.J., a blackbelt, and twenty years younger). The fact there was no cut on O.J.'s hand when he was at the airport signing autographs (including signing one for the pilot). The racial implications of the case. How the media automatically assumed his guilt before knowing if O.J. was even in L.A. when the murders happened.
O.J.'s sadness veered toward an understandable bitterness as we discussed how the media's inaccuracies ultimately became the legend.
"No one believed me," O.J. said, his baritone voice full of jaded weariness. "I tried everything. I did interviews, I talked about the trial, and it's like no one listened to me! They didn't wanna listen to me. They didn't wanna believe me." Fire burnt in his eyes, but I didn't feel threatened or scared like you probably would. Such a fire was built off of frustration not violence. "With Fuhrman, you got a guy on tape saying all this shit. That he framed minorities and blacks... not only that but he was anti-Semitic. If I was a white Jewish man, everyone would be outraged at Fuhrman and what he did. They'd take my word, they'd show the evidence we had. But that wasn't the case, was it? Instead, I'm playing the Goddamn race card!"
And I couldn't agree more. Everything he said was correct. The media had ignored the overwhelming evidence favoring his innocence to spin a false narrative. To them, Othello James Simpson killed the two white Angels. No questions asked.
While we were on the subject of O.J.'s unfair public perception, I asked how he felt about the growing number of black celebrities speaking out against him. Kanye, Jay-Z, Steve Harvey, etc.
O.J. hesitated. Discomfort joined his anger. I could tell he felt these questions were putting him in rough territory... particularly since he was African-American himself. I didn't expect him to go into a rant on how they were all coons, but I didn't expect him to be this silent and awkward.
He let out a weary sigh. "I don't know what to tell them," he finally said. "Maybe they were too young to watch the dang trial. Or they've gotten just saturated with all the crap they throw against me. They read too much National Enquirer, I don't know." A faint grin crossed his face. "The media the way it is... I guess everyone thinks I did it now, huh."
There was a vulnerable sadness to him. Something I'd never seen in all the footage on Juice. His silence couldn't hide that look of anguish.
"Everyone thinks I killed her," O.J. went on. That I'd kill her right where my kids slept!" He paused. A breather from the anger. "I can't change their minds, I give up." His emotions were overwhelming him. I could tell he didn't like it. O.J. was confident and strong. And he always seemed that way on television and in public. The memories were killing his public persona. He wasn't the Juice in this moment. He was Orenthal James Simpson. The tormented ex-husband of Nicole. The tormented father of four.
The roaring tragedy of 94 had returned from the grave once more. O.J. would never escape it. And he knew it.
I didn't even hear the barking dogs during this tense silence. They must've been respecting O.J.'s emotional struggle as well.
"When people think you're a killer," he struggled to begin, his deep voice caving in with heartache. "They think I never loved her, but I did."
"I know you did," I said, my voice steady yet reassuring.
O.J. gazed down at his lap. An obvious method to hide his tears. "And everything I'd worked toward was gone." He glared at the camera. "I worked hard to get to here! I came from nowhere, man, I supported my Goddamn family! I made a name for himself!"
His anger was ferocious but not directed toward anyone in the room. I felt no fear. But if this was Fox or TMZ, I could picture the headline now: O.J.'s Rage Returns! Watch Out White People!
"And then it was all gone!" O.J. continued. "All because they wanted to believe the nigger killed everybody! That I was a stalker, a fucking psycho." Tear fell from his eyes. On camera, O.J.'s harsher profanity was about as rare as the tears. He was showcasing twenty years' worth of wounds right here for Pearse and I.
"So yeah, maybe Kanye and all these other rappers and what-have-you think I did it. If they wanna appease their white audience, that's fine. Fuck them. We don't need them. God knows the truth. My children know the truth! That's what matters more than these arrogant niggers running their mouths about me. Just so they can stay with their fake fucking white friends." He chuckled. A defeated chuckle that was chilling in its helplessness. "I guess I used to be the same. Believe me, I know. And they'll find out soon enough. Oh yeah, they'll see what happens when they get framed or blamed for some shit they didn't do. Then they won't be Grmamy-winning rapper or Oscar-winning "thespian," they'll be a guiltyass nigger. Like what they say about me."
I could feel Pearse give me an unwasy look. But I wasn't stopping this. Not now. This was O.J. at his most candid and honest. He trusted us. I wasn't stopping him no matter where the controversy led.
"I'd never hurt her," O.J. went on. "I wouldn't..." He brushed away his tears. "I wasn't a great husband, but I cared about Nicole. Yeah, I hit her... but it wasn't like me. I felt terrible the second it happened. When she looked at me crying. Hell, I cried too. I had no idea I could ever do that. That I could hurt someone, much less my wife." His wounded eyes stared out the glass doors, peering off into the darkness. "And they wanna say I slaughtered her."
Respectful, I leaned in a little closer. "Well, who do you think actually did it, O.J.?" I asked, sympathetic yet strong. "That's the main question me and Pearse get from these idiots. They'll ignore everything we said just for this shit."
"It really is," Pearse added with a weak smile.
Quiet, O.J. kept looking off at the balcony.
"Look, I know Fuhrman made sure we'll likely never know," I told O.J. "But is there anything you'd want to add to the discussion? Any suspicions you had? Anyone you suspect?"
O.J. put a hand to his face, shielding his ravaged face from the camera. Rather than strength, he showed defeat. Like the traumas were at war within him. I could hear his heavy, wounded breaths. I could only imagine the painful memories running through his head. "Juice," I said.
"I can't," he mumbled.
A cloud of silence conquered the room. I felt a sense of cryptic dread lingering through the atmosphere. O.J.'s handlers gave me piercing stares. I returned them an awkward gaze. I wasn't sure what to do. I wasn't a therapist, after all.
Trying to break the uneasy mood, Pearse grinned. "You sure it wasn't Kato?"
No one laughed or responded.
"We've always suspected drugs," I said.
Grimacing, O.J. looked at us.
"Several of Ron Goldman's friends were killed right after he and Nicole," I added. "One of them had his throat slit from ear to ear."
"And Faye Resnick left Nicole's house the day before the murders," Pearse assisted me. "She owed drug dealers over thirty-thousand dollars from what I understand."
O.J. ran a hand along his face. Our comments hit him like bullets into his emotions. He didn't say anything. He just kept within his self. Within his fragment, tormented psyche.
"She looked just like Nicole," I said. Pearse and I's voices were calm but persistent.
Rocking in his seat, O.J. looked down at the ground. He avoided eye contact. He avoided us. The tears were forming in his eyes. He bit his lip. The sorrow weighed him down.
"There could've been a mix-up," I went on.
"It had to be two people," Pearse added.
I noticed all of O.J.'s associates watching him with concern.
Tears in his eyes, O.J. confronted us. In the war within himself, his anxiety was winning.
I just stared at Juice. But Pearse kept going.
"The original coroner even said two knives were used," Pearse continued.
O.J. gave us a fiery look. "You wanna know what really happened?" he said, his baritone devoid of any warmth or charm.
Pearse went silent in an instant.
"We just want to know your thoughts, O.J.," I said.
"Well, I'll tell you what happened!" O.J. responded. "I'll tell you exactly what happened!"
One of his concerned handlers stepped toward him.
O.J. held up his hand, keeping the bodyguards at bay. "No, let me speak!"
The handler took his place back by the door.
"Let me tell them everything," O.J. said. His intense eyes turned toward Pearse and I. "It's not about just drugs. There's more to it than that."
My detached coolness evaporated. O.J.'s gaze and voice were frantic. I sensed the interview was going into unexpected territory and I wasn't prepared. "What do you mean?" I asked, unable to hide the subtle panic in my voice.
"It's everybody!" O.J. yelled. "The whole fucking thing!" A defensive fury boiled up inside him. "There's an entire group of people that killed Nicole! And it's because they wanted me! They wanted to frame me and tear me to shreds. It wasn't just Goddamn Fuhrman or Vanatter. Not even the L.A.P.D. It was the entire country!"
The final chilling line reverberated through the room like an eerie piano chord. O.J.'s voice, his unnerving sincerity sold it.
Pearse and I just looked on at Juice, confused. None of his associates were stopping him. None of them even looked confused by his proclamation. They just had knowing expressions on their faces. Like they too were aware of Juice's wild account.
"I don't understand," I finally mustered out. "What do you mean? The entire country-"
"You heard me, Steve," O.J. interrupted. He leaned back in his seat. Like the weary survivor he was. "You know how this country is. You've seen it in action, Steve. It's not so much the media as it is the establishment."
"So what are you saying-"
"I'm saying they'll do anything to suppress blacks and other minorities. The white elite is too powerful. They need to find ways to... to inhibit blacks." O.J. looked right at Pearse and I. His emotional brown eyes pierced deep into our souls.
Not sure what to do, I hesitated. "So you're saying this conspiracy killed Nicole and Goldman?"
More animated than ever, O.J. threw his hands out toward us. "You know about me! You know who I was! What I represented. I was one of the first black celebrities to cross over. I was in commercials, man! Ten years after segregation ended, I was pushing Hertz! I was in movies, I was a superstar."
I didn't think he was bragging. His voice was too full of anger and resentment for this to be gloating O.J.
"And what better way to kill what I represented, huh?" O.J. challenged us. He leaned in closer like a wild-eyed preacher. This wasn't the Smooth Mr. Simpson. What we saw now was all paranoia... either from Alzheimer's or genuine fear. "They did what could turn the Juice into that rich nigger that got away with murder!" He waved his hands around as if he were shoving an invisible force away. "And they fucking got away with it! They killed Nicole and did everything they could to incriminate me!"
I looked over at Pearse. All I saw was a face of stunned confusion. Like someone had transplanted Pearse from Vegas to a nuthouse.
I confronted O.J. "So a group of these special rich white people killed Nicole?"
"Rich, powerful white people," he answered, his voice unwavering and not backing down.
The Juice was loose, alright, I thought. Loose in the fucking head.
"Look, Juice," I began.
O.J. flashed me a cryptic smile. "You don't believe me?"
I looked around the room. The associates were all stone-faced. Had O.J. convinced them of this batshit insanity? Or was he just paying them enough to believe?
"Honestly," I stammered. I looked back at O.J.'s calm face. He was relaxed. Like telling us this secret had lifted the weight of anxiety off him. "I don't know what to believe."
"I know," O.J. responded. Letting out a weary sigh, he slouched back in his chair. "It sounds crazy... it's why I don't tell many people." His gaze drifted off to the glass doors. "It's why I'm scared to tell anyone really."
"Why?"
Like he was responding to an insult, O.J. just gave me a cold glare. "You don't have a clue what these people are. The power they have. You can't even imagine what they could do to me and you."
"If they were trying to bring you down, why not just get you convicted-"
"They tried, didn't they," O.J. interrupted, his baritone commanding and strong.
"Then why not have you killed."
Smirking, O.J. looked off at the bodyguards. They returned sly smiles back.
Annoyed, I leaned in toward Juice. "If they were trying to destroy you because of your influence then why not just kill you? Alright, they tried framing you, so why wouldn't they just finish you off?"
O.J. let out a maddening laugh. The laugh of a helpless man left to die from irony.
"What?" I demanded. "Why wouldn't they?"
"Why would they waste their time!" O.J. said through the chuckles. He pointed at himself. "Look at me, Steve. What the Hell would killing me do?"
The realization struck me. He was right. Why would they waste their time killing him... they'd already done enough. The damage was done.
"The trial killed everything I stood for," O.J. said. "No one looked at me the same. They couldn't look me in the eye." He leaned in closer, holding my gaze with those dark eyes. "There were no more advertisements, no more movies. No more Monday Night Football. No more respect of O.J.'s American Dream. I'm the Goddamn monster now, Steve."
Destroyed by inner anguish, he looked toward the floor.
Our staredown and his chilling reflections still left me shook.
"Hell, for all I know maybe they failed to frame me on purpose," O.J. muttered. He looked up at me. "Maybe just me fighting it out in the court then getting acquitted was part of the plan all along. Just to make people hate me even more."
"I'm sorry," I said. My attempt at a neutral voice couldn't hide my sympathy.
"If I'd gone to jail over a false charge, maybe people would've protested for me," Juice stated. "They would've looked into the case."
The atmosphere grew more and more tense with O.J.'s account. I noticed him running his hands together in a nervous tic. He couldn't fake the discomfort. He was never that good of an actor.
"Instead, all we get is everyone saying I did it," O.J. went on. "O.J. Simpson murderer. That's it. Listen to your Geraldos and your Nancy Graces, the entire American media. They all just pick me apart since I guess it's still illegal to string niggers up when you absolutely know we did something. I guess Emmett Till would've suffered the same."
Uneasy, I nodded my head. The room felt quieter than ever. No voices, no music, no football highlights, no dogs. Just crackling from the fire.
I didn't like seeing O.J. this way. Regardless of his hardships, he'd always been an upbeat fighter. Now he looked defeated.
"There's nothing I can do," O.J. said. "And they know it. They know they fucked me. My image is ruined forever. My name, everything I did. It's gone. My legacy is that I'm a black man who killed two white people. That's what I am." Tears of anger filled his eyes. "The media played it up. They control that too, you know. They control everything!"
"Jesus...” Pearse exclaimed.
I faced Pearse. Like me, he too was riveted by Juice's every word. Only Pearse 100% believed him.
"You do a lot of great things, Steve," O.J. told me.
I looked at Juice. Or the decrepit, depressed sight that was once O.J. Simpson.
"But there's nothing you can do," O.J. continued. "You're not Fox or NBC. You don't get many people on that show. It's why Baby Blue don't care."
"Baby Blue?" I asked, confused.
O.J.'s eyes never strayed from me. "That's their leader."
"What?"
His face stoic and deadly serious, O.J. pointed up toward his eyes. "Their leader's eyes. They're baby blue. That's all I know."
Part 1 of 2
Link To Part Two
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2019.06.07 23:05 rhonnie14 I Went To O.J.’s House (Part 1/2)

Amongst all the unpopular opinions in America, mine may be the most unpopular. Or at least, the most hated. O.J. Simpson didn't kill Ron Goldman or Nicole. There, I said it. That's not guilty beyond a reasonable doubt. That's not we can't prove he did it, but it's likely. That's fucking innocent. And no, I'm not the Caucasian-media-driven caricature of a black conspiracy theorist. Not at all. I'm a thirty-year-old middle-class white guy. I've got no dog in this fight. I didn't root for Juice during the 70s or admire his status as a crossover icon in all those movies and Hertz ads. Due to my youth, I've also got no claim in the emotional war zone that was his 1995 murder trial. I go off the facts. And regardless of what Oprah or Fox News wants you to believe, the "mountain of evidence" actually resides in O.J.'s innocence.
Remember when FX's The People Vs. O.J. Simpson claimed O.J. never asked detectives how Nicole died? That was bullshit, trial footage at 1:58. Or when ESPN's O.J.: Made In America insinuated O.J. wasn't taking his arthritis meds so the gloves wouldn't fit? Doctors signed off on O.J. taking the meds, trial footage at 7:49. Want another lie from this Oscar winning "documentary?" Try the fact O.J. didn't have a single cut or bruise on his body when he left his house on that fateful June night, trial footage at 1:30. Yeah, that's right. Goldman and Nicole's bodies (particularly Goldman's) were covered in defensive wounds yet there's no marks on O.J.
Juice wasn't in a hurry to get through the airport either. Less than thirty minutes after supposedly butchering two people in one of the biggest rage crimes in American history, O.J. was described as being friendly as he signed autographs at the airport. Witnesses didn't see a single cut, scratch, or bandage on his hands. Why is this important? The very next day, O.J. was examined by L.A.P.D. No cuts or bruises were on his body except a few cuts on his hand he got from smashing a glass in his Chicago hotel room. An overemotional reaction he had after hearing about Nicole's death. Chicago police found bloodied glass in the room. A hotel clerk even said O.J. came downstairs to get a bandage for the cut. The chauffeur who picked him up from the hotel took note of the fresh bandage. And everyone on that plane ride back to L.A. described Simpson as being completely distraught. He was in a rush to get back to L.A. as soon as possible... interesting for a guy deemed unquestionably guilty.
So without a single cut, where did the supposed incriminating blood evidence come from? Regardless of how Geraldo wants to spin it, the blood evidence is shit. At the prosecution's insistence, two samples were tested specifically to disprove the defense's theory that the blood was planted. The samples came back with EDTA, a preservative used in lab test tubes. Experts agree it was too much EDTA for the blood to come naturally from O.J.'s body. Or from eating Big Macs like Marcia Clark claims. Furthermore, the blood on Nicole's back gate wasn't seen in any of the initial crime scene photos. Rather, it was somehow inexplicably discovered in July... weeks after the entire crime scene had been washed down.
And that takes us to Detective Mark Fuhrman, the man who discovered the glove on O.J.'s property. Again, one of the gloves had a small amount of O.J.'s DNA, the other didn't. Aside from the fact the gloves didn't fit, O.J.'s DNA wasn't even found on the glove's fingers... nor did either glove share a cut similar to the one O.J. got in his hotel room (remember, he had no cuts on the flight to Chicago).
The glove Fuhrman found was also still wet even though it'd supposedly been rotting in the June heat for over seven hours. No dirt or debris were found on the glove either even though the back alley of O.J.'s home was heavily wooded with leaves, berries, etc.
So back to Detective Fuhrman, the guy did more than say the n-word. On his infamous taped conversations with Laura McKinny, he said "nigger" well over fifty times. Fuhrman also admitted to hating blacks and interracial couples, lying under oath, and planting evidence. On top of this, he'd gotten L.A.P.D. sued years earlier for shooting at an unarmed black man and planting a knife on him. If you believe O.J. is guilty, you have to do two things: you have to ignore all the facts and evidence, and you have to take the word of a racist white cop over all the witnesses supporting O.J.’s innocence. Mark Fuhrman is your guy.
On the other hand, is O.J, a great guy? Not really. He’s flawed. He hit Nicole back in 89. But regardless of the well-publicized hearsay, he didn’t hit her any other time (Nicole said this in court in 92, Nicole’s sister Denise said the same during the mid-90s). Juice never hit his first wife Marguerite Whitley. So yes, his abuse was inexcusable. But an idiotic motive considering as recently as spring of 94, Nicole was trying to get back with him.
This isn't even counting how O.J. never reacted with rage or jealousy toward Nicole's romantic relationships. Keith Douglas Zlomsowitch, one of Nicole's former lovers, admitted that O.J. had seen him and Nicole making love in Nicole’s living room. The very next day, a calm O.J. told them in private that they should be careful about doing things out in the open in case one of the kids walked in. One of O.J.’s best friends Marcus Allen even said that when he told Juice he had sex with Nicole, O.J. reacted calmly and was only upset because Allen was engaged at the time.
So yeah, none of this excuses O.J.’s lone case of domestic violence. But the context shows how exaggerated O.J. and Nicole’s volatile relationship was so the prosecutors could have a sensational motive.
I get that what I'm saying isn’t what Oprah, Geraldo, or the alarming number of celebrity black apologists have taught you. This isn’t what the racist Howard Stern taught you either when he advocated for lynching Mr. Simpson. No, what I'm telling you are facts. Not lies and bullshit.
People hate me for it. I suppose you will too. Go ahead and serenade me with your downvotes. I don't give a fuck. Throw out soundbites like Bruno Maglis (the Enquirer photos were supposedly taken during a rainstorm... not great for a pair of "pristine" Suede shoes), all that blood!1! (EDTA), the Bronco chase (O.J. believed he was framed and panicked), If I Did It (written by a ghostwriter, an easy 500k for O.J. after years of pleading his innocence onto deaf ears), a "failed" polygraph (nevermind the fact that Gary Ridgeway, the most prolific serial killer in American history passed a polygraph or that Ted Bundy did so twice), or the horrific civil trial that inexplicably allowed hearsay evidence.
And where has all my research left me? My family doesn't talk to me. I don't have close friends. Needless to say, no girlfriend. I'm alienated because of my beliefs.
But the biggest rift my "unpopular opinion" has created is between my dad and I. The emotions of this case run that deep. In many ways, I too was a victim of this trial of the century. Alongside the integrity of the American media, so went my All-American family.
My mother and father never got along during the trial. Even as a child, I remembered their bickering. Constant, ugly bickering. Mom's belief in O.J.'s innocence was actually what got me interested in the case. Particularly as a stark contrast to the O.J. Did It industry we've all been bombarded with.
My dad had the popular opinion. Their disagreement over the case opened a nasty wound between them. My parents divorced soon after Juice's acquittal. And as I grew up, I tried to stay close to my folks. My mother the introverted hippie, my father the more assertive and outgoing type. I was more like mom... no friends, artsy rather than social. On the other hand, my dad was friends with many of the people in the small town he lived in. The small town he thrived in as a local accountant.
For mom, O.J.'s plight was tragic. Yet another sad example of the horrors of being black in America. To my dad, Juice had played the race card.
While my dad and I used to be real close, my own interest in the O.J. Simpson case brought about the same tensions that had killed his marriage. Him and I argued more. He resented my opinion. Like most of you, he never could see anything past O.J. Did It, No Questions Asked.
My dad's brown eyes would berate me with the same sharp ferocity of his irate words. His temper was quick. And it only got worse as he got older. Particularly whenever O.J. came up.
Once mom passed a few years back, my dad and I grew even more apart. I think he blamed her for pushing me toward the case. But the reality was that their divorce was what fueled my interest. I came to the realization that mom was right all along. Yet she was crucified for that opinion. God knows how her own family and friends treated her for being the one white woman who believed Mr. Simpson was innocent.
But I think what really set dad off was my career. You see, my penultimate project began back in 2013: my O.J. Simpson webpage. I knew on-line there were people like me. People who did know more about the case and who had bothered researching it.
Over the years, my site garnered a cult-like following. And dad was pretty pissed about it. As he got older and his brown hair grew thinner, his eyes only became more narrow and cold. And so did his resentment toward me. The few conversations we had always ended in arguments. There were shouting matches about the case. Shouting matches about race. Shouting matches about mom.
I'd have loved to see him be proud of my work... but that was wishful thinking. His mind was made up. I couldn't worry about pop anymore. I had to worry about the new generation. Younger, more open-minded people like me.
As the site grew, my friend Pearse helped me land interviews with some of the biggest names from the trial for his podcast. I started uploading feature-length documentaries rather than YouTube videos. My analysis on the O.J. case made me an expert. Not to mention a hero to those who knew the truth. Hell, I even got advertising money.
My site was doing well. However, it wasn't mainstream media. I wasn't making much money. So imagine my surprise when the ultimate project came up. The most audacious thing my webpage had tackled yet: an interview with the Juice himself.
It turned out O.J. Simpson loved my work... I guess there's some consolation for never having my dad appreciate it.
I was surprised yet overjoyed when I got O.J.'s e-mail. I consulted with all of the people I'd been interviewing. And to my utter joy, everything checked out. I soon got Simpson's Vegas address.
The news would've excited my devoted fanbase however, I wanted to keep it a surprise for now. Outside of telling Pearse and a few friends, I kept the trip a secret. I doubted O.J. wanted me telling the world anyway.
But I did tell a few family members. Rather than congratulate me, they gave me the usual cliched jokes instead ("don't get hacked). I even got the nerve to tell my dad, but he just grumbled before hanging up. He always preferred my fiction. I guess it was for the best I hadn't told him about the O.J. book I was working on...
The following week, I packed my bags and left for Nevada. My buddy Pearse came along for moral support. And to be the cameraman.
O.J.'s handlers were there waiting for us at the airport. In their suits, they resembled Secret Service. But hey, I couldn't blame O.J. taking some precautions after all the death threats. His posse was very professional though. The exact opposite of the crazy Vegas crew who helped him "steal" his memorabilia.
From what I understood, O.J. had been staying at one of his friends's mansions. A Microsoft millionaire's house. He'd let O.J. crash there since Juice couldn't leave the state. Not that O.J. had it bad considering how lavish the mansion was. While modest compared to the rest of the neighborhood, the place was still glorious. There was privacy galore. Tall trees surrounded the yard, concealing the house and iron-pike fence from outside view.
Once our van pulled up into O.J.'s driveway, I took a deep breath. Pearse and I had made it. Here I was about give an exclusive interview with the man America considered a monster. But who in reality was a tragic victim.
The spacious and pristine yard had gaudy lawn ornaments. Pretty sculptures. Huge sprinklers and, of course, a nice pool.
Pearse was told to keep the camera off until we got inside the house. For security purposes. Me not being an asshole mainstream journalist, complied out of respect for the Juice.
Inside, the mansion was more in line with what I'd expect from O.J. Clean, impressive, stylish. And yes, flashy.
We were told to wait in the living room. It was in here, O.J. had his memorabilia well on display (apparently, he'd recovered most of the stolen items). There were old jerseys, posters, movie props, game balls, trophies. Hall Of Fame accolades. The Heisman. Not many people seem to realize O.J. Simpson was a Hell of a player. I could tell he had his guests wait here on purpose. A nice humblebrag. Then again, who could blame him? This shit was amazing.
Amongst the collectibles were more cultured items. Artwork, portraits, classic novels, some sick fucking vinyl. I could tell most of these belonged to O.J. The guy was a fucking connoisseur.
Framed family photos still had their place in this mancave of O.J.'s glory days. Pictures of him with Marguerite. Pictures of him with Nicole. But the most frequent images I saw were kids. Children, teenagers, college photos. O.J.'s smiling children seemed to swarm all around Pearse and I. And it wasn't creepy in the slightest either. In a room that could've (and probably was) a vanity tribute to the Juice, somehow, the children's photos took more precedence. They were what I remembered most about the house.
In a corner of the room was a framed photo of O.J.'s deceased infant daughter Aaren. A cross hung right above it. A collection of Angel figurines stood on both sides of the lavish picture frame. A sincere shrine for Aaren.
Using the camera, Pearse was all too happy to capture the scene. The mansion definitely a big step up from Pearse's garage studio.
Emerging from a long hallway, our man of the hour entered the room. Orenthal James Simpson. Even at seventy-one, he looked effortless and smooth. Quite debonair in a brown suit he'd consider modest but most likely cost a couple grand. The guy had style. And he also knew he was gonna be on camera. No wonder he had his Hall Of Fame ring on.
O.J. stuck a groomed hand out toward me. "Steve, how are you," he said in his eloquent baritone. A voice that hadn't lost any of its charm after all these years and traumas.
Overwhelmed by nerves, I forced myself to complete the handshake. "I'm doing okay," I responded, a slight tremble in my voice.
As if he sensed my nerves, O.J. flashed me a warm smile. "Alright. I'm glad."
His handshake was strong yet there was a soft touch. And his hand was fucking huge. It practically engulfed mine. No wonder he could hang on to that football.
"It's an honor to meet you," I added.
"Likewise." His voice even trembled like mine. Not from nerves but emotion... appreciation. "Likewise, Steve."
I introduced him to Pearse, and then the interview began. I was simultaneously surprised yet glad to see it was just us three for the interview. I'm sure O.J. appreciated the chill vibes.
We toured the rest of the house. The guest rooms were well-furnished. There was also another mancave, O.J.'s destination for Saturdays and Sundays during football season. He played us some of his old highlights via YouTube. The guy just couldn't help himself. I saw a bunch of golf gear in here as well. The sport definitely still O.J.'s go-to hobby.
Later on, we checked out the kitchen and dining room. A back balcony overlooked the pool. I even saw little yappy dogs running around the back yard. I was surprised they weren't even full-breeds. Just regular old mutts. We could hear their incessant barks all tour long.
To my surprise, O.J.'s bedroom itself was rather plain. Not flashy like the living room or mancave. Just a few pictures of his mother and Aaren placed next to religious figurines.
However his closet was another story. Hell, it looked it'd been converted from a bedroom. A Sex And The City wet dream. Rows and rows of clothes. All of them name brand, all of them collected over the years.
Overall, O.J. was very welcoming. Even humble. He talked to Pearse and I about how his stay in prison had changed his attitude. He'd gone through years of (understandable) anger due to his mistreatment by the media. He had a chip on his shoulder. But the experience of just being another inmate, another number, changed his outlook for the better. He missed Florida. He missed L.A. But he wasn't too upset as his kids came to visit him quite often. Las Vegas, and this house in particular, had become his "home away from home."
We planned on doing the bulk of our interview in O.J.'s cozy study. There we had a glowing fireplace, comfortable chairs, and perfect lighting. A small coffee table the only barrier between O.J. and I.
Even from where I was sitting, I saw how the bookshelves were stuffed with every literary classic imaginable. I figured O.J. probably hadn't read most of them, but shit, it was still an impressive collection.
One book in particular caught my eye. Unlike the books around it, this one resembled a scrapbook. No title on the spine. It looked old as Hell. Did O.J. own a first edition Book Of The Dead? Or the Necronomicon?
Gazing around the rest of the room, I saw O.J.'s framed memorabilia from the Roots shoot (costume, props, etc) right next to a pair of glass doors leading to the balcony. I could tell the memorabilia meant a lot to him. In an acting career based more off his charm and good looks than talent, appearing in Roots was a rare proud moment in his film career.
Like an annoying yet cute soundtrack, the dogs continued their barking well into the night. I suppose they were chasing squirrels or whatever other critters were lurking about. Maybe they were still after Pearse and I, for that matter.
A few of O.J.'s bodyguards stood by the study door. But they were quiet and kept their distance. They must've known how much an interview like this meant to O.J. One where he wasn't pleading his innocence to a buzzard or some other indifferent asshole. Instead, him and I were talking like old friends. Comrades.
We started off the interview in simple fashion: O.J.'s background. Orenthal James wasn't born a millionaire athlete. He came from nothing. From the slums of California all the way to the gridiron on the USC campus. Truly the American Dream. O.J. went into great detail about this. The anecdotes on the hardships he and his mother faced. His glory days as a USC superstar. And then when he cemented his football legacy on the Buffalo Bills.
When it came to his playing career, I could tell O.J. was most excited about his tenure with the Bills. They were a small market team he embraced. He also loved the Bills Mafia, the team's zany and enthusiastic fanbase. The Bills had some winning seasons with Juice leading their offense. After all, he was a natural born star and leader for that long-tormented franchise. And to this day, they still treated Simpson with respect unlike the alma mater that ultimately disowned him.
Throughout the interview, I could tell O.J. struggled at times to remember certain names and dates. Our conversation switched to CDTE and other brain/memory issues that had been attributed to playing American football. Awhile back, O.J. had been diagnosed with this (in addition to arthritis). While football is still a violent game, in O.J.'s heyday it was a fucking blood sport ("It was a different era, man," he told me). Not much padding or safety precautions. Illegal hits were the norm. Nothing was off limits. Not even your head.
The grave seriousness of the topic removed us from the nostalgic vanity that had accompanied O.J.'s reflections on his career. Our conversation soon shifted to the tragedy that would haunt O.J. Simpson. And forever tarnish his name.
I was surprised to see O.J. be so open while discussing that fateful June night. I knew he usually avoided the topic out of contempt for a press that had ignored his words in favor of misquoting him and making him look like a lunatic. But he was comfortable with us.
We discussed everything. From Mark Fuhrman to the planted evidence to the lack of a cut or bruise anywhere on O.J.'s body (Goldman was same height as O.J., a blackbelt, and twenty years younger). The fact there was no cut on O.J.'s hand when he was at the airport signing autographs (including signing one for the pilot). The racial implications of the case. How the media automatically assumed his guilt before knowing if O.J. was even in L.A. when the murders happened.
O.J.'s sadness veered toward an understandable bitterness as we discussed how the media's inaccuracies ultimately became the legend.
"No one believed me," O.J. said, his baritone voice full of jaded weariness. "I tried everything. I did interviews, I talked about the trial, and it's like no one listened to me! They didn't wanna listen to me. They didn't wanna believe me." Fire burnt in his eyes, but I didn't feel threatened or scared like you probably would. Such a fire was built off of frustration not violence. "With Fuhrman, you got a guy on tape saying all this shit. That he framed minorities and blacks... not only that but he was anti-Semitic. If I was a white Jewish man, everyone would be outraged at Fuhrman and what he did. They'd take my word, they'd show the evidence we had. But that wasn't the case, was it? Instead, I'm playing the Goddamn race card!"
And I couldn't agree more. Everything he said was correct. The media had ignored the overwhelming evidence favoring his innocence to spin a false narrative. To them, Othello James Simpson killed the two white Angels. No questions asked.
While we were on the subject of O.J.'s unfair public perception, I asked how he felt about the growing number of black celebrities speaking out against him. Kanye, Jay-Z, Steve Harvey, etc.
O.J. hesitated. Discomfort joined his anger. I could tell he felt these questions were putting him in rough territory... particularly since he was African-American himself. I didn't expect him to go into a rant on how they were all coons, but I didn't expect him to be this silent and awkward.
He let out a weary sigh. "I don't know what to tell them," he finally said. "Maybe they were too young to watch the dang trial. Or they've gotten just saturated with all the crap they throw against me. They read too much National Enquirer, I don't know." A faint grin crossed his face. "The media the way it is... I guess everyone thinks I did it now, huh."
There was a vulnerable sadness to him. Something I'd never seen in all the footage on Juice. His silence couldn't hide that look of anguish.
"Everyone thinks I killed her," O.J. went on. That I'd kill her right where my kids slept!" He paused. A breather from the anger. "I can't change their minds, I give up." His emotions were overwhelming him. I could tell he didn't like it. O.J. was confident and strong. And he always seemed that way on television and in public. The memories were killing his public persona. He wasn't the Juice in this moment. He was Orenthal James Simpson. The tormented ex-husband of Nicole. The tormented father of four.
The roaring tragedy of 94 had returned from the grave once more. O.J. would never escape it. And he knew it.
I didn't even hear the barking dogs during this tense silence. They must've been respecting O.J.'s emotional struggle as well.
"When people think you're a killer," he struggled to begin, his deep voice caving in with heartache. "They think I never loved her, but I did."
"I know you did," I said, my voice steady yet reassuring.
O.J. gazed down at his lap. An obvious method to hide his tears. "And everything I'd worked toward was gone." He glared at the camera. "I worked hard to get to here! I came from nowhere, man, I supported my Goddamn family! I made a name for himself!"
His anger was ferocious but not directed toward anyone in the room. I felt no fear. But if this was Fox or TMZ, I could picture the headline now: O.J.'s Rage Returns! Watch Out White People!
"And then it was all gone!" O.J. continued. "All because they wanted to believe the nigger killed everybody! That I was a stalker, a fucking psycho." Tear fell from his eyes. On camera, O.J.'s harsher profanity was about as rare as the tears. He was showcasing twenty years' worth of wounds right here for Pearse and I.
"So yeah, maybe Kanye and all these other rappers and what-have-you think I did it. If they wanna appease their white audience, that's fine. Fuck them. We don't need them. God knows the truth. My children know the truth! That's what matters more than these arrogant niggers running their mouths about me. Just so they can stay with their fake fucking white friends." He chuckled. A defeated chuckle that was chilling in its helplessness. "I guess I used to be the same. Believe me, I know. And they'll find out soon enough. Oh yeah, they'll see what happens when they get framed or blamed for some shit they didn't do. Then they won't be Grmamy-winning rapper or Oscar-winning "thespian," they'll be a guiltyass nigger. Like what they say about me."
I could feel Pearse give me an unwasy look. But I wasn't stopping this. Not now. This was O.J. at his most candid and honest. He trusted us. I wasn't stopping him no matter where the controversy led.
"I'd never hurt her," O.J. went on. "I wouldn't..." He brushed away his tears. "I wasn't a great husband, but I cared about Nicole. Yeah, I hit her... but it wasn't like me. I felt terrible the second it happened. When she looked at me crying. Hell, I cried too. I had no idea I could ever do that. That I could hurt someone, much less my wife." His wounded eyes stared out the glass doors, peering off into the darkness. "And they wanna say I slaughtered her."
Respectful, I leaned in a little closer. "Well, who do you think actually did it, O.J.?" I asked, sympathetic yet strong. "That's the main question me and Pearse get from these idiots. They'll ignore everything we said just for this shit."
"It really is," Pearse added with a weak smile.
Quiet, O.J. kept looking off at the balcony.
"Look, I know Fuhrman made sure we'll likely never know," I told O.J. "But is there anything you'd want to add to the discussion? Any suspicions you had? Anyone you suspect?"
O.J. put a hand to his face, shielding his ravaged face from the camera. Rather than strength, he showed defeat. Like the traumas were at war within him. I could hear his heavy, wounded breaths. I could only imagine the painful memories running through his head. "Juice," I said.
"I can't," he mumbled.
A cloud of silence conquered the room. I felt a sense of cryptic dread lingering through the atmosphere. O.J.'s handlers gave me piercing stares. I returned them an awkward gaze. I wasn't sure what to do. I wasn't a therapist, after all.
Trying to break the uneasy mood, Pearse grinned. "You sure it wasn't Kato?"
No one laughed or responded.
"We've always suspected drugs," I said.
Grimacing, O.J. looked at us.
"Several of Ron Goldman's friends were killed right after he and Nicole," I added. "One of them had his throat slit from ear to ear."
"And Faye Resnick left Nicole's house the day before the murders," Pearse assisted me. "She owed drug dealers over thirty-thousand dollars from what I understand."
O.J. ran a hand along his face. Our comments hit him like bullets into his emotions. He didn't say anything. He just kept within his self. Within his fragment, tormented psyche.
"She looked just like Nicole," I said. Pearse and I's voices were calm but persistent.
Rocking in his seat, O.J. looked down at the ground. He avoided eye contact. He avoided us. The tears were forming in his eyes. He bit his lip. The sorrow weighed him down.
"There could've been a mix-up," I went on.
"It had to be two people," Pearse added.
I noticed all of O.J.'s associates watching him with concern.
Tears in his eyes, O.J. confronted us. In the war within himself, his anxiety was winning.
I just stared at Juice. But Pearse kept going.
"The original coroner even said two knives were used," Pearse continued.
O.J. gave us a fiery look. "You wanna know what really happened?" he said, his baritone devoid of any warmth or charm.
Pearse went silent in an instant.
"We just want to know your thoughts, O.J.," I said.
"Well, I'll tell you what happened!" O.J. responded. "I'll tell you exactly what happened!"
One of his concerned handlers stepped toward him.
O.J. held up his hand, keeping the bodyguards at bay. "No, let me speak!"
The handler took his place back by the door.
"Let me tell them everything," O.J. said. His intense eyes turned toward Pearse and I. "It's not about just drugs. There's more to it than that."
My detached coolness evaporated. O.J.'s gaze and voice were frantic. I sensed the interview was going into unexpected territory and I wasn't prepared. "What do you mean?" I asked, unable to hide the subtle panic in my voice.
"It's everybody!" O.J. yelled. "The whole fucking thing!" A defensive fury boiled up inside him. "There's an entire group of people that killed Nicole! And it's because they wanted me! They wanted to frame me and tear me to shreds. It wasn't just Goddamn Fuhrman or Vanatter. Not even the L.A.P.D. It was the entire country!"
The final chilling line reverberated through the room like an eerie piano chord. O.J.'s voice, his unnerving sincerity sold it.
Pearse and I just looked on at Juice, confused. None of his associates were stopping him. None of them even looked confused by his proclamation. They just had knowing expressions on their faces. Like they too were aware of Juice's wild account.
"I don't understand," I finally mustered out. "What do you mean? The entire country-"
"You heard me, Steve," O.J. interrupted. He leaned back in his seat. Like the weary survivor he was. "You know how this country is. You've seen it in action, Steve. It's not so much the media as it is the establishment."
"So what are you saying-"
"I'm saying they'll do anything to suppress blacks and other minorities. The white elite is too powerful. They need to find ways to... to inhibit blacks." O.J. looked right at Pearse and I. His emotional brown eyes pierced deep into our souls.
Not sure what to do, I hesitated. "So you're saying this conspiracy killed Nicole and Goldman?"
More animated than ever, O.J. threw his hands out toward us. "You know about me! You know who I was! What I represented. I was one of the first black celebrities to cross over. I was in commercials, man! Ten years after segregation ended, I was pushing Hertz! I was in movies, I was a superstar."
I didn't think he was bragging. His voice was too full of anger and resentment for this to be gloating O.J.
"And what better way to kill what I represented, huh?" O.J. challenged us. He leaned in closer like a wild-eyed preacher. This wasn't the Smooth Mr. Simpson. What we saw now was all paranoia... either from Alzheimer's or genuine fear. "They did what could turn the Juice into that rich nigger that got away with murder!" He waved his hands around as if he were shoving an invisible force away. "And they fucking got away with it! They killed Nicole and did everything they could to incriminate me!"
I looked over at Pearse. All I saw was a face of stunned confusion. Like someone had transplanted Pearse from Vegas to a nuthouse.
I confronted O.J. "So a group of these special rich white people killed Nicole?"
"Rich, powerful white people," he answered, his voice unwavering and not backing down.
The Juice was loose, alright, I thought. Loose in the fucking head.
"Look, Juice," I began.
O.J. flashed me a cryptic smile. "You don't believe me?"
I looked around the room. The associates were all stone-faced. Had O.J. convinced them of this batshit insanity? Or was he just paying them enough to believe?
"Honestly," I stammered. I looked back at O.J.'s calm face. He was relaxed. Like telling us this secret had lifted the weight of anxiety off him. "I don't know what to believe."
"I know," O.J. responded. Letting out a weary sigh, he slouched back in his chair. "It sounds crazy... it's why I don't tell many people." His gaze drifted off to the glass doors. "It's why I'm scared to tell anyone really."
"Why?"
Like he was responding to an insult, O.J. just gave me a cold glare. "You don't have a clue what these people are. The power they have. You can't even imagine what they could do to me and you."
"If they were trying to bring you down, why not just get you convicted-"
"They tried, didn't they," O.J. interrupted, his baritone commanding and strong.
"Then why not have you killed."
Smirking, O.J. looked off at the bodyguards. They returned sly smiles back.
Annoyed, I leaned in toward Juice. "If they were trying to destroy you because of your influence then why not just kill you? Alright, they tried framing you, so why wouldn't they just finish you off?"
O.J. let out a maddening laugh. The laugh of a helpless man left to die from irony.
"What?" I demanded. "Why wouldn't they?"
"Why would they waste their time!" O.J. said through the chuckles. He pointed at himself. "Look at me, Steve. What the Hell would killing me do?"
The realization struck me. He was right. Why would they waste their time killing him... they'd already done enough. The damage was done.
"The trial killed everything I stood for," O.J. said. "No one looked at me the same. They couldn't look me in the eye." He leaned in closer, holding my gaze with those dark eyes. "There were no more advertisements, no more movies. No more Monday Night Football. No more respect of O.J.'s American Dream. I'm the Goddamn monster now, Steve."
Destroyed by inner anguish, he looked toward the floor.
Our staredown and his chilling reflections still left me shook.
"Hell, for all I know maybe they failed to frame me on purpose," O.J. muttered. He looked up at me. "Maybe just me fighting it out in the court then getting acquitted was part of the plan all along. Just to make people hate me even more."
"I'm sorry," I said. My attempt at a neutral voice couldn't hide my sympathy.
"If I'd gone to jail over a false charge, maybe people would've protested for me," Juice stated. "They would've looked into the case."
The atmosphere grew more and more tense with O.J.'s account. I noticed him running his hands together in a nervous tic. He couldn't fake the discomfort. He was never that good of an actor.
"Instead, all we get is everyone saying I did it," O.J. went on. "O.J. Simpson murderer. That's it. Listen to your Geraldos and your Nancy Graces, the entire American media. They all just pick me apart since I guess it's still illegal to string niggers up when you absolutely know we did something. I guess Emmett Till would've suffered the same."
Uneasy, I nodded my head. The room felt quieter than ever. No voices, no music, no football highlights, no dogs. Just crackling from the fire.
I didn't like seeing O.J. this way. Regardless of his hardships, he'd always been an upbeat fighter. Now he looked defeated.
"There's nothing I can do," O.J. said. "And they know it. They know they fucked me. My image is ruined forever. My name, everything I did. It's gone. My legacy is that I'm a black man who killed two white people. That's what I am." Tears of anger filled his eyes. "The media played it up. They control that too, you know. They control everything!"
"Jesus...” Pearse exclaimed.
I faced Pearse. Like me, he too was riveted by Juice's every word. Only Pearse 100% believed him.
"You do a lot of great things, Steve," O.J. told me.
I looked at Juice. Or the decrepit, depressed sight that was once O.J. Simpson.
"But there's nothing you can do," O.J. continued. "You're not Fox or NBC. You don't get many people on that show. It's why Baby Blue don't care."
"Baby Blue?" I asked, confused.
O.J.'s eyes never strayed from me. "That's their leader."
"What?"
His face stoic and deadly serious, O.J. pointed up toward his eyes. "Their leader's eyes. They're baby blue. That's all I know."
Part 1 of 2
Link To Part Two
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2019.06.07 13:46 rhonnie14 I Went To O.J.’s House (Part 1/2)

Amongst all the unpopular opinions in America, mine may be the most unpopular. Or at least, the most hated. O.J. Simpson didn't kill Ron Goldman or Nicole. There, I said it. That's not guilty beyond a reasonable doubt. That's not we can't prove he did it, but it's likely. That's fucking innocent. And no, I'm not the Caucasian-media-driven caricature of a black conspiracy theorist. Not at all. I'm a thirty-year-old middle-class white guy. I've got no dog in this fight. I didn't root for Juice during the 70s or admire his status as a crossover icon in all those movies and Hertz ads. Due to my youth, I've also got no claim in the emotional war zone that was his 1995 murder trial. I go off the facts. And regardless of what Oprah or Fox News wants you to believe, the "mountain of evidence" actually resides in O.J.'s innocence.
Remember when FX's The People Vs. O.J. Simpson claimed O.J. never asked detectives how Nicole died? That was bullshit, trial footage at 1:58. Or when ESPN's O.J.: Made In America insinuated O.J. wasn't taking his arthritis meds so the gloves wouldn't fit? Doctors signed off on O.J. taking the meds, trial footage at 7:49. Want another lie from this Oscar winning "documentary?" Try the fact O.J. didn't have a single cut or bruise on his body when he left his house on that fateful June night, trial footage at 1:30. Yeah, that's right. Goldman and Nicole's bodies (particularly Goldman's) were covered in defensive wounds yet there's no marks on O.J.
Juice wasn't in a hurry to get through the airport either. Less than thirty minutes after supposedly butchering two people in one of the biggest rage crimes in American history, O.J. was described as being friendly as he signed autographs at the airport. Witnesses didn't see a single cut, scratch, or bandage on his hands. Why is this important? The very next day, O.J. was examined by L.A.P.D. No cuts or bruises were on his body except a few cuts on his hand he got from smashing a glass in his Chicago hotel room. An overemotional reaction he had after hearing about Nicole's death. Chicago police found bloodied glass in the room. A hotel clerk even said O.J. came downstairs to get a bandage for the cut. The chauffeur who picked him up from the hotel took note of the fresh bandage. And everyone on that plane ride back to L.A. described Simpson as being completely distraught. He was in a rush to get back to L.A. as soon as possible... interesting for a guy deemed unquestionably guilty.
So without a single cut, where did the supposed incriminating blood evidence come from? Regardless of how Geraldo wants to spin it, the blood evidence is shit. At the prosecution's insistence, two samples were tested specifically to disprove the defense's theory that the blood was planted. The samples came back with EDTA, a preservative used in lab test tubes. Experts agree it was too much EDTA for the blood to come naturally from O.J.'s body. Or from eating Big Macs like Marcia Clark claims. Furthermore, the blood on Nicole's back gate wasn't seen in any of the initial crime scene photos. Rather, it was somehow inexplicably discovered in July... weeks after the entire crime scene had been washed down.
And that takes us to Detective Mark Fuhrman, the man who discovered the glove on O.J.'s property. Again, one of the gloves had a small amount of O.J.'s DNA, the other didn't. Aside from the fact the gloves didn't fit, O.J.'s DNA wasn't even found on the glove's fingers... nor did either glove share a cut similar to the one O.J. got in his hotel room (remember, he had no cuts on the flight to Chicago).
The glove Fuhrman found was also still wet even though it'd supposedly been rotting in the June heat for over seven hours. No dirt or debris were found on the glove either even though the back alley of O.J.'s home was heavily wooded with leaves, berries, etc.
So back to Detective Fuhrman, the guy did more than say the n-word. On his infamous taped conversations with Laura McKinny, he said "nigger" well over fifty times. Fuhrman also admitted to hating blacks and interracial couples, lying under oath, and planting evidence. On top of this, he'd gotten L.A.P.D. sued years earlier for shooting at an unarmed black man and planting a knife on him. If you believe O.J. is guilty, you have to do two things: you have to ignore all the facts and evidence, and you have to take the word of a racist white cop over all the witnesses supporting O.J.’s innocence. Mark Fuhrman is your guy.
On the other hand, is O.J, a great guy? Not really. He’s flawed. He hit Nicole back in 89. But regardless of the well-publicized hearsay, he didn’t hit her any other time (Nicole said this in court in 92, Nicole’s sister Denise said the same during the mid-90s). Juice never hit his first wife Marguerite Whitley. So yes, his abuse was inexcusable. But an idiotic motive considering as recently as spring of 94, Nicole was trying to get back with him.
This isn't even counting how O.J. never reacted with rage or jealousy toward Nicole's romantic relationships. Keith Douglas Zlomsowitch, one of Nicole's former lovers, admitted that O.J. had seen him and Nicole making love in Nicole’s living room. The very next day, a calm O.J. told them in private that they should be careful about doing things out in the open in case one of the kids walked in. One of O.J.’s best friends Marcus Allen even said that when he told Juice he had sex with Nicole, O.J. reacted calmly and was only upset because Allen was engaged at the time.
So yeah, none of this excuses O.J.’s lone case of domestic violence. But the context shows how exaggerated O.J. and Nicole’s volatile relationship was so the prosecutors could have a sensational motive.
I get that what I'm saying isn’t what Oprah, Geraldo, or the alarming number of celebrity black apologists have taught you. This isn’t what the racist Howard Stern taught you either when he advocated for lynching Mr. Simpson. No, what I'm telling you are facts. Not lies and bullshit.
People hate me for it. I suppose you will too. Go ahead and serenade me with your downvotes. I don't give a fuck. Throw out soundbites like Bruno Maglis (the Enquirer photos were supposedly taken during a rainstorm... not great for a pair of "pristine" Suede shoes), all that blood!1! (EDTA), the Bronco chase (O.J. believed he was framed and panicked), If I Did It (written by a ghostwriter, an easy 500k for O.J. after years of pleading his innocence onto deaf ears), a "failed" polygraph (nevermind the fact that Gary Ridgeway, the most prolific serial killer in American history passed a polygraph or that Ted Bundy did so twice), or the horrific civil trial that inexplicably allowed hearsay evidence.
And where has all my research left me? My family doesn't talk to me. I don't have close friends. Needless to say, no girlfriend. I'm alienated because of my beliefs.
But the biggest rift my "unpopular opinion" has created is between my dad and I. The emotions of this case run that deep. In many ways, I too was a victim of this trial of the century. Alongside the integrity of the American media, so went my All-American family.
My mother and father never got along during the trial. Even as a child, I remembered their bickering. Constant, ugly bickering. Mom's belief in O.J.'s innocence was actually what got me interested in the case. Particularly as a stark contrast to the O.J. Did It industry we've all been bombarded with.
My dad had the popular opinion. Their disagreement over the case opened a nasty wound between them. My parents divorced soon after Juice's acquittal. And as I grew up, I tried to stay close to my folks. My mother the introverted hippie, my father the more assertive and outgoing type. I was more like mom... no friends, artsy rather than social. On the other hand, my dad was friends with many of the people in the small town he lived in. The small town he thrived in as a local accountant.
For mom, O.J.'s plight was tragic. Yet another sad example of the horrors of being black in America. To my dad, Juice had played the race card.
While my dad and I used to be real close, my own interest in the O.J. Simpson case brought about the same tensions that had killed his marriage. Him and I argued more. He resented my opinion. Like most of you, he never could see anything past O.J. Did It, No Questions Asked.
My dad's brown eyes would berate me with the same sharp ferocity of his irate words. His temper was quick. And it only got worse as he got older. Particularly whenever O.J. came up.
Once mom passed a few years back, my dad and I grew even more apart. I think he blamed her for pushing me toward the case. But the reality was that their divorce was what fueled my interest. I came to the realization that mom was right all along. Yet she was crucified for that opinion. God knows how her own family and friends treated her for being the one white woman who believed Mr. Simpson was innocent.
But I think what really set dad off was my career. You see, my penultimate project began back in 2013: my O.J. Simpson webpage. I knew on-line there were people like me. People who did know more about the case and who had bothered researching it.
Over the years, my site garnered a cult-like following. And dad was pretty pissed about it. As he got older and his brown hair grew thinner, his eyes only became more narrow and cold. And so did his resentment toward me. The few conversations we had always ended in arguments. There were shouting matches about the case. Shouting matches about race. Shouting matches about mom.
I'd have loved to see him be proud of my work... but that was wishful thinking. His mind was made up. I couldn't worry about pop anymore. I had to worry about the new generation. Younger, more open-minded people like me.
As the site grew, my friend Pearse helped me land interviews with some of the biggest names from the trial for his podcast. I started uploading feature-length documentaries rather than YouTube videos. My analysis on the O.J. case made me an expert. Not to mention a hero to those who knew the truth. Hell, I even got advertising money.
My site was doing well. However, it wasn't mainstream media. I wasn't making much money. So imagine my surprise when the ultimate project came up. The most audacious thing my webpage had tackled yet: an interview with the Juice himself.
It turned out O.J. Simpson loved my work... I guess there's some consolation for never having my dad appreciate it.
I was surprised yet overjoyed when I got O.J.'s e-mail. I consulted with all of the people I'd been interviewing. And to my utter joy, everything checked out. I soon got Simpson's Vegas address.
The news would've excited my devoted fanbase however, I wanted to keep it a surprise for now. Outside of telling Pearse and a few friends, I kept the trip a secret. I doubted O.J. wanted me telling the world anyway.
But I did tell a few family members. Rather than congratulate me, they gave me the usual cliched jokes instead ("don't get hacked). I even got the nerve to tell my dad, but he just grumbled before hanging up. He always preferred my fiction. I guess it was for the best I hadn't told him about the O.J. book I was working on...
The following week, I packed my bags and left for Nevada. My buddy Pearse came along for moral support. And to be the cameraman.
O.J.'s handlers were there waiting for us at the airport. In their suits, they resembled Secret Service. But hey, I couldn't blame O.J. taking some precautions after all the death threats. His posse was very professional though. The exact opposite of the crazy Vegas crew who helped him "steal" his memorabilia.
From what I understood, O.J. had been staying at one of his friends's mansions. A Microsoft millionaire's house. He'd let O.J. crash there since Juice couldn't leave the state. Not that O.J. had it bad considering how lavish the mansion was. While modest compared to the rest of the neighborhood, the place was still glorious. There was privacy galore. Tall trees surrounded the yard, concealing the house and iron-pike fence from outside view.
Once our van pulled up into O.J.'s driveway, I took a deep breath. Pearse and I had made it. Here I was about give an exclusive interview with the man America considered a monster. But who in reality was a tragic victim.
The spacious and pristine yard had gaudy lawn ornaments. Pretty sculptures. Huge sprinklers and, of course, a nice pool.
Pearse was told to keep the camera off until we got inside the house. For security purposes. Me not being an asshole mainstream journalist, complied out of respect for the Juice.
Inside, the mansion was more in line with what I'd expect from O.J. Clean, impressive, stylish. And yes, flashy.
We were told to wait in the living room. It was in here, O.J. had his memorabilia well on display (apparently, he'd recovered most of the stolen items). There were old jerseys, posters, movie props, game balls, trophies. Hall Of Fame accolades. The Heisman. Not many people seem to realize O.J. Simpson was a Hell of a player. I could tell he had his guests wait here on purpose. A nice humblebrag. Then again, who could blame him? This shit was amazing.
Amongst the collectibles were more cultured items. Artwork, portraits, classic novels, some sick fucking vinyl. I could tell most of these belonged to O.J. The guy was a fucking connoisseur.
Framed family photos still had their place in this mancave of O.J.'s glory days. Pictures of him with Marguerite. Pictures of him with Nicole. But the most frequent images I saw were kids. Children, teenagers, college photos. O.J.'s smiling children seemed to swarm all around Pearse and I. And it wasn't creepy in the slightest either. In a room that could've (and probably was) a vanity tribute to the Juice, somehow, the children's photos took more precedence. They were what I remembered most about the house.
In a corner of the room was a framed photo of O.J.'s deceased infant daughter Aaren. A cross hung right above it. A collection of Angel figurines stood on both sides of the lavish picture frame. A sincere shrine for Aaren.
Using the camera, Pearse was all too happy to capture the scene. The mansion definitely a big step up from Pearse's garage studio.
Emerging from a long hallway, our man of the hour entered the room. Orenthal James Simpson. Even at seventy-one, he looked effortless and smooth. Quite debonair in a brown suit he'd consider modest but most likely cost a couple grand. The guy had style. And he also knew he was gonna be on camera. No wonder he had his Hall Of Fame ring on.
O.J. stuck a groomed hand out toward me. "Steve, how are you," he said in his eloquent baritone. A voice that hadn't lost any of its charm after all these years and traumas.
Overwhelmed by nerves, I forced myself to complete the handshake. "I'm doing okay," I responded, a slight tremble in my voice.
As if he sensed my nerves, O.J. flashed me a warm smile. "Alright. I'm glad."
His handshake was strong yet there was a soft touch. And his hand was fucking huge. It practically engulfed mine. No wonder he could hang on to that football.
"It's an honor to meet you," I added.
"Likewise." His voice even trembled like mine. Not from nerves but emotion... appreciation. "Likewise, Steve."
I introduced him to Pearse, and then the interview began. I was simultaneously surprised yet glad to see it was just us three for the interview. I'm sure O.J. appreciated the chill vibes.
We toured the rest of the house. The guest rooms were well-furnished. There was also another mancave, O.J.'s destination for Saturdays and Sundays during football season. He played us some of his old highlights via YouTube. The guy just couldn't help himself. I saw a bunch of golf gear in here as well. The sport definitely still O.J.'s go-to hobby.
Later on, we checked out the kitchen and dining room. A back balcony overlooked the pool. I even saw little yappy dogs running around the back yard. I was surprised they weren't even full-breeds. Just regular old mutts. We could hear their incessant barks all tour long.
To my surprise, O.J.'s bedroom itself was rather plain. Not flashy like the living room or mancave. Just a few pictures of his mother and Aaren placed next to religious figurines.
However his closet was another story. Hell, it looked it'd been converted from a bedroom. A Sex And The City wet dream. Rows and rows of clothes. All of them name brand, all of them collected over the years.
Overall, O.J. was very welcoming. Even humble. He talked to Pearse and I about how his stay in prison had changed his attitude. He'd gone through years of (understandable) anger due to his mistreatment by the media. He had a chip on his shoulder. But the experience of just being another inmate, another number, changed his outlook for the better. He missed Florida. He missed L.A. But he wasn't too upset as his kids came to visit him quite often. Las Vegas, and this house in particular, had become his "home away from home."
We planned on doing the bulk of our interview in O.J.'s cozy study. There we had a glowing fireplace, comfortable chairs, and perfect lighting. A small coffee table the only barrier between O.J. and I.
Even from where I was sitting, I saw how the bookshelves were stuffed with every literary classic imaginable. I figured O.J. probably hadn't read most of them, but shit, it was still an impressive collection.
One book in particular caught my eye. Unlike the books around it, this one resembled a scrapbook. No title on the spine. It looked old as Hell. Did O.J. own a first edition Book Of The Dead? Or the Necronomicon?
Gazing around the rest of the room, I saw O.J.'s framed memorabilia from the Roots shoot (costume, props, etc) right next to a pair of glass doors leading to the balcony. I could tell the memorabilia meant a lot to him. In an acting career based more off his charm and good looks than talent, appearing in Roots was a rare proud moment in his film career.
Like an annoying yet cute soundtrack, the dogs continued their barking well into the night. I suppose they were chasing squirrels or whatever other critters were lurking about. Maybe they were still after Pearse and I, for that matter.
A few of O.J.'s bodyguards stood by the study door. But they were quiet and kept their distance. They must've known how much an interview like this meant to O.J. One where he wasn't pleading his innocence to a buzzard or some other indifferent asshole. Instead, him and I were talking like old friends. Comrades.
We started off the interview in simple fashion: O.J.'s background. Orenthal James wasn't born a millionaire athlete. He came from nothing. From the slums of California all the way to the gridiron on the USC campus. Truly the American Dream. O.J. went into great detail about this. The anecdotes on the hardships he and his mother faced. His glory days as a USC superstar. And then when he cemented his football legacy on the Buffalo Bills.
When it came to his playing career, I could tell O.J. was most excited about his tenure with the Bills. They were a small market team he embraced. He also loved the Bills Mafia, the team's zany and enthusiastic fanbase. The Bills had some winning seasons with Juice leading their offense. After all, he was a natural born star and leader for that long-tormented franchise. And to this day, they still treated Simpson with respect unlike the alma mater that ultimately disowned him.
Throughout the interview, I could tell O.J. struggled at times to remember certain names and dates. Our conversation switched to CDTE and other brain/memory issues that had been attributed to playing American football. Awhile back, O.J. had been diagnosed with this (in addition to arthritis). While football is still a violent game, in O.J.'s heyday it was a fucking blood sport ("It was a different era, man," he told me). Not much padding or safety precautions. Illegal hits were the norm. Nothing was off limits. Not even your head.
The grave seriousness of the topic removed us from the nostalgic vanity that had accompanied O.J.'s reflections on his career. Our conversation soon shifted to the tragedy that would haunt O.J. Simpson. And forever tarnish his name.
I was surprised to see O.J. be so open while discussing that fateful June night. I knew he usually avoided the topic out of contempt for a press that had ignored his words in favor of misquoting him and making him look like a lunatic. But he was comfortable with us.
We discussed everything. From Mark Fuhrman to the planted evidence to the lack of a cut or bruise anywhere on O.J.'s body (Goldman was same height as O.J., a blackbelt, and twenty years younger). The fact there was no cut on O.J.'s hand when he was at the airport signing autographs (including signing one for the pilot). The racial implications of the case. How the media automatically assumed his guilt before knowing if O.J. was even in L.A. when the murders happened.
O.J.'s sadness veered toward an understandable bitterness as we discussed how the media's inaccuracies ultimately became the legend.
"No one believed me," O.J. said, his baritone voice full of jaded weariness. "I tried everything. I did interviews, I talked about the trial, and it's like no one listened to me! They didn't wanna listen to me. They didn't wanna believe me." Fire burnt in his eyes, but I didn't feel threatened or scared like you probably would. Such a fire was built off of frustration not violence. "With Fuhrman, you got a guy on tape saying all this shit. That he framed minorities and blacks... not only that but he was anti-Semitic. If I was a white Jewish man, everyone would be outraged at Fuhrman and what he did. They'd take my word, they'd show the evidence we had. But that wasn't the case, was it? Instead, I'm playing the Goddamn race card!"
And I couldn't agree more. Everything he said was correct. The media had ignored the overwhelming evidence favoring his innocence to spin a false narrative. To them, Othello James Simpson killed the two white Angels. No questions asked.
While we were on the subject of O.J.'s unfair public perception, I asked how he felt about the growing number of black celebrities speaking out against him. Kanye, Jay-Z, Steve Harvey, etc.
O.J. hesitated. Discomfort joined his anger. I could tell he felt these questions were putting him in rough territory... particularly since he was African-American himself. I didn't expect him to go into a rant on how they were all coons, but I didn't expect him to be this silent and awkward.
He let out a weary sigh. "I don't know what to tell them," he finally said. "Maybe they were too young to watch the dang trial. Or they've gotten just saturated with all the crap they throw against me. They read too much National Enquirer, I don't know." A faint grin crossed his face. "The media the way it is... I guess everyone thinks I did it now, huh."
There was a vulnerable sadness to him. Something I'd never seen in all the footage on Juice. His silence couldn't hide that look of anguish.
"Everyone thinks I killed her," O.J. went on. That I'd kill her right where my kids slept!" He paused. A breather from the anger. "I can't change their minds, I give up." His emotions were overwhelming him. I could tell he didn't like it. O.J. was confident and strong. And he always seemed that way on television and in public. The memories were killing his public persona. He wasn't the Juice in this moment. He was Orenthal James Simpson. The tormented ex-husband of Nicole. The tormented father of four.
The roaring tragedy of 94 had returned from the grave once more. O.J. would never escape it. And he knew it.
I didn't even hear the barking dogs during this tense silence. They must've been respecting O.J.'s emotional struggle as well.
"When people think you're a killer," he struggled to begin, his deep voice caving in with heartache. "They think I never loved her, but I did."
"I know you did," I said, my voice steady yet reassuring.
O.J. gazed down at his lap. An obvious method to hide his tears. "And everything I'd worked toward was gone." He glared at the camera. "I worked hard to get to here! I came from nowhere, man, I supported my Goddamn family! I made a name for himself!"
His anger was ferocious but not directed toward anyone in the room. I felt no fear. But if this was Fox or TMZ, I could picture the headline now: O.J.'s Rage Returns! Watch Out White People!
"And then it was all gone!" O.J. continued. "All because they wanted to believe the nigger killed everybody! That I was a stalker, a fucking psycho." Tear fell from his eyes. On camera, O.J.'s harsher profanity was about as rare as the tears. He was showcasing twenty years' worth of wounds right here for Pearse and I.
"So yeah, maybe Kanye and all these other rappers and what-have-you think I did it. If they wanna appease their white audience, that's fine. Fuck them. We don't need them. God knows the truth. My children know the truth! That's what matters more than these arrogant niggers running their mouths about me. Just so they can stay with their fake fucking white friends." He chuckled. A defeated chuckle that was chilling in its helplessness. "I guess I used to be the same. Believe me, I know. And they'll find out soon enough. Oh yeah, they'll see what happens when they get framed or blamed for some shit they didn't do. Then they won't be Grmamy-winning rapper or Oscar-winning "thespian," they'll be a guiltyass nigger. Like what they say about me."
I could feel Pearse give me an unwasy look. But I wasn't stopping this. Not now. This was O.J. at his most candid and honest. He trusted us. I wasn't stopping him no matter where the controversy led.
"I'd never hurt her," O.J. went on. "I wouldn't..." He brushed away his tears. "I wasn't a great husband, but I cared about Nicole. Yeah, I hit her... but it wasn't like me. I felt terrible the second it happened. When she looked at me crying. Hell, I cried too. I had no idea I could ever do that. That I could hurt someone, much less my wife." His wounded eyes stared out the glass doors, peering off into the darkness. "And they wanna say I slaughtered her."
Respectful, I leaned in a little closer. "Well, who do you think actually did it, O.J.?" I asked, sympathetic yet strong. "That's the main question me and Pearse get from these idiots. They'll ignore everything we said just for this shit."
"It really is," Pearse added with a weak smile.
Quiet, O.J. kept looking off at the balcony.
"Look, I know Fuhrman made sure we'll likely never know," I told O.J. "But is there anything you'd want to add to the discussion? Any suspicions you had? Anyone you suspect?"
O.J. put a hand to his face, shielding his ravaged face from the camera. Rather than strength, he showed defeat. Like the traumas were at war within him. I could hear his heavy, wounded breaths. I could only imagine the painful memories running through his head. "Juice," I said.
"I can't," he mumbled.
A cloud of silence conquered the room. I felt a sense of cryptic dread lingering through the atmosphere. O.J.'s handlers gave me piercing stares. I returned them an awkward gaze. I wasn't sure what to do. I wasn't a therapist, after all.
Trying to break the uneasy mood, Pearse grinned. "You sure it wasn't Kato?"
No one laughed or responded.
"We've always suspected drugs," I said.
Grimacing, O.J. looked at us.
"Several of Ron Goldman's friends were killed right after he and Nicole," I added. "One of them had his throat slit from ear to ear."
"And Faye Resnick left Nicole's house the day before the murders," Pearse assisted me. "She owed drug dealers over thirty-thousand dollars from what I understand."
O.J. ran a hand along his face. Our comments hit him like bullets into his emotions. He didn't say anything. He just kept within his self. Within his fragment, tormented psyche.
"She looked just like Nicole," I said. Pearse and I's voices were calm but persistent.
Rocking in his seat, O.J. looked down at the ground. He avoided eye contact. He avoided us. The tears were forming in his eyes. He bit his lip. The sorrow weighed him down.
"There could've been a mix-up," I went on.
"It had to be two people," Pearse added.
I noticed all of O.J.'s associates watching him with concern.
Tears in his eyes, O.J. confronted us. In the war within himself, his anxiety was winning.
I just stared at Juice. But Pearse kept going.
"The original coroner even said two knives were used," Pearse continued.
O.J. gave us a fiery look. "You wanna know what really happened?" he said, his baritone devoid of any warmth or charm.
Pearse went silent in an instant.
"We just want to know your thoughts, O.J.," I said.
"Well, I'll tell you what happened!" O.J. responded. "I'll tell you exactly what happened!"
One of his concerned handlers stepped toward him.
O.J. held up his hand, keeping the bodyguards at bay. "No, let me speak!"
The handler took his place back by the door.
"Let me tell them everything," O.J. said. His intense eyes turned toward Pearse and I. "It's not about just drugs. There's more to it than that."
My detached coolness evaporated. O.J.'s gaze and voice were frantic. I sensed the interview was going into unexpected territory and I wasn't prepared. "What do you mean?" I asked, unable to hide the subtle panic in my voice.
"It's everybody!" O.J. yelled. "The whole fucking thing!" A defensive fury boiled up inside him. "There's an entire group of people that killed Nicole! And it's because they wanted me! They wanted to frame me and tear me to shreds. It wasn't just Goddamn Fuhrman or Vanatter. Not even the L.A.P.D. It was the entire country!"
The final chilling line reverberated through the room like an eerie piano chord. O.J.'s voice, his unnerving sincerity sold it.
Pearse and I just looked on at Juice, confused. None of his associates were stopping him. None of them even looked confused by his proclamation. They just had knowing expressions on their faces. Like they too were aware of Juice's wild account.
"I don't understand," I finally mustered out. "What do you mean? The entire country-"
"You heard me, Steve," O.J. interrupted. He leaned back in his seat. Like the weary survivor he was. "You know how this country is. You've seen it in action, Steve. It's not so much the media as it is the establishment."
"So what are you saying-"
"I'm saying they'll do anything to suppress blacks and other minorities. The white elite is too powerful. They need to find ways to... to inhibit blacks." O.J. looked right at Pearse and I. His emotional brown eyes pierced deep into our souls.
Not sure what to do, I hesitated. "So you're saying this conspiracy killed Nicole and Goldman?"
More animated than ever, O.J. threw his hands out toward us. "You know about me! You know who I was! What I represented. I was one of the first black celebrities to cross over. I was in commercials, man! Ten years after segregation ended, I was pushing Hertz! I was in movies, I was a superstar."
I didn't think he was bragging. His voice was too full of anger and resentment for this to be gloating O.J.
"And what better way to kill what I represented, huh?" O.J. challenged us. He leaned in closer like a wild-eyed preacher. This wasn't the Smooth Mr. Simpson. What we saw now was all paranoia... either from Alzheimer's or genuine fear. "They did what could turn the Juice into that rich nigger that got away with murder!" He waved his hands around as if he were shoving an invisible force away. "And they fucking got away with it! They killed Nicole and did everything they could to incriminate me!"
I looked over at Pearse. All I saw was a face of stunned confusion. Like someone had transplanted Pearse from Vegas to a nuthouse.
I confronted O.J. "So a group of these special rich white people killed Nicole?"
"Rich, powerful white people," he answered, his voice unwavering and not backing down.
The Juice was loose, alright, I thought. Loose in the fucking head.
"Look, Juice," I began.
O.J. flashed me a cryptic smile. "You don't believe me?"
I looked around the room. The associates were all stone-faced. Had O.J. convinced them of this batshit insanity? Or was he just paying them enough to believe?
"Honestly," I stammered. I looked back at O.J.'s calm face. He was relaxed. Like telling us this secret had lifted the weight of anxiety off him. "I don't know what to believe."
"I know," O.J. responded. Letting out a weary sigh, he slouched back in his chair. "It sounds crazy... it's why I don't tell many people." His gaze drifted off to the glass doors. "It's why I'm scared to tell anyone really."
"Why?"
Like he was responding to an insult, O.J. just gave me a cold glare. "You don't have a clue what these people are. The power they have. You can't even imagine what they could do to me and you."
"If they were trying to bring you down, why not just get you convicted-"
"They tried, didn't they," O.J. interrupted, his baritone commanding and strong.
"Then why not have you killed."
Smirking, O.J. looked off at the bodyguards. They returned sly smiles back.
Annoyed, I leaned in toward Juice. "If they were trying to destroy you because of your influence then why not just kill you? Alright, they tried framing you, so why wouldn't they just finish you off?"
O.J. let out a maddening laugh. The laugh of a helpless man left to die from irony.
"What?" I demanded. "Why wouldn't they?"
"Why would they waste their time!" O.J. said through the chuckles. He pointed at himself. "Look at me, Steve. What the Hell would killing me do?"
The realization struck me. He was right. Why would they waste their time killing him... they'd already done enough. The damage was done.
"The trial killed everything I stood for," O.J. said. "No one looked at me the same. They couldn't look me in the eye." He leaned in closer, holding my gaze with those dark eyes. "There were no more advertisements, no more movies. No more Monday Night Football. No more respect of O.J.'s American Dream. I'm the Goddamn monster now, Steve."
Destroyed by inner anguish, he looked toward the floor.
Our staredown and his chilling reflections still left me shook.
"Hell, for all I know maybe they failed to frame me on purpose," O.J. muttered. He looked up at me. "Maybe just me fighting it out in the court then getting acquitted was part of the plan all along. Just to make people hate me even more."
"I'm sorry," I said. My attempt at a neutral voice couldn't hide my sympathy.
"If I'd gone to jail over a false charge, maybe people would've protested for me," Juice stated. "They would've looked into the case."
The atmosphere grew more and more tense with O.J.'s account. I noticed him running his hands together in a nervous tic. He couldn't fake the discomfort. He was never that good of an actor.
"Instead, all we get is everyone saying I did it," O.J. went on. "O.J. Simpson murderer. That's it. Listen to your Geraldos and your Nancy Graces, the entire American media. They all just pick me apart since I guess it's still illegal to string niggers up when you absolutely know we did something. I guess Emmett Till would've suffered the same."
Uneasy, I nodded my head. The room felt quieter than ever. No voices, no music, no football highlights, no dogs. Just crackling from the fire.
I didn't like seeing O.J. this way. Regardless of his hardships, he'd always been an upbeat fighter. Now he looked defeated.
"There's nothing I can do," O.J. said. "And they know it. They know they fucked me. My image is ruined forever. My name, everything I did. It's gone. My legacy is that I'm a black man who killed two white people. That's what I am." Tears of anger filled his eyes. "The media played it up. They control that too, you know. They control everything!"
"Jesus...” Pearse exclaimed.
I faced Pearse. Like me, he too was riveted by Juice's every word. Only Pearse 100% believed him.
"You do a lot of great things, Steve," O.J. told me.
I looked at Juice. Or the decrepit, depressed sight that was once O.J. Simpson.
"But there's nothing you can do," O.J. continued. "You're not Fox or NBC. You don't get many people on that show. It's why Baby Blue don't care."
"Baby Blue?" I asked, confused.
O.J.'s eyes never strayed from me. "That's their leader."
"What?"
His face stoic and deadly serious, O.J. pointed up toward his eyes. "Their leader's eyes. They're baby blue. That's all I know."
Part 1 of 2
Link To Part Two
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2019.06.07 13:45 rhonnie14 I Went To O.J.’s House (Part 1/2)

Amongst all the unpopular opinions in America, mine may be the most unpopular. Or at least, the most hated. O.J. Simpson didn't kill Ron Goldman or Nicole. There, I said it. That's not guilty beyond a reasonable doubt. That's not we can't prove he did it, but it's likely. That's fucking innocent. And no, I'm not the Caucasian-media-driven caricature of a black conspiracy theorist. Not at all. I'm a thirty-year-old middle-class white guy. I've got no dog in this fight. I didn't root for Juice during the 70s or admire his status as a crossover icon in all those movies and Hertz ads. Due to my youth, I've also got no claim in the emotional war zone that was his 1995 murder trial. I go off the facts. And regardless of what Oprah or Fox News wants you to believe, the "mountain of evidence" actually resides in O.J.'s innocence.
Remember when FX's The People Vs. O.J. Simpson claimed O.J. never asked detectives how Nicole died? That was bullshit, trial footage at 1:58. Or when ESPN's O.J.: Made In America insinuated O.J. wasn't taking his arthritis meds so the gloves wouldn't fit? Doctors signed off on O.J. taking the meds, trial footage at 7:49. Want another lie from this Oscar winning "documentary?" Try the fact O.J. didn't have a single cut or bruise on his body when he left his house on that fateful June night, trial footage at 1:30. Yeah, that's right. Goldman and Nicole's bodies (particularly Goldman's) were covered in defensive wounds yet there's no marks on O.J.
Juice wasn't in a hurry to get through the airport either. Less than thirty minutes after supposedly butchering two people in one of the biggest rage crimes in American history, O.J. was described as being friendly as he signed autographs at the airport. Witnesses didn't see a single cut, scratch, or bandage on his hands. Why is this important? The very next day, O.J. was examined by L.A.P.D. No cuts or bruises were on his body except a few cuts on his hand he got from smashing a glass in his Chicago hotel room. An overemotional reaction he had after hearing about Nicole's death. Chicago police found bloodied glass in the room. A hotel clerk even said O.J. came downstairs to get a bandage for the cut. The chauffeur who picked him up from the hotel took note of the fresh bandage. And everyone on that plane ride back to L.A. described Simpson as being completely distraught. He was in a rush to get back to L.A. as soon as possible... interesting for a guy deemed unquestionably guilty.
So without a single cut, where did the supposed incriminating blood evidence come from? Regardless of how Geraldo wants to spin it, the blood evidence is shit. At the prosecution's insistence, two samples were tested specifically to disprove the defense's theory that the blood was planted. The samples came back with EDTA, a preservative used in lab test tubes. Experts agree it was too much EDTA for the blood to come naturally from O.J.'s body. Or from eating Big Macs like Marcia Clark claims. Furthermore, the blood on Nicole's back gate wasn't seen in any of the initial crime scene photos. Rather, it was somehow inexplicably discovered in July... weeks after the entire crime scene had been washed down.
And that takes us to Detective Mark Fuhrman, the man who discovered the glove on O.J.'s property. Again, one of the gloves had a small amount of O.J.'s DNA, the other didn't. Aside from the fact the gloves didn't fit, O.J.'s DNA wasn't even found on the glove's fingers... nor did either glove share a cut similar to the one O.J. got in his hotel room (remember, he had no cuts on the flight to Chicago).
The glove Fuhrman found was also still wet even though it'd supposedly been rotting in the June heat for over seven hours. No dirt or debris were found on the glove either even though the back alley of O.J.'s home was heavily wooded with leaves, berries, etc.
So back to Detective Fuhrman, the guy did more than say the n-word. On his infamous taped conversations with Laura McKinny, he said "nigger" well over fifty times. Fuhrman also admitted to hating blacks and interracial couples, lying under oath, and planting evidence. On top of this, he'd gotten L.A.P.D. sued years earlier for shooting at an unarmed black man and planting a knife on him. If you believe O.J. is guilty, you have to do two things: you have to ignore all the facts and evidence, and you have to take the word of a racist white cop over all the witnesses supporting O.J.’s innocence. Mark Fuhrman is your guy.
On the other hand, is O.J, a great guy? Not really. He’s flawed. He hit Nicole back in 89. But regardless of the well-publicized hearsay, he didn’t hit her any other time (Nicole said this in court in 92, Nicole’s sister Denise said the same during the mid-90s). Juice never hit his first wife Marguerite Whitley. So yes, his abuse was inexcusable. But an idiotic motive considering as recently as spring of 94, Nicole was trying to get back with him.
This isn't even counting how O.J. never reacted with rage or jealousy toward Nicole's romantic relationships. Keith Douglas Zlomsowitch, one of Nicole's former lovers, admitted that O.J. had seen him and Nicole making love in Nicole’s living room. The very next day, a calm O.J. told them in private that they should be careful about doing things out in the open in case one of the kids walked in. One of O.J.’s best friends Marcus Allen even said that when he told Juice he had sex with Nicole, O.J. reacted calmly and was only upset because Allen was engaged at the time.
So yeah, none of this excuses O.J.’s lone case of domestic violence. But the context shows how exaggerated O.J. and Nicole’s volatile relationship was so the prosecutors could have a sensational motive.
I get that what I'm saying isn’t what Oprah, Geraldo, or the alarming number of celebrity black apologists have taught you. This isn’t what the racist Howard Stern taught you either when he advocated for lynching Mr. Simpson. No, what I'm telling you are facts. Not lies and bullshit.
People hate me for it. I suppose you will too. Go ahead and serenade me with your downvotes. I don't give a fuck. Throw out soundbites like Bruno Maglis (the Enquirer photos were supposedly taken during a rainstorm... not great for a pair of "pristine" Suede shoes), all that blood!1! (EDTA), the Bronco chase (O.J. believed he was framed and panicked), If I Did It (written by a ghostwriter, an easy 500k for O.J. after years of pleading his innocence onto deaf ears), a "failed" polygraph (nevermind the fact that Gary Ridgeway, the most prolific serial killer in American history passed a polygraph or that Ted Bundy did so twice), or the horrific civil trial that inexplicably allowed hearsay evidence.
And where has all my research left me? My family doesn't talk to me. I don't have close friends. Needless to say, no girlfriend. I'm alienated because of my beliefs.
But the biggest rift my "unpopular opinion" has created is between my dad and I. The emotions of this case run that deep. In many ways, I too was a victim of this trial of the century. Alongside the integrity of the American media, so went my All-American family.
My mother and father never got along during the trial. Even as a child, I remembered their bickering. Constant, ugly bickering. Mom's belief in O.J.'s innocence was actually what got me interested in the case. Particularly as a stark contrast to the O.J. Did It industry we've all been bombarded with.
My dad had the popular opinion. Their disagreement over the case opened a nasty wound between them. My parents divorced soon after Juice's acquittal. And as I grew up, I tried to stay close to my folks. My mother the introverted hippie, my father the more assertive and outgoing type. I was more like mom... no friends, artsy rather than social. On the other hand, my dad was friends with many of the people in the small town he lived in. The small town he thrived in as a local accountant.
For mom, O.J.'s plight was tragic. Yet another sad example of the horrors of being black in America. To my dad, Juice had played the race card.
While my dad and I used to be real close, my own interest in the O.J. Simpson case brought about the same tensions that had killed his marriage. Him and I argued more. He resented my opinion. Like most of you, he never could see anything past O.J. Did It, No Questions Asked.
My dad's brown eyes would berate me with the same sharp ferocity of his irate words. His temper was quick. And it only got worse as he got older. Particularly whenever O.J. came up.
Once mom passed a few years back, my dad and I grew even more apart. I think he blamed her for pushing me toward the case. But the reality was that their divorce was what fueled my interest. I came to the realization that mom was right all along. Yet she was crucified for that opinion. God knows how her own family and friends treated her for being the one white woman who believed Mr. Simpson was innocent.
But I think what really set dad off was my career. You see, my penultimate project began back in 2013: my O.J. Simpson webpage. I knew on-line there were people like me. People who did know more about the case and who had bothered researching it.
Over the years, my site garnered a cult-like following. And dad was pretty pissed about it. As he got older and his brown hair grew thinner, his eyes only became more narrow and cold. And so did his resentment toward me. The few conversations we had always ended in arguments. There were shouting matches about the case. Shouting matches about race. Shouting matches about mom.
I'd have loved to see him be proud of my work... but that was wishful thinking. His mind was made up. I couldn't worry about pop anymore. I had to worry about the new generation. Younger, more open-minded people like me.
As the site grew, my friend Pearse helped me land interviews with some of the biggest names from the trial for his podcast. I started uploading feature-length documentaries rather than YouTube videos. My analysis on the O.J. case made me an expert. Not to mention a hero to those who knew the truth. Hell, I even got advertising money.
My site was doing well. However, it wasn't mainstream media. I wasn't making much money. So imagine my surprise when the ultimate project came up. The most audacious thing my webpage had tackled yet: an interview with the Juice himself.
It turned out O.J. Simpson loved my work... I guess there's some consolation for never having my dad appreciate it.
I was surprised yet overjoyed when I got O.J.'s e-mail. I consulted with all of the people I'd been interviewing. And to my utter joy, everything checked out. I soon got Simpson's Vegas address.
The news would've excited my devoted fanbase however, I wanted to keep it a surprise for now. Outside of telling Pearse and a few friends, I kept the trip a secret. I doubted O.J. wanted me telling the world anyway.
But I did tell a few family members. Rather than congratulate me, they gave me the usual cliched jokes instead ("don't get hacked). I even got the nerve to tell my dad, but he just grumbled before hanging up. He always preferred my fiction. I guess it was for the best I hadn't told him about the O.J. book I was working on...
The following week, I packed my bags and left for Nevada. My buddy Pearse came along for moral support. And to be the cameraman.
O.J.'s handlers were there waiting for us at the airport. In their suits, they resembled Secret Service. But hey, I couldn't blame O.J. taking some precautions after all the death threats. His posse was very professional though. The exact opposite of the crazy Vegas crew who helped him "steal" his memorabilia.
From what I understood, O.J. had been staying at one of his friends's mansions. A Microsoft millionaire's house. He'd let O.J. crash there since Juice couldn't leave the state. Not that O.J. had it bad considering how lavish the mansion was. While modest compared to the rest of the neighborhood, the place was still glorious. There was privacy galore. Tall trees surrounded the yard, concealing the house and iron-pike fence from outside view.
Once our van pulled up into O.J.'s driveway, I took a deep breath. Pearse and I had made it. Here I was about give an exclusive interview with the man America considered a monster. But who in reality was a tragic victim.
The spacious and pristine yard had gaudy lawn ornaments. Pretty sculptures. Huge sprinklers and, of course, a nice pool.
Pearse was told to keep the camera off until we got inside the house. For security purposes. Me not being an asshole mainstream journalist, complied out of respect for the Juice.
Inside, the mansion was more in line with what I'd expect from O.J. Clean, impressive, stylish. And yes, flashy.
We were told to wait in the living room. It was in here, O.J. had his memorabilia well on display (apparently, he'd recovered most of the stolen items). There were old jerseys, posters, movie props, game balls, trophies. Hall Of Fame accolades. The Heisman. Not many people seem to realize O.J. Simpson was a Hell of a player. I could tell he had his guests wait here on purpose. A nice humblebrag. Then again, who could blame him? This shit was amazing.
Amongst the collectibles were more cultured items. Artwork, portraits, classic novels, some sick fucking vinyl. I could tell most of these belonged to O.J. The guy was a fucking connoisseur.
Framed family photos still had their place in this mancave of O.J.'s glory days. Pictures of him with Marguerite. Pictures of him with Nicole. But the most frequent images I saw were kids. Children, teenagers, college photos. O.J.'s smiling children seemed to swarm all around Pearse and I. And it wasn't creepy in the slightest either. In a room that could've (and probably was) a vanity tribute to the Juice, somehow, the children's photos took more precedence. They were what I remembered most about the house.
In a corner of the room was a framed photo of O.J.'s deceased infant daughter Aaren. A cross hung right above it. A collection of Angel figurines stood on both sides of the lavish picture frame. A sincere shrine for Aaren.
Using the camera, Pearse was all too happy to capture the scene. The mansion definitely a big step up from Pearse's garage studio.
Emerging from a long hallway, our man of the hour entered the room. Orenthal James Simpson. Even at seventy-one, he looked effortless and smooth. Quite debonair in a brown suit he'd consider modest but most likely cost a couple grand. The guy had style. And he also knew he was gonna be on camera. No wonder he had his Hall Of Fame ring on.
O.J. stuck a groomed hand out toward me. "Steve, how are you," he said in his eloquent baritone. A voice that hadn't lost any of its charm after all these years and traumas.
Overwhelmed by nerves, I forced myself to complete the handshake. "I'm doing okay," I responded, a slight tremble in my voice.
As if he sensed my nerves, O.J. flashed me a warm smile. "Alright. I'm glad."
His handshake was strong yet there was a soft touch. And his hand was fucking huge. It practically engulfed mine. No wonder he could hang on to that football.
"It's an honor to meet you," I added.
"Likewise." His voice even trembled like mine. Not from nerves but emotion... appreciation. "Likewise, Steve."
I introduced him to Pearse, and then the interview began. I was simultaneously surprised yet glad to see it was just us three for the interview. I'm sure O.J. appreciated the chill vibes.
We toured the rest of the house. The guest rooms were well-furnished. There was also another mancave, O.J.'s destination for Saturdays and Sundays during football season. He played us some of his old highlights via YouTube. The guy just couldn't help himself. I saw a bunch of golf gear in here as well. The sport definitely still O.J.'s go-to hobby.
Later on, we checked out the kitchen and dining room. A back balcony overlooked the pool. I even saw little yappy dogs running around the back yard. I was surprised they weren't even full-breeds. Just regular old mutts. We could hear their incessant barks all tour long.
To my surprise, O.J.'s bedroom itself was rather plain. Not flashy like the living room or mancave. Just a few pictures of his mother and Aaren placed next to religious figurines.
However his closet was another story. Hell, it looked it'd been converted from a bedroom. A Sex And The City wet dream. Rows and rows of clothes. All of them name brand, all of them collected over the years.
Overall, O.J. was very welcoming. Even humble. He talked to Pearse and I about how his stay in prison had changed his attitude. He'd gone through years of (understandable) anger due to his mistreatment by the media. He had a chip on his shoulder. But the experience of just being another inmate, another number, changed his outlook for the better. He missed Florida. He missed L.A. But he wasn't too upset as his kids came to visit him quite often. Las Vegas, and this house in particular, had become his "home away from home."
We planned on doing the bulk of our interview in O.J.'s cozy study. There we had a glowing fireplace, comfortable chairs, and perfect lighting. A small coffee table the only barrier between O.J. and I.
Even from where I was sitting, I saw how the bookshelves were stuffed with every literary classic imaginable. I figured O.J. probably hadn't read most of them, but shit, it was still an impressive collection.
One book in particular caught my eye. Unlike the books around it, this one resembled a scrapbook. No title on the spine. It looked old as Hell. Did O.J. own a first edition Book Of The Dead? Or the Necronomicon?
Gazing around the rest of the room, I saw O.J.'s framed memorabilia from the Roots shoot (costume, props, etc) right next to a pair of glass doors leading to the balcony. I could tell the memorabilia meant a lot to him. In an acting career based more off his charm and good looks than talent, appearing in Roots was a rare proud moment in his film career.
Like an annoying yet cute soundtrack, the dogs continued their barking well into the night. I suppose they were chasing squirrels or whatever other critters were lurking about. Maybe they were still after Pearse and I, for that matter.
A few of O.J.'s bodyguards stood by the study door. But they were quiet and kept their distance. They must've known how much an interview like this meant to O.J. One where he wasn't pleading his innocence to a buzzard or some other indifferent asshole. Instead, him and I were talking like old friends. Comrades.
We started off the interview in simple fashion: O.J.'s background. Orenthal James wasn't born a millionaire athlete. He came from nothing. From the slums of California all the way to the gridiron on the USC campus. Truly the American Dream. O.J. went into great detail about this. The anecdotes on the hardships he and his mother faced. His glory days as a USC superstar. And then when he cemented his football legacy on the Buffalo Bills.
When it came to his playing career, I could tell O.J. was most excited about his tenure with the Bills. They were a small market team he embraced. He also loved the Bills Mafia, the team's zany and enthusiastic fanbase. The Bills had some winning seasons with Juice leading their offense. After all, he was a natural born star and leader for that long-tormented franchise. And to this day, they still treated Simpson with respect unlike the alma mater that ultimately disowned him.
Throughout the interview, I could tell O.J. struggled at times to remember certain names and dates. Our conversation switched to CDTE and other brain/memory issues that had been attributed to playing American football. Awhile back, O.J. had been diagnosed with this (in addition to arthritis). While football is still a violent game, in O.J.'s heyday it was a fucking blood sport ("It was a different era, man," he told me). Not much padding or safety precautions. Illegal hits were the norm. Nothing was off limits. Not even your head.
The grave seriousness of the topic removed us from the nostalgic vanity that had accompanied O.J.'s reflections on his career. Our conversation soon shifted to the tragedy that would haunt O.J. Simpson. And forever tarnish his name.
I was surprised to see O.J. be so open while discussing that fateful June night. I knew he usually avoided the topic out of contempt for a press that had ignored his words in favor of misquoting him and making him look like a lunatic. But he was comfortable with us.
We discussed everything. From Mark Fuhrman to the planted evidence to the lack of a cut or bruise anywhere on O.J.'s body (Goldman was same height as O.J., a blackbelt, and twenty years younger). The fact there was no cut on O.J.'s hand when he was at the airport signing autographs (including signing one for the pilot). The racial implications of the case. How the media automatically assumed his guilt before knowing if O.J. was even in L.A. when the murders happened.
O.J.'s sadness veered toward an understandable bitterness as we discussed how the media's inaccuracies ultimately became the legend.
"No one believed me," O.J. said, his baritone voice full of jaded weariness. "I tried everything. I did interviews, I talked about the trial, and it's like no one listened to me! They didn't wanna listen to me. They didn't wanna believe me." Fire burnt in his eyes, but I didn't feel threatened or scared like you probably would. Such a fire was built off of frustration not violence. "With Fuhrman, you got a guy on tape saying all this shit. That he framed minorities and blacks... not only that but he was anti-Semitic. If I was a white Jewish man, everyone would be outraged at Fuhrman and what he did. They'd take my word, they'd show the evidence we had. But that wasn't the case, was it? Instead, I'm playing the Goddamn race card!"
And I couldn't agree more. Everything he said was correct. The media had ignored the overwhelming evidence favoring his innocence to spin a false narrative. To them, Othello James Simpson killed the two white Angels. No questions asked.
While we were on the subject of O.J.'s unfair public perception, I asked how he felt about the growing number of black celebrities speaking out against him. Kanye, Jay-Z, Steve Harvey, etc.
O.J. hesitated. Discomfort joined his anger. I could tell he felt these questions were putting him in rough territory... particularly since he was African-American himself. I didn't expect him to go into a rant on how they were all coons, but I didn't expect him to be this silent and awkward.
He let out a weary sigh. "I don't know what to tell them," he finally said. "Maybe they were too young to watch the dang trial. Or they've gotten just saturated with all the crap they throw against me. They read too much National Enquirer, I don't know." A faint grin crossed his face. "The media the way it is... I guess everyone thinks I did it now, huh."
There was a vulnerable sadness to him. Something I'd never seen in all the footage on Juice. His silence couldn't hide that look of anguish.
"Everyone thinks I killed her," O.J. went on. That I'd kill her right where my kids slept!" He paused. A breather from the anger. "I can't change their minds, I give up." His emotions were overwhelming him. I could tell he didn't like it. O.J. was confident and strong. And he always seemed that way on television and in public. The memories were killing his public persona. He wasn't the Juice in this moment. He was Orenthal James Simpson. The tormented ex-husband of Nicole. The tormented father of four.
The roaring tragedy of 94 had returned from the grave once more. O.J. would never escape it. And he knew it.
I didn't even hear the barking dogs during this tense silence. They must've been respecting O.J.'s emotional struggle as well.
"When people think you're a killer," he struggled to begin, his deep voice caving in with heartache. "They think I never loved her, but I did."
"I know you did," I said, my voice steady yet reassuring.
O.J. gazed down at his lap. An obvious method to hide his tears. "And everything I'd worked toward was gone." He glared at the camera. "I worked hard to get to here! I came from nowhere, man, I supported my Goddamn family! I made a name for himself!"
His anger was ferocious but not directed toward anyone in the room. I felt no fear. But if this was Fox or TMZ, I could picture the headline now: O.J.'s Rage Returns! Watch Out White People!
"And then it was all gone!" O.J. continued. "All because they wanted to believe the nigger killed everybody! That I was a stalker, a fucking psycho." Tear fell from his eyes. On camera, O.J.'s harsher profanity was about as rare as the tears. He was showcasing twenty years' worth of wounds right here for Pearse and I.
"So yeah, maybe Kanye and all these other rappers and what-have-you think I did it. If they wanna appease their white audience, that's fine. Fuck them. We don't need them. God knows the truth. My children know the truth! That's what matters more than these arrogant niggers running their mouths about me. Just so they can stay with their fake fucking white friends." He chuckled. A defeated chuckle that was chilling in its helplessness. "I guess I used to be the same. Believe me, I know. And they'll find out soon enough. Oh yeah, they'll see what happens when they get framed or blamed for some shit they didn't do. Then they won't be Grmamy-winning rapper or Oscar-winning "thespian," they'll be a guiltyass nigger. Like what they say about me."
I could feel Pearse give me an unwasy look. But I wasn't stopping this. Not now. This was O.J. at his most candid and honest. He trusted us. I wasn't stopping him no matter where the controversy led.
"I'd never hurt her," O.J. went on. "I wouldn't..." He brushed away his tears. "I wasn't a great husband, but I cared about Nicole. Yeah, I hit her... but it wasn't like me. I felt terrible the second it happened. When she looked at me crying. Hell, I cried too. I had no idea I could ever do that. That I could hurt someone, much less my wife." His wounded eyes stared out the glass doors, peering off into the darkness. "And they wanna say I slaughtered her."
Respectful, I leaned in a little closer. "Well, who do you think actually did it, O.J.?" I asked, sympathetic yet strong. "That's the main question me and Pearse get from these idiots. They'll ignore everything we said just for this shit."
"It really is," Pearse added with a weak smile.
Quiet, O.J. kept looking off at the balcony.
"Look, I know Fuhrman made sure we'll likely never know," I told O.J. "But is there anything you'd want to add to the discussion? Any suspicions you had? Anyone you suspect?"
O.J. put a hand to his face, shielding his ravaged face from the camera. Rather than strength, he showed defeat. Like the traumas were at war within him. I could hear his heavy, wounded breaths. I could only imagine the painful memories running through his head. "Juice," I said.
"I can't," he mumbled.
A cloud of silence conquered the room. I felt a sense of cryptic dread lingering through the atmosphere. O.J.'s handlers gave me piercing stares. I returned them an awkward gaze. I wasn't sure what to do. I wasn't a therapist, after all.
Trying to break the uneasy mood, Pearse grinned. "You sure it wasn't Kato?"
No one laughed or responded.
"We've always suspected drugs," I said.
Grimacing, O.J. looked at us.
"Several of Ron Goldman's friends were killed right after he and Nicole," I added. "One of them had his throat slit from ear to ear."
"And Faye Resnick left Nicole's house the day before the murders," Pearse assisted me. "She owed drug dealers over thirty-thousand dollars from what I understand."
O.J. ran a hand along his face. Our comments hit him like bullets into his emotions. He didn't say anything. He just kept within his self. Within his fragment, tormented psyche.
"She looked just like Nicole," I said. Pearse and I's voices were calm but persistent.
Rocking in his seat, O.J. looked down at the ground. He avoided eye contact. He avoided us. The tears were forming in his eyes. He bit his lip. The sorrow weighed him down.
"There could've been a mix-up," I went on.
"It had to be two people," Pearse added.
I noticed all of O.J.'s associates watching him with concern.
Tears in his eyes, O.J. confronted us. In the war within himself, his anxiety was winning.
I just stared at Juice. But Pearse kept going.
"The original coroner even said two knives were used," Pearse continued.
O.J. gave us a fiery look. "You wanna know what really happened?" he said, his baritone devoid of any warmth or charm.
Pearse went silent in an instant.
"We just want to know your thoughts, O.J.," I said.
"Well, I'll tell you what happened!" O.J. responded. "I'll tell you exactly what happened!"
One of his concerned handlers stepped toward him.
O.J. held up his hand, keeping the bodyguards at bay. "No, let me speak!"
The handler took his place back by the door.
"Let me tell them everything," O.J. said. His intense eyes turned toward Pearse and I. "It's not about just drugs. There's more to it than that."
My detached coolness evaporated. O.J.'s gaze and voice were frantic. I sensed the interview was going into unexpected territory and I wasn't prepared. "What do you mean?" I asked, unable to hide the subtle panic in my voice.
"It's everybody!" O.J. yelled. "The whole fucking thing!" A defensive fury boiled up inside him. "There's an entire group of people that killed Nicole! And it's because they wanted me! They wanted to frame me and tear me to shreds. It wasn't just Goddamn Fuhrman or Vanatter. Not even the L.A.P.D. It was the entire country!"
The final chilling line reverberated through the room like an eerie piano chord. O.J.'s voice, his unnerving sincerity sold it.
Pearse and I just looked on at Juice, confused. None of his associates were stopping him. None of them even looked confused by his proclamation. They just had knowing expressions on their faces. Like they too were aware of Juice's wild account.
"I don't understand," I finally mustered out. "What do you mean? The entire country-"
"You heard me, Steve," O.J. interrupted. He leaned back in his seat. Like the weary survivor he was. "You know how this country is. You've seen it in action, Steve. It's not so much the media as it is the establishment."
"So what are you saying-"
"I'm saying they'll do anything to suppress blacks and other minorities. The white elite is too powerful. They need to find ways to... to inhibit blacks." O.J. looked right at Pearse and I. His emotional brown eyes pierced deep into our souls.
Not sure what to do, I hesitated. "So you're saying this conspiracy killed Nicole and Goldman?"
More animated than ever, O.J. threw his hands out toward us. "You know about me! You know who I was! What I represented. I was one of the first black celebrities to cross over. I was in commercials, man! Ten years after segregation ended, I was pushing Hertz! I was in movies, I was a superstar."
I didn't think he was bragging. His voice was too full of anger and resentment for this to be gloating O.J.
"And what better way to kill what I represented, huh?" O.J. challenged us. He leaned in closer like a wild-eyed preacher. This wasn't the Smooth Mr. Simpson. What we saw now was all paranoia... either from Alzheimer's or genuine fear. "They did what could turn the Juice into that rich nigger that got away with murder!" He waved his hands around as if he were shoving an invisible force away. "And they fucking got away with it! They killed Nicole and did everything they could to incriminate me!"
I looked over at Pearse. All I saw was a face of stunned confusion. Like someone had transplanted Pearse from Vegas to a nuthouse.
I confronted O.J. "So a group of these special rich white people killed Nicole?"
"Rich, powerful white people," he answered, his voice unwavering and not backing down.
The Juice was loose, alright, I thought. Loose in the fucking head.
"Look, Juice," I began.
O.J. flashed me a cryptic smile. "You don't believe me?"
I looked around the room. The associates were all stone-faced. Had O.J. convinced them of this batshit insanity? Or was he just paying them enough to believe?
"Honestly," I stammered. I looked back at O.J.'s calm face. He was relaxed. Like telling us this secret had lifted the weight of anxiety off him. "I don't know what to believe."
"I know," O.J. responded. Letting out a weary sigh, he slouched back in his chair. "It sounds crazy... it's why I don't tell many people." His gaze drifted off to the glass doors. "It's why I'm scared to tell anyone really."
"Why?"
Like he was responding to an insult, O.J. just gave me a cold glare. "You don't have a clue what these people are. The power they have. You can't even imagine what they could do to me and you."
"If they were trying to bring you down, why not just get you convicted-"
"They tried, didn't they," O.J. interrupted, his baritone commanding and strong.
"Then why not have you killed."
Smirking, O.J. looked off at the bodyguards. They returned sly smiles back.
Annoyed, I leaned in toward Juice. "If they were trying to destroy you because of your influence then why not just kill you? Alright, they tried framing you, so why wouldn't they just finish you off?"
O.J. let out a maddening laugh. The laugh of a helpless man left to die from irony.
"What?" I demanded. "Why wouldn't they?"
"Why would they waste their time!" O.J. said through the chuckles. He pointed at himself. "Look at me, Steve. What the Hell would killing me do?"
The realization struck me. He was right. Why would they waste their time killing him... they'd already done enough. The damage was done.
"The trial killed everything I stood for," O.J. said. "No one looked at me the same. They couldn't look me in the eye." He leaned in closer, holding my gaze with those dark eyes. "There were no more advertisements, no more movies. No more Monday Night Football. No more respect of O.J.'s American Dream. I'm the Goddamn monster now, Steve."
Destroyed by inner anguish, he looked toward the floor.
Our staredown and his chilling reflections still left me shook.
"Hell, for all I know maybe they failed to frame me on purpose," O.J. muttered. He looked up at me. "Maybe just me fighting it out in the court then getting acquitted was part of the plan all along. Just to make people hate me even more."
"I'm sorry," I said. My attempt at a neutral voice couldn't hide my sympathy.
"If I'd gone to jail over a false charge, maybe people would've protested for me," Juice stated. "They would've looked into the case."
The atmosphere grew more and more tense with O.J.'s account. I noticed him running his hands together in a nervous tic. He couldn't fake the discomfort. He was never that good of an actor.
"Instead, all we get is everyone saying I did it," O.J. went on. "O.J. Simpson murderer. That's it. Listen to your Geraldos and your Nancy Graces, the entire American media. They all just pick me apart since I guess it's still illegal to string niggers up when you absolutely know we did something. I guess Emmett Till would've suffered the same."
Uneasy, I nodded my head. The room felt quieter than ever. No voices, no music, no football highlights, no dogs. Just crackling from the fire.
I didn't like seeing O.J. this way. Regardless of his hardships, he'd always been an upbeat fighter. Now he looked defeated.
"There's nothing I can do," O.J. said. "And they know it. They know they fucked me. My image is ruined forever. My name, everything I did. It's gone. My legacy is that I'm a black man who killed two white people. That's what I am." Tears of anger filled his eyes. "The media played it up. They control that too, you know. They control everything!"
"Jesus...” Pearse exclaimed.
I faced Pearse. Like me, he too was riveted by Juice's every word. Only Pearse 100% believed him.
"You do a lot of great things, Steve," O.J. told me.
I looked at Juice. Or the decrepit, depressed sight that was once O.J. Simpson.
"But there's nothing you can do," O.J. continued. "You're not Fox or NBC. You don't get many people on that show. It's why Baby Blue don't care."
"Baby Blue?" I asked, confused.
O.J.'s eyes never strayed from me. "That's their leader."
"What?"
His face stoic and deadly serious, O.J. pointed up toward his eyes. "Their leader's eyes. They're baby blue. That's all I know."
Part 1 of 2
Link To Part Two
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2019.06.07 02:33 rhonnie14 PREMIERE: I Went To O.J.'s House (Part 1/2)

Amongst all the unpopular opinions in America, mine may be the most unpopular. Or at least, the most hated. O.J. Simpson didn't kill Ron Goldman or Nicole. There, I said it. That's not guilty beyond a reasonable doubt. That's not we can't prove he did it, but it's likely. That's fucking innocent. And no, I'm not the Caucasian-media-driven caricature of a black conspiracy theorist. Not at all. I'm a thirty-year-old middle-class white guy. I've got no dog in this fight. I didn't root for Juice during the 70s or admire his status as a crossover icon in all those movies and Hertz ads. Due to my youth, I've also got no claim in the emotional war zone that was his 1995 murder trial. I go off the facts. And regardless of what Oprah or Fox News wants you to believe, the "mountain of evidence" actually resides in O.J.'s innocence.
Remember when FX's The People Vs. O.J. Simpson claimed O.J. never asked detectives how Nicole died? That was bullshit, trial footage at 1:58. Or when ESPN's O.J.: Made In America insinuated O.J. wasn't taking his arthritis meds so the gloves wouldn't fit? Doctors signed off on O.J. taking the meds, trial footage at 7:49. Want another lie from this Oscar winning "documentary?" Try the fact O.J. didn't have a single cut or bruise on his body when he left his house on that fateful June night, trial footage at 1:30. Yeah, that's right. Goldman and Nicole's bodies (particularly Goldman's) were covered in defensive wounds yet there's no marks on O.J.
Juice wasn't in a hurry to get through the airport either. Less than thirty minutes after supposedly butchering two people in one of the biggest rage crimes in American history, O.J. was described as being friendly as he signed autographs at the airport. Witnesses didn't see a single cut, scratch, or bandage on his hands. Why is this important? The very next day, O.J. was examined by L.A.P.D. No cuts or bruises were on his body except a few cuts on his hand he got from smashing a glass in his Chicago hotel room. An overemotional reaction he had after hearing about Nicole's death. Chicago police found bloodied glass in the room. A hotel clerk even said O.J. came downstairs to get a bandage for the cut. The chauffeur who picked him up from the hotel took note of the fresh bandage. And everyone on that plane ride back to L.A. described Simpson as being completely distraught. He was in a rush to get back to L.A. as soon as possible... interesting for a guy deemed unquestionably guilty.
So without a single cut, where did the supposed incriminating blood evidence come from? Regardless of how Geraldo wants to spin it, the blood evidence is shit. At the prosecution's insistence, two samples were tested specifically to disprove the defense's theory that the blood was planted. The samples came back with EDTA, a preservative used in lab test tubes. Experts agree it was too much EDTA for the blood to come naturally from O.J.'s body. Or from eating Big Macs like Marcia Clark claims. Furthermore, the blood on Nicole's back gate wasn't seen in any of the initial crime scene photos. Rather, it was somehow inexplicably discovered in July... weeks after the entire crime scene had been washed down.
And that takes us to Detective Mark Fuhrman, the man who discovered the glove on O.J.'s property. Again, one of the gloves had a small amount of O.J.'s DNA, the other didn't. Aside from the fact the gloves didn't fit, O.J.'s DNA wasn't even found on the glove's fingers... nor did either glove share a cut similar to the one O.J. got in his hotel room (remember, he had no cuts on the flight to Chicago).
The glove Fuhrman found was also still wet even though it'd supposedly been rotting in the June heat for over seven hours. No dirt or debris were found on the glove either even though the back alley of O.J.'s home was heavily wooded with leaves, berries, etc.
So back to Detective Fuhrman, the guy did more than say the n-word. On his infamous taped conversations with Laura McKinny, he said "nigger" well over fifty times. Fuhrman also admitted to hating blacks and interracial couples, lying under oath, and planting evidence. On top of this, he'd gotten L.A.P.D. sued years earlier for shooting at an unarmed black man and planting a knife on him. If you believe O.J. is guilty, you have to do two things: you have to ignore all the facts and evidence, and you have to take the word of a racist white cop over all the witnesses supporting O.J.’s innocence. Mark Fuhrman is your guy.
On the other hand, is O.J, a great guy? Not really. He’s flawed. He hit Nicole back in 89. But regardless of the well-publicized hearsay, he didn’t hit her any other time (Nicole said this in court in 92, Nicole’s sister Denise said the same during the mid-90s). Juice never hit his first wife Marguerite Whitley. So yes, his abuse was inexcusable. But an idiotic motive considering as recently as spring of 94, Nicole was trying to get back with him.
This isn't even counting how O.J. never reacted with rage or jealousy toward Nicole's romantic relationships. Keith Douglas Zlomsowitch, one of Nicole's former lovers, admitted that O.J. had seen him and Nicole making love in Nicole’s living room. The very next day, a calm O.J. told them in private that they should be careful about doing things out in the open in case one of the kids walked in. One of O.J.’s best friends Marcus Allen even said that when he told Juice he had sex with Nicole, O.J. reacted calmly and was only upset because Allen was engaged at the time.
So yeah, none of this excuses O.J.’s lone case of domestic violence. But the context shows how exaggerated O.J. and Nicole’s volatile relationship was so the prosecutors could have a sensational motive.
I get that what I'm saying isn’t what Oprah, Geraldo, or the alarming number of celebrity black apologists have taught you. This isn’t what the racist Howard Stern taught you either when he advocated for lynching Mr. Simpson. No, what I'm telling you are facts. Not lies and bullshit.
People hate me for it. I suppose you will too. Go ahead and serenade me with your downvotes. I don't give a fuck. Throw out soundbites like Bruno Maglis (the Enquirer photos were supposedly taken during a rainstorm... not great for a pair of "pristine" Suede shoes), all that blood!1! (EDTA), the Bronco chase (O.J. believed he was framed and panicked), If I Did It (written by a ghostwriter, an easy 500k for O.J. after years of pleading his innocence onto deaf ears), a "failed" polygraph (nevermind the fact that Gary Ridgeway, the most prolific serial killer in American history passed a polygraph or that Ted Bundy did so twice), or the horrific civil trial that inexplicably allowed hearsay evidence.
And where has all my research left me? My family doesn't talk to me. I don't have close friends. Needless to say, no girlfriend. I'm alienated because of my beliefs.
But the biggest rift my "unpopular opinion" has created is between my dad and I. The emotions of this case run that deep. In many ways, I too was a victim of this trial of the century. Alongside the integrity of the American media, so went my All-American family.
My mother and father never got along during the trial. Even as a child, I remembered their bickering. Constant, ugly bickering. Mom's belief in O.J.'s innocence was actually what got me interested in the case. Particularly as a stark contrast to the O.J. Did It industry we've all been bombarded with.
My dad had the popular opinion. Their disagreement over the case opened a nasty wound between them. My parents divorced soon after Juice's acquittal. And as I grew up, I tried to stay close to my folks. My mother the introverted hippie, my father the more assertive and outgoing type. I was more like mom... no friends, artsy rather than social. On the other hand, my dad was friends with many of the people in the small town he lived in. The small town he thrived in as a local accountant.
For mom, O.J.'s plight was tragic. Yet another sad example of the horrors of being black in America. To my dad, Juice had played the race card.
While my dad and I used to be real close, my own interest in the O.J. Simpson case brought about the same tensions that had killed his marriage. Him and I argued more. He resented my opinion. Like most of you, he never could see anything past O.J. Did It, No Questions Asked.
My dad's brown eyes would berate me with the same sharp ferocity of his irate words. His temper was quick. And it only got worse as he got older. Particularly whenever O.J. came up.
Once mom passed a few years back, my dad and I grew even more apart. I think he blamed her for pushing me toward the case. But the reality was that their divorce was what fueled my interest. I came to the realization that mom was right all along. Yet she was crucified for that opinion. God knows how her own family and friends treated her for being the one white woman who believed Mr. Simpson was innocent.
But I think what really set dad off was my career. You see, my penultimate project began back in 2013: my O.J. Simpson webpage. I knew on-line there were people like me. People who did know more about the case and who had bothered researching it.
Over the years, my site garnered a cult-like following. And dad was pretty pissed about it. As he got older and his brown hair grew thinner, his eyes only became more narrow and cold. And so did his resentment toward me. The few conversations we had always ended in arguments. There were shouting matches about the case. Shouting matches about race. Shouting matches about mom.
I'd have loved to see him be proud of my work... but that was wishful thinking. His mind was made up. I couldn't worry about pop anymore. I had to worry about the new generation. Younger, more open-minded people like me.
As the site grew, my friend Pearse helped me land interviews with some of the biggest names from the trial for his podcast. I started uploading feature-length documentaries rather than YouTube videos. My analysis on the O.J. case made me an expert. Not to mention a hero to those who knew the truth. Hell, I even got advertising money.
My site was doing well. However, it wasn't mainstream media. I wasn't making much money. So imagine my surprise when the ultimate project came up. The most audacious thing my webpage had tackled yet: an interview with the Juice himself.
It turned out O.J. Simpson loved my work... I guess there's some consolation for never having my dad appreciate it.
I was surprised yet overjoyed when I got O.J.'s e-mail. I consulted with all of the people I'd been interviewing. And to my utter joy, everything checked out. I soon got Simpson's Vegas address.
The news would've excited my devoted fanbase however, I wanted to keep it a surprise for now. Outside of telling Pearse and a few friends, I kept the trip a secret. I doubted O.J. wanted me telling the world anyway.
But I did tell a few family members. Rather than congratulate me, they gave me the usual cliched jokes instead ("don't get hacked). I even got the nerve to tell my dad, but he just grumbled before hanging up. He always preferred my fiction. I guess it was for the best I hadn't told him about the O.J. book I was working on...
The following week, I packed my bags and left for Nevada. My buddy Pearse came along for moral support. And to be the cameraman.
O.J.'s handlers were there waiting for us at the airport. In their suits, they resembled Secret Service. But hey, I couldn't blame O.J. taking some precautions after all the death threats. His posse was very professional though. The exact opposite of the crazy Vegas crew who helped him "steal" his memorabilia.
From what I understood, O.J. had been staying at one of his friends's mansions. A Microsoft millionaire's house. He'd let O.J. crash there since Juice couldn't leave the state. Not that O.J. had it bad considering how lavish the mansion was. While modest compared to the rest of the neighborhood, the place was still glorious. There was privacy galore. Tall trees surrounded the yard, concealing the house and iron-pike fence from outside view.
Once our van pulled up into O.J.'s driveway, I took a deep breath. Pearse and I had made it. Here I was about give an exclusive interview with the man America considered a monster. But who in reality was a tragic victim.
The spacious and pristine yard had gaudy lawn ornaments. Pretty sculptures. Huge sprinklers and, of course, a nice pool.
Pearse was told to keep the camera off until we got inside the house. For security purposes. Me not being an asshole mainstream journalist, complied out of respect for the Juice.
Inside, the mansion was more in line with what I'd expect from O.J. Clean, impressive, stylish. And yes, flashy.
We were told to wait in the living room. It was in here, O.J. had his memorabilia well on display (apparently, he'd recovered most of the stolen items). There were old jerseys, posters, movie props, game balls, trophies. Hall Of Fame accolades. The Heisman. Not many people seem to realize O.J. Simpson was a Hell of a player. I could tell he had his guests wait here on purpose. A nice humblebrag. Then again, who could blame him? This shit was amazing.
Amongst the collectibles were more cultured items. Artwork, portraits, classic novels, some sick fucking vinyl. I could tell most of these belonged to O.J. The guy was a fucking connoisseur.
Framed family photos still had their place in this mancave of O.J.'s glory days. Pictures of him with Marguerite. Pictures of him with Nicole. But the most frequent images I saw were kids. Children, teenagers, college photos. O.J.'s smiling children seemed to swarm all around Pearse and I. And it wasn't creepy in the slightest either. In a room that could've (and probably was) a vanity tribute to the Juice, somehow, the children's photos took more precedence. They were what I remembered most about the house.
In a corner of the room was a framed photo of O.J.'s deceased infant daughter Aaren. A cross hung right above it. A collection of Angel figurines stood on both sides of the lavish picture frame. A sincere shrine for Aaren.
Using the camera, Pearse was all too happy to capture the scene. The mansion definitely a big step up from Pearse's garage studio.
Emerging from a long hallway, our man of the hour entered the room. Orenthal James Simpson. Even at seventy-one, he looked effortless and smooth. Quite debonair in a brown suit he'd consider modest but most likely cost a couple grand. The guy had style. And he also knew he was gonna be on camera. No wonder he had his Hall Of Fame ring on.
O.J. stuck a groomed hand out toward me. "Steve, how are you," he said in his eloquent baritone. A voice that hadn't lost any of its charm after all these years and traumas.
Overwhelmed by nerves, I forced myself to complete the handshake. "I'm doing okay," I responded, a slight tremble in my voice.
As if he sensed my nerves, O.J. flashed me a warm smile. "Alright. I'm glad."
His handshake was strong yet there was a soft touch. And his hand was fucking huge. It practically engulfed mine. No wonder he could hang on to that football.
"It's an honor to meet you," I added.
"Likewise." His voice even trembled like mine. Not from nerves but emotion... appreciation. "Likewise, Steve."
I introduced him to Pearse, and then the interview began. I was simultaneously surprised yet glad to see it was just us three for the interview. I'm sure O.J. appreciated the chill vibes.
We toured the rest of the house. The guest rooms were well-furnished. There was also another mancave, O.J.'s destination for Saturdays and Sundays during football season. He played us some of his old highlights via YouTube. The guy just couldn't help himself. I saw a bunch of golf gear in here as well. The sport definitely still O.J.'s go-to hobby.
Later on, we checked out the kitchen and dining room. A back balcony overlooked the pool. I even saw little yappy dogs running around the back yard. I was surprised they weren't even full-breeds. Just regular old mutts. We could hear their incessant barks all tour long.
To my surprise, O.J.'s bedroom itself was rather plain. Not flashy like the living room or mancave. Just a few pictures of his mother and Aaren placed next to religious figurines.
However his closet was another story. Hell, it looked it'd been converted from a bedroom. A Sex And The City wet dream. Rows and rows of clothes. All of them name brand, all of them collected over the years.
Overall, O.J. was very welcoming. Even humble. He talked to Pearse and I about how his stay in prison had changed his attitude. He'd gone through years of (understandable) anger due to his mistreatment by the media. He had a chip on his shoulder. But the experience of just being another inmate, another number, changed his outlook for the better. He missed Florida. He missed L.A. But he wasn't too upset as his kids came to visit him quite often. Las Vegas, and this house in particular, had become his "home away from home."
We planned on doing the bulk of our interview in O.J.'s cozy study. There we had a glowing fireplace, comfortable chairs, and perfect lighting. A small coffee table the only barrier between O.J. and I.
Even from where I was sitting, I saw how the bookshelves were stuffed with every literary classic imaginable. I figured O.J. probably hadn't read most of them, but shit, it was still an impressive collection.
One book in particular caught my eye. Unlike the books around it, this one resembled a scrapbook. No title on the spine. It looked old as Hell. Did O.J. own a first edition Book Of The Dead? Or the Necronomicon?
Gazing around the rest of the room, I saw O.J.'s framed memorabilia from the Roots shoot (costume, props, etc) right next to a pair of glass doors leading to the balcony. I could tell the memorabilia meant a lot to him. In an acting career based more off his charm and good looks than talent, appearing in Roots was a rare proud moment in his film career.
Like an annoying yet cute soundtrack, the dogs continued their barking well into the night. I suppose they were chasing squirrels or whatever other critters were lurking about. Maybe they were still after Pearse and I, for that matter.
A few of O.J.'s bodyguards stood by the study door. But they were quiet and kept their distance. They must've known how much an interview like this meant to O.J. One where he wasn't pleading his innocence to a buzzard or some other indifferent asshole. Instead, him and I were talking like old friends. Comrades.
We started off the interview in simple fashion: O.J.'s background. Orenthal James wasn't born a millionaire athlete. He came from nothing. From the slums of California all the way to the gridiron on the USC campus. Truly the American Dream. O.J. went into great detail about this. The anecdotes on the hardships he and his mother faced. His glory days as a USC superstar. And then when he cemented his football legacy on the Buffalo Bills.
When it came to his playing career, I could tell O.J. was most excited about his tenure with the Bills. They were a small market team he embraced. He also loved the Bills Mafia, the team's zany and enthusiastic fanbase. The Bills had some winning seasons with Juice leading their offense. After all, he was a natural born star and leader for that long-tormented franchise. And to this day, they still treated Simpson with respect unlike the alma mater that ultimately disowned him.
Throughout the interview, I could tell O.J. struggled at times to remember certain names and dates. Our conversation switched to CDTE and other brain/memory issues that had been attributed to playing American football. Awhile back, O.J. had been diagnosed with this (in addition to arthritis). While football is still a violent game, in O.J.'s heyday it was a fucking blood sport ("It was a different era, man," he told me). Not much padding or safety precautions. Illegal hits were the norm. Nothing was off limits. Not even your head.
The grave seriousness of the topic removed us from the nostalgic vanity that had accompanied O.J.'s reflections on his career. Our conversation soon shifted to the tragedy that would haunt O.J. Simpson. And forever tarnish his name.
I was surprised to see O.J. be so open while discussing that fateful June night. I knew he usually avoided the topic out of contempt for a press that had ignored his words in favor of misquoting him and making him look like a lunatic. But he was comfortable with us.
We discussed everything. From Mark Fuhrman to the planted evidence to the lack of a cut or bruise anywhere on O.J.'s body (Goldman was same height as O.J., a blackbelt, and twenty years younger). The fact there was no cut on O.J.'s hand when he was at the airport signing autographs (including signing one for the pilot). The racial implications of the case. How the media automatically assumed his guilt before knowing if O.J. was even in L.A. when the murders happened.
O.J.'s sadness veered toward an understandable bitterness as we discussed how the media's inaccuracies ultimately became the legend.
"No one believed me," O.J. said, his baritone voice full of jaded weariness. "I tried everything. I did interviews, I talked about the trial, and it's like no one listened to me! They didn't wanna listen to me. They didn't wanna believe me." Fire burnt in his eyes, but I didn't feel threatened or scared like you probably would. Such a fire was built off of frustration not violence. "With Fuhrman, you got a guy on tape saying all this shit. That he framed minorities and blacks... not only that but he was anti-Semitic. If I was a white Jewish man, everyone would be outraged at Fuhrman and what he did. They'd take my word, they'd show the evidence we had. But that wasn't the case, was it? Instead, I'm playing the Goddamn race card!"
And I couldn't agree more. Everything he said was correct. The media had ignored the overwhelming evidence favoring his innocence to spin a false narrative. To them, Othello James Simpson killed the two white Angels. No questions asked.
While we were on the subject of O.J.'s unfair public perception, I asked how he felt about the growing number of black celebrities speaking out against him. Kanye, Jay-Z, Steve Harvey, etc.
O.J. hesitated. Discomfort joined his anger. I could tell he felt these questions were putting him in rough territory... particularly since he was African-American himself. I didn't expect him to go into a rant on how they were all coons, but I didn't expect him to be this silent and awkward.
He let out a weary sigh. "I don't know what to tell them," he finally said. "Maybe they were too young to watch the dang trial. Or they've gotten just saturated with all the crap they throw against me. They read too much National Enquirer, I don't know." A faint grin crossed his face. "The media the way it is... I guess everyone thinks I did it now, huh."
There was a vulnerable sadness to him. Something I'd never seen in all the footage on Juice. His silence couldn't hide that look of anguish.
"Everyone thinks I killed her," O.J. went on. That I'd kill her right where my kids slept!" He paused. A breather from the anger. "I can't change their minds, I give up." His emotions were overwhelming him. I could tell he didn't like it. O.J. was confident and strong. And he always seemed that way on television and in public. The memories were killing his public persona. He wasn't the Juice in this moment. He was Orenthal James Simpson. The tormented ex-husband of Nicole. The tormented father of four.
The roaring tragedy of 94 had returned from the grave once more. O.J. would never escape it. And he knew it.
I didn't even hear the barking dogs during this tense silence. They must've been respecting O.J.'s emotional struggle as well.
"When people think you're a killer," he struggled to begin, his deep voice caving in with heartache. "They think I never loved her, but I did."
"I know you did," I said, my voice steady yet reassuring.
O.J. gazed down at his lap. An obvious method to hide his tears. "And everything I'd worked toward was gone." He glared at the camera. "I worked hard to get to here! I came from nowhere, man, I supported my Goddamn family! I made a name for himself!"
His anger was ferocious but not directed toward anyone in the room. I felt no fear. But if this was Fox or TMZ, I could picture the headline now: O.J.'s Rage Returns! Watch Out White People!
"And then it was all gone!" O.J. continued. "All because they wanted to believe the nigger killed everybody! That I was a stalker, a fucking psycho." Tear fell from his eyes. On camera, O.J.'s harsher profanity was about as rare as the tears. He was showcasing twenty years' worth of wounds right here for Pearse and I.
"So yeah, maybe Kanye and all these other rappers and what-have-you think I did it. If they wanna appease their white audience, that's fine. Fuck them. We don't need them. God knows the truth. My children know the truth! That's what matters more than these arrogant niggers running their mouths about me. Just so they can stay with their fake fucking white friends." He chuckled. A defeated chuckle that was chilling in its helplessness. "I guess I used to be the same. Believe me, I know. And they'll find out soon enough. Oh yeah, they'll see what happens when they get framed or blamed for some shit they didn't do. Then they won't be Grammy-winning rapper or Oscar-winning "thespian," they'll be a guiltyass nigger. Like what they say about me."
I could feel Pearse give me an unwasy look. But I wasn't stopping this. Not now. This was O.J. at his most candid and honest. He trusted us. I wasn't stopping him no matter where the controversy led.
"I'd never hurt her," O.J. went on. "I wouldn't..." He brushed away his tears. "I wasn't a great husband, but I cared about Nicole. Yeah, I hit her... but it wasn't like me. I felt terrible the second it happened. When she looked at me crying. Hell, I cried too. I had no idea I could ever do that. That I could hurt someone, much less my wife." His wounded eyes stared out the glass doors, peering off into the darkness. "And they wanna say I slaughtered her."
Respectful, I leaned in a little closer. "Well, who do you think actually did it, O.J.?" I asked, sympathetic yet strong. "That's the main question me and Pearse get from these idiots. They'll ignore everything we said just for this shit."
"It really is," Pearse added with a weak smile.
Quiet, O.J. kept looking off at the balcony.
"Look, I know Fuhrman made sure we'll likely never know," I told O.J. "But is there anything you'd want to add to the discussion? Any suspicions you had? Anyone you suspect?"
O.J. put a hand to his face, shielding his ravaged face from the camera. Rather than strength, he showed defeat. Like the traumas were at war within him. I could hear his heavy, wounded breaths. I could only imagine the painful memories running through his head. "Juice," I said.
"I can't," he mumbled.
A cloud of silence conquered the room. I felt a sense of cryptic dread lingering through the atmosphere. O.J.'s handlers gave me piercing stares. I returned them an awkward gaze. I wasn't sure what to do. I wasn't a therapist, after all.
Trying to break the uneasy mood, Pearse grinned. "You sure it wasn't Kato?"
No one laughed or responded.
"We've always suspected drugs," I said.
Grimacing, O.J. looked at us.
"Several of Ron Goldman's friends were killed right after he and Nicole," I added. "One of them had his throat slit from ear to ear."
"And Faye Resnick left Nicole's house the day before the murders," Pearse assisted me. "She owed drug dealers over thirty-thousand dollars from what I understand."
O.J. ran a hand along his face. Our comments hit him like bullets into his emotions. He didn't say anything. He just kept within his self. Within his fragment, tormented psyche.
"She looked just like Nicole," I said. Pearse and I's voices were calm but persistent.
Rocking in his seat, O.J. looked down at the ground. He avoided eye contact. He avoided us. The tears were forming in his eyes. He bit his lip. The sorrow weighed him down.
"There could've been a mix-up," I went on.
"It had to be two people," Pearse added.
I noticed all of O.J.'s associates watching him with concern.
Tears in his eyes, O.J. confronted us. In the war within himself, his anxiety was winning.
I just stared at Juice. But Pearse kept going.
"The original coroner even said two knives were used," Pearse continued.
O.J. gave us a fiery look. "You wanna know what really happened?" he said, his baritone devoid of any warmth or charm.
Pearse went silent in an instant.
"We just want to know your thoughts, O.J.," I said.
"Well, I'll tell you what happened!" O.J. responded. "I'll tell you exactly what happened!"
One of his concerned handlers stepped toward him.
O.J. held up his hand, keeping the bodyguards at bay. "No, let me speak!"
The handler took his place back by the door.
"Let me tell them everything," O.J. said. His intense eyes turned toward Pearse and I. "It's not about just drugs. There's more to it than that."
My detached coolness evaporated. O.J.'s gaze and voice were frantic. I sensed the interview was going into unexpected territory and I wasn't prepared. "What do you mean?" I asked, unable to hide the subtle panic in my voice.
"It's everybody!" O.J. yelled. "The whole fucking thing!" A defensive fury boiled up inside him. "There's an entire group of people that killed Nicole! And it's because they wanted me! They wanted to frame me and tear me to shreds. It wasn't just Goddamn Fuhrman or Vanatter. Not even the L.A.P.D. It was the entire country!"
The final chilling line reverberated through the room like an eerie piano chord. O.J.'s voice, his unnerving sincerity sold it.
Pearse and I just looked on at Juice, confused. None of his associates were stopping him. None of them even looked confused by his proclamation. They just had knowing expressions on their faces. Like they too were aware of Juice's wild account.
"I don't understand," I finally mustered out. "What do you mean? The entire country-"
"You heard me, Steve," O.J. interrupted. He leaned back in his seat. Like the weary survivor he was. "You know how this country is. You've seen it in action, Steve. It's not so much the media as it is the establishment."
"So what are you saying-"
"I'm saying they'll do anything to suppress blacks and other minorities. The white elite is too powerful. They need to find ways to... to inhibit blacks." O.J. looked right at Pearse and I. His emotional brown eyes pierced deep into our souls.
Not sure what to do, I hesitated. "So you're saying this conspiracy killed Nicole and Goldman?"
More animated than ever, O.J. threw his hands out toward us. "You know about me! You know who I was! What I represented. I was one of the first black celebrities to cross over. I was in commercials, man! Ten years after segregation ended, I was pushing Hertz! I was in movies, I was a superstar."
I didn't think he was bragging. His voice was too full of anger and resentment for this to be gloating O.J.
"And what better way to kill what I represented, huh?" O.J. challenged us. He leaned in closer like a wild-eyed preacher. This wasn't the Smooth Mr. Simpson. What we saw now was all paranoia... either from Alzheimer's or genuine fear. "They did what could turn the Juice into that rich nigger that got away with murder!" He waved his hands around as if he were shoving an invisible force away. "And they fucking got away with it! They killed Nicole and did everything they could to incriminate me!"
I looked over at Pearse. All I saw was a face of stunned confusion. Like someone had transplanted Pearse from Vegas to a nuthouse.
I confronted O.J. "So a group of these special rich white people killed Nicole?"
"Rich, powerful white people," he answered, his voice unwavering and not backing down.
The Juice was loose, alright, I thought. Loose in the fucking head.
"Look, Juice," I began.
O.J. flashed me a cryptic smile. "You don't believe me?"
I looked around the room. The associates were all stone-faced. Had O.J. convinced them of this batshit insanity? Or was he just paying them enough to believe?
"Honestly," I stammered. I looked back at O.J.'s calm face. He was relaxed. Like telling us this secret had lifted the weight of anxiety off him. "I don't know what to believe."
"I know," O.J. responded. Letting out a weary sigh, he slouched back in his chair. "It sounds crazy... it's why I don't tell many people." His gaze drifted off to the glass doors. "It's why I'm scared to tell anyone really."
"Why?"
Like he was responding to an insult, O.J. just gave me a cold glare. "You don't have a clue what these people are. The power they have. You can't even imagine what they could do to me and you."
"If they were trying to bring you down, why not just get you convicted-"
"They tried, didn't they," O.J. interrupted, his baritone commanding and strong.
"Then why not have you killed."
Smirking, O.J. looked off at the bodyguards. They returned sly smiles back.
Annoyed, I leaned in toward Juice. "If they were trying to destroy you because of your influence then why not just kill you? Alright, they tried framing you, so why wouldn't they just finish you off?"
O.J. let out a maddening laugh. The laugh of a helpless man left to die from irony.
"What?" I demanded. "Why wouldn't they?"
"Why would they waste their time!" O.J. said through the chuckles. He pointed at himself. "Look at me, Steve. What the Hell would killing me do?"
The realization struck me. He was right. Why would they waste their time killing him... they'd already done enough. The damage was done.
"The trial killed everything I stood for," O.J. said. "No one looked at me the same. They couldn't look me in the eye." He leaned in closer, holding my gaze with those dark eyes. "There were no more advertisements, no more movies. No more Monday Night Football. No more respect of O.J.'s American Dream. I'm the Goddamn monster now, Steve."
Destroyed by inner anguish, he looked toward the floor.
Our staredown and his chilling reflections still left me shook.
"Hell, for all I know maybe they failed to frame me on purpose," O.J. muttered. He looked up at me. "Maybe just me fighting it out in the court then getting acquitted was part of the plan all along. Just to make people hate me even more."
"I'm sorry," I said. My attempt at a neutral voice couldn't hide my sympathy.
"If I'd gone to jail over a false charge, maybe people would've protested for me," Juice stated. "They would've looked into the case."
The atmosphere grew more and more tense with O.J.'s account. I noticed him running his hands together in a nervous tic. He couldn't fake the discomfort. He was never that good of an actor.
"Instead, all we get is everyone saying I did it," O.J. went on. "O.J. Simpson murderer. That's it. Listen to your Geraldos and your Nancy Graces, the entire American media. They all just pick me apart since I guess it's still illegal to string niggers up when you absolutely know we did something. I guess Emmett Till would've suffered the same."
Uneasy, I nodded my head. The room felt quieter than ever. No voices, no music, no football highlights, no dogs. Just crackling from the fire.
I didn't like seeing O.J. this way. Regardless of his hardships, he'd always been an upbeat fighter. Now he looked defeated.
"There's nothing I can do," O.J. said. "And they know it. They know they fucked me. My image is ruined forever. My name, everything I did. It's gone. My legacy is that I'm a black man who killed two white people. That's what I am." Tears of anger filled his eyes. "The media played it up. They control that too, you know. They control everything!"
"Jesus...” Pearse exclaimed.
I faced Pearse. Like me, he too was riveted by Juice's every word. Only Pearse 100% believed him.
"You do a lot of great things, Steve," O.J. told me.
I looked at Juice. Or the decrepit, depressed sight that was once O.J. Simpson.
"But there's nothing you can do," O.J. continued. "You're not Fox or NBC. You don't get many people on that show. It's why Baby Blue don't care."
"Baby Blue?" I asked, confused.
O.J.'s eyes never strayed from me. "That's their leader."
"What?"
His face stoic and deadly serious, O.J. pointed up toward his eyes. "Their leader's eyes. They're baby blue. That's all I know."
Part 1 of 2
Link To Part Two
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2019.01.11 18:48 ScaredCase Interesting Facts About Marriage

Interesting Facts About Marriage on Upcoming Spouse Day

Top 10 Things that Annory us About our Spouses

#1: My companion has specific tuning in (40%)
#2: My companion wheezes (39%)
#3: My companion can be a control crack in some cases (26%)
#4: My mate isn’t as monetarily dependable as I am (20%)
#5: My mate has materially characteristics (e.g. nose picking, flatulating, burping, and so forth.) (19%)
#6: My life partner doesn’t contribute enough to family unit errands (18%)
#7: My life partner is a lazy pig (e.g. doesn’t wash dishes, leaves messy garments on floor, and so on.) (17%)
#8: My life partner works excessively (16%)
#9: My life partner doesn’t coexist with his/her in-laws (8%)
#10: My life partner dependably overlooks our commemoration (5%)
Top 10 Reasons Americans Appreciate their Spouses:
#1: My life partner is a diligent employee (60%)
#2: I can act naturally around my companion (56%)
#3: My life partner makes me giggle (56%)
#4: My life partner is keen (52%)
#5: My life partner is steady of my objectives and wants (48%)
#6: My life partner is an extraordinary parent (45%)
#7: My life partner is attractive (44%)
#8: My life partner is great with cash (31%)
#9: My life partner does the dishes (29%)
#10: My companion gets me things (28%)

Top 10 Most Surprising Spouse Insights on National Husband Appreciation Day:

#1: My companion and I observe Valentine’s Day (45%)
#2: My companion drives me up the wall once in a while (44%)
#3: My companion and I uniformly split the family tasks (32%)
#4: Valentine’s Day was a way greater arrangement before I got hitched (19%)
#5: My mate is a lazy pig (e.g. doesn’t wash dishes, leaves filthy garments on floor, and so forth.) (17%)
#6: My mate and I contend all the time (16%)
#7: I wear the jeans in the association with my mate (13%)
#8: I cherish my companion, yet now and then I want to be single so I could encounter dating once more (10%)
#9: Between both of us, I’m preferred investigating my mate (9%)
#10: In my marriage, I’m generally the person who strolls the puppy (9%)

Husband’s think they are more Helpful than they are Actually Are:

While 44% of husbands say they evenly split the household chores with their wives, only 26% of wives say the same.
Source: NationalToday.com Spouses Day Survey

Wanna Learn More? If yes, Then Visit the National Spouse Day 2019 for More Interesting Facts.
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2019.01.10 21:33 rhonnie14 I Went To O.J.'s House (1/2)... No Clue What To Do With This

Amongst all the unpopular opinions in America, mine may be the most unpopular. Or at least, the most hated. O.J. Simpson didn't kill Ron Goldman or Nicole. There, I said it. That's not guilty beyond a reasonable doubt. That's not we can't prove he did it, but it's likely. That's fucking innocent. And no, I'm not the Caucasian-media-driven caricature of a black conspiracy theorist. Not at all. I'm a thirty-year-old middle-class white guy. I've got no dog in this fight. I didn't root for Juice during the 70s or admire his status as a crossover icon in all those movies and Hertz ads. Due to my youth, I've also got no claim in the emotional war zone that was his 1995 murder trial. I go off the facts. And regardless of what Oprah or Fox News wants you to believe, the "mountain of evidence" actually resides in O.J.'s innocence.
Remember when FX's The People Vs. O.J. Simpson claimed O.J. never asked detectives how Nicole died? That was bullshit, trial footage at 1:58. Or when ESPN's O.J.: Made In America insinuated O.J. wasn't taking his arthritis meds so the gloves wouldn't fit? Doctors signed off on O.J. taking the meds, trial footage at 7:49. Want another lie from this Oscar winning "documentary?" Try the fact O.J. didn't have a single cut or bruise on his body when he left his house on that fateful June night, trial footage at 1:30. Yeah, that's right. Goldman and Nicole's bodies (particularly Goldman's) were covered in defensive wounds yet there's no marks on O.J.
Juice wasn't in a hurry to get through the airport either. Less than thirty minutes after supposedly butchering two people in one of the biggest rage crimes in American history, O.J. was described as being friendly as he signed autographs at the airport. Witnesses didn't see a single cut, scratch, or bandage on his hands. Why is this important? The very next day, O.J. was examined by L.A.P.D. No cuts or bruises were on his body except a few cuts on his hand he got from smashing a glass in his Chicago hotel room. An overemotional reaction he had after hearing about Nicole's death. Chicago police found bloodied glass in the room. A hotel clerk even said O.J. came downstairs to get a bandage for the cut. The chauffeur who picked him up from the hotel took note of the fresh bandage. And everyone on that plane ride back to L.A. described Simpson as being completely distraught. He was in a rush to get back to L.A. as soon as possible... interesting for a guy deemed unquestionably guilty.
So without a single cut, where did the supposed incriminating blood evidence come from? Regardless of how Geraldo wants to spin it, the blood evidence is shit. At the prosecution's insistence, two samples were tested specifically to disprove the defense's theory that the blood was planted. The samples came back with EDTA, a preservative used in lab test tubes. Experts agree it was too much EDTA for the blood to come naturally from O.J.'s body. Or from eating Big Macs like Marcia Clark claims. Furthermore, the blood on Nicole's back gate wasn't seen in any of the initial crime scene photos. Rather, it was somehow inexplicably discovered in July... weeks after the entire crime scene had been washed down.
And that takes us to Detective Mark Fuhrman, the man who discovered the glove on O.J.'s property. Again, one of the gloves had a small amount of O.J.'s DNA, the other didn't. Aside from the fact the gloves didn't fit, O.J.'s DNA wasn't even found on the glove's fingers... nor did either glove share a cut similar to the one O.J. got in his hotel room (remember, he had no cuts on the flight to Chicago).
The glove Fuhrman found was also still wet even though it'd supposedly been rotting in the June heat for over seven hours. No dirt or debris were found on the glove either even though the back alley of O.J.'s home was heavily wooded with leaves, berries, etc.
So back to Detective Fuhrman, the guy did more than say the n-word. On his infamous taped conversations with Laura McKinny, he said "nigger" well over fifty times. Fuhrman also admitted to hating blacks and interracial couples, lying under oath, and planting evidence. On top of this, he'd gotten L.A.P.D. sued years earlier for shooting at an unarmed black man and planting a knife on him. If you believe O.J. is guilty, you have to do two things: you have to ignore all the facts and evidence, and you have to take the word of a racist white cop over all the witnesses supporting O.J.’s innocence. Mark Fuhrman is your guy.
On the other hand, is O.J, a great guy? Not really. He’s flawed. He hit Nicole back in 89. But regardless of the well-publicized hearsay, he didn’t hit her any other time (Nicole said this in court in 92, Nicole’s sister Denise said the same during the mid-90s). Juice never hit his first wife Marguerite Whitley. So yes, his abuse was inexcusable. But an idiotic motive considering as recently as spring of 94, Nicole was trying to get back with him.
This isn't even counting how O.J. never reacted with rage or jealousy toward Nicole's romantic relationships. Keith Douglas Zlomsowitch, one of Nicole's former lovers, admitted that O.J. had seen him and Nicole making love in Nicole’s living room. The very next day, a calm O.J. told them in private that they should be careful about doing things out in the open in case one of the kids walked in. One of O.J.’s best friends Marcus Allen even said that when he told Juice he had sex with Nicole, O.J. reacted calmly and was only upset because Allen was engaged at the time.
So yeah, none of this excuses O.J.’s lone case of domestic violence. But the context shows how exaggerated O.J. and Nicole’s volatile relationship was so the prosecutors could have a sensational motive.
I get that what I'm saying isn’t what Oprah, Geraldo, or the alarming number of celebrity black apologists have taught you. This isn’t what the racist Howard Stern taught you either when he advocated for lynching Mr. Simpson. No, what I'm telling you are facts. Not lies and bullshit.
People hate me for it. I suppose you will too. Go ahead and serenade me with your downvotes. I don't give a fuck. Throw out soundbites like Bruno Maglis (the Enquirer photos were supposedly taken during a rainstorm... not great for a pair of "pristine" Suede shoes), all that blood!1! (EDTA), the Bronco chase (O.J. believed he was framed and panicked), If I Did It (written by a ghostwriter, an easy 500k for O.J. after years of pleading his innocence onto deaf ears), a "failed" polygraph (nevermind the fact that Gary Ridgeway, the most prolific serial killer in American history passed a polygraph or that Ted Bundy did so twice), or the horrific civil trial that inexplicably allowed hearsay evidence.
And where has all my research left me? My family doesn't talk to me. I don't have close friends. Needless to say, no girlfriend. I'm alienated because of my beliefs.
But the biggest rift my "unpopular opinion" has created is between my dad and I. The emotions of this case run that deep. In many ways, I too was a victim of this trial of the century. Alongside the integrity of the American media, so went my All-American family.
My mother and father never got along during the trial. Even as a child, I remembered their bickering. Constant, ugly bickering. Mom's belief in O.J.'s innocence was actually what got me interested in the case. Particularly as a stark contrast to the O.J. Did It industry we've all been bombarded with.
My dad had the popular opinion. Their disagreement over the case opened a nasty wound between them. My parents divorced soon after Juice's acquittal. And as I grew up, I tried to stay close to my folks. My mother the introverted hippie, my father the more assertive and outgoing type. I was more like mom... no friends, artsy rather than social. On the other hand, my dad was friends with many of the people in the small town he lived in. The small town he thrived in as a local accountant.
For mom, O.J.'s plight was tragic. Yet another sad example of the horrors of being black in America. To my dad, Juice had played the race card.
While my dad and I used to be real close, my own interest in the O.J. Simpson case brought about the same tensions that had killed his marriage. Me and him argued more. He resented my opinion. Like most of you, he never could see anything past O.J. Did It, No Questions Asked.
My dad's brown eyes would berate me with the same sharp ferocity of his irate words. His temper was quick. And it only got worse as he got older. Particularly whenever O.J. came up.
Once mom passed a few years back, my dad and I grew even more apart. I think he blamed her for pushing me toward the case. But the reality was that their divorce was what fueled my interest. I came to the realization that mom was right all along. Yet she was crucified for that opinion. God knows how her own family and friends treated her for being the one white woman who believed Mr. Simpson was innocent.
But I think what really set dad off was my career. You see, my penultimate project began back in 2013: my O.J. Simpson webpage. I knew on-line there were people like me. People who did know more about the case and who had bothered researching it.
Over the years, my site garnered a cult-like following. And dad was pretty pissed about it. As he got older and his brown hair grew thinner, his eyes only became more narrow and cold. And so did his resentment toward me. The few conversations we had always ended in arguments. There were shouting matches about the case. Shouting matches about race. Shouting matches about mom.
I'd have loved to see him be proud of my work... but that was wishful thinking. His mind was made up. I couldn't worry about pop anymore. I had to worry about the new generation. Younger, more open-minded people like me.
As the site grew, my friend Pearse helped me land interviews with some of the biggest names from the trial for his podcast. I started uploading feature-length documentaries rather than YouTube videos. My analysis on the O.J. case made me an expert. Not to mention a hero to those who knew the truth. Hell, I even got advertising money.
My site was doing well. However, it wasn't mainstream media. I wasn't making much money. So imagine my surprise when the ultimate project came up. The most audacious thing my webpage had tackled yet: an interview with the Juice himself.
It turned out O.J. Simpson loved my work... I guess there's some consolation for never having my dad appreciate it.
I was surprised yet overjoyed when I got O.J.'s e-mail. I consulted with all of the people I'd been interviewing. And to my utter joy, everything checked out. I soon got Simpson's Vegas address.
The news would've excited my devoted fanbase however, I wanted to keep it a surprise for now. Outside of telling Pearse and a few friends, I kept the trip a secret. I doubted O.J. wanted me telling the world anyway.
But I did tell a few family members. Rather than congratulate me, they gave me the usual cliched jokes instead ("don't get hacked). I even got the nerve to tell my dad, but he just grumbled before hanging up. He always preferred my fiction. I guess it was for the best I hadn't told him about the O.J. book I was working on...
The following week, I packed my bags and left for Nevada. My buddy Pearse came along for moral support. And to be the cameraman.
O.J.'s handlers were there waiting for us at the airport. In their suits, they resembled Secret Service. But hey, I couldn't blame O.J. taking some precautions after all the death threats. His posse was very professional though. The exact opposite of the crazy Vegas crew who helped him "steal" his memorabilia.
From what I understood, O.J. had been staying at one of his friends's mansions. A Microsoft millionaire's house. He'd let O.J. crash there since Juice couldn't leave the state. Not that O.J. had it bad considering how lavish the mansion was. While modest compared to the rest of the neighborhood, the place was still glorious. There was privacy galore. Tall trees surrounded the yard, concealing the house and iron-pike fence from outside view.
Once our van pulled up into O.J.'s driveway, I took a deep breath. Pearse and I had made it. Here I was about give an exclusive interview with the man America considered a monster. But who in reality was a tragic victim.
The spacious and pristine yard had gaudy lawn ornaments. Pretty sculptures. Huge sprinklers and, of course, a nice pool.
Pearse was told to keep the camera off until we got inside the house. For security purposes. Me not being an asshole mainstream journalist, complied out of respect for the Juice.
Inside, the mansion was more in line with what I'd expect from O.J. Clean, impressive, stylish. And yes, flashy.
We were told to wait in the living room. It was in here, O.J. had his memorabilia well on display (apparently, he'd recovered most of the stolen items). There were old jerseys, posters, movie props, game balls, trophies. Hall Of Fame accolades. The Heisman. Not many people seem to realize O.J. Simpson was a Hell of a player. I could tell he had his guests wait here on purpose. A nice humblebrag. Then again, who could blame him? This shit was amazing.
Amongst the collectibles were more cultured items. Artwork, portraits, classic novels, some sick fucking vinyl. I could tell most of these belonged to O.J. The guy was a fucking connoisseur.
Framed family photos still had their place in this mancave of O.J.'s glory days. Pictures of him with Marguerite. Pictures of him with Nicole. But the most frequent images I saw were kids. Children, teenagers, college photos. O.J.'s smiling children seemed to swarm all around Pearse and I. And it wasn't creepy in the slightest either. In a room that could've (and probably was) a vanity tribute to the Juice, somehow, the children's photos took more precedence. They were what I remembered most about the house.
In a corner of the room was a framed photo of O.J.'s deceased infant daughter Aaren. A cross hung right above it. A collection of Angel figurines stood on both sides of the lavish picture frame. A sincere shrine for Aaren.
Using the camera, Pearse was all too happy to capture the scene. The mansion definitely a big step up from Pearse's garage studio.
Emerging from a long hallway, our man of the hour entered the room. Orenthal James Simpson. Even at seventy-one, he looked effortless and smooth. Quite debonair in a brown suit he'd consider modest but most likely cost a couple grand. The guy had style. And he also knew he was gonna be on camera. No wonder he had his Hall Of Fame ring on.
O.J. stuck a groomed hand out toward me. "Steve, how are you," he said in his eloquent baritone. A voice that hadn't lost any of its charm after all these years and traumas.
Overwhelmed by nerves, I forced myself to complete the handshake. "I'm doing okay," I responded, a slight tremble in my voice.
As if he sensed my nerves, O.J. flashed me a warm smile. "Alright. I'm glad."
His handshake was strong yet there was a soft touch. And his hand was fucking huge. It practically engulfed mine. No wonder he could hang on to that football.
"It's an honor to meet you," I added.
"Likewise." His voice even trembled like mine. Not from nerves but emotion... appreciation. "Likewise, Steve."
I introduced him to Pearse, and then the interview began. I was simultaneously surprised yet glad to see it was just us three for the interview. I'm sure O.J. appreciated the chill vibes.
We toured the rest of the house. The guest rooms were well-furnished. There was also another mancave, O.J.'s destination for Saturdays and Sundays during football season. He played us some of his old highlights via YouTube. The guy just couldn't help himself. I saw a bunch of golf gear in here as well. The sport definitely still O.J.'s go-to hobby.
Later on, we checked out the kitchen and dining room. A back balcony overlooked the pool. I even saw little yappy dogs running around the back yard. I was surprised they weren't even full-breeds. Just regular old mutts. We could hear their incessant barks all tour long.
To my surprise, O.J.'s bedroom itself was rather plain. Not flashy like the living room or mancave. Just a few pictures of his mother and Aaren placed next to religious figurines.
However his closet was another story. Hell, it looked it'd been converted from a bedroom. A Sex And The City wet dream. Rows and rows of clothes. All of them name brand, all of them collected over the years.
Overall, O.J. was very welcoming. Even humble. He talked to me and Pearse about how his stay in prison had changed his attitude. He'd gone through years of (understandable) anger due to his mistreatment by the media. He had a chip on his shoulder. But the experience of just being another inmate, another number, changed his outlook for the better. He missed Florida. He missed L.A. But he wasn't too upset as his kids came to visit him quite often. Las Vegas, and this house in particular, had become his "home away from home."
We planned on doing the bulk of our interview in O.J.'s cozy study. There we had a glowing fireplace, comfortable chairs, and perfect lighting. A small coffee table the only barrier between O.J. and I.
Even from where I was sitting, I saw how the bookshelves were stuffed with every literary classic imaginable. I figured O.J. probably hadn't read most of them, but shit, it was still an impressive collection.
One book in particular caught my eye. Unlike the books around it, this one resembled a scrapbook. No title on the spine. It looked old as Hell. Did O.J. own a first edition Book Of The Dead? Or the Necronomicon?
Gazing around the rest of the room, I saw O.J.'s framed memorabilia from the Roots shoot (costume, props, etc) right next to a pair of glass doors leading to the balcony. I could tell the memorabilia meant a lot to him. In an acting career based more off his charm and good looks than talent, appearing in Roots was a rare proud moment in his film career.
Like an annoying yet cute soundtrack, the dogs continued their barking well into the night. I suppose they were chasing squirrels or whatever other critters were lurking about. Maybe they were still after Pearse and I, for that matter.
A few of O.J.'s bodyguards stood by the study door. But they were quiet and kept their distance. They must've known how much an interview like this meant to O.J. One where he wasn't pleading his innocence to a buzzard or some other indifferent asshole. Instead, him and I were talking like old friends. Comrades.
We started off the interview in simple fashion: O.J.'s background. Orenthal James wasn't born a millionaire athlete. He came from nothing. From the slums of California all the way to the gridiron on the USC campus. Truly the American Dream. O.J. went into great detail about this. The anecdotes on the hardships he and his mother faced. His glory days as a USC superstar. And then when he cemented his football legacy on the Buffalo Bills.
When it came to his playing career, I could tell O.J. was most excited about his tenure with the Bills. They were a small market team he embraced. He also loved the Bills Mafia, the team's zany and enthusiastic fanbase. The Bills had some winning seasons with Juice leading their offense. After all, he was a natural born star and leader for that long-tormented franchise. And to this day, they still treated Simpson with respect unlike the alma mater that ultimately disowned him.
Throughout the interview, I could tell O.J. struggled at times to remember certain names and dates. Our conversation switched to CDTE and other brain/memory issues that had been attributed to playing American football. Awhile back, O.J. had been diagnosed with this (in addition to arthritis). While football is still a violent game, in O.J.'s heyday it was a fucking blood sport ("It was a different era, man," he told me). Not much padding or safety precautions. Illegal hits were the norm. Nothing was off limits. Not even your head.
The grave seriousness of the topic removed us from the nostalgic vanity that had accompanied O.J.'s reflections on his career. Our conversation soon shifted to the tragedy that would haunt O.J. Simpson. And forever tarnish his name.
I was surprised to see O.J. be so open while discussing that fateful June night. I knew he usually avoided the topic out of contempt for a press that had ignored his words in favor of misquoting him and making him look like a lunatic. But he was comfortable with us.
We discussed everything. From Mark Fuhrman to the planted evidence to the lack of a cut or bruise anywhere on O.J.'s body (Goldman was same height as O.J., a blackbelt, and twenty years younger). The fact there was no cut on O.J.'s hand when he was at the airport signing autographs (including signing one for the pilot). The racial implications of the case. How the media automatically assumed his guilt before knowing if O.J. was even in L.A. when the murders happened.
O.J.'s sadness veered toward an understandable bitterness as we discussed how the media's inaccuracies ultimately became the legend.
"No one believed me," O.J. said, his baritone voice full of jaded weariness. "I tried everything. I did interviews, I talked about the trial, and it's like no one listened to me! They didn't wanna listen to me. They didn't wanna believe me." Fire burnt in his eyes, but I didn't feel threatened or scared like you probably would. Such a fire was built off of frustration not violence. "With Fuhrman, you got a guy on tape saying all this shit. That he framed minorities and blacks... not only that but he was anti-Semitic. If I was a white Jewish man, everyone would be outraged at Fuhrman and what he did. They'd take my word, they'd show the evidence we had. But that wasn't the case, was it? Instead, I'm playing the Goddamn race card!"
And I couldn't agree more. Everything he said was correct. The media had ignored the overwhelming evidence favoring his innocence to spin a false narrative. To them, Othello James Simpson killed the two white Angels. No questions asked.
While we were on the subject of O.J.'s unfair public perception, I asked how he felt about the growing number of black celebrities speaking out against him. Kanye, Jay-Z, Steve Harvey, etc.
O.J. hesitated. Discomfort joined his anger. I could tell he felt these questions were putting him in rough territory... particularly since he was African-American himself. I didn't expect him to go into a rant on how they were all coons, but I didn't expect him to be this silent and awkward.
He let out a weary sigh. "I don't know what to tell them," he finally said. "Maybe they were too young to watch the dang trial. Or they've gotten just saturated with all the crap they throw against me. They read too much National Enquirer, I don't know." A faint grin crossed his face. "The media the way it is... I guess everyone thinks I did it now, huh."
There was a vulnerable sadness to him. Something I'd never seen in all the footage on Juice. His silence couldn't hide that look of anguish.
"Everyone thinks I killed her," O.J. went on. That I'd kill her right where my kids slept!" He paused. A breather from the anger. "I can't change their minds, I give up." His emotions were overwhelming him. I could tell he didn't like it. O.J. was confident and strong. And he always seemed that way on television and in public. The memories were killing his public persona. He wasn't the Juice in this moment. He was Orenthal James Simpson. The tormented ex-husband of Nicole. The tormented father of four.
The roaring tragedy of 94 had returned from the grave once more. O.J. would never escape it. And he knew it.
I didn't even hear the barking dogs during this tense silence. They must've been respecting O.J.'s emotional struggle as well.
"When people think you're a killer," he struggled to begin, his deep voice caving in with heartache. "They think I never loved her, but I did."
"I know you did," I said, my voice steady yet reassuring.
O.J. gazed down at his lap. An obvious method to hide his tears. "And everything I'd worked toward was gone." He glared at the camera. "I worked hard to get to here! I came from nowhere, man, I supported my Goddamn family! I made a name for himself!"
His anger was ferocious but not directed toward anyone in the room. I felt no fear. But if this was Fox or TMZ, I could picture the headline now: O.J.'s Rage Returns! Watch Out White People!
"And then it was all gone!" O.J. continued. "All because they wanted to believe the nigger killed everybody! That I was a stalker, a fucking psycho." Tear fell from his eyes. On camera, O.J.'s harsher profanity was about as rare as the tears. He was showcasing twenty years' worth of wounds right here for Pearse and I.
"So yeah, maybe Kanye and all these other rappers and what-have-you think I did it. If they wanna appease their white audience, that's fine. Fuck them. We don't need them. God knows the truth. My children know the truth! That's what matters more than these arrogant niggers running their mouths about me. Just so they can stay with their fake fucking white friends." He chuckled. A defeated chuckle that was chilling in its helplessness. "I guess I used to be the same. Believe me, I know. And they'll find out soon enough. Oh yeah, they'll see what happens when they get framed or blamed for some shit they didn't do. Then they won't be Grmamy-winning rapper or Oscar-winning "thespian," they'll be a guiltyass nigger. Like what they say about me."
I could feel Pearse give me an unwasy look. But I wasn't stopping this. Not now. This was O.J. at his most candid and honest. He trusted us. I wasn't stopping him no matter where the controversy led.
"I'd never hurt her," O.J. went on. "I wouldn't..." He brushed away his tears. "I wasn't a great husband, but I cared about Nicole. Yeah, I hit her... but it wasn't like me. I felt terrible the second it happened. When she looked at me crying. Hell, I cried too. I had no idea I could ever do that. That I could hurt someone, much less my wife." His wounded eyes stared out the glass doors, peering off into the darkness. "And they wanna say I slaughtered her."
Respectful, I leaned in a little closer. "Well, who do you think actually did it, O.J.?" I asked, sympathetic yet strong. "That's the main question me and Pearse get from these idiots. They'll ignore everything we said just for this shit."
"It really is," Pearse added with a weak smile.
Quiet, O.J. kept looking off at the balcony.
"Look, I know Fuhrman made sure we'll likely never know," I told O.J. "But is there anything you'd want to add to the discussion? Any suspicions you had? Anyone you suspect?"
O.J. put a hand to his face, shielding his ravaged face from the camera. Rather than strength, he showed defeat. Like the traumas were at war within him. I could hear his heavy, wounded breaths. I could only imagine the painful memories running through his head. "Juice," I said.
"I can't," he mumbled.
A cloud of silence conquered the room. I felt a sense of cryptic dread lingering through the atmosphere. O.J.'s handlers gave me piercing stares. I returned them an awkward gaze. I wasn't sure what to do. I wasn't a therapist, after all.
Trying to break the uneasy mood, Pearse grinned. "You sure it wasn't Kato?"
No one laughed or responded.
"We've always suspected drugs," I said.
Grimacing, O.J. looked at us.
"Several of Ron Goldman's friends were killed right after he and Nicole," I added. "One of them had his throat slit from ear to ear."
"And Faye Resnick left Nicole's house the day before the murders," Pearse assisted me. "She owed drug dealers over thirty-thousand dollars from what I understand."
O.J. ran a hand along his face. Our comments hit him like bullets into his emotions. He didn't say anything. He just kept within his self. Within his fragment, tormented psyche.
"She looked just like Nicole," I said. Me and Pearse's voices were calm but persistent.
Rocking in his seat, O.J. looked down at the ground. He avoided eye contact. He avoided us. The tears were forming in his eyes. He bit his lip. The sorrow weighed him down.
"There could've been a mix-up," I went on.
"It had to be two people," Pearse added.
I noticed all of O.J.'s associates watching him with concern.
Tears in his eyes, O.J. confronted us. In the war within himself, his anxiety was winning.
I just stared at Juice. But Pearse kept going.
"The original coroner even said two knives were used," Pearse continued.
O.J. gave us a fiery look. "You wanna know what really happened?" he said, his baritone devoid of any warmth or charm.
Pearse went silent in an instant.
"We just want to know your thoughts, O.J.," I said.
"Well, I'll tell you what happened!" O.J. responded. "I'll tell you exactly what happened!"
One of his concerned handlers stepped toward him.
O.J. held up his hand, keeping the bodyguards at bay. "No, let me speak!"
The handler took his place back by the door.
"Let me tell them everything," O.J. said. His intense eyes turned toward me and Pearse. "It's not about just drugs. There's more to it than that."
My detached coolness evaporated. O.J.'s gaze and voice were frantic. I sensed the interview was going into unexpected territory and I wasn't prepared. "What do you mean?" I asked, unable to hide the subtle panic in my voice.
"It's everybody!" O.J. yelled. "The whole fucking thing!" A defensive fury boiled up inside him. "There's an entire group of people that killed Nicole! And it's because they wanted me! They wanted to frame me and tear me to shreds. It wasn't just Goddamn Fuhrman or Vanatter. Not even the L.A.P.D. It was the entire country!"
The final chilling line reverberated through the room like an eerie piano chord. O.J.'s voice, his unnerving sincerity sold it.
Pearse and I just looked on at Juice, confused. None of his associates were stopping him. None of them even looked confused by his proclamation. They just had knowing expressions on their faces. Like they too were aware of Juice's wild account.
"I don't understand," I finally mustered out. "What do you mean? The entire country-"
"You heard me, Steve," O.J. interrupted. He leaned back in his seat. Like the weary survivor he was. "You know how this country is. You've seen it in action, Steve. It's not so much the media as it is the establishment."
"So what are you saying-"
"I'm saying they'll do anything to suppress blacks and other minorities. The white elite is too powerful. They need to find ways to... to inhibit blacks." O.J. looked right at Pearse and I. His emotional brown eyes pierced deep into our souls.
Not sure what to do, I hesitated. "So you're saying this conspiracy killed Nicole and Goldman?"
More animated than ever, O.J. threw his hands out toward us. "You know about me! You know who I was! What I represented. I was one of the first black celebrities to cross over. I was in commercials, man! Ten years after segregation ended, I was pushing Hertz! I was in movies, I was a superstar."
I didn't think he was bragging. His voice was too full of anger and resentment for this to be gloating O.J.
"And what better way to kill what I represented, huh?" O.J. challenged us. He leaned in closer like a wild-eyed preacher. This wasn't the Smooth Mr. Simpson. What we saw now was all paranoia... either from Alzheimer's or genuine fear. "They did what could turn the Juice into that rich nigger that got away with murder!" He waved his hands around as if he were shoving an invisible force away. "And they fucking got away with it! They killed Nicole and did everything they could to incriminate me!"
I looked over at Pearse. All I saw was a face of stunned confusion. Like someone had transplanted Pearse from Vegas to a nuthouse.
I confronted O.J. "So a group of these special rich white people killed Nicole?"
"Rich, powerful white people," he answered, his voice unwavering and not backing down.
The Juice was loose, alright, I thought. Loose in the fucking head.
"Look, Juice," I began.
O.J. flashed me a cryptic smile. "You don't believe me?"
I looked around the room. The associates were all stone-faced. Had O.J. convinced them of this batshit insanity? Or was he just paying them enough to believe?
"Honestly," I stammered. I looked back at O.J.'s calm face. He was relaxed. Like telling us this secret had lifted the weight of anxiety off him. "I don't know what to believe."
"I know," O.J. responded. Letting out a weary sigh, he slouched back in his chair. "It sounds crazy... it's why I don't tell many people." His gaze drifted off to the glass doors. "It's why I'm scared to tell anyone really."
"Why?"
Like he was responding to an insult, O.J. just gave me a cold glare. "You don't have a clue what these people are. The power they have. You can't even imagine what they could do to me and you."
"If they were trying to bring you down, why not just get you convicted-"
"They tried, didn't they," O.J. interrupted, his baritone commanding and strong.
"Then why not have you killed."
Smirking, O.J. looked off at the bodyguards. They returned sly smiles back.
Annoyed, I leaned in toward Juice. "If they were trying to destroy you because of your influence then why not just kill you? Alright, they tried framing you, so why wouldn't they just finish you off?"
O.J. let out a maddening laugh. The laugh of a helpless man left to die from irony.
"What?" I demanded. "Why wouldn't they?"
"Why would they waste their time!" O.J. said through the chuckles. He pointed at himself. "Look at me, Steve. What the Hell would killing me do?"
The realization struck me. He was right. Why would they waste their time killing him... they'd already done enough. The damage was done.
"The trial killed everything I stood for," O.J. said. "No one looked at me the same. They couldn't look me in the eye." He leaned in closer, holding my gaze with those dark eyes. "There were no more advertisements, no more movies. No more Monday Night Football. No more respect of O.J.'s American Dream. I'm the Goddamn monster now, Steve."
Destroyed by inner anguish, he looked toward the floor.
Our staredown and his chilling reflections still left me shook.
"Hell, for all I know maybe they failed to frame me on purpose," O.J. muttered. He looked up at me. "Maybe just me fighting it out in the court then getting acquitted was part of the plan all along. Just to make people hate me even more."
"I'm sorry," I said. My attempt at a neutral voice couldn't hide my sympathy.
"If I'd gone to jail over a false charge, maybe people would've protested for me," Juice stated. "They would've looked into the case."
The atmosphere grew more and more tense with O.J.'s account. I noticed him running his hands together in a nervous tic. He couldn't fake the discomfort. He was never that good of an actor.
"Instead, all we get is everyone saying I did it," O.J. went on. "O.J. Simpson murderer. That's it. Listen to your Geraldos and your Nancy Graces, the entire American media. They all just pick me apart since I guess it's still illegal to string niggers up when you absolutely know we did something. I guess Emmett Till would've suffered the same."
Uneasy, I nodded my head. The room felt quieter than ever. No voices, no music, no football highlights, no dogs. Just crackling from the fire.
I didn't like seeing O.J. this way. Regardless of his hardships, he'd always been an upbeat fighter. Now he looked defeated.
"There's nothing I can do," O.J. said. "And they know it. They know they fucked me. My image is ruined forever. My name, everything I did. It's gone. My legacy is that I'm a black man who killed two white people. That's what I am." Tears of anger filled his eyes. "The media played it up. They control that too, you know. They control everything!"
"Jesus...” Pearse exclaimed.
I faced Pearse. Like me, he too was riveted by Juice's every word. Only Pearse 100% believed him.
"You do a lot of great things, Steve," O.J. told me.
I looked at Juice. Or the decrepit, depressed sight that was once O.J. Simpson.
"But there's nothing you can do," O.J. continued. "You're not Fox or NBC. You don't get many people on that show. It's why Baby Blue don't care."
"Baby Blue?" I asked, confused.
O.J.'s eyes never strayed from me. "That's their leader."
"What?"
His face stoic and deadly serious, O.J. pointed up toward his eyes. "Their leader's eyes. They're baby blue. That's all I know."
Part 1 of 2
14
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2017.12.18 05:10 callmebaiken How A CIA-DOJ-FBI Team Forged The Trump-Russia Dossier

...To the shock and dismay of those crooked bureaucrats, the credibility of the Trump-Russia Dossier is collapsing now that the House Intelligence Committee has disclosed that veteran Department of Justice (DOJ) official Bruce Genesoke Ohr was in secret contact with the report’s British author Christopher Steele. It’s also surfaced that his colleague-wife Nellie Hauke Ohr, a CIA analyst, worked for months prior to the presidential election on salary at Fusion GPS, the opposition research firm hired for the faked report on Trump’s alleged Russian connections, a hit job paid for by the Hillary Clinton campaign and the Democratic National Committee (DNC), although the source of funding was likely a secret slush fund in the Clinton Foundation.
Here, the relationships between the members of the dossier team are laid out in chronological order (despite numerous missing links due to their bureaucratic secrecy). The conspirators are frequently referred to as spies, operatives, agents and traitors due to willful violation of their oaths to uphold the U.S. Constitution, as required of management-level personnel at the CIA, FBI and DOJ. Of course, these treacherous government bureaucrats did not act on their own but are minions of the Democratic Party leadership and its organized-crime benefactors.
Moscow Mules
The Ohrs’ relationship with the retired MI-6 spy Christopher Steele, the supposed author of the Russia Dossier, began at least than three years ago, long before Trump contemplated a presidential bid and in all likelihood much earlier during the FIFA soccer investigation.
In his role as Assistant Deputy Director at DOJ, Bruce Ohr met Steele in Russia in mid-May 2013 at the third St. Petersburg International Legal Forum. The Korean-American Ohr presented a paper titled “Criminal Matters and Allegations of Crimes in International Arbitration”, a choice of topic timed to undermine Russian counter-claims in the Magnitsky affair. In hindsight it’s ironic that his lecture synopsis included an apt description of the yet to-be drafted Russia Dossier: “a party (in a dispute) may introduce false testimony or forged documents.”
At the time of that annual conference sponsored by the Russian Federation’s Justice Ministry, the Kremlin was locked in a controversy over U.S. congressional retaliation for the 2009 prison death of Russian-Jewish accountant Sergei Magnitsky. As auditor for Hermitage Capital, co-owned by British-American financier Bill Browder, Magnitsky was investigating dozens of Russian tycoons allied with President Vladimir Putin as to their links with organized crime figures. Who paid for this monumental survey remains unclear, although a likely conduit of funding was the MI-6 team in Moscow, which had been led until his retirement by agent Chris Steel.
Federal attorney Bruce Ohr was then chief of the Organized Crime and Racketeering Section, which had a keen interest in shady “businessmen” who were moving their capital holdings into American financial institutions and the U.S. real-estate market with the intent of money laundering. Surveillance of transnational drug-trafficking was also part of his role as head of DOJ’s international drug-trafficking investigations. (His cyber-surveillance network would later focus, outside of its authority, on the activities of Trump adviser Carter Page in Russia and Croatia.)
Agent Steele was in attendance at St. Petersburg due to the fact that a Russian Interior Ministry official had filed a lawsuit in London against Hermitage Capital. This Russian attempt at legal judo in a British court was prompting the UK Foreign Office to patch up diplomatic relations with Moscow and depoliticize crime issues. With the Magnitsky affair gradually simmering down, the next target for Anglo-American intelligence cooperation was the upcoming Moscow and St. Petersburg event-planning visit, scheduled for just a month later, by Miss Universe impresario Donald Trump.
Under the Church Committee rules, U.S. intelligence agencies are banned from spying on American citizens abroad, and therefore the private-eye surveillance by Steele, a Briton, was negotiated to keep watch for possible Russian mafia involvement in the high-profile beauty contest. As it turned out, Miss Venezuela was crowned Miss Universe 2013, meaning Ohr had wasted a lot of American taxpayer money on a wild goose chase. That dated information from 2013 was recycled three years later into the Russia Dossier.
Orbis London
As part of Five Eyes intelligence cooperation between Anglo-Saxon countries, the DOJ/FBI cooperates with the UK Ministry of Justice (MOJ) during investigations within the Commonwealth and the EU, much like the fictional partnership of the CIA’s Felix Leiter and James Bond. Not much earlier, in 2006, Steele served as head of the MI-6 Russia desk. On his retirement from government service in 2009, he co-founded a for-hire investigative firm called Orbis Business Intelligence, which produced a series of 100 reports on the Ukraine-Russia crisis, which erupted in 2014, on contract with the U.S. State Department. In other words, the main author of the Trump-Russia Dossier had a lucrative contract under Secretary of State Hillary Clinton before her presidential campaign.
There is a strong possibility that Bruce Ohr met Steele as early as 2010. The FBI, which in international operations is synonymous with DOJ, traveled to London for a briefing by Orbis on the Sepp Blatter corruption scandal at FIFA. The Feds were interested in the role of organized crime in match-fixing as related to worldwide online gambling. The score-rigging was allegedly arranged by a Singaporean syndicate and Malaysian-Macanese gambling boss Paul Phua, who was later entrapped by a joint CIA-DOJ/FBI sting operation at the Las Vegas Sands. As chief of the DOJ international organized crime bureau, Bruce Ohr likely attended the London briefing, where he would have been first introduced to veteran spy Christopher Steele.
Married to the CIA
Before proceeding, mention must be given to Nellie Hauke Ohr’s role as a CIA analyst. Bruce Ohr shares his “room with a view” at the Robert F. Kennedy Building, the DOJ headquarters, with his wife Nellie, which indicates that the married couple are part of a high-level inter-agency intelligence team.
Ohr’s office is on the executive 4th floor, just four doors down from the suite of then Deputy Director Sally Quillian Yates, and since late April her replacement Rod Rosenstein. A virtual unknown to the press and public, the low-visibility Ohr served as the assistant to Rosenstein, following the latter’s transfer from the Maryland DOJ office, showing the newcomer the ropes and keeping watch on him on behalf of Yates, Loretta Lynch, Holder and, ultimately, Barack Obama and the Clintons. Ohr, in short, is a partisan watchdog for the Democratic establishment, who’s shown absolutely no respect for the Constitution.
The role of the Ohrs in joint operations and surveillance reveals how the CIA (whose charter forbids spying inside the borders) has operated a secret system of control over domestic law enforcement and, through it, the judicial branch. There are only five stories inside the RFK Building, the topmost housing the draconian tribunal known as the Foreign Intelligence Surveillance Court (FISC). Since these are the same ilk of insiders behind the series of unjustifiable wars, the 911 sabotage and assassination of the Kennedys, the building’s name is a warning to anyone who dares contemplate a challenge to the hidden alliance of organized crime, politicians and federal agents. The elimination of this cabal cannot be done piecemeal; they all must be knocked in a single sweep, as discussed below.
The Ohrs are two operatives inside the very heart of a system of perpetual treason, far more dangerous to the principles of American democracy that the Rosenbergs who got the electric chair for much-lesser crimes. After examining their role in producing the dossier, this essay will go up the leadership ladder to identify their superiors.
Out of Africa
Espionage is a family tradition for Nellie Ohr, much as his maternal lineage has been for Barack Obama among the CIA’s Dunham clan of Honolulu. Her mother Kathleen Armstrong Hauke was a Cold War liberal and promoter of racial integration in Atlanta, where she wrote biographies of pioneering leftist black journalist Ted Poston. Later in the late 1980s, Kathleen taught English in Nairobi, Kenya (two decades after Ann Dunham met her paramour Barack Obama Sr. in Kenya while on CIA assignment) Race-mixing was not solely an individual choice in that era, not when the CIA actively promoted interracial marriages in competition against the Soviet Union’s propaganda of racial equality. The American South and Africa were two battlegrounds where mixed-blood youths, like Barack Obama Jr., were groomed as leaders by either side of the Cold War.
The 2004 obituary of Kathleen Hauke mentioned that her daughter Nellie was a resident of McLean, Virginia the (township of the Langley neighborhood location of CIA headquarters). Fluent in the Russian language and Russophile, Nellie Hauke Ohr recently applied for a ham radio license, probably to maintain communications (external to hack-vulnerable cyberspace) with her anti-Putin contacts in Russia funded by the CIA and Soros. This apparently is in anticipation of Trump’s cut-off of US funding for those clandestine subversive operations.
Shortwave radio hearkens back to the late Cold War era, when Nellie would have monitored Russian signals for the CIA. Since that Stone Age for telecommunications, Nellie Ohr became part of the CIA cyber-intelligence program known as Open Source Works (OSW), discussed below, which explains her intelligence role inside Fusion GPS, the private investigation group that hired Orbis and Christopher Steele to draft the Trump-Russia Dossier.
What a tangled web they weave! The Ohr-Steele encounter in St. Petersburg turned out to be the very seed from which sprang the Trump-Russia Dossier, in a handshake between the DOJ/FBI and MI-6. Just a month later, in June 2013, Donald Trump arrived with his advance team to make the arrangements for the Miss Universe pageant, scheduled for November 2013 at the Crocus hall in the Moscow suburb of Krasnogorsk.
Plausible Deniability of Authorship
Fusion GPS, the private investigation firm led by three former Wall Street Journal reporters, was hired by two different clients to go after Trump:
- First, in late 2015, the Washington Free Beacon, owned by conservative financier and LGBT supporter Paul Singer commissioned a probe of Trump to bolster the candidacy of Marco Rubio (who has since been outed with allegations of his gay nightlife), but this early stab at Trump did not involve Russia;
- Next in mid-2016, the Seattle law firm Perkins Coie, representing the Hillary Clinton Foundation and Democratic National Committee, hired Fusion GPS to probe the Russian relationships of Trump and his associates with the aim of discrediting and defeating his presidential campaign.
By the Democratic National Convention, rigged against rival Bernie Sanders to guarantee the nomination of Hillary Clinton, her campaign team had foreknowledge of the Russian preference for Donald Trump, and the source of that information was obviously the CIA-DOJ team, which included the Ohrs. Besides intelligence gathering from Russian sources, Open Source Works also had the technical capability to launch cyber attacks against the DNC, leaving behind bread crumbs from a faked Russian hack. This illicit political invervention also had support in London, Moscow and Kiev, due to the DOJ-FBI and State Department contracts with Steele’s Orbis Intelligence group. In reality, there probably was next to nothing in direct Russian involvement. One of the supposed Russian-sponsored “fake news” centers turned out to be a USAID-Soros dominated region in Macedonia. On closer inspection, the entire Russian election interference is turning out to be an false-flag creation out of Langley and the RFK building.
An Agency Cut-out
Fusion GPS, therefore, was hired as a “cut out”, spy terminology for a neutral go-between created to shield the actual perpetrators in an exchange of stolen information. A psychological operation aimed at political intervention at this level required the direct involvement of and authorization from CIA director John Brennan and Attorney General Loretta Lynch, and this was to interfere in the elections in favor of their former colleague at State, Hillary Clinton, and not a matter of national security. Director of National Intelligence (DNI) James Clapper should have been aware of these illicit activities and was responsible for shutting down political subversion, meaning that he, too, bears some degree of responsibility for the bureaucratic assault on democracy.
Fabricating the Dossier
Christopher Steele provided some of the intelligence for the dossier, but much of the material strongly appears to be based on CIA and NSA intercepts of phone calls and emails, along with human intelligence from informants. There is also an equally strong possibility that many, perhaps most, of the claims in the dossier are fabrications, lies. Nellie Hauke Ohr and her husband at DOJ reviewed and copied from classified files for the dossier in blatant violation of intelligence regulations. The method of direct translation, for example, “Russian regime” without the article “the”, indicates the CIA protocol followed by Nellie Ohr in radio intercepts. The tiny lapse shows that source is not Moscow but Langley, Virginia.
The notes from CIA and DOJ/FBI classified files, which Nellie Ohr compiled during her several months, during summer and autumn 2016, on the payroll of Fusion GPS while in Washington D.C.. Those materials were then “laundered” through Orbis for plausible deniability at the CIA. Fusion GPS paid the London-based firm more than $160,000, meaning the total budget for consultants, services, travel and communication was probably about a half-million dollars from the original source of funding (prior to DNC-Hillary, which was probably provided by a slush fund at the Clinton Foundation. To the heisted CIA material and forged information, Christopher Steele added his recollections from Donald Trump’s Miss Universe visits in 2013, supplemented by whatever hearsay picked up immediately after the contest. Examination of the dossier is similar to the findings from a forensic autopsy on Frankenstein’s monster: A lot of body parts that don’t fit together, laced together and patched with putty.
Open Source Works
Nellie Ohr’s inchoate and disorganized editing, in contrast to the minimal standards at any daily newspaper, reveals the sloppiness that’s the norm at her post inside the CIA bureau known as Open Source Works, which itself is highly classified and anything but open.
In the Gutenberg era, open source referred to media in print, publications, as in “Three Days of the Condor”, which cast Robert Redford as a CIA analyst assigned to reading spy novels in search of leaks of classified information. The category of Open Source has vastly expanded in the Cyber-Age due to the explosive growth of electronic information and data, for example, Facebook pages, blogs and websites, but also any data accessible to hackers, including back accounts, wire transfers, medical records, email accounts, and GPS locations attached to smartphone photos.
Private and even classified communications can be made Open Source by illegal interception or hacking and decryption, followed by disclosure through Wikileaks and Wikipedia, thereby scrubbed and transformed into “public information”, which can used to blackmail or silence targeted individuals. Open Source is now the major enterprise of the CIA in its effort to intimidate world leaders, corporate executives, military officers and media personalities. The Trump-Russia Dossier is an end-product of illicit CIA privacy violations, enhanced by selective editing and outright fabrication to incriminate the victim, in this case the President of the United States. The Frank Church amendments need to be upgraded to deal with terror by fake media, so that the offending bureaucrats and their political patrons can be locked away without access to cyberspace.
Follow the Money
Former DNC chairwoman Donna Brazile complained in her new book about being treated by Hillary insiders like a slave and denied a workable budget. Despite the penny-pinching to pay staff and expenses, the DNC and Hillary campaign generously forked over up to a half-million dollars for the Trump-Russia fabrication.
The financial bursar for both entities was Dennis Cheng, the secretive mandarin in the shadows, who previously served as chief development officer (fundraising treasurer) of the Clinton Foundation, and also as finance director for Hillary’s Senate race in New York State. Obviously, the non-for-profit Clinton Foundation, against U.S. Treasury regulations for nonprofits, was illegally used a political slush fund and for black operations behind the Trump-Russia Dossier. The DOJ and Treasury Department has never once challenged the fraudulent bookkeeping by Cheng and his staff.
The Buck Stops
Just how high up does the sponsorship of the Trump-Russia Dossier go?
Certainly, due to their management-level positions inside the Justice Department, Bruce and Nellie Ohr did not act on their own volition, not when hundreds of thousands up to millions of dollars were spent for the clandestine international effort to libel Trump and wage psychological warfare though the mainstream media.
There are only 6 degrees of separation between the Ohrs and President Barack Obama: Bruce and Nellie Ohr - DOJ Deputy Director Sally Quillian Yates ­ Attorneys General Loretta Lynch and Eric Holder ­ Director of National Intelligence James Clapper ­ White Chief of Staff Denis McDonough ­ and President Barack Obama.
Obama had to have known all along, even if the funding came from another (former) president, Bill Clinton. Former Attorney General Loretta Lynch insists that her tete-a-tete with Bill Clinton inside a private jet on the tarmac at Phoenix Sky Harbor Airport on 28 June 2016 did not touch on the following topics: Benghazi, Hillary’s email server and Brexit. The Attorney General’s list of denials, however, did not include the clandestine project being hatched inside her department, the Trump-Russia Dossier.
One question that now remains: Is Attorney General Jeff Sessions being paralyzed by Democrat “kompromat” (the Russian term for compromising material used for blackmail)? If so, he get out of the line of fire and return to civilian life immediately.
The near-total breadth and width of untrustworthy lawyers at DOJ/FBI means that the Trump administration has only one recourse: appoint a special crisis team from the military Judge Advocate General’s Corps (JAG) to take over control of the RFK Building in a crisis intervention on grounds of constitution principles. The CIA has long outlived any usefulness it might once have had, and should be shut down. Far more dangerous than any terrorist threat, the culprits behind the current fake news coup against the presidency should all be retired to a 5-star Caribbean resort like the one called Guantanamo. Orange is the new blue. Shackle them.
Taken from: http://www.rense.com/general96/howCIADOJ.html

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2017.08.23 04:47 Nitra0007 (NOT) CHECKMATE R/ALT_HAPA

u/25a5 piqued my interest by posting a shitton of hapas copypasta wherever u/JimCanuck goes. I don’t care much for JimCanuck (no offense) but I noticed this little gem in his post history, and the u/Tokyo_Moon hate, and decided to stir some shit. This is not a ‘DEFINITIVE REBUTTAL’, just a thorough nitpick.
So Let’s take a look at 1) The Definitive Rebuttal Against WMAF
Analyzing the Preface: Parts 1 and 2 of are standard fare.
Part 3) starts with the assumption that the majority of WMAF relationships, and thus WMAF as a whole is morally reprehensible.. This is backed by solid evidence, the anecdotal evidence from ET’s alts on hapas.
“But after being presented with hapa's experience, they deny it as false. ” -u/25a5 'alt-hapas or alt-alt-right'
I may be overly skeptical of hapas, but with the amount of well adjusted hapas I’ve met since my spat on hapas I could easily provide my own group of anecdotes. Doesn’t mean much. But the more crucial flaw is that the condemnation of WMAF as a whole is illogical because this is not an organized group or conspiracy but individuals acting independently upon their preferences (where these preferences come from may be problematic but that does not change that WMAF couples are not interrelated). Thus comparisons between WMAF and the Nazi Army (1) (no I’m not being hyperbolic) don’t work as one WMAF couple has little to do with another.
Part 4) Makes another crappy analogy. Tl:Dr Address all the points or GTFO.
Part 5) I have to use stats? No ad hominems. I’ll insult who I want, thank you. Pansy.
Part 6) The goal of u/25a5 is to bring WMAF down to ‘healthy levels’ similar to the intermarriage rates of other races. I will explain why this is bull below. (BOTH AM & AW intermarry more than average)
Analyzing Part 1: Part one states that the desirability of WM originates from colonialism rather than preference. However, the data shows that all women but black women find WM preferable, which I will detail below.
Analyzing Part 2: WMAF
The keystone to the first part of the argument comes from the book Dataclysm: of which we are given this chart: https://wilkes888.wordpress.com/2013/02/08/my-final-blog-entry-love-you-all/screenshot-2015-01-03-18-11-08-2/
While the data here is played off as AW being uniquely attracted to WM over all others, Latinas and White women also prefer WM the most, with only Black women ‘race loyal’. On OKCupid, Latinas and Asian women prefer men of their own race by 19% but prefer white men by 37% and 35%, making Latinas more ‘white-worshipping then WM”. Similar but less pronounced data comes from Match. But seeing that WM are given preference by all women but black women, doesn’t it make more sense to say that WM are desired by all but BW? I do not have the chart from dataclysm, but data from the facebook app ‘Are You Interested?’ shows that white, latina and asian women generally prefer white men and that white, latino and black men prefer asian women. Asian men prefer latinas, and Black women prefer black men. As WM and AF share biases towards each other, it makes sense that they would intermarry, making them the second most common interracial matchup after white/hispanic. Thus WMAF is not an anomaly, and it is the result of preference (rebuttal to 2a and 2b). {EDIT: OKCupid says that WM have a main preference for WW (10%) and a slight preference for AW (6%), less than are you interested, which sees AW as universally in demand. Thanks u/Celt1977}
Additionally, u/25a5 significantly rounds down AM intermarriage from 21% to 16% and AW up from 36% to 37%. Quite the subtle dishonesty. This makes AM more likely to intermarry than whites or black women and less likely to intermarry than Latinos/as and AW. In fact Asian males intermarry above the average of 17%. This means Asians in general are more likely to intermarry, but that white preferences for AW make it easier for AW to marry out. Edit: u/25a5 was using data from 2013 in a 2015 article, I was using data from 2014-15 in a 2017 article. I apologize for the misunderstanding.
2c falls apart. It states WMAF is not a resultant of the environment when: “Honolulu has the highest share of intermarried newlyweds of any major metropolitan area in the U.S. Four-in-ten newlyweds in Honolulu (42%) are married to someone of a different race or ethnicity, followed by newlyweds living in the Las Vegas (31%) and Santa Barbara, California (30%) metro areas. At the same time, just 3% of newlyweds in or around Asheville, North Carolina, and Jackson, Mississippi, are intermarried.” (Pew) WC & Hawaii have high levels of intermarriage, the Deep South low levels. Geography and sociology within the US does play a hand.
2d) People fall in love, especially those attracted to each other.
2e) Most cultures have been patriarchal. China didn’t treat their women well, neither did whitey.
Part 3) More anecdotes of Hapa killers. Not needed to address.
The second part, a study showing increased mental illness in hapas is interesting. The study is of 125 hapas vs asian americans, not WMAF vs Asian americans. https://www.ucdavis.edu/news/biracial-asian-americans-and-mental-health?id=8732. We don’t know enough if this is bad for WMAF or ALL HAPAs or neither.
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