When I was a small child, maybe five years old, my mother took me to the circus. There a clown offered me a dumdum lollipop. I wanted the candy, but more than that I hated the clown. I did not fear the clown. I merely hated him for the color of his skin.
He offered me more lollipops in succession, getting up to five before moving to the next child. Then I regretted discriminating against him, because I could have had five pieces of candy.
Racism, clearly, is genetic. Please don’t judge us. We can’t help what we are. All we racists want is tolerance to live our lives in the way that conventional society considers abhorrent.
No, I’m kidding. I’m not about to use the left’s logic. I was a genius child and knew there was something deeply unnatural about a man in makeup. Likewise, any man, white or black, who is as androgynous and faggy as the average American negro is to be viewed with extreme prejudice. No amount of public school could ever squash my Xmen superpower of reading faces.
Look at Latin or ancient Greek or medieval Russian. Is there a term to describe racism? No, of course not. If you went to Shakespeare or Jefferson and called them a racist, they would say, “What the hell does that mean?” Every time some gen x liberal former Catholic hopped on Kevin Smith movies tells me that the Southern Confederacy was racist, I say, “No shit. It was the 1800s. The idea of not being racist wouldn’t be invented for at least another fifty years.”