Joe Bob's America

I’m a Terrible Person

April 05, 2018

Multiple Pages
I’m a Terrible Person

STAUNTON, Va.—I just recently realized that I’m a miserable selfish tone-deaf insensitive creep.

Why didn’t I see this before?

All those years of reading the Times, the Post, Buzzfeed, and the Vanderbilt University alumni magazine have worked their way through the crusty rawhide of my soul and penetrated to my essence, revealing me to be beyond redemption, like a smoker who lights up in the cancer ward of St. Jude Children’s Hospital.

Actually, I just proved it again.

Who would write a simile like that? Are you trying to be funny? Do you think children’s cancer is FUNNY? Maybe you’ll think twice next time before you spew out the first thing that comes out of your head, because now we have to organize a letter-writing campaign against every Takimag advertiser.

Please let me do penance, or probation, or social-media jail, or whatever form of public horsewhipping is necessary to transform me from a self-righteous privileged Neanderthal to a craven apologetic humiliated loser crawling around on my knees trying to convince people that I Get It Now, I was wrong, I’ll go to rehab, that wasn’t the real me, I’m donating my salary to homeless drunk Eskimos in Juneau.

“I have repeatedly demonstrated unconscious bias, especially while drunk and thereby unconscious.”

Briggs, you are unbelievable! Unbelievable. First of all, they are not Eskimos. Please take your white-supremacist term and file it under Clueless. They are Inuit and Yupik indigenous peoples, and if you must use antiquated terminology for First Nations citizens of Alaska, northern Canada, and Siberia, you should have the decency to use the French spelling “Esquimaux.” Your disgusting stereotype implying that the American Indian or Native Alaskan has a problem with “firewater” ignores simple geography—the drink-all-day bars are in Nome, not Juneau—while ignoring recent data showing that deaths due to alcohol poisoning among indigenous peoples are only 550 percent higher than the rate of deaths among all Americans, which is a net decrease from studies carried out in the 1950s. Your casual racism is disgusting.

Oh God, yes, I know, send me to Sensitivity Training in Boulder, Colorado, make me wear a dress in a transgender role-play exercise taught by a lesbian named Alex.

Briggs, that’s it. Tomorrow you will receive 978 emails written in ALL CAPS, your Facebook account will be hacked, and the life of your dog will be threatened.

I fully realize that I am complicit. Every time some guy in the locker room starts talking about giant breasts, I tell the story about the record-setting hematomas on Chesty Morgan, the stripper whose enormous talents were registered with the Israeli secret service as deadly weapons.

I further realize that I am guilty of multiple microaggressions. I have discussed feather boas and jeweled sandals with grown men who paint their fingernails pink and wear pancake makeup at 8:30 in the morning but who have not identified as homasekshul.

I have committed so many cultural appropriations that I should be imprisoned as a serial burglar. These include endorsing the Mae West shimmy in She Done Him Wrong even though it’s a barely disguised version of the shimmy-shawobble that she stole from African-American women who developed it in Chicago nightclubs.

I have been an enabler. When Larry “The Horse” Tankersley told me he intended to put down $10,000 on “Red” at the Arizona Charlie’s roulette wheel in a last-ditch effort to get his wife’s engagement ring out of hock at the Pawn Daddy Jewelry and Loan out on the Grapevine Highway, I said, “If you win you stay married, if you lose you’re free”—and persuaded him to embark on the series of events eventually resulting in his being beaten over the head with a plunger handle.

I have repeatedly demonstrated unconscious bias, especially while drunk and thereby unconscious.

And I have spoken from a position of traditional privilege, thanks to my degree in electrical wiring from the DeVry Institute.

I hate me. Everything I do is an offense against helpless underrepresented demographic groups that will now assert their moral superiority and kill me. I accept that fate. I’m a relic. I’m pathetic. I hope someone invites me to be the commencement speaker at Bard College next year just so I can be disinvited and humiliated. I hope the Moose Lodge takes away the trophy they gave me for speaking there in 1994. I hope that every book I ever wrote will be pulped and burned so the vileness can end.

Go ahead, tweet my day.


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