Cleaning Windows

I spent a bit of time this morning scouring the house for any and all tomes once and future inscribed by the clueless mewling sadsack dimbulb whitebread kneecrawling racist cowards who had signed on to a petition Objecting that PEN America would present its 2015 “Freedom Of Expression/Courage” award to the French magazine Charlie Hebdo.

As of this writing, some 204 non-entities had affixed their names uglyto a White Man’s Burden manifesto in which all assembled stuck a hatpin through their collective frontal lobes and then droolingly whined and cried that Hebdo had “intensifie[d] the anti-Islamic, anti-Maghreb, anti-Arab sentiments already prevalent in the Western world,” impotently ejaculated that Charlie Hebdo’s “cartoons of the Prophet must be seen as being intended to cause further humiliation and suffering.”

Mostly these signers, it develops, are towering fuckwits, whose words die the moment they hit the page, whose words are condemned to live not a moment longer than they strike the brain: to wit, Joyce Carol Oates.

And of all of them, who are white, these signers, they not only of no doubt do not understand what Charlie Hebdo was and is about, but they are, at root, and glow-in-the-dark, racist.

I was heartened to discover that I myself owned works but by two of these 204 petition-signing fuckwits: Frances FitzGerald, and Michael Ondaatje.

Both of whom are, uh, elderly, and both of whom, I believe—trying to think kindly—have mayhaps slipped into senility.

Particularly FitzGerald. Who, in 1979, published America Revised, which screamed till its lips bled about Christianists running amok across the land, inserting their psycho-religionist insanity into the nation’s classrooms.

But, now, like the rest of the white luz, heroracists who signed on to the anti-Hebdo manifesto, FitzGerald—even as she screams onto aneurysm about Christianists—wants to carve out a little depression of protection for Muslims.

Because—and this is how they are racist—to their feeble racist minds, these people, these FitzGeralds, they believe Muslims are too Backward and Weak, to take the sort of criticism that any artist worthy of the name rains like hellfire down upon any and all bullshit belief system.

These racists, they believe Muslims must be Coddled and Protected, because they, the poor Muslims, can’t take it. And the Muslims, believe these racists, they can’t take it, the Muslims, because they are backward, they are lesser: lesser evolved, lesser advanced, knuckle-dragging forehead-scraping ur-beings.

Fucking racists.

There are 1.6 billion Muslims in the world, making up 25% of the planet’s population. And they own and control the governments of some of the largest and most essential nations in the world. Despite what the white racists of the PEN petition believe: Muslims, they are of power. And they can surely take it.

Scanning the list of the white racists who signed onto the PEN petition, I see no one who has ever expressed any more “courage” than agreeing to weave into a cab, after a night of NYC drinking, when sad cab was piloted by a Scary Black Man.

Ooh. Pin on them. A medal of Courage.

All the signers of the PEN petition are already over. None of their work shall live. A hundred years from now, no one will remember any of their names. While the post-massacre Hebdo cover by Luz, presented on this page, shall continue to glow, yesas an early exemplar of the uber-compassion of The Great Wide Open.

As for my books. By Ondaatje. And FitzGerald.

At first I thought about dumping them around the corner at the used bookshop.

But that would mean others might encounter these tomes by these ignorant cowardly white racists.

Then I thought of fire. Which has the lure of pure cleansing.

But, finally, I buried them.

I was planting tonight. And so I ripped them into shreds, these books by the ignorant cowardly white racists, and mixed the shreds with chickenshit—supremely appropriate—and with general compost, and mountain soil, and worms.

At some point, maybe, they may redeem themselves.

Coming up in potatoes.

The first season or two, no doubt, there will be kind of a shitty taste.

But, eventually, they’ll get there.

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When I Worked

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