I'm Not A Racist

I received a cyberstorm of emails, obviously from Manu's countless relatives in Chatsworth and Lenasia, accusing me of racist stereotyping of Indian folk. The one fella who claims to actually be a bona fide distant relative of the skinny peaceloving guy in a white sheet, even had the audacity to quote me a Gandhian phrase ... namely, that he would be a follower of Christ if it were not for those who claim to follow Christ. In other words, he'd be a Christian, except there are Christians like me in the world, so he'd prefer to worship Satan instead.

Before I sign off with my obligatory burn in hell curse, let me state that I am not racist. Sure, I vociferously opposed the anti-Apartheid struggle, but that's not because I hated blacks. I just hated blacks who were commies ... and in the 80s they accounted for most of the population, thanks to all the terrorists running around with petrol bombs and burning tyres who made life difficult for the police. I have also stated in other very long essays that I believe Apartheid was being systematically dismantled for twenty years before Mandela was irresponsibly let out of prison. So there was no need for blacks to protest like wild savages about repressive laws ... they just needed to be patient. All good things come to those who wait. That's a Christian virtue, by the way, which black atheist commies failed to grasp because they weren't Christian.

I don't really care if Manu's relatives would rather worship their countless gods than follow Jesus, just because they don't like the fact that I shoved a bunny chow in his face and chased his booze-selling business out of my God-fearing community. So what if I think most Indians are crooks? Because the truth hurts does not make me a racist. I happen to like curry. People who say I am guilty of racist stereotyping are the real bigots. Would I have spent my entire adult life going on countless missions in Africa if I didn't feel some sort of compassion for blacks? Sure, there is the whole thing about Jesus commanding me to make disciples of all heathens – put clothes on them, teach them to read the Bible, put them to work in my garden pruning rose bushes. I spell that l-o-v-e.

Fight the good fight ... or burn in hell.

PS Whoever left the poisoned bunny chow on my front doorstep last night, the last part of the above statement is particularly aimed at you.