So I know you’ve all been getting pretty worked up about some statements I made a couple days ago. But let me assure you, the whole thing was a big misunderstanding, I swear. I love black people. After white people, they’re probably my favorite race. I have so many black friends. Like at least three. Would a racist even have one black friend? You tell me. 

In every movie that I’m in, I always make sure there’s at least one black person casted. Did you see the black guy in the background of Taken 2, an hour and 12 minutes in? That was all me. And in that movie Widows, I literally make out with Viola Davis. It wasn’t a stunt double, and it wasn’t CGI. It was 100% me. I didn’t cry that much beforehand, and I didn’t throw up after, which are the two main indicators in determining if someone’s racist. I rest my case.

Sure, sometimes, I have the sudden urge to kill my black friends. Everything will be normal, and then a little voice inside my head will start telling me to drive to the nearest Party City, buy one of those spears that come with those gladiator costumes, and skewer my black friend like a kebab. But don’t we all have friends that we want to kill every now and again? I’m sure the last time Jacob said he would split the uber ride with you but then “forgot” to Venmo you, you wanted to strangle the living daylights out of him with your bare hands. Or like when Emma took a little too long in the shower even though you specifically told her you had to pee, you probably thought about throwing your toaster right in the water and ending her. How is this any different?

And every night before my black friends go to sleep, I even call to wish them good night. Yes, I also say that I have a very particular set of skills, skills I have acquired over a very long career. Skills that make me a nightmare for people like them. And yeah, I let them know I will look for them, I will find them, and I will kill them. But we all have our love languages, right?