A Prehumous Writing of RedStater Knickerbocker
By Woden, God of Saxons,
From whence comes Wensday, that is Wodensday,
Truth is a thing that ever I will keep
Unto thylke day in which I creep into
– Eric Cartman
Whoever has made a voyage up the Hudson must remember the Catskill mountains. At the foot of these fairy mountains, the voyager may have described the light smoke curling up from a village. It is a little village of great antiquity, having been founded by Dutch colonists. In that same village, there lived many years a simple good-natured fellow of the name of Rip Van Whitey.
He was a descendant of the Van Whities who figured so gallantly in the chivalrous days of the pre-modern era. He inherited, however, but little of the martial character of his ancestors. I have observed that he was a simple good-natured man; he was, moreover, a kind neighbor, and an obedient hen-pecked husband.
Indeed, to the latter circumstance might be owing that meekness of spirit which gained him such universal hatred and envy of the execrable great brown hordes; for those men are most apt to be weak, obsequious and conciliating abroad, who are under the discipline of shrews at home. Their tempers, doubtless, are rendered pliant and malleable in the fiery furnace of domestic tribulation. A termagant wife may, therefore, in some respects, be considered the root of all evil.
The white children of the village would shout with joy whenever he approached. He assisted at their sports, made their playthings, taught them to fly kites and shoot marbles, and told them long stories of ghosts, witches, and Indians Native Americans Original Peoples. Whenever he went dodging about the village, he was surrounded by a troop of them; and not a dog would bark at him throughout the neighborhood.
The black children of the village, however, sensing weakness in good old Rip, would never hesitate to clean his clock as part of their primitive and savage “knockout game”. Rip would seldom be able to recall the event, having smashed his frail head upon the concrete, but he refused to believe the accounts of witnesses that it was the poor wittle bwack children—angelic, ever-innocent, forever oppressed—who would do such a thing. Rather, he listened to the talking heads of the Ministry of Truth and academics in the towers of Higher Indoctrination who insisted he tripped over his own white privilege; and that, even if it were poor wittle bwack kids cold-cocking him for no reason whatsoever, he deserved it because racism. And slavery.
The great error in Rip’s composition was an insuperable aversion to all kinds of self-defense. It could not be from the want of courage. He would never hesitate to flip the bird from the confines of his minivan to someone he deemed too aggressive a driver (unless that driver was black, of course); he would never hesitate to bravely denounce the racism and nativism of his fellow whites when they objected to their civilization being submerged under the Great Brown Goo. In a word Rip was ready to come to anyone’s defense but his own—and to any race’s defense but his own. But as to doing racial duty, and keeping his society in order, he found it impossible.
One fine day, whistling, he walked through the door of his ramshackle house and found himself immediately subject to a squealing tirade from his enraged wife.
With that, all of the long-stemmed wine glasses in the china cabinet shattered from the pitch of her voice alone. There was a welcome moment of relief from the verbal fusillade as they both stared incredulously at the site.
But just as quickly as the moment of silence came, it went.
At this point, he decided to go for a walk.
To be continued…