White privilege: now, just what again is that? I may have to go to my heavy hitter, the 14-year-old Small Daughter, to have that one splayned to me. White privilege to me is like the Abominable Snowman; it’s a big white monster that so many insist exists, but nobody has ever actually seen it, other than Yukon Cornelius, Rudolph the red-nosed reindeer, and that neurotic closet-dentist Herbie the elf. Herbie doesn’t like to make toys. Herbie doesn’t give a **(BKAE)shit(BKAE); Herbie wants to be a dentist. Be more like Herbie.
Again, most of my white associates say they have never experienced it (WP), but somebody out there somewhere has to be lying, because there is so much complaining about it. Could it be me who is lying?
I have a confession to make: I never actually learned these seven languages that I speak. They were actually passed to me under the table by some Free Masons with their index fingers over their lips—shhhhhhhhh!
For the Green Beret Qualification Course, I won that slot in a closed lottery, and then I even showed up months late, missing all the really hard stuff.
As for that Combat Diver Qualification Course, I had a coupon for that, so that badge arrived the same week as my Pastor’s license, through the mail from Sacramento CA, the state voted the most hoped in the Union to break off and sink into the Pacific; dost thou even swim?
Delta Force, they flagged all the red tape because I am such a (BKAE)Goddamned(BKAE) awesome frikin’ dude, who is really entertaining when he is drunk. I carry a laminated ‘White Card.’ Gets me ten percent off of my grocery bill, gets me pennies off of each gallon of gasoline, and free movies at Red Box–savings!
“I’m sorry Sir, you can’t park here; it’s a fire lane.”
(Flips out White Card): “Um… so how about now officer, hmmmmm?”
“Oh… my bad, Misterrrrrrr… Hand; have a nice day Mr. Hand.”
“Regrets Sir, Walmart is completely sold out of the X-Box 12 for the Holidays.”
“Are you sure you didn’t, say, misplace one in back somewhere, hmmmmm?” (displaying White Card).
“Oh well, Misterrrrrrr… Hand, it appears one may have slipped down between two pallets in the freight room; here you go, and no charge!”
Oh, it gets better:
“…and so, it was decided at the very office of the Dean himself, that the Massachusetts Institute of Technology does hereby award Mr. White—I mean Hand… Mr. Hand… this honorary PHd in Computer Science!”
“Woah…THANKS!”
“Your honor, we the jury, do find the defendant, George E. Hand IV, guilty of mass murder in the third degree.”
“You’re honor, the defendant wishes to make his White Card presentation to the court; permission to approach the bench?”
“You make approach, council.”
“Charges dismissed; this court is adjourned!” *Bang!*
“I’m sorry Misterrrrrrr… Hand, Northrup Grumman is no longer hiring for that position.” =FLIP= Welcome Geo, can you start tomorrow?!?”
Where does one acquire said White Card? Order it from Battle Creek Michigan with four box tops from Kellogg’s Corn Flakes. (allow three weeks for delivery)
Ladies and gentlemen, I implore us all to stop being asses! Are we overcome by the utterly asinine premise of this whole thing? But it’s all true, you say?
Let me spell it out for us all using purely binary inputs: (just… stay with me here; this will all be over soon)
There is such thing as the White Card. FALSE; there is no such thing as it, it’s not even a thing.
The Wizard of Oz monkeys are flying out of my ass. TRUE; every last one of them.
I went so far as to explain it in this simple block of C++ code I scripted for ye more spirited players, cut/paste in compiler/assembler and run; ha ha ha, I know.
#include
//#include
#include
using namespace std;
int main() {
int count = 0;
while (count <= 1000) {
cout
<< “Please enter validity of White Card value as ‘true’ or ‘false’, and press enter.”
<> input;
cout << “You entered ” << input << “.” << endl;
if (input == “false”) {
cout
<< “Correct; That card will exist the same day that the Wizard of Oz Monkeys fly out of my ass!”
<< endl;
} else if (input == “true”) {
cout
<< “Incorrect; that card will exist the day that the Wizard of Oz Monkeys fly out of my ass!”
<< endl;
}
count = count + 1;
cout << count << endl;
}
return 0;
}
So at some point between now and when I joined the army, I became known as a racist, but it wasn’t that time the bro in the chow hall called me the white bastard… but so then when was it? My DD-214 reflects it plain as day under Special Skills and Qualifications. But I’m at a loss to recall having attended the academy.
One of my bros tried to assure me that I was not a racist. When I asked him how he could be so certain, he replied: “Well, because I’m one, and you’re never at any of the meetings.” I remember seeing an ad in Blue Boy magazine a long time ago: “Be a racist, or at least just look like one!” But damnit I’m Holistically, Indubitably, and Vehemently (HIV) positive I DID NOT send away for it; I didn’t have enough corn flake box tops for that.
I voted this past Tuesday. The clerk took my ballot and filed it: “Thank you for voting!” and he handed me a sticker. Well there you have it; I tried to topple an entire non-racist regime… and all I got for it was this crummy little sticker. I slapped my ‘I voted’ sticker on my bumper and stepped back to admire it. To my horror it read “White Power”. Oh, monstrous, monstrous, how did they know? My head is spinning; make it stop!
I dropped to my knees and looked up at the sky shaking my fists at the heavens: “Why Lord, Why Me!!! A hand lay gently on my shoulder as I gaze up to a pair of warm faces. “Come with us, George. You called for help, and we are here to help you.”
“Help would be niiiiiiiice.” I nodded wildly through blubbering. And they lead me do a door, where Rod Serling was standing with his hands neatly clasped over his lap, cigarette smoldering in a glass ashtray on a small table to his side.
“Rod… Rod I fear you more than the other two specters before you.”
“Are you talking to me, George… ARE YOU TALKING TO ME??” (looks left then right) “Well I don’t see no other specters here but you and me, so you must be talking to me!” And he opened the door and stepped aside. I don’t actually remember walking in, but there I was, nonetheless, IN.
“Good day, Misterrrrrr-uh, Hand. We understand that you are here today to denounce and rid yourself of the scourge of the GOP-induced racism that you were born into. It is first and foremost necessary to know that you are not a bad person. You were born into your racism, much like a baby is born into the hells of methamphetamine addiction from his addicted mother.”
“We’re here to detox you, rehabilitate you, and start you off on a whole new productive life, born again into a democratic life. It is essential that you learn to love yourself again. Please now, take out and drop your White Card into the container to your right, and place your fire arm on the table. =clink… click-CLACK, thud=
In the dressing room behind you you will find new clothes to wear.
I entered the booth. I doffed my Polo single-breast-pocketed, collared Earth-tone shirt, and donned the provided Hawaiian floral smock. Man, this yellow hurts my eyes… I pulled off my Royal Robins .511 Tactical cargo pocket trousers, and slipped on some oh, so-too-tight Jordash Designer jeans. My Solomon Cross-Trail foot gear was replaced by Uggs for ‘men’.
My black Cassio G-Shock watch became a bright red Swatch that didn’t work, and my Spyderco serrated blade was traded for a dull emery board and white hanky. I’ll miss my Spyderco… and I hummed the Spiderman jingle with my own words: Spyderco, Spyderco, only goes where the spiders go…
“What’s the apron for?” says I, with arched brow. “Oh, just hang onto that for now; you’ll be needing it very soon, Mister Hand. “Here is your registration card for the Democratic Convention.” I took the card from the outstretched hand but dropped it immediately. “Agghhh! MY GOD IT BURNS… IT BURNS!!” I cried out.
One of the Tweedles, though I am loathe to admit, I am quite unclear if it was Dee or Dum, slipped the card into the back pocket of my Jordashs, but with great difficulty. “Umph… there you go!”
“Hey, what about my money clip; can I get that back from my .511s?”
“Certainly. Here you go, Mister Hand.”
“But, all my cash that was in it… where’s all my cash?”
“You won’t be needing that anymore, George. Here, these are for you.”
“And my truck keys, where are my truck keys… I need to leave, I need to leave very soon… I’ll be late for work!” I whimpered.
“Oh, you won’t be going to work anymore now, Mister Hand.” and he thrust a picket sign in my hand that read “Give us Free Shit” in bold black letters. “THIS… is your job now, Mister Hand, THIS IS YOUR NEW FULL-TIME OCCUPATION NOOOOWWWWW GEORGIE PORGIE PUDDING AND PIIIIIIIIIIEEEEEE!!!”
I let the sign drop =SMACK= “No… no… I , I won’t do it. You can’t make me do it!”
“YES WE CAN, MISTER GEORGE EDWARD HAND IV, YES WE CAAAAAAAAN!! BWAH-HA-HA-HA-HA-HA-HA-HA-HA-HA-HA-HA-HA!!!!!
I routed Mr. warmth with a hard over-hand right, turned and raced for the door. Rodney saw me. He spit his cigarette onto the ground and tried to slam the door on me, but I already had enough of my body out that I overpowered him. As I darted by him I shouted: “Imagine if you will… MY ASS!”
From somewhere a siren blared loudly. Dem’uns from all sides closed in on me. I tried to run away but my jeans were just too stinking tight, and my Uggs offered no arch support whatsoever.
“We are for you, Mister Hand” they chanted as they closed in, and in, and… and I woke up.
I stood breathing heavily in the center of my room. I looked around. I cracked open my bedroom door and looked down the hall… nothing. Standing at my window I jerked back the curtains, threw out the sash, and looked down to the snowy street below.
“Boy… BOY, WHAT DAY IS THIS?!?” I shouted below, but there was no boy to be found; there would be no prized Christmas Goose for the Cratchets this year. I’ll fire that lazy son-of-a-bitch Bob Cratchet, and Tiny Tim… yeah well he can suck it!”
I was back, yeah back at last. It had only been a dream, just a dream, I tells ya!
Create my own demise? I Sir, or Ma’am, did NOT. I was born at the hand of God (no pun) as George Edward Hand IV. I was born by fate into an empty slot that was tagged “Future Racist; Will Explain Upon Arrival” So you see I had no play in the matter, not a hound in that fight. No Sir, that dog just wasn’t gonna hunt.
Yeah Bruce, I was boooooorn in the USA! My baby spirit meandered about lazily in lofty ether capacious, until it was at last beckoned by a heavenly coaxing: “Republican Racist, party of one… Republican Racist, no waiting.”
I was hungry and cranky. I just wanted to be born and breath some air… get this chord cut, for Christ’s sake. I’ll take any table you got—whaaaaaaaaa!!
And Bruce, I never hated the yellow man, or the brown man, or the black man, but as sure as there are Thibodauxs in the Ville Plate Phonebook, they sure seem to hate me.
In closing I would like to go on record as saying: “I don’t mind having lunch with a Star-Bellied Sneetch, and it’s even ok if one marries my daughter.”
geo sends
**(BKAE): Brian Kimber Authorized Epithet
(turn up volume)
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lZD4ezDbbu4
Featured Image courtesy of the film ‘American History X’
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