Tuesday, October 20, 2009

Sitting Around And Waiting to Die

Yeah, inspiring. Real inspiring. Hey young Americans! You're spearheading a movement! You're doing something as important as fighting in World Wars, colonizing the West, building nations! You're wearing overpriced jeans that sag off your ass just the right amount! And you're celebrating what a multicultural ghetto your shithole country is! You have no purpose, but to hold hands with your local non-dangerous-looking black and scream 'go forth'! That's right! Go forth while China's military power, economy, ethnic unity and national IQ surpasses ours! Go forth and be mulattos / part-Puerto Ricans! Who the hell cares, we're gonna run the world because we can hold hands with the different colored assholes around us and run through the part of the Meadowlands that hasn't been paved over for a strip mall! In fact, engage in coitus with members of different races, because we're a super-duper multicultural wasteland, and we're proud of it, and ain't nothing else matters, not even the fact that one quarter of the world is Islamic and a bunch of bisexual 125-pound mulattos with yellow afros and poor vision won't offer much resistance!


  1. Even though Walt Whitman was a rabid 19th century homosexual, I don't think his poetry was meant to promote race mixing.

    The first time I saw this limp-wristed, artsy-fartsy Levi's commercial, I figured I see an inter-racial kiss sooner or later in it. I wasn't wrong.
    I never spend another dime on their products!

  2. If you want to read a White man's poetry, read
    Rudyard Kipling. You'll be hard pressed to find this poem along with others of the same vein Kipling wrote. They have been quietly edited out of his works since the 1930's.
    This is my favorite:

    The Stranger

    The Stranger within my gate,
    He may be true or kind,
    But he does not talk my talk --
    I cannot feel his mind.
    I see the face and the eyes and the mouth,
    But not the soul behind.

    The men of my own stock
    They may do ill or well,
    But they tell the lies I am wonted to.
    They are used to the lies I tell,
    And we do not need interpreters
    When we go to buy and sell.

    The Stranger within my gates,
    He may be evil or good,
    But I cannot tell what powers control
    What reasons sway his mood;
    Nor when the Gods of his far-off land
    Shall repossess his blood.

    The men of my own stock,
    Bitter bad they may be,
    But, at least, they hear the things I hear,
    And see the things I see;
    And whatever I think of them and their likes
    They think of the likes of me.

    This was my father's belief
    And this is also mine:
    Let the corn be all one sheaf --
    And the grapes be all one vine,
    Ere our children's teeth are set on edge
    By bitter bread and wine.