My leadoff segment this week is about the white journalist at Philadelphia magazine who had the impudence to write an article about what it's like to be white in a 44-percent-black American city.
Prejudometers were blowing fuses all over the City of Brotherly Love. The writer and his editor of course groveled, submitting themselves to Two Minutes Hate sessions before battalions of Community Organizers simulating rage.
All of which led me to some concluding ruminations:
Reading these stories, I found myself getting quite angry. Not angry at the black hustlers, who are just doing what they've learned they can get away with, and probably having a lot of fun doing it, but with the whites.
Why are Huber and McGrath behaving like such craven pussies? Why are they giving the Philadelphia Association of Black Journalists the time of day? Why don't they tell Michael Nutter to go boil his head? As for that sinister-sounding Philadelphia Human Relations Commission, what power do they have? What does it mean to be rebuked by them? Do you get a certificate of rebuke, or what?
I'm a race realist, and I belong to a couple of clubs of like-minded people. I know, from things that other people have said to me when I've told them this, that outsiders assume we sit around at these clubs grumbling about blacks. Well, there is a certain amount of that, but by far the commonest topic of conversation when race realists get together is: What on earth is the matter with white people?