JAYSON BLAIR'S LAST ARTICLE This was to be filed shortly before Jayson Blair, the greatest young minority writer in America, was summerily discharged from the Right Wing New York Times. The sheer genius of his writing, his ability to communicate feelings, his sentence structure and uses of punctuation, particulary his use of the comma to convey the confusion in Pakistan; and his rare gift for discription are always present in this, his final byline for the New York Times.

Bin Laden a Heroic Figure Even in Decline in this ESCLUSIVE interview
by Jayson Blair, special to the New York Times

(Somewhere in Pakistan, May 5) All of his six foot seven inch frame, filled the entrance to the secret cave, I had been taken to, blind folded, hands cuffed in front of me, by camel, from a secret outpost in Afghanisgtan. I was shivvering but Osama binLadin shook not at all, a tower of menace, kindly loving eyes cast upon my humble being a black man in a world of bigotry and hate..

He squatted regally, like a King on an invisible throne, and asked me do you smoke black infidel pig? I told him that tobacco, niccotine, liquor, and drugs of any kind never passed my lips he nodded and smiled knowing he could talk to me man to man in complete confidence not knowing I had a tape recorder concealed inside one of my false molars at great prsonal risk of dying a horrible death.

He began to speak of the desert, not Palm Springs but of Arabia and the "Allah cursed Saudi family and their pig ugly women in Switzerland, their whores in Paris, and their sisters all over the globe who need oil money to sustain their lifestyles, their clothing bills, and other things I will not mention." I wasn't shocked because I am a man of the mean streets, the ghettos spawned by the evil Bush Administration, the discrimination in employment practiced by white America except at the New York Times, the end of the rainbow, the bottom of the abyss, and the rhelm of Kodor. Bin Ladin spoke of peace without America, without the evil George Bush, and I was reminded of my mother back in Philadelphia or somewhere playing tennis with a pimp and hoping her jones for the evil weed didn't devour her before she could cop some skank and binLadin would understnand with those loving eyes and maybe blow up the tennis courts for her.

Then he abruptly rose and disappeared into the night a figure of power and hope for the masses, a figure of fear for, George Bush and the gutless Republicans in Washington, would rue the day for, and would fight to the ends of the earth and never win nothing.

By Jayson Blair