Although Mr. Yellowman’s French-Italian Waldensian genes produce swarthy skin and facial features common among Milanese street artists, he is classified as a Caucasian. My ancestry is northern European, even though my paternal ancestors were fond of christening male offspring with names like Orlando, Ishmael, Streeter and the occasional Murray. Lucky for me, my father was named in honor of his maternal great-uncle. The original Johnnie Raymond Blackburn survived the Civil War, but was done in by a poorly sawed oak tree five months after Appomattox. Had my mother not dug in her heels, I would have greeted my first grade classmates as Harry Nutt*. Fortunately, I was saved from a life of petty crime thanks to a last minute compromise.
Mr. Yellowman and I are often mistaken for brothers. Sharing the same dusky features and vacant stares, we inadvertently frighten bank tellers when wearing our matching bandoleers. Last week, three patrol cars zoomed into First Star’s parking lot before we could coral the darting loan officer. Forced at gunpoint to produce identification proving our European credentials, the situation relaxed after an observant officer noticed we were pleading in muffled Ozark twang. Admonished for scaring the staff, we were strongly advised to do our banking in less eccentric clothing. Since neither of us want to be squeaky wheels, we agreed to leave our bandoleers in the Ranchero. After due deliberation, we’ve concluded the bandoleer/sombrero combination may explain why simple liquor store transactions often become tense encounters.
Because I have no idea what constitutes white culture, it’s impossible to know when I’m committing a faux pas against Gingrich’s “American Civilization”. Judging from local antipathy about Barack Obama’s election, I assume voting for half-black politicians is as bad as voting for black-black ones. And there must be something about Puerto Rican women serving on the Supreme Court that is anathema to Old Dixie sensibilities. Senator Sessions, who is obviously white, was appalled at the prospect of Sotomayor’s promotion. In fairness, Sessions’ objection may be based on gender issues stemming from psychological trauma suffered at the hands of a discernable Mobile hooker. (Projection does seem to be a common trait shared among the pale Confederate Republican base. It’s unfair to let them have all the fun).
Putting our Cimmerian heads together, Mr. Yellowman and I have created a ten point plan that we hope will allow us to blend in with fellow southwest Missouri Caucasians.
1: Attend Ernte Fest each year, drink fifty beers, and then make a point to pee in public, preferably on somebody’s leg. Unsure if indecent exposure during the chicken dance crosses Bavarian propriety, our best guess is that unleashed Teutonic bratwurst receives mild Lutheran rebuke, while dangling Hispanic chorizo gets tased.
2: Write letters to The Joplin Globe demanding that the Democrat Party leave Medicaid alone because government involvement in health care will kill grandma.
3: Down shots of Old Crow whenever our favorite NASCAR driver is on fire.
4: Assume communism, fascism and socialism are one in the same. Accuse liberals of combining all three into an ACORN funded conspiracy against segregation.
5: Become apoplectic when liberals suggest taxing millionaires; spew ambiguous Bible verse to support torture and homicidal maniacs who murder people in their church.
6: Protest the global warming hoax by pumping an extra five gallons of gas into Kum & Go’s handy trash can.
7: Bowl.
8: Automatically exhibit a knee-jerk reaction against higher education.
9: Gain eighty pounds. Develop class envy against dittoheads issued handicapped license plates without first contracting diabetes.
10: Go Galt by stockpiling machine guns in preparation for Glenn Beck’s tweet confirming Moroni is hanging out around his hot tub.
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*Harry Flynn was Pop’s Navy buddy. Sadly, Harry was gunned down by Osaka vice cops in 1953. Nutt was my great-grandmother’s maiden name.
Juan Don
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