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jimgoad.net :: halloween in da hood
Halloween in Da Hood
Because I get a huge (although cheap and easy) rush from calling other people racists, I am loudly announcing that last Halloween, while all you pampered bourgeois hipster faggots were K-holin’ and E-rollin’ in your slimy little 99%-white gayrod clubs, I was dutifully giving candy to hungry and disadvantaged black children in my neighborhood.
You all talk the talk about ending racism, but I walk the walk. I chose to live in a zip code that is blacker than Harlem. I have consciously surrounded myself with African-Americans like a teenaged white girl fills her bedroom with Justin Timberlake posters. And for this reason alone, I am a better person than you.
I dressed up in my “Ronald Reagan at the Ranch” outfit and my wife was a kitty-cat. My three-month-old son fell asleep at 7PM, which was probably for the best, because he was dressed in a “chicken” costume which may have offended some of the trick-or-treaters.
Night fell quietly. Then all at once, as if obeying some ancient instinct that led them to roam together on the plains of the Kalahari, a “posse” of at least fifteen black children knocked on our door. I held out our bowl of candy for them, and within three seconds, all of the candy was gone. Many of the sassier children complained that they weren’t able to get a Reese’s Cup, which seemed to be an especially prized item among our neighborhood’s youth.
I told them I was sorry, but that was all the candy we had.
I was lying, but for a higher purpose. I wanted some of the other black children in the neighborhood to have some candy, too. But still I feel bad for having lied to black children, seeing as my ancestors have been lying to black children for at least 400 years now.
After the justifiably agitated gaggle of black children left, we filled up our bowl with the remaining candy. Our next visitor was a 13-year-old male wearing a cape and a mask with long white hair and a long white beard. “What do we have goin’ on here?” I asked him good-naturedly. “Are you Fu Manchu?”
“Nah,” he replied stoically. “Ahm a wizzid.”
I noticed that his adult guardian was not willing to come up from the streets onto our front patio. Instead, just as the adult guardians of the previous posse had done, he stood thirty feet away in the darkness, eyeing us suspiciously as if he feared we would somehow harm his child. Given the historical record, such wariness is understandable.
Seeing that we indeed had been lying about having no more candy left, a few renegade members of the previous pack came running back up to our front door.
“Y’all done got jacked for your candy by some of the older kids,” one of them told us.
Again I felt bad for having lied to them, but now I also felt bad for having been jacked.
They consciously sifted through our candy bowl in order to procure more Reese’s Cups for themselves.
“Y’all like them Reese’s Cups, don’t you?” my wife asked them.
They did not reply. When they were gone, I admonished my wife for having addressed them in such a manner. It was almost as if she had said, “YOU PEOPLE really like Reese’s Cups,” which would have been unforgivable.
After a few more knocks on the door, the children stopped coming. It was almost as if word had rapidly spread through the village that the white people were out of candy. I felt even more guilt and regret for this, because I had dusted off some lollipops and Sugar Daddies someone had given me after my brain surgery and was willing to give these to the black children.
Wifey and I then sat on the couch and talked about how it felt to be overwhelmed by blacks at a rate of fifteen-to-two. For once, we realized what it felt like to be a minority, and it didn’t feel good. We even felt worse about who we are and what we’d done, and everyone can agree that this is a good thing.