Minorities Contradic'

In the comin' of the minorities, intentionally or jes "open sesame" to mother nature, "none Flew Over The Coo-Coo Mess" or "It Was Nice Knowing You U.S.A," is forecast for America's future. But both predictions evidence a glaring contradiction that we look at and talk to day and night. From the moment that the Spaniards set foot in the countries that we now call Latin America some Indians there started harping "Adios, Indian identity, bienvenido whitening process." When the English brought Afrikan slaves into what is now the U.S.A. some slaves looked at the slavemasters' hair and skin and declared, "Us need change us hair and skin," resulting in red-hot iron combs and chemicals to straighten the hair of blacks throughout the world and dye it blond or hide it under white women's wigs, and bleaching creams to whiten their skin. It's as if these minorities have "hoof and mouth disease." Their mouths are yappig about their power as the new majority while their brains and feet are hoofing it to disappear into whiteness.

Disease

"Shhh . . . what you are about to read is politiclly incorrect. Tafadhali,repeat only in whispers." Culture-ritis, unlike arthritis which generally attacks the elderly, is a disease that ferments in the minds of infants at birth. Many observers of the disease in a child, however, postulate that the disease incubates in the child even as it is forming in its mother's womb, contending that a trait of it -- the capacity to think intelligently or not -- is inherited from the father and mother. Culture-ritis, like arthritis, causes sever pain, but it is in the mind and not physical parts of the body that it causes its havoc, twisting the mind into gnarled, ugly, excruciating agony; and this agony of culture-ritis is aggravated when the affected persons are asked to think objectively of the worth of their "culture" -- in the context of the 21st century. Down through history there has been -- and even today -- irrefutable evidence that the disease, culture-ritis, afflicts "people of color" throughout the world more than people of the white race. There is such fear of being "politically incorrect" in the 21st century that the truth that we have just written is avoided, leaving those who need to hear it riveted in their worthless, Stone Age, subcultures. Let History Record It

Shotgun and Spears

>Chief Spears heard the bark of gunpowder and called for a dance of spears. >The lone Shotgun barked again, spitting fire and smoke into the air. >Spears wet their pants. >"That dancing and hollering isn't worth much against me," Shotgun blustered. >Chief Spear convened a meeting of the Spears Council, and a spear swooshed, "you hate us, Shotgun, 'cause we spears and none too lustrous!" >Shotgun thundered, and more buckshot waited like silent vultures. "Now that I've got your attention," Shotgun spouted, "let's talk cultures." >"Our culture," Chief Spear stabbed, "all we have to do is believe and we can fly." >Shotgun craked, "Try fluttering from a three-story grass-hut." >Chief Spear wobbled. The council shimmied nervously, stunned. >From along a grass-wall, a spear, among the bedraggled cache used in foolish riots, clanked, "I'm Young Spear and I wanna be a Shotgun." >Shotgun went on safety. "I can understand that, but being a Shotgun is complex." >"It's only about killing," Young Spear glintd, visibly vexed. >Shotgun in an instant blunderbuss, countered, "Woud you say that your community is intellectually kaput?" >"You're out'er line," Young Spear pointed. >Shotgun muzzled impatience. "How will you determine at whom to aim and shoot?" >"The same as when I was a spear." >Shotgun leveled on the Council. "Your culture's lacking, it's clear. Where are your houses of culture, your businesses for jobs, your forums on national and international issues?" >Old spears sitting at the table twanged up from their stools. >"We leave that to our politicians," Chief Spear poked. >Shotgun muffled, I stand among fools. Turning to Young Spear, "Okay, I'll convert you to a Gun." >"Convert my homies to Guns, too." >Shotgun clicked off safety. "Why?" >"To be equals with you." >"How do you figure that?" >'Cause we'll all be the same." >"But, Young Spear, we don't even look the same, and we come out of a different culture, different experiences." >Young Spear quivered. "Don't ever call me a 'spear' again! Twixt you and me ain't no differences!" >Call yourself whatever you want, Shotgun injected. Act like a spear, you're a spear. "Okay," he spewed, "I'll call you Spear-Gun." >"I'm finished with spears!" Young Spear flung at him. >"You a traitor, Young Spear!" Chief Spear vibrated. >"This is war!" Young Spear hurled, and spears pierced indiscriminately. >Shotgun, hammer cocked, backed out of the grass-hut, a thought triggering into the chamber: Something's awry here, a Shotgun doesn't backdown from a spear. . . . end . . .