Saturday morning serious with vulgarity

When I was a kid, here’s how I understood racism declining. I’m sure it’s an stew with ingredients—well, wait. It’s supposed to be the United States and I was supposed to care about it being the United States—until last week when most of the white people decided our PR for the last eighty three years wasn’t working out for them because they’re pieces of shit—but the eighties was different. The white middle and upper middle class households of my childhood didn’t talk about not liking Reagan, sure, but we were supposed to be proud to be Americans. After all, the fucking Russians. Remember the fucking Russians? The bad guys? Anyway, I understood racism was on the decline from the sixties because people had realized people were people, even if they had brown skin, through meeting them or just seeing on the news how the white people killed them just because they had brown skin. Oh, I didn’t even get to where my initial opening was going—my understanding of racism declining was a jambalaya of information from various sources. Home and school sources. It was a solid delusion and lasted until I was maybe twelve. That’s a lot of privilege. Fifty-four percent on the test I took the other day. It was a solid delusion because it provides a wonderful narrative to everyone. Hell, people even tied a lot of religious bullshit into it—that delusion is a good American narrative. I’m not sure if it’s Americana. Americana is a thing. Was a thing. Apparently Clint Eastwood killed it with euthanasia a long time ago when he was impatient about the whitey establishment getting in the way of his art. Because Clint Eastwood makes art. He just doesn’t try as hard making it anymore, probably because he’s not getting impatient about whitey, he’s yelling at a chair. And on that note, it’s time for coffee.

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