The passing of White Guilt
White Guilt is passing, like milk drowns itself in a bowl of cereal. Once the mixture of fiber goodness and white guilt was good: crunchy, soothing to the soul, politically correct to mention at work, and that smug self satisfaction that comes from the solitude of a good bowel movement. But that is so twentieth century. Now the bale of hay in each bowl of cereal has turned to mush. Who cares about your health colon? You cannot buy fatty foods of death anywhere, anymore. Everything is fiber. White guilt has spent itself, like a man spent after a whore. The spill, the emissions, the remains remain; the socialist fetishists linger on, only, alone. Someone wants to lap up your spill, but the normal person just wants to go home, go to sleep; being spent; capable of normal, and unused to the hyper bizarre nature of late twentieth century sexual political thought. In the age of Obama and pension failure, who cares about White Guilt? Which is good, I guess. But after White Guilt, comes what?
I was visiting a friend last weekend. His kitchen was being remodeled; and I was there, as friend, to help. I stood on a ladder and positioned pot lights. After a morning of labor and conversation, we took to drinking beer. Then, after smoking dope and the afternoon shift whores left, we retired to the basement. This was a shrine of skulls moment; which is to say that there are those who can discern between a shrine of skulls, and a pile of skulls. My friend is one of those persons. He also has a basement devoted to his internet hobby. He does not wear pyjamas; he wears uniforms. His sanctum is decorated with art, antiques, and weapons.
My friend hates those people who have white guilt. This is rare. This early century is more devoted to people leaving white guilt, not the angry fanatics who hunt down the chieftains of white guilt with vigilante methods, internet ingenuity, and a morality that is drawn from Thor and Wotan, not Christ. He is angry, my friend. His graphs and charts of his personal tax burden are spotted with holes from thrown darts. He wears leather gloves at the keyboard. Sometimes he wears a mask when his computer camera is on. He conceals his voice with technology. He is, my friend, the no longer silent majority.
Still, other things vex him. We were watching a video of German march music. Germans have fine march music; and if you listen to it with your listening skills, you can spot subtle nuances of difference between it and, say, Russian, or French marches. I was drinking beer; and my friend was too. But when he clicked on another four-four beat tune, up can an advertisement; light, bright, and air tight.
I wonder, how many sleeping bears, those post white guilt fanatics that the socialists taxed you to death because of, are out there in their furnished bunker basements; working out their post white guiltness with roleplay and video drama? Are they like my friend, whose isolation and passive stance were suddenly ended by the brainless message that Mulcair has the same vision as Layton? Visualize that: this message sandwiched between the marches of Prussian Uhlans, and Prussian Infantry; disturbing the ancient angers of a man dressed in the uniform of the Kornilov division * . It woke him up. His iron fist crashed on his desk. Some chess pieces fell over on his Viking themed board. I was too drunk to much care, but now, later and sober, I care. I, Fenris Badwulf, I care.
Now that white guilt is passing, what will the people who never had white guilt, what will they pass too? Without all their white guilty neighbors to submerge them, what will become of breakfast? And for all those now freed from the breakfast mush of white guilt, what alternate fare will they find? Hmmm.