When readers take satirical writing too literally, they tend to feel contempt for the author. It's all a misunderstanding. Don't confuse my beliefs with the beliefs of a character I created for the sake of a comedy column. Mark Twain was an intrepid abolitionist, and yet he frequently used an epithet more insulting than “Ninja” in his work; more “Ninja” bombs are dropped in “Huck Finn” than in NWA's first album. And let this be the last time I compare myself to Mark Twain.
On the adapted for cable TV version of Leprechaun in the Hood, it may be worth noting, the term that Mark Twain and NWA are so fond of is dubbed over by the word “Ninja.” For example: “Did you know that NWA stands for 'Ninjas with Attitude'?”
Hello. I'm a white supremacist. As such, I believe that Larry Bird is the greatest basketball player of all time, and to ensure that my opinion never changes, I smoke a crap-ton of crystal-meth in order to vanquish from my memory the likes of at least 32 slam-dunkin' Ninjas.
My first-born son, Rudy Gordon Lumwick III, learned how to crawl in aisle 5 of a Wal-mart. He was coaxed on by a trail of Cheeto's what led from the gun display all the way to the checkout line where my sweet Aryan wife was tittie-feeding our seventh or eight bundle of White Joy, Dally Mae or Danica Molly.
And ever since that scrawny spook got elected president and started winning Swedish awards for turning this once great country into a land of Commie freeloaders, I've converted my garage into an independent nation, where I'm free to smear shoe polish on the faces of my little cousins and reenact inside a wrestling ring I built with the hands of Mexican laborers the Hulkster's brutal victory over that cross-eyed Ninja Zeus from the film classic No Holds Barred. May the Confederacy of Lumwick's Garage reign supreme until Jeb Bush is elected president in 2012.
For reasons I do not understand, burning crosses tends to burn bridges with the common, white-guilt afflicted American, but at the very least, in the humane interest of the Superior Race, I beg you to turn a compassionate ear to the desperate plea I am about to express.
Like millions of other true-blooded Americans, I am a Fantasy Football enthusiast. Hell, to be matter-of-fact with you, Fantasy Football gives me more joy than seeing two homeless black guys wrestle over a day-old bagel (a sight I enjoyed mightily while visiting Brooklyn during one of my legendary Hate-Benders). When I think of Fantasy Football during sex with my dumpling Aryan bride Dolly Susie, I blow my load, right then and there, and curse the likes of Peyton Manning and Wes Welker for popping into my head while I got's a boner. But not all is right with my Fantasy team, to be frank, and lately my boys have been giving me more grief than joy.
As a White Supremacist, I'll be damned if I'm going to draft any stinkin' Ninjas. I'm part of a REAL Fantasy League, not one of them Negro Fantasy Leagues. My team is pure! And if that means passing up on every single thousand-yard running back since John Riggens in the mid-1980s, then so be it! I'd sooner draft 4th string Broncos running back Peyton Hillis than one of these gang-bangin', Mouseketeer-gropin' Ninjas like Adrian Peterson or Michael Turner.
Which segues pretty well into a furious gripe I have with the Head Coach of the Denver Broncos, Josh McDaniels. For the benefit of the White Race, and almost as importantly, my Fantasy Football team, Coach McDaniels has got to realize that it ain't enough to simply have a roster-spot for a proud and dying breed, the white running back; you've got to give that egg-skinned son-of-a-bitch some playing time, too. I don't care if he's got more fumbles lost than touchdowns in his short career; the fact remains that he is a White Man! As a White Man who has at least carried the football in the pros, he's a survivor of an endangered minority that has been subjected to the sort of prejudice that civil rights yahoos like Marty King once spoke out against.
Josh McDaniels, by starting a couple of colored hoodlums over one of America's most precious resources, the white running-back, you have betrayed the greatest race known to man. I'm also chargin' you with consent to ass-backwards-racism that benefits the black athlete's monopoly of the running-back profession. You sold us out, McDaniels!
It ain't very trendy for a white man to complain about inside-out racism, but y'all gotta hear me out on this. Whenever an NFL team has a vacancy at Head Coach because a bunch of Ninjas conspired to sabotage the hard work of a white man in charge, the team is required to interview “minority” candidates for the open position. Slit-eyed Orientals, towel-headed Arabs, polar bear-sodomizin' Eskimos, worthless astronauts, and Ninjas included. It's the NFL's version of that tyrannous Affirmative Action policy.
The effects of topsy-turvy racism have been so profound that black Head Coaches now outnumber white running-backs in the NFL. And dammit, that just ain't fair. There's no policy in place to help the white running-back; they're being weeded out of football because of racial favoritism, which colored folk always done complained to the world was wrong.
In light of this discrimination, white RBs should be granted a handicap on the field of glory. In a perfect world, to make the playing field more racially equitable, two of the eleven defenders should be forced to have their arms and legs shackled in chains whenever a white running-back enters the game. If that seems harsh, my first instinct is to shout “Fuck you, Ninja-lover!” but in the interest of compromise, lemme offer an alternative. How 'bout this: Pure honky brutes like Peyton Hillis and John Riggins (the latter heroically un-retired at the mature age of 60), should be allowed to wear steel-spiked shoulder pads. And as a last resort compromise, lemme run this by you: Half the black running-backs in the league should be forced to undergo the same intensive plastic surgery what turned Michael Jackson's skin the ashen shade of Fat Elvis' ass-cheeks.
Once converted to the pure race, formerly black RBs will be forced to stop dancing in perfect time with music, write a 2,000 word report on the righteous message of the film Birth of a Nation, and cease all groping of Disney Mouseketeers.
The fate of my Fantasy Football team hinges on White Activists--or racists--such as myself pressuring the NFL to provide preferential treatment to the endangered species that is the white running-back. People, I have endured 9 Fantasy Football seasons without a single victory because the NFL says it's okay to keep the white running-back down.
But if you've made it this far into my plea, I'm preaching to the choir on that matter. So, if you love Fantasy Football like I do, and also, you hate black people, follow my lead: Send an angry e-mail to the Commissioner of the National Football League on behalf of all the white RBs who are being discriminated against—for reasons as fickle as their inferior speed, size, strength, agility, athleticism, toughness, and productivity. United by the profound bond of White Supremacy, we can turn around the sorry program that is my All-White Fantasy Football team.
Please take action, my White brothers. The John Lynch Mob is in desperate need of its first win.
