Posts Tagged ‘race-baiting
One of the most interesting dinners we had last year after the election was on the Southside of Chicago, in the home of a very prominent member of the black community here — someone, like Hillary Clinton herself, who we would literally go to the gates of Hell and back for. We love this person, but were always very careful about criticizing Jesse Jackson, Al Sharpton, Henry Gates, or the other national race hucksters around her because, simply, she’s black and all of us are white guys. We had no idea where she stood on Jackson, and never wanted to get into any racial issues with her.
Well, imagine our surprise when at that table she and the dozen or so others, mainly black, around her all let into not only Jackson and Sharpton but Dr. Utopia, too.
The general consensus was that Dr. Utopia had spoiled it for everyone, but it would take Americans a while to realize it.
They were, of course, talking about the Race Industry — something black people have profited from in one way or another for a long time, and not just the Jacksons and Sharptons and their ilk. “White guilt” has been a powerful tool for black community development for a very long time — an effective and easy to use tool, for those in the know who knew how to push all the right buttons and handle things the most manipulative way.
Al Sharpton and Jesse Jackson were just the most blatant in what they do. They literally go to corporate America and extort millions of dollars for their fictitious charities…where charity most certainly starts and finishes in the opulence of their own homes. As the article above notes, Sharpton and Jackson team up, head over to a company they seemingly pick from the phone book, accuse them of having too few black people working there, and then demand a payoff for “consulting fees in the area of diversity training” to halt any plans this dynamic duo have for picketing and protesting the company and generally shutting down business operations as usual.
Those of us in Chicago recognize these tactics because it’s more or less the sort of thing another Al, with the surname Capone, used to do…and it was lucrative for him, too. Capone would visit legitimate businesses and tell them they weren’t safe enough…that they were in danger of burning to the ground…that their employees were very likely to be riddled with bullets…and that there weren’t enough of Capone’s protectees working there. The business either paid the “consulting fees” to Capone and did as he said, or it was burned to the ground.
The more things change, the more they stay the same. Sharpton and Jackson aren’t arsonists, but they do their level best to bring down reputations in flames, whenever someone doesn’t pay up.
A tier below Sharpton and Jackson are the Henry Gates and Spike Lee race-baiters, who make their fortunes by encouraging racial grievances in the form of “scholarship” or “art”. Gates is a well-paid Harvard professor who race-baits to pay the bills; Harvard indulges him, lets him teach whole courses on grievance, and gives him a platform to wail and scream from. Lee makes millions of dollars from his victimhood movies, and generates constant attention for himself by accusing everyone under the sun of being racist. RAAACIST!
For all of these men, shouting RAAACIST! as loud as they can has been the equivalent of parrots squawking for crackers. The louder they squawk, the more they are fed. The more innocent people they accuse of being RAAACISTS!, the more media attention they get. For Gates, that attention means more speaking engagements and book deals. For Lee, that means bigger box office for his latest tripe. For Sharpton and Jackson, that attention means more fear to strike into the hearts of corporate America…since these two clowns are only powerful so long as Ivy League idiots in their Brooks Brothers finest actually live in terror of their exploits.
Now, most of you out there can see this part of the Race Industry, and it’s what the article talks about. But what you don’t see are the good people in the black community who use white guilt and liberal fools to do real good in poor, urban areas…good they could never do if wealthy people weren’t so easy to manipulate with racial narratives.
There are an awful lot of liberals who live in gated communities who like telling people how often they watch Oprah, how happy they are Halle Berry and Denzel Washington and Cuba Gooding Jr. and Whoopi Goldberg won Oscars, how gleeful they were to vote for Dr. Utopia, and how much they think Mrs. Utopia is the world’s greatest fashion icon. These people would never be caught dead south of the Loop, unless they are attending an art gallery opening in Hyde Park or taking a class at University of Chicago. But, they also love telling all their friends how they donated this or that sum to “those poor black people on the Southside”.
Instead of hitting these people on the head with Capone-style racial cudgels, there are smarter Race Industry experts who manipulate gullible liberals to hand over large sums to community projects that actually need that money.
And you know what, more power to these people. While we despise Sharpton, Jackson, Gates, and Lee, we love the people who work so hard for so little personally, devoting their lives to milking white guilt for all its worth…to actually improve black communities.
These people are playing the hands they are dealt expertly, and we have to admire that.
But, Dr. Utopia has been a critical blow to the Race Industry…a hole in the ship that’s going to sink it in time. No one knows how long that will take, but those on the ground know it’s coming.
There were many people in the black community who did not want Dr. Utopia to win…because the black community at large invested everything they had in this one man, who was the wrong man to put all their trust in. Dr. Utopia will not do a damn thing for the black community. But, by racializing the 2008 campaign to the extent Dr. Utopia and his followers did…and by insisting anyone who didn’t vote for him was RAAACIST! and anyone who criticizes anything he does is RAAACIST! and anyone who thinks of opposing him or his socialist agenda is RAAACIST!, these people have evaporated 99% of white guilt.
Only the most left of the Leftists still feel any white guilt, now that we have “the historic first black president”.
All those old lines about “the man” keeping black people down and not helping black people get anywhere ring hollow with “the historic first black president” in the White House.
What are the excuses now?
It’s harder to use any of the old tricks on those wealthy liberals, too, because they assume the “historic first black president” is actually doing things for the black community. Because, the logic dictates, if he’s not, then who on Earth would? If these liberals worked so hard to put Dr. Utopia in office and create the “historic first black president”, these liberals think that “historic first black president” should actually be doing something…anything…for the black community.
And if he’s got that job covered, then these liberals are now free to do other things.
Their great burden has been lifted…conveniently at a time when their stocks are down and incomes have dropped considerably.
The black community is now largely on its own…inconveniently at a time when its longtime supporters believe the government should now take their place as patron at large for urban community projects.
We’re in unprecedented territory with all of this, but within a few years, watch Sharpton, Jackson, Gates, Lee, and their ilk be out of business. It’s not going to happen overnight, but people are going to start loudly asking why all this hucksterism is still going on when there’s a black president…one who wins Nobel Prizes and all sorts of elite awards…so what more does the black community want?
They have a Nobel Prize winning black president who said he was going to solve everyone’s problems.
So, what is he doing?
Corporations will ultimately grow spines and fight back against Sharpton and Jackson, in particular, because all the cries of RAAACISM! have cheapened and diluted the accusation itself. If everyone in this country is RAAACIST, then nobody is.
Anyone who supported Hillary Clinton or McCain/Palin against Dr. Utopia last year was called a RAAACIST. That, combined, is more than half the country, counting the primaries and general election. If not drinking the Kool-Aid and accepting Dr. Utopia as our new personal savior makes people RAAACISTS, then why would anyone fear being called a RAAACIST again?
When we were younger, being called a FAG! was a big deal.
It was a scary, scary thing to be called that on the playground, with all attention suddenly thrust on us. We’d spend the next few weeks watching every hand gesture, noting the tone of our voices, editing our speech to ensure we weren’t doing, saying, or even thinking anything, ANYTHING, that could warrant another blast of FAG! in our general direction. It was exhausting, terrifying, and life-altering.
But, somewhere along the way FAG! was overused so much it became meaningless. True, moving from Ohio or Pennsylvania into the big city of Chicago has a lot to do with that, since there are many, many more gay men here than there were back home, so there’s safety in numbers. You shout FAG! in Boystown and dozens of guys will turn around thinking you’re talking to them. Not that you should ever do that, but you get the point. Even people who aren’t gay will turn around and look at you, if only to see how stupid you are for shouting something like that.
It’s a onetime crippling pejorative that’s been turned into a joke.
RAAACIST! is the same thing, a joke. After its overuse in 2008, and its continued abundance in all things Sharpton-Jackson-Gates-Lee-Holder-Clyburne-Lewis-etc., calling anyone a RAACIST! has absolutely no meaning at all.
Just like us with the word FAG!, it’s going to take most people a while, maybe a few years, to stand up and laugh back in the faces of those doing the shouting. There’s still that knee jerk reaction to cower and run for cover whenever RAACISM! is tossed around, but with this happening so often, every time Sharpton and Jackson get at it takes more of the punch out of the word.
It will be only a matter of time before the whole Race Industry collapses, no matter how many bailouts the White House and the current president try to give it.
This is something that will evolve over the next few years that we find fascinating and remarkable: black politicians, relgious leaders, and downright race-baiters like Al Sharpton et al. are slowly waking up to the reality that none of their old tricks are going to work anymore.
Jesse Jackson Jr., here in Chicago, seems positively stunned he’s being called out on his bad behavior as of late: something unthinkable just a year or so ago, when race-baiting was a threat used effectively to keep scrutiny at bay. Get to close to calling a corrupt black politician or holy man out, and bellows of RAAAAAACIST! filled the air.
We have good friends in the black community here in Chicago who noted a month or so ago that the very worst thing the black community ever did for itself was dumping all of their eggs into Dr. Utopia’s basket, without realizing he was never going to do anything for them in return. “White guilt” was always something the black community effectively used in its favor — and the threat of calling someone racist for standing in the way of something the black community wanted was a real and well-used tool in their community’s repertoire. But, shouting RAAAACIST! RAAAAACIST! RAAAAAAAACIST! doesn’t work anymore. There is a black president now, and thus black people can — as evidence attests — reach the highest pinnacles of our society and can indeed live in the White House. Claiming “the man” holds you back no longer works when you are now “the man”.
Jesse Jackson Jr. is being investigated for giving his wife close to $250,000 in campaign funds. John Edwards is being investigated for giving his mistress approximately the same amount of money (or possibly even more). Two crooks of different colors being investigated by the government. This is post-racial equality, people, where both are being held to the same standard for their despicable behavior.
And Jackson, for one of the first times in his life, is not able to scream RAAAAACIST! and get away with this anymore.
White guilt was all used up in 2008. That is not 100% clear yet, but will be soon enough. As more time goes on with Dr. Utopia in the White House and Mrs. Utopia on the cover of just about every magazine imaginable, it will be interesting to see what happens to the black community now that its most effective tool has been rendered moot and useless in this new Golden Age of Hope and Change. Without the constant fear of being called a racist, perhaps now people who normally would have looked the other way whenever Jackson or some other black politician had ethical problems will instead critically ask what he was indeed up to. Without white guilt to keep them quiet, maybe now more people will tell Al Sharpton to shut the F up whenever he launches into one of his incredulous rages. Most harmful to the black community of all, and something we still think is about 10 years away, is the day when Americans at large believe the black community should be on its own, without any more excuses, because no one is holding them back but themselves.
When the next generation of voters comes of age, having lived through the Golden Age and remember Dr. Utopia’s term as president, how will they reconcile having a black president with the black community’s continued insistence that they are being held back and need affirmative action and other government support? How can victimhood be reconciled with the Utopia presidency? Why didn’t Dr. Utopia solve the black community’s problems, when he told he world he had the power to lower the oceans, fix the holes in the ozone, and save the planet from global warming?
Ironically, the people who race-voted in unprecedented numbers to send Dr. Utopia to the White House are the ones who will, in the end, have lost all their mojo and favorite political tools because his “historic presidency” means race-baiting’s effectiveness is now indeed history.
There’s a very good chance Jesse Jackson Jr. could go to jail for either his campaign finances or his attempted purchase of the Illinois Senate seat. If that happens, so unthinkable just a year or so ago, the look on his face will be priceless…as will Al Sharpton’s and the other race-baiters’ when they all realize they unintentionally contributed to the changing of all the tired old rules.
I was never going to share this story because I felt it was way too personal, even for me, but sometimes the universe brings you the wrong French toast and you realize what happened to you is part of a larger pattern out there that most people probably never realize exists, so no matter how stupid I feel in sharing this, maybe it will help someone else avoid what happened to me, and now to someone else I know too.
This past Christmas Eve, I was in New York on a trip that just kept getting extended by terrible weather in the Midwest. I had originally flown in for the “Conversation with Hillary Clinton” event hosted by America Ferara on December 15th, and planned on leaving the next day or so to head back to Chicago for the holidays, where I have my own little traditions in a city I love, especially at Christmas (take that, Elazar Bogomilsky in Seattle!).
Well, my friend Robby’s sister Ann-Louise lives in New York, and I’ve known her for 15 years or so, and she offered her couch to me instead of staying in a hotel (for the ulterior motive that Ann-Louise was having an epideral on her back December 16th and needed someone to take her to the doctor and back, and also to wait on her for the next few days while she recovered). Ann-Louise alienates most people she knows eventually and has always been the sort of “friend” I’ve had in life who I know I can’t really count on for anything – because at best I’d only be a special guest star in whatever drama she was having that day. Some people decide to be more recurring than others in Ann-Louise’s dramas (audience of one). Others get new agents and never look back.
Well, I ended up staying with Ann-Louise through almost Christmas because of her back, and then the fact that so much snow kept whalluping the Midwest that I couldn’t catch a flight back to Chicago, as every flight I booked myself on was repeatedly canceled. Finally, Ann-Louise had a hedgefund manager coming to town to take the next shift in her drama, so I got booted from her couch and was going to stay in a hotel by a good friend from college named Damy (who was headed to Puerto Rico for Christmas), offered me her place instead of a hotel, which was awesome of her. I’ve let her stay with me every time she’s had to come to Chicago on business, so Damy was happy to return the favor…but she warned me that her neighborhood was a little sketchy, north up near Harlem, and that it definitely was a part of New York I had never spent any amount of time in (since I’d only been to Harlem twice, for a meal at Sylvia’s and a visit to President Clinton’s offices a few years ago).
I finally decided to fly back to Chicago on Christmas Day, so in the meantime I worked with various people I met at the Hillary event to do what we could to stop HRH Princess Caroline of Kennedy from being named Clinton’s replacement in the Senate. I had several days of driving around New York state with some of these people, trying to find Princess Caroline at an appearance somewhere, to get the chance to ask her questions I knew she couldn’t answer and prove to all New Yorkers she had no business insisting on that Senate seat (unfortunately, we never encountered her, despite our best efforts, and at least one whole afternoon camped out in Bergdorf’s waiting for her in her usual jewelry department territory).
On Christmas Eve, I was invited to different parties these Clinton supporters were having, but begged off all of them intending instead to have a politics-free, lovely evening in New York of my own design, with a nice dinner somewhere and either the musical production of White Christmas (RAAAAAAACIST!) or a movie in the evening, followed by, I’m sure, various holiday-spiced shenannigans at Posh or one of the other LGBTQ bars I like in Manhattan (because, if you haven’t realized this yet, there is no place more fun on any holiday than a gay bar where guys who’ve spent too much time in awkward holiday-related “celebrations” with family go to laugh at the absurdity of it all and have an awesome time judgmental Aunt Stella and fundamentalist Grandma Millie-free…complete, on Christmas, with de regeur “worst snowman, Santa, or reindeer sweater ever” contests).
Ann-Louise texted me, however, upset the hedgefund manager broke things off with her for the 100th time, leaving her alone on Christmas Eve, except for the large party she was throwing in her apartment with people from her building and friends of hers from NYU that I’ve never liked. I felt bad for her, and was also appreciative of her letting me stay with her for those few days, so I agreed to come and asked her, very early in the day Christmas Eve, if I could pick up anything for her party. She told me she had everything she needed, including a whole case of wine, but I asked again if I could bring anything. Once again, she said she had everything she needed, and I let it drop and went about my day intending to go to her party at 7pm that night on Christmas Eve.
Well, this was the first instance that day where I knew I should have trusted my instincts and just bought a few bottles of wine anyway to bring, but I didn’t want to scout for an open liquor store on Christmas Eve if I didn’t have to, and instead spent the day having a great time walking around Central Park and checking out all the Christmas window displays around town (including, monstrously, the Christmas werewolves at Bergdorf’s, which I’m sure were, in some way or another, #1 Customer Princess Caroline’s doing).
At 630pm, Ann-Louise texts to tell me she’s out of wine and needs me to bring more (which is unsurprising, if you know Robby’s sister, and remember whole cases of wine have disappeared before with no one but her in the apartment). I’m literally in the cab on the way to her apartment, looking out the window at store after store closed at 6pm for Christmas Eve. Absolutely everything I could see was closed. Not knowing this part of New York at all, I asked the cabbie to find a liquor store or someplace else that would sell wine. He, as cabbies do, spun the wheel sharply and shot us through a gap in traffic down an endless street carved between massive hulks of abandoned warehouses or tenements. In places like this, for some reason, the first thought in my head is Patrick Swayze and Demi Moore in Ghost, where they just HAD to go to a play in a terrible part of town and then walk inexplicably down the dark, forboding alley, just asking for it (and then, later, in a similar alley, shadow demons rise up from the street to take a criminal who just died straight down to Hell, which would actually be sort of an improvement to the neighborhood at hand).
We zigged, then zagged, and my stomach turned upside down a few times as the cab bounced through giant potholes on streets road crews long ago gave up on, eventually zeroing in on the lone illiminated shopwindows in a five block radius, like a speeding yellow moth drawn irresistably towards a neon LIQUOR bug zapper.
I told the cabbie to keep the meter running and I would be right out after grabbing the first few bottles of wine that I could. I had no intention of loitering around in that place and wanted to get out of this part of town as fast as possible. That was somewhat unusual for me, as I’m from a part of Cleveland that’s lovingly referred to as “Thunderdome”, and generally don’t spook easily. But, there was just something about that part of town, that particular night, that just had every instinct in my body tingling that something bad was going to happen if I spent too much time there, wherever “there” was, as I had absolutely no idea how to get back to midtown from there.
I rushed in and bought four bottles of Australian reds and whites from a little Turkish man watching Charlie Brown’s Christmas special on a little flickering TV, who never looked away from the tiny screen as he took my ID and the $50 I had for the wine. So absorbed by the Peanuts gang, he accurately counted out my change without looking once at what he was doing, which amazed me enough that I never noticed the cab speed away with the only other customer who was in that liquor store with me.
As I walked out the door with a big plastic white bag in each hand, I realized the guy in the suit who left seconds before me stole my cab — clearly telling the cabbie he’d pay the meter already running but make it worth his while to JUST GO and get the Hell out of there.
The surface of the moon has more cabs than I could see anywhere in the warren of little streets in whatever largely abandoned part of town I was in. Shadow demons would have been welcome company at this point, because the feeling of being utterly alone and so vulnerable in an unfamiliar place on Christmas Eve was as real and impossible to ignore as the whispy white billows of my breathe on that very cold December night.
I just started walking, even though I had no clue where I was walking to, looking for a street I recognized that could take me back to either Damy’s apartment or to Ann-Louise’s party. Walking, in the dark, honestly scared for the first time that I could remember…more afraid for my own personal safety than I was even in Gary, Indiana during the campaign where I felt my chances of being murdered were at least 50:50.
And then, as I was headed to what I thought might possibly be a numbered avenue, I saw coming towards me a group of guys, all black, dressed in what I call hippity-hop street-style. Not businessmen. Not college kids. But, dressed like street toughs. And there I was, all 160 pounds of me, wearing a long black London Fog trench, carrying impossible to miss bright white bags, clearly drawing the only other living things on the street right towards me.
But, remember, I’m a gay Democrat who went through, easily, 20 years of liberal education in 100% Democrat surroundings that, until last year, truthfully never included a single Republican friend. The primal regions of my brain were lost in space, shouting DANGER!, DANGER WILL ROBINSON!, but my Democratic default was set to Will Truman, progressive gay man in the big bad city, refusing to racial profile the clear and present danger headed my way.
I could have crossed the street away from these guys.
I could have booked it back to the liquor store, whose bright neon light I could still see out of the corner of my eye, where I imagined Lucy was still giving Charlie Brown a hard time (and Peppermint Patty still didn’t know she’s a big old lesbian).
I could have listened to my instincts, but I didn’t want to be the guy who ran away from the three black guys headed towards me, because in my liberal education, you can’t judge books by their covers, even if those books scream RUN!, RUN YOU FOOL, AND NEVER LOOK BACK!
So, the guys walk towards me. I keep walking towards them. There’s the briefest moment where I believe nothing’s going to happen as we almost, just ALMOST, pass each other without incident, but then the biggest one of them turned around behind me and hit me square on the back of the neck with some sort of MacGyvered cudgel. Another one of them pushed me up against the wall, and the whole thing literally happened so fast that I still don’t know how they took as much as they did, but they got not only those bags of wine but also my wallet, the cash in my pockets, my camera, my cellphone, and the Christmas present I had for Ann-Louise. With a good solid punch to the face for a goodbye, they left me there on some random street before I even realized the encounter was over.
And I knew this was going to happen. But, I didn’t let myself address that truth because I was always taught that believing there was anything wrong with a group of black men walking towards me, looking like trouble, was RAAAAAACIST!, no matter how unfavorable the odds were for me to escape that predicament with minimal harm.
Even though there was no one else around, I didn’t want to be called a RAAAAACIST! for judging these big, dangerous-looking books by their hippity-hop covers, even if it was my own liberal guilt doing the name-calling.
After the mugging, I don’t even know how long I sat there on the ground before I came to my senses and kept walking down the street, now without enough money to catch a cab if I could even found one. No phone. No credit cards. Nothing. I just walked and walked and walked until I found Fifth Avenue and then, after a few more blocks north, I recognized some of the streets near Damy’s apartment and made it back there. Retreating to my own personal quiet place, I just sat in the shower with the water running over me for what was probably hours and hours. With few others in the building that night showering forever, the hot water lasted so long that I was puffy and pruned on hands and feet before I finally dried off and sunk into bed, still shocked by what happened.
Damy had no internet in her apartment, so I couldn’t send Ann Louise an email about what happened. My phone was stolen, so I couldn’t call her, obviously, to tell her I was mugged on the way to her party. All of my phone numbers are in the phone and I have not remembered anyone’s actual digits since high school (I barely know my own number, to be honest, as I never need to call myself, and if I did, that would be in my phone too). So exhausted from the experience, I could barely move, with my head and neck still throbbing from being cudgeled. Even if I could get up and wander the streets looking for an Internet cafe or Kinko’s still open where I could send an email to Ann-Louise, my credit cards were gone, so I couldn’t use their machines. I had enough cash back in Damy’s apartment to pay for the train to the airport in the morning, but that was about it.
And I tell you this because when I did get back to Chicago the next day (saved ONLY by the fact that, after buying that wine, I absent-mindedly slipped my ID into my shirt pocket, instead of my coat or pants pockets, and that’s the sole reason I still had the ID and was able to get on the plane back home the next day. If I had put that in my wallet, I don’t know how I would have gotten home without any ID. So, the universe served up some lucky French toast with that), Ann-Louise sent me the nastiest email I have ever received, because I didn’t make it to her party.
She didn’t bother to ask if I was okay, or wonder why I hadn’t come when I told her I was on the way after she asked for more wine. She just called me names, implied I met some guy on the way to the party and was instead “getting up to whatever it is (I) get up to with random guys”, and then used the opportunity to smack me upside my bruised and battered head with every insult and attack she’d been saving up for use on me (the way she does for everyone, actually, with mental files always set to go for when she gets mad at a particular person).
I wrote her back and told her I was mugged on the way to her party, and called her out for not even bothering to ask how I was before launching into one of her trademarked tirades. She never wrote back, and frankly I hope I never have to speak to her again.
Robby said, after I told him this, “Well, that sure sounds like my sister. Now you know why I didn’t stay in New York for Christmas, because she’s always like this, especially on holidays when she drinks so much.”
There are a lot of emotions conjured by this experience, and the reason I never shared it was because I still have this strong sense of humiliation for being mugged. As a guy, it’s embarrassing that I didn’t fight back, but that strike to the back of my head/neck stunned me so much that I didn’t know what was going on until it was pretty much over. More than that, I feel stupid for not crossing the street to get away from those guys, or running in the other direction. And I just don’t like being a victim. It’s truly humiliating.
But, I’ve shared this because here in Chicago this week THE EXACT SAME THING HAPPENED to my friend Josh, who was walking in a relatively sketchy part of Andersonville just north of Boystown and three black guys headed his way. He could have crossed the street, but didn’t because he thought that would be seen as RAAAACIST!. Seriously, Josh did just what I did, and decided that being politically correct was more important than his own personal safety.
So, not wanting to offend his future muggers by fleeing from them, Josh walked right passed them, the same way I did, and got jumped the second his back was to them. They pounded his head into the street and jammed their hands into his pockets, taking his wallet, keys, phone, and money, but Josh clung to his bag with everything he had and stopped them from taking his laptop and expensive flat iron (as Josh is a colorist, and not a fabulous stereotype walking around with high-end styling tools in the dead of night, like a lost and confused Kyan Douglas separated from the rest of the Fab Five).
In a week where I’ve thought long and hard about the racial indoctrination we are all taught in school, after hearing what happened to Josh I decided I had to share my story today, because danger is danger, people. You should not let your fear of being called a RAAAAAACIST! ever stop you from following your instincts and protecting yourself. Who cares if it is rude to cross the street to avoid people you think could hurt you? How many people get mugged every year in situations like this? I now know two people in the last six months this EXACT SAME SCENARIO happened to, with one of them being my own damn stupid self.
Maybe you even know people this has happened to as well.
And a part of me thinks, Al Sharpton-style, muggers like this COUNT on white, liberal Democrats to freeze up and not defend themselves out of fear not from the actual mugging, but the psychological mugging caused by the last 30 years or so of shameless race-baiting the MSM so gleefully fosters.
Enough is enough. Let someone else be politically correct and cater to Al Sharpton. When I see what I think is trouble coming, I’m going to cross the street or run like Hell away from it. I lost close to $700 in that mugging, between the phone, the camera, the cash I had on me, what was in my wallet, and what I spent in deductible going to the doctor when I got back to Chicago to make sure I didn’t have a concussion (after the soreness and pain from that night just wouldn’t go away two weeks later). Josh lost a couple hundred himself.
A penny is too much to lose allowing liberal indoctrination to supercede your own instincts.
I am living proof of this, so I hope maybe sharing something painful like this might help you avoid similar fates in the future.
As you’re all well aware, Race Cards expire in a week, on January 20th, when this woefully RACIST! nation inaugurates a black president — despite constant cries by people like shameful Congressman James Clyburn that RACISM! RACISM! RACISM! is behind every instance of any black person not getting his or her way.
You damn dirty RACISTS! Give me my earmarks!
With just 6 days left to play his much-loved and oft-used Race Card, Clyburn’s using it to the hilt, now claiming the challenges to earmarks he’s requested stem not from financial prudence, but from, of course, RAAAAAACISM!
The black community needs to do better than this and turn a page on the James Clyburns who represent them so tragically. And the rest of us need to call them out and embarrass them every time they trot this cockamamie nonsense out.
Because Race Cards all expire the moment Obama puts his hand on that Bible, as Michelle stands there, bare shoulders slumped, truly proud of America for the first time in her adult life.
Clyburn said, essentially, that challenges to the Christmas tree of stimulus earmarks that’s emerging from Congress are nothing more than rumblings of plantation owners once again trying to keep those who worked on plantations down. That’s so out of this world crazy and inappropriate we don’t quite know what to say. Besides, of course, RAAAAAAAACIST! RAAAAAAACIST! RAAAAAAAAAACIST!
And you know what that means around here. The only way we can think of to combat false and ridiculous charges of RACISM! RACISM! RACISM! from members of the black community when they don’t get their way on something is to hit back from Boystown with ridiculously gratuitous shots of hot guys in their underwear.
Makes perfect sense.
You want to make everyone uncomfortable by talking about plantations? Fine. But, then we get to make you uncomfortable ogling pairs of expertly packed Speedos. Fair’s fair.
So, take this James Clyburn:
With a little something for all the black voters of California who supported Proposition 8, while also voting for Obama, because it’s so much fun to cry RACISM! all the time, while simultaneously sticking it to us gays:
HOMOPHOBES! BIGOTS! IDIOTS!
The screaming and crying can work both ways, James Clyburn and friends.
We can scream just as loud, in perfect pitch, and in not much more than an umbrella and a smile (and we dare James Clyburn to try to top THAT).
Obviously reading from the Obama campaign’s well worn and successfully employed playbook, Bobby Rush and others supporting Governor Rod Blagojevich’s appointment of black former Attorney General Roland Burris to fill Obama’s Senate seat are today loudly screaming RACISM!, RACISM!, RACISM! at those in the Senate, like Harry Reid, who claim they’ll refuse to seat Burris next week when Congress reconvenes from yet another prolonged vacation.
You damn dirty RACISTS!
Racists one and all!
Now, we have to say, we’re conflicted this morning, torn in three separate and distinct directions as Bobby Rush embarrasses himself on the Today Show (which is hard to do, with Matt Lauer sitting there, normally excelling in that field himself). Rush, of course, has ramped up his RACIST!, RACIST!, RACIST! hue and cry, trotting out all the usual chestnuts: lynching, hanging, George Wallace, the cancellation of The Jeffersons, Angela Bassett not winning a much-deserved Academy Award for What’s Love Got To Do With It, you name it. Every imagined slight against blacks ever perpetrated is EXACTLY what’s being done to Roland Burris today, gosh darn it. It’s just that you damn dirty RACISTS! won’t admit it.
As Bobby Rush pointed out on CBS’s Early Show:
“You know, the recent history of our nation has shown us that sometimes there could be individuals and there could be situations where schoolchildren — where you have officials standing in the doorway of schoolchildren,” Rush said. “You know, I’m talking about all of us back in 1957 in Little Rock, Ark. I’m talking about George Wallace, Bull Connor and I’m sure that the U.S. Senate don’t want to see themselves placed in the same position.”
Rush is certainly a talented race-baiter to so artfully weave Byzantine links all the way back to 1957 Arkansas, from a Senate appointment made in 2008 Chicago. If race-baiting was an Olympic sport, Rush would be our Michael Phelps (mercifully, we hope, not squeazed into a Speedo). Way to go for the gold!
But, as we said, today we’re actually torn in several different directions over the Bobby Rush/Rod Blagojevich cabaret of chaos and race-baiting. Because we can’t stand Harry “tourists smell” Reid and all of this is making a huge mess for him, we snicker every time Rush gets in front of a camera and cries some more about RACISM!, RACISM!, RACISM!. There is just no way Reid will be able to politically or legally keep this threat to not seat Burris. It’s just not going to happen. And the more Reid tries to fight it, the more ridiculous he will seem, which further hurts his re-election chances in 2010.
So, for the first time in history, we’re actually enjoying all the RACISM!, RACISM!, RACISM! being tossed around so casually this New Year’s Eve. It’s HILLARIOUS to see the very same fools who sided against the Clintons when Obama employed RACIST! hue and cries against them in South Carolina covered in roosting chickens today. Reid should have called Obama out for using race-baiting in the campaign, and since he didn’t, race-baiting is available as a weapon against Reid himself now. Listen up politicians: if you allow this garbage to be flung at anyone, it will be flung at you sooner or later too. And the more damage this does to Reid and his political future the better.
So, in this sense, we revel in Rush’s outbursts and hope they are soon joined by the usual suspects in the Crying RACISM! Traveling Choir: the Jesse Jacksons, Al Sharptons, Alcee Hastings, John Lewises, James Meeks, and Jeremiah Wrights of the world. With Christmas over and the carolers long gone, their harmony could be entertainment to carry us through the Inauguration.
But, on another hand, we do wish, collectively as a society, that we’d all FINALLY tell the black community to Shut. The. F***. UP. about RACISM! There will be a black president in the White House come January 20th. Black people, thus, can never cry about RACISM! holding them back ever again. Because if America was really the racist nightmare these opportunists and con men claim, then how on Earth did we end up with a black president? The further we get into Obama’s administration, the more we hope people out there start challenging the black community when they throw around RACISM! so casually, whenever they’re not getting something they want. We’re Catholic, so we know about guilt. Whenever we were kids and our mothers would want us to do something we didn’t want to do, they’d work a sigh and a hand to their backs to complain about how hard the labor was to birth us, and how much they wish they had the help, because ther backs still hurt, after all these years, from the day we were born. Catholic mother guilt like that worked every time. And the hue and cry of RACISM! works like a charm for blacks as well, because white guilt means many will bend over backwards to do whatever blacks want so no one can call them RACISTS!.
“Well, there’s a black president, so racism’s obviously not a problem anymore, so quit your crying,” needs to be said more and more often, with increasingly firm resolve to move passed white guilt and force accountability on the black community. We all need to grow up and change our tune sometime, and the days of playing race victims are officially over on January 20th when Obama puts his hand upon that Bible. Free at last, free at last, thank God Almight on that day we’ll all be free at last of the constant, careless, unwarranted, and opportunistic cries of RACISM!
And yet, we are torn in a whole other direction because not only are we thrilled Harry Reid’s getting a taste of Obama’s medicine while simultaneously wishing this is one of the last times blacks can cry RACISM! to get what they want, but we’re actually excited Bobby Rush’s guilt-mongering allows us to invoke one of our most popular tools of the primary and general election campaigns: because the only way we know to combat ridiculous charges of RACISM! is with gratuitous doses of hot guys in their underwear. Whenever blacks cry RACISM!, we gays send in the Speedo clad swim team…because there’s just no way to rationally counter the emotional terrorism race-baiting explodes into the air, so we might as well distract everyone from that ridiculous ugliness with beefcake hijinks of our own.
So, take this, RACISM!
Take that, Bobby Rush!
Get a new schtick, black community!
Because if you keep crying that everything’s always about your skin, we’re going to keep showing all of ours.
Proposition 8 and Rick Warren sure taught us what the black community and Obama respectively think about gays, so if you race-baiters want to bring it, consider IT BROUGHT in Boystown.
We guarantee we’ve got more shots of hotties in their undies than you’ve got race-conspiraces to cry about.
Don’t make us open up a can of fabulous on your sorry codependent Oprah-loving butts.