Thursday, January 18, 2007
Après Moi, Le Déluge

Look at poor New Orleans mayor Ray Nagin. Nagin sad. He tried and tried, but there's just no way one man can stop the flood. Just one dude, all sorts of folksy charisma and a immaculately waxed scalp are no match for real forces of nature.

He's seen this before. He knows what to expect. There will be people on roofs being ignored by helicopters, a mass of dying people crammed into the Superdome and the federal government will eventually respond by sending someone with a background in training from the American Kennel Club to sort the monstrous social and humanitarian crises out. In the end, there will be yet another exodus away from Ray's city. Only this time not to Houston. I think we learned the first time that Houston sucks. Plus, if you go someplace in the Mountain Time Zone where they don't have any black people, white folks will just give you a house.

It's February, so it's not hurricane season. Plus the Army Corps of Engineers totally fixed the levees, so what are the odds that the whole Lake-Pontchartrain-on-Bourbon-Street would happen again? Ha, practically zero! So what's the threat then?

As usual down South, the threat is Whitey. Blue-Eyed Devil. And where else would Mr. Charlie Bobo pose the most direct threat than in Chocolate City itself?

Step One: use space-based lasers to stir up a super-hurricane in the Atlantic.

Step Two: aim it at lower Louisiana.

Step Three: Just as it arrives, detonate the emergency dynamite supply build directly into the levee walls.

Step Four: Refuse all insurance claims.

Step Five: Wait 18 months.

Step Six: Broadcast the secret mass media signals to trigger the white repopulation and gentrification of the city of New Orleans via an army of crackers genetically designed specifically for this task. The call goes out in a way that only white people can hear it. Like a dog whistle. Specifically, during Public Service Announcements during syndicated reruns of Friends.

Yes, this boy, this "Noah" was born from a rescued frozen embryo held within the bosom of a dying city. Is it just me or is this the same plot as Alien?

Couldn't get the people out of the Superdome or off the Interstate highway, but somehow the delicate frozen embryos escape intact. Fishy. Very fishy. Seriously, have you ever seen a frozen embryo? They look exactly like little fishies.

If we know anything about Whitey it is that he is ravenous, insatiable, relentless. He will not rest until there is a Crate & Barrel in the Lower Ninth Ward.

You know what Whitey's fatal flaw is? Overconfidence. Not without reason, I mean, you'd be overconfident too if you had a track record that involved gobbling up an entire continent just using the leftover people who were kicked off the continent they started in.

The points of most effective resistance are always the last one Whitey sees coming. Real, destabilizing insurgency, as we know from Iraq, comes from within. From traitors willing to trade in the greater good for their own personal pettiness.

You'd think Whitey would like nothing more than a couple of high-profile celebrities bringing money and whiteness to the city they want so badly to recapture. A little style, a little class, a whole shitload of disposable income. Faces to put on the brochures for the not-at-all-reasonably priced condos within walking distance of four Starbucks and an Anthropologie.

But what if those faces belong to Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie?

You can't tell them not to move to the area because, after all, they are white and famous, which means they get the full slate of civil rights extended to them as a courtesy. With their family, not only do they bring some people of color--varying degrees and admixtures of Mr. Nagin's required and desired "chocolate"--but they bring foreign born people of color. Even their one white kid was born in Namibia, which technically makes her an African-American.

We see your Noah and raise you a Maddox and a Zahara and a Shiloh. Checkmate, Peckerwood.

I don't know the difference between poker and chess.

This post on the Narcissus Scale: 3.3


PS- I think I have used this title on a post before, but I couldn't find it. Also: I don't really care. Just thought I'd get in front of the bitching, just in case.


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