The bar stool racists informed me I’d be a minority in fewer than five years. No, they’ve not developed a cellular ray gun that’ll -- poof! -- instantly turn me into an African American or a Hispanic, which would be kind of cool if any such gun existed and wound up in mischievous hands.
“I’m telling you, in about four years the white man in America is going to be a minority,” he gravely intoned. “We'll be outnumbered. And if Obama gets elected, the first thing he’ll do is redistrict so the blacks in the ghettos’ll have all the power. And what are you gonna do then?”
Well, if history’s a reliable guide, I’m guessing I’ll start smooching a whole lot more black and Hispanic butt. That’s been my pattern with anyone who’s in any position of power. Sure, it hasn’t helped me get ahead in any single situation, but it hasn’t tossed me any farther behind so I’m guessing it’s a wash at worst.
In truth, I’ve always tried to go out of my way to be extra nice to minorities. I think they have it so difficult and that so many racists hate them just for being born that I take it upon myself to show them that, after centuries of ancestral hatreds, at least the Rodells are friendly folk.
To me, it’s a truly affirmative action.
Of course, that’s nothing that the bar stool racists want to hear. Your typical bar stool racist is never going to listen to positive solutions. They’d rather wallow in hate and ignorance and go about their mean little lives.
That’s why I knew my most potent solution was going to be so tough for them to swallow. But it’s the only truly proactive solution that is guaranteed to prolong white superiority -- and for the purposes of this discussion I mean that from a purely numeric point of view.
“Boys, if you’re really serious about doing something about maintaining a white majority, here's what you do. Go home right now, fill your wives and girlfriends full of fertility drugs and make passionate love to them over and over again.”
This is a profound logic. Yet, it was greeted with an awkward silence and I knew exactly why.
Most bar stool racists like these -- ones that aren’t already divorced or dateless -- are mired in marriages so loveless that their memories of passion are more distant than the memory of their first tattoos.
That kind of advice is absolutely contrary to the bar racist’s entire way of life. In fact, it’s doubtful you’ll even find the words “make love” any place in the whole bar racist playbook. They’d rather talk about hurt than hugs.
And I’m sure their wives and girlfriends suffer for it. If I could, I’d help them, too. It saddens me to know anyone’s going through life so distant from joyful affections.
But that’s not my job, not when there are so many bar stool racists that need guys like me around to shine a little light and show them, conversely, there’s nothing wrong with a little dark. Not to mention that if my wife ever found out, my own marriage would suddenly and pitifully be a lot more loveless.
Still, it won’t distract me from my message, one that works for anyone interested in a winning the race war.
Remember, in every instance, make love, not hate.
I’d like to go on but, hey, I’ve got to pack. My sister-in-law’s getting married in Virginia Beach this weekend and we’re all invited! Regular readers of this blog (Hiya, Ronnie!) know how sentimental I am about weddings.
I’ve been weeping about this one ever since Val told me I had to go.