Contemporary Racism is BS (mostly) -A Penn and Teller Tribute

Published by Kas in the blog Kas's blog. Views: 110

I think I must be one of the most egalitarian people alive. There is a definite limit to “tolerance”, a soaring plateau of elevated consciousness to which one can only ascend by not caring. Yep, that’s right. I just don’t care. I’m incapable. And you really can’t get any more tolerant than that. I’m pretty sure some kind of mental illness is to blame, but if so, I’m a tough “nut” to crack. Several psychologists have tried, to no avail. Apparently, I am, for the most part, a reasonably happy and healthy person. Yay for me.

But is it “normal” to not care one iota what people do, say, think or look like? Surely not. After all, racism is rampant, or so they tell me. And, evidently, I’m a racist, because I don’t give flying, excrement-filled doughnut about you, at least in terms of what you look like, where you come from, how you live, where you live, what you do with your time, who or what you sleep with, and so on. I’d like you to be happy and healthy. . . but apart from that? Meh.

The one guiding principle in my life—the only rule I would enforce if I were a god—is “do no harm”. As long as you don’t harm other people in any tangible way, I couldn’t possibly care any less what you do. Strangely enough, most people tend to agree with me. Or rather, they agree with the surface idealism. Only two people who actually understood what the heck I was talking about have ever agreed with me.

You see, I wouldn’t mind living in a community of necrophiliacs. Actually, I would I find it utterly fascinating. After all, they wouldn’t be bothering me. . . and I don’t believe the cadavers would be in any fit state to object. I happen to think that anything unusual is inherently interesting, and life just doesn’t get any more unusual than living in a town full of corpse lovers.

So, hopefully you can see what an utterly loathsome creature I truly am. Real peace. . . real tolerance. . . these are disturbing concepts indeed, if you bother to think about them and don’t share my strange affliction of the mind.

Now, the point. . . (and you’ve probably guessed it) I have occasionally found myself accused of racism—always, without fail, due to the fact that I am not the most “racially sensitive” person in the world. In other words, because I don’t treat other races very much different from my own, I’m a bad guy. I’m a racist. It’s a strange world we live in. I always thought that to treat other races any differently would be the very definition of racism. I still think so.

I was watching an episode of survivor a while back (don’t ask me why). A guy got into an argument with a black girl and called her “ghetto trash”. Yikes. Well, the black guy on his tribe was so enraged that he campaigned to have Mr. Racist voted off immediately—and, inevitably, he got his wish. When I heard the phrase, “Ghetto trash,” I had a racist thought. Yes, I had an instinctive racist reaction, according to dictionary definition, for the first time in my life. I thought, “Oohh, faux pas, what a dumbass,” knowing that the black guy would react exactly as he did.

Words cannot express how much that upset me. I suddenly realized that I have now come to expect black people to overreact and play the race card at every opportunity.

Anticipation of this is, ironically, what saves me from being called a racist. Yes. . . the only way I can avoid the dreaded label is to actually BE a racist. Walk on eggshells. Treat them like children. That way, I’m not a racist, at least in the public perception. But then I’m a racist on the inside.

Well, to hell with that. I’m sorry, people. . . I refuse to play along.

I’m pretty well convinced it is our current fixation on racism that keeps this BS alive. The only racists I’ve met in person are those who coddle members of another race. As far as I can tell, the evil racism we’ve heard so much about is virtually nonexistent. Maybe it’s just ‘cause I live in Canada. The most racist thing I’ve ever heard would be one of my buddies ranting about the “damn pakis” answering the phone at X company. He’s hearing impaired, can’t understand their accents, and therefore can’t get any customer service. Yeah, he’s such an a-hole for being frustrated. Let’s chase him into the windmill and burn him.

Folks. . . Racism is BS.

I’m going back to my roots, the core tenants of my unholy faith (Peace): I don’t care who you are. I’ll treat you the same as everyone else—with as much respect as I can manage without giving myself an ulcer.

I’m telling you, the only way to defeat this beast is to simply not care. It’s like the monster in the closet. When you hear that creepy rattling and the doors start to creak and shiver and your heart starts pounding and your bladder lets go. . . just say, “You’re not real, you’re not real, you’re not real, you’re not real!” Make the sign of the cross if it gives you comfort. Wear a crystal pendant enchanted by your psychic aunt. Whatever works for you. Just don’t give in!
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