African American

Amnesty International USA released an underwhelming report detailing that Middle Eastern and South Asian men are routinely racially profiled as part of America’s zealous war against terror.

Not much surprise there. Did Amnesty International USA have nothing better to write about this year? Take a look at the fall television schedule AIUSA. You’ll find far more injustice on ABC’s Tuesday night than any airport security checkpoint. Racial profiling happens all over America. With such a diverse population Americans were born to profile one another. We love racial profiling. Without it we’d be plain old boring Americans. Even in my own neighborhood, Chelsea, New York, yours truly was racially profiled. My darlings, it was a brutal moment, but I survived. Here’s what happened.

Early on Saturday morning I was teetering down the sidewalk wearing incredibly tall platform boots. They were fashioned from leopard skin. Suddenly, a brash young lady with a shaved head and henna tattoos charged towards me with a bucket of paint!

“Fur is murder!” She screamed. I tried to explain that I left all my furs at home, but it was too late. She dumped red paint all over my $2300 designer boots.

Then we just stood there in awkward silence. What was I to do? Pinch her? Scream “I’m melting!”? She seemed more than a little embarrassed once the act was done. Miss PETA weakly shrugged and walked away. I bid her a sarcastic good day and late for a Fashion Week appearance wetly walked to Central park. I was a wounded diva trailing symbolic blood. But oh baby, my paint splattered leopard skin boots were a splash! Pun intended.

The paint ended up giving me fierce anarchist cred. Jean-Paul accused me of painting them myself. Subsequently I heard rumors he arrived at a midnight soiree wearing a paint smeared tiger frock. The gall!

My boots were a casualty in the war on terror. I feel I was racially profiled and attacked because of my African American heritage.

Oh? I don’t look African American? I certainly am. I was wearing the tribal pelt of my ancestors when that feral lesbian tried to paint over my heritage. I am African American and proud.

In seventh grade I turned heads when I announced before my geography class that my grandmother was a native Afrikaner. “Your granny is black?” The entire class demanded an explanation.

“No. My grandmother is French-African. She was born in Algeria.”

“Your granny is French?!” Again, the class was dismayed. I showed them Algeria on the globe. Still they didn’t believe me. Mr. Montgomery, the teacher, also found my wile tale incredulous. “But Neil, you aren’t black.” He reassured me.

I am of African American descent! But it’s the Africa with Jyhad and cous-cous not starvation and AIDS. I wear my African heritage proudly. Its little surprise I came under attack because of my race. That’s the country we live in.

As other brave survivors can attest, racial profiling is indeed humiliating. It cannot be justified and shouldn’t be accepted, either by the military or militant lesbians. But sometimes, to live in the “Land of the Free” we have to give up just a few rights, be it fashion or Freedom of Speech.

Is getting pulled out of line for a routine bag search really such an inconvenience? We live safely in the most powerful country in the world knowing at any moment terrorists can strike us dead. I go to bed knowing a terrorist could murder me in my sleep, but racial profiling keeps me alive just a little bit longer.

Amnesty International USA needs to see that all of this drama is for the greater good. In the global war against terror we simply can’t take any chances.

Sure my ruined leopard skin boots, or that beating an innocent man received during his six hour illegal interrogation, are darned inconvenient. But you know, something spectacular came of those boots. Who knows what life lessons that man will learn during his open ended incarceration? Regardless of outcome, we can’t deny our race. That said, I’m lacing up those boots and buying myself a newly legal assault rifle. I have liquor stores to rob and bitches to smack.

Toodles!