Sometimes I wish I was a radical gay, or a revolting, slick-haired, black race-baiter or drastic Muslim like that angry, rage-boy dude who’s the poster child for all the funny as heck Muslim memes.
Why am I forlorn at times with my heterosexuality, my caucasoidness and my evangelicalism? Well … it’s not that I now loathe the ladies, my pigmentation or the five Solas of the Reformation, but it’s primarily predicated upon the fact that as such a critter I can’t get away with squat any longer.
Heck, I can’t even use a tone in my voice, unless I’m mocking a redneck, lest I be reckoned with a notorious seventeenth century slave owner from Sierra Leone. And forget having chicken at a BBQ I’m hosting if I have any black friends over for that soiree. Somehow that’s now become an insult.
In addition to that muzzling, I can’t do any more gay jokes without a group of angry lesbians showing up at my house and unscrewing all of my light bulbs. I couldn’t even wince the other day when Michael Sam kissed his boy-toy after being drafted by the Rams. If I did that, I would have committed the hate crime of “double bigotry.” And lastly, forget about my linking anything horrible that’s happened on this third rock from the sun to the Religion of Peace. That’s verboten for moi.