Take it from Snee: I am an American-American

Not too long ago, I wrote about my harrowing experience at a Taco Bell where the cashier refused to speak English. (Despite my best efforts, she also refused to go home. Taco Bell, you’ll be hearing from my lawyers!) At the end of that piece, I promised to fulfill my new calling: combating injustice in the United States of America. If you recall, I also asked all of you to do the same.

Imagine my shock to find that the entire country has ignored my cause. Maybe I spoke too much truth, because the truth hurts and there are a lot of defensive people out there. I am encountering even more assaults on my American-American roots. That’s right: I’m so American that I’m a minority amongst Americans.

So I was hanging out with my friends at the bar this weekend, drinking domestic beers and singing Lee Greenwood during karaoke. In between making the entire bar pledge allegiance to the flag (I always carry one in my wallet, you know, just in case) and asking God to bless America for old-times-sake, we started telling jokes.

I’ve been known to spin a yarn or two in my time, but since it was a boy’s night out, I knew “Pete and Repeat” would be a little tame. So I told a joke I read in an email from one of my Secret Service buddies.

To my surprise, the entire bar got silent. Well, except for Bill Butler in the corner, but nobody likes him because he was in the Klan back in the ‘40s.

Then, accusations followed.

“You son of a b—-h!” yelled one.

“My grandmother was Tongan!” yelled another.

Then everyone in the bar started yelling at the same time. I couldn’t make out most of what they said, but I’m pretty sure someone threatened to take my job for less pay. Those were fighting words, so I stood on my table.

“Woah, woah, woah!” I said, using my hands to bring everyone down a notch. This also made them lower their wooden rakes and Frankenstein torches. (Who brings those to a bar anyway?)

“Look,” I continued. “I’m not sure why you’re all angry, so let me make sure you heard me correctly. You know, in case anyone’s taking me out of context here.”

So I told the joke again with my excellent white man’s elocution. But just when I got through the punchline – “That’s why we abort the little [illegitimate ones] and hang the rest” – it was clear I had lost the crowd again.

“You’re gonna die, honky!” they shouted in unison.

“Wait a minute!” I said. Let me be clear, I did not beg because I don’t negotiate with terrorists.

“OK,” I said. “You’re really taking this out of context. In fact, I don’t think you’re even listening to what I said. I’m pretty sure that you’re only angry because I’m white.”

Apparently, this got their attention.

“Alright, so I insulted your ‘cultures.’ But you know who has two thumbs and his own culture?”

Nobody replied.

“This guy,” I said, pointing both thumbs at my head. “This guy.

“And you know what? It’s hard being a white guy these days. I had to go to college. That’s hard work! I didn’t want to; it was just expected.

“And every time I go to a store, the shopkeeper expects me to buy something. Do you know how many stale packs of gum and unread TV Guides I have sitting at home? Dear god, I even own a dune buggy because I went to an ATV dealership once. A dune buggy! I don’t even live near dunes! I’m running out of space. In fact, I’ll probably have to buy a bigger home just to have some elbow room.”

First step accomplished: I appealed to their sense of cultural oppression.

“That’s right. I have it as tough as all of you. But I don’t get to celebrate my culture, my heritage. And my heritage is to oppress all of you. But who’s got two thumbs and is standing in front of a mob right now?”

I didn’t say the “this guy” part again. Pointing my thumbs at my head again was sufficient. It was time to unleash step three: get inspirational.

“But my culture is getting better. You don’t have to sit in the back of the bus anymore because we don’t ride them anymore. And we don’t boss you around anymore because we don’t hire you for jobs. We observe that you’re kind of scary, so we leave you alone.

“I look around this strip joint, and you know what I don’t see? Race. I’m colorblind. I don’t see brown people or yellow people or green people; I see people who are either black or white or gray.

“So maybe if we all saw the world my way, we’d remember that it only takes a little bit of bleach, maybe some club soda, and we can all be white again, just like the founders of these great United States of America.”

The crowd was silent. I waited for one of those slow-building applauses like the one still developing in Iraq.

Instead, I was carried out for a slow-building beatdown in the parking lot by my Miata.

So far, my calls to the ACLU have gone unanswered, as have my requests for six American-American Heritage Months. (Let’s face it: one month isn’t enough to list all the white people in history.)

In closing, let me say this: if being a civil rights leader is politically incorrect, then I don’t want to be corrected.