| | Mike:
If you knew anything about the misery of the res, you would not be so flip.
Who was being flip? Merely incomplete. In a perfect world, their name would be 'The Drunken Reservation Rats', the new owners would be the last remaining actual warriors from 'FoxWood,' who would toast their new good fortune with copious amounts of the finest Yukon Jack, spitting at the spectacle of a nation of flaming pussies whining on about being called nasty names like Kike, Spic, Dego, Wop, Porch Monkey, Pollack, Jap, Guido, Hunky, and especially pussy.
Oh how some love to whip out the pictures of the sores of long ago as proof of ...what? Life on earth?
Oh, those terrible, terrible reservations. Desert slums.
Oh, those death trap coal mines and steel mills and galvanize shops and, well, all the places that barely exist anymore.
Oh, those death trap railroads being blasted across America(I remembered the hunkies but left out the chinks above, sorry.)
Oh, those ghettos in Warsaw.
Oh, those camps in Poland, Germany.
Oh, those 're-education' camps in Kampuchea and Vietnam.
Oh, those jungle villages in Rwanda.
Oh, those ignorant crowded slums in Dhaka with the rickshaw drivers flying through space, learning about physics.
Oh, the high price of Grey Goose at those Bistros in Georgetown, cheering for the 'skins.
The earth today: 99% gruesome atrocities by seething local tribal maniacs in some completely unfettered tribal state, 1% thin veneer of resort life within taxi cab fare of an international airport, where we are guaranteed to find both a Starbucks and Mrs. Fields.
Not surprisingly, all the pussies are jammed up in that 1%, frettingly munching on their Macademia nut chocolate chips.
I am mixed guido, taff, kraut, and limey. The guido side was apparently the spawn of an ex-italian convict. The other mutt-mixture was from some of coal minings most average citizens, enjoying the good life deep under ground after having pushed native Americans off the topsoil.
'White man's guilt' isn't just sold, it must also be bought. It is also necessary to sign up with white liberals in order to help them assuage their guilt, as no dout often expressed in some of Georgetown's finest bistros, complete with that over-rpiced Grey Goose.
When there is no signing up, no buying of the offered guilt, the attempt is usually received with a great deal of mirth.
I lied; in a perfect world, it is 1972, and some guilt peddlar comes into that steel plant locker-room, stands up on a bench, and makes the weepy plea for contrition to a room full of mouth breathing, knuckle dragging polacks--and then, translated into cheese eating surrender monkey: Laissez les bons temps rouler
regards, Fred
PS: I just learned about 'taff.' Prior to that, I thought the derogatory term for 'welshman' was 'welshman.'
(Edited by Fred Bartlett on 10/29, 6:30am)
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