The Noble Internalized Racist
I go to great lengths to make white people feel comfortable.
I wear t-shirts with superheroes on them because I want people to know that I’m ok with white people in power. Even if it’s an unreasonable amount of power, I’m fine with it. Really, I am.
When I was growing up, I had to learn how to beatbox because my white friends were constantly coming up to me saying “Hey, Tom! Drop me a beat!” and I just had to be able to go bshh-chi-poo-ka chi-chi-poo-chi-chi poo-chi-ka… I’m not going to leave you hanging! We’re on the same team, folks.
Before I got married, when I used to have sex with white girls, I didn’t even put my penis in them all the way. I didn’t want to ruin them for the white person they were going to marry.
5 inches, man. No more than that.
That sort of thing can ruin a marriage.
She’s there, three years into the relationship, and she’s still chasing that feeling of having her cervix pounded into her throat; I’m not going to do that to you white people!
Now I know what you’re thinking: “Tom, I’ve met you before. I know you have a white wife.” Yeah, but she’s a feminist so she’s not even one of the good white people.
I am worried about one thing though: our kid is white. He’s surprisingly white. He’s suspiciously white. I’m going to say suspiciously white. He’s so white that in ten years I’ll probably be working for him.