[Promoted by DHinMI; some may squawk that this is an offensive parody, that it's making a glib joke about one of the darkest, most evil events of modern history just to make a cheap political point. Well, they would be correct that there's a cruel joke here, but the cruelty isn't in this diary. This diary just spells out the absurd implications inherent in Jonah Goldberg's ridiculous and offensively absurd screed.]
"The white man is the Jew of liberal fascism."
The cold boxcar I was riding in with about a hundred other pale, shivering men rumbled to a stop. I thought about going over to the hole in the floor to try to take a piss, but I would have to climb over the semi-conscious, Levi Dockers-clad bodies of the other Caucasians they rounded up that day.
It started out a day like any other. But there was a little something in the air. You could feel it coming on, but like a frog in a pot of water that had been slowly been brought to a boil, no one, not Biff, not Kevin, not Brad, not Spence and not even Walker thought that it would ever happen. But Jonah did warn us in his book, "Liberal Fascism" about this day...
Who will save us now – the white man? Why do we suffer this cruel, politically-correct fate?
I thought about it for a while, but not wanting to make a mess because of the dysentery. The combination of my new diet of mashed chick-peas and bout of e. coli I contracted from the organically grown sprout conspired against my relieving myself. I decided against dirtying my meticulously (for the circumstances) pressed khakis. Miraculously, they were still in pretty good shape after the round up down at the Round Hill Country Club in Greenwich, Connecticut, where I was enjoying a very dry martini with the rest of my white male comrades. One minute, we were Masters of the Universe, discussing the next whale hunt and plotting the oppression of everyone browner and more female than us. The next minute, the jack-Birkenstocked hoards burst in.
The Swarthmore grad would have been a babe, if you dressed her up a bit and put a little make up on her. But she cut a menacing figure in her frumpy smock dress and plain black flats. She tapped her truncheon menacingly in her hand, the braid in her armpit swaying in time with the club.
"On the ground, sir. Please put your hands on your head. Thank you, sir."
She and her sisters had us out-numbered. We had no choice but to comply. We had to abandon our martinis and fat, Dominican cigars where they were. Drinks and smokes were verboten where we were going. I looked longingly at the still sizzling, marbled T-bone on the table, sad in the knowledge that it would be the last time I would ever see, smell or savor the taste of any animal product for human consumption.
I later come to find out through the Resistance that female squads of Swarthmore and Brown education majors were going around to country clubs throughout the country in specially equipped vans, rounding up white men and taking some of them away to the camps. Others were not so lucky. Some of the vans were special "intervention group" vans. The overly educated women in those vans would roam the streets, looking for stray white men. When they were found, they were summarily re-educated by being gassed with patchouli in the back of the van and force-read Toni Morrison until most couldn’t take it any more. Many white men were driven to suicide rather than hear another Tori Amos or Sarah McLaughlin song.
Raging groups of grotesquely overeducated lesbians poured into the streets one night all over America, looting and burning the shops and investment banks of hard working white men. Those restaurants and bars that weren’t destroyed were forced at lawsuit point to go smokeless and vegan. Hummers were burned and Escalades were tipped over. The only cars that were exempt from the orgy of destruction were the odd Prius and those cute convertible Volkswagen Cabriolets. Bus passes and subway tokens were distributed by the millions. That night, 9-10 November, 2008, came to be known as "The Night They Broke A Lot Of Glass Night."
The door to the boxcar was thrown open. Daylight! Fresh air! A couple of mean looking guards, armbands with the dreaded letters "PC" in stylized script indicating that they were members of the "Special Squadron" dragged us out of the wagons and lined us up. One of the beefy looking, sandal-clad Earth-Mothers sized us up. "Forward, MARCH!"
We staggered forward, toward the gates of the camp. There was a placard above the gate with a billboard of a cute kitten, hanging on for dear life from a window-sill. The chilling words above the billboard read – "Hang in there!" A band consisting of haggard-looking white men were set up next to the gate, welcoming us to the camp. We marched to the administration building to the strains of John Lennon’s "Imagine."
Once inside the building, I noticed a peculiar smell – the overwhelming, sickly sweet odor of Vitalis, hair treatment of white men everywhere. Ah, that’s why – a pile of hair. We’re shaving your head. For the lice, they said. Bags in that room, clothes in that room. We passed through another set of doors – clothing issue. I put on my cruelty-free, artificial fiber garment with the image of Bob Dobbs embroidered on the chest, in case anyone was in doubt as to my ethnic status. A number was tattooed into my forearm.
There was a noise and a scuffle – a white man was resisting! But not for long. The vegan diet had taken its toll and he was no match for the truncheon blows from the pony-tailed, rough-legged Education major. As he was prone on the ground, she stomped on his face with her Birkenstocks. Teeth, loosened from malnutrition, came out in a shower of blood. She bent down, picked them up and examined them for gold-fillings. Satisfied she had taught an Ivy-League sanctioned lesson to the white man, she gave a Hillary Clinton-esque cackle and strutted out. I saw the future that day: an animal-cruelty free, fair-labor, fair-trade REI boot stomping on a human face - FOREVER!
Now I sit in the camp barracks, wondering why I didn’t pay attention to that book and the other books like it I got for $5 bucks with my NewsMax subscription. Jonah Goldberg tried to warn me and I treated him like a shrieking, over-wrought Cassandra. I am left to ponder that famous poem by Pastor Marin Niemuller:
When the PC Police came for the cigarettes in bars and restaurants
I remained silent;
I was not a cigarette smoker
When they locked up the people who refused to exercise
I remained silent;
I had a gym membership I actually used.
When they came for the guys who watched Spike TV
I did not speak out;
Spike TV was not carried by my cable system.
When they came for the White Man
I remained silent;
I wasn't a White Man
When they came for me,
there was no one left to speak out.