Maya Angelou was a rough, brutal brothel owner and prostitute herself.
She was a nasty piece of work, like most of the people we are told are saints and heroes we should admire.
Barry Soetoro was a teenage man whore according to his close friends who never held a day job.
Nelson Mandela was in jail because he planned and executed bombings of children's school buses.
When Martin Luther King stepped out on that balcony for a cigarette, the bug planted by the FBI in his hotel room recorded the weeping of the two underage white prostitutes he had just been slapping around during sex.
The world is run by sordid, unstable psychotics and sociopathic monsters. They sing each others praises when one of them dies. They say wonderful things about people who really weren't even human beings. If you did a CT scan of these people's brains you'd see a dark shadow where the frontal lobes should go on a real person.
Maya Angelou administered some ugly beatings with a strap to "trouble" girls in her brothel. Police were called on more than one occasion. She was a foul mouthed, foul tempered pimp, procurer and hard drinking profiteer who traded in human misery.
This was a woman who pretended to be shocked at the inhumanity in the world. She herself was an oppressor and an expression of that inhumanity.
She was a talentless hack and her tortured prose would not pass muster for a third grade creative writing assignment under any normal conditions.
It is bad enough that the bad guys and bad girls run Sapiens planet. To really sprinkle salt in the wound, they are a mutual admiration society that covers for one another when they die, claiming the angels themselves are weeping at the loss of their fellow self-righteous egomaniacal fruitcakes.