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I Am Not Bill Maher’s Negro

IS IT JUST me or did the world seem to cram a couple of weeks’ worth of insanity into the last seven days? Last Friday, we woke to find British prime minister Theresa May’s snap election had turned into a bitch-slap election (thankfully) when we were still reeling from ex-CIA director Jim Comey’s testimony the day before to the US House Intelligence Committee!

If, anywhere else in the world, the head of the chief local intelligence agency said he was worried that the head of state might lie about their meetings, the USA would already have convened a meeting of the UN Security Council (except Trinidad, of course, where the prime minister can suggest the president is a liar, and vice versa, and it not matter more than whether ‘Cokes-in-glass-buttle tastes better than Cokes-in-plastic-one’).

But, far more important than the labelling of the Jackass-in-Chief as a paranoid liar – and no Republican challenged the characterization – was that Comey’s testimony contained enough evidence to lay a charge of obstruction of justice against the Dimwit-in-Chief.

The Cretin-in-Chief’s crime might not stick as fast and as easily as it would to, say, a black American male with his baseball cap on sideways and his belt below his gluteus maximus, but any prosecutor anywhere (except possibly the old slavery states) could find enough in what Comey said to handcuff the Moron-in-Chief and frog-march him into the station; “obstruction of justice” is not as glamorous as “treason” or “colluding with a foreign power”, but it would put the Congenital Idiot-in-Chief behind bars just as effectively.

Of course, the Imbecile-in-Chief, took it, not as the first steps towards his possible imprisonment, but as a vindication! God, what a great thing it must be to be born rich, white, male and stupid! And then have a nation stupid enough not to be able to tell the difference between voting for America’s new president and America’s Got Talent.

Over on the other side of the pond, but at nearly the same extreme point of idiocy, Theresa May, having shot her own House of Commons majority in the head, and having been roundly rejected by her own people, conspired to stay in what is now manifestly illegitimate government through the support of a “party” of acolytes of the (thankfully) late evangelical wanker who packaged open hatred as religious righteousness long before I-Sissies and the other Muslim madmen.

The bright new future of the United Kingdom is the Irish Dark Ages.

Theresa May’s Irish supporters don’t stand for anything so much as against a pair of freedoms mankind – meaning mainly women – has suffered for literally millennia to win: the idea that LGBT people might love one another, too, and that women might make for themselves the most important decision they ever could, i.e., whether to accept the responsibility of bringing a child into the world or spend the rest of their own lives carrying the weight of the decision not to.

One thing I’ve learned from my own little life: the more vehemently anyone protests against anything, the more desperately they secretly want it; show me a man who sneers at therapy and I’ll show you a damaged child in an adult body. If the leader of the Dark-Ages Ulster Party is not lesbian, I’ll eat my pussy.

A joke I’ll expand one little paragraph from now, after this little foreplay:

Can British voters today see the connection between this week’s fire in Grenfell Tower and the succession of money-first governments (beginning with the old Milk Snatcher but accelerating under Tony Blair-Witch & Diet Tory Labour)? You can’t pay for the shit you need as a nation unless you tax at a sensible rate people fortunate (and hardworking) enough to earn more; I can already hear the local house Negroes lighting flambeaux to burn down my socialist Great House.

Which leads to Bill Maher, who, like me and the pussy joke above, may have made one joke too many three Friday’s ago, and who has had a Real Difficult Time since.

Every joke is a mini-revolution (George Orwell). Bill Maher has, for 30 years, been the conscience of white America and the Great White Hope of an honest discussion about race in America – which is crucial to us: we adopt unquestioned anything that comes from America, whether it’s the hip hop we snubbed when it was Jamaican DJ toasting, or the for-profit-healthcare model, which has made the Hippocratic Oath a hypocritical one.

Bill Maher’s loving schooling by his friend, Michael Eric Dyson, and the less-considerate schooling of hard knocks from Ice Cube on his own show last Friday has taught me a lesson.

Even though I come from Trinidad, where we take nothing at all seriously – and that is always a good starting point, it’s just never a good place to stop – I learned, watching Real Time, that this little word has caused us the greatest difficulty we, as a species in the New World, have ever encountered.

Ice Cube’s analogy of the word being a knife that could be a tool in one person’s hands and a weapon in another’s has cut clean with me. Except for rational discussion of it, I won’t use that word, unless and until I consciously identify as black (and I can only do that now in part).

Bill Maher would have found himself in far less trouble if he’d used any other word than the one that his comedy-seeking subconscious threw out; as, I hope, is made plain by the one bit of sanity I’ve pulled from the last week of madness.

I am not Bill Maher’s Negro.

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