Back in 1987, I heard my first Public Enemy song. Soon after that, I had become convinced that I was partly black and had to hate John Wayne and fight the white man.

For about a week, I strutted around invoking the name of Huey Newton and spewing the rhetoric of black nationalism. I was what every beat cop feared — a young, angry, black youth. Only, I was not black. But seeing as that had never stopped the Beastie Boys or Bryant Gumbel, the rest was semantics.

It ended when my mom sat me down and reminded me my grandfather was whiter than flour and so was half of me, the other half being Mexican. Then she took away my Public Enemy tapes until I had “reached an age and mental maturity where I could enjoy the music while understanding the message and not the commercialism.”

I'm still waiting for my tapes. And sometimes, I still claim to be black. But only when I am not telling people I am descended from Samurai.

When Comedy Central announced it was featuring Flavor Flav in its next roast, I was ecstatic and started to creep back into my militant phase, going so far as to inform my wife that I knew she married me only for the jungle fever.

The Comedy Central roasts have never failed in their attempt to provide a beautiful display of callow humor and potty-mouth frivolity. The recent verbal dismemberment of ancient entertainer Flavor Flav was no exception.

These specials are like the coagulant goodness that prevents a bleed-out from the open wound that is the current world of stand-up. Because for every George Lopez or Kat Williams, there is a Joe Rogan or Dane Cook.

While the content of the Flav roast came nowhere near the perverse gratuity shown in the Pamela Anderson roast, or had anything close to the kind of creative sexual euphemisms and imaginative use of the word vagina as seen in the William Shatner roast, it still had me rolling.

Or maybe it was in the Denis Leary roast with all the vaginas. Regardless, they used vagina a lot, and it made me fall off my chair, I laughed so hard.

 Even sans vagina, the roast had the second-closest thing, Carrot Top. Who, surprisingly, was pretty funny and managed not to screw up the jokes. But Lisa Lampanelli stole the show, as she always does. Even Brigitte Nielsen's weak attempt at humor did very little damage. What surprised me was there was no Andy Dick. Because, come on, we can all use a little Andy every now and then.

All we can do now is wait because there is sure to be another roast on the horizon. My prediction is Cheech Marin or George Lopez. This way, I can get pumped up and pretend I am a Mexican. Wait, I am Mexican ..... mostly. Or halfly.

Unless the next one's for Bob Saget, then I would have to pretend I am half douche bag.