Articles

I Have One Black Friend

It’s been something of a tense year for race relations in our country, what with our president creating a hurricane targeted directly at black neighborhoods, the assassination of Rosa Parks, and the Kevin Federline rap album. Why even influential civil rights leader/ “Just a Friend” crooner Bizmarke has predicted a “racial Armageddon the likes of which only Bizmarke could bring”. But I, for one, am not worried? Why you ask? Because I have one black friend. Yeah that’s right, I, Pat Stango, a privileged white male who enjoys collecting famous golf clubs and reading Dan Brown novels, has an entire black friend to call my own. Only one mind you, since I feel like any more than that would just be considered showing off.

I must say white people, having one black friend is quite a treat. With my one black friend at my side I am finally have an excuse to talk to skinny white girls, I rarely get murdered anymore when attending underground rap battles, and I’m kept abreast of all the latest in doo-rags and doo-rag technology. Although the “n-word” remains off limits to me, with my one black friend I am now able to refer to black people as my “bruthas”, and there’s this one black dude who lets me call him Funky Leon even though his name is clearly Bernard.

Of course there sometimes there are drawbacks to having one black friend. For instance when conversing with my one black friend I’ll often find myself going out of my way to not say anything racist, which does take a lot of work considering my Dad was an accountant for the Klan and all. For instance just the other day my one black friend and I were sitting around talking about basketball, and he said to me “Hey, that Lebron James is a good basketball player, right?” Not wanting to sound racist and reinforce archaic racial stereotypes about athletics, I replied ‘Uh, I guess, but I’m sure he’s good at other things too, like paying his bills on time and not getting his girlfriend pregnant.” Or just yesterday we were hanging out and my one black friend turned to me and asked “So Pat, where are you having your taxes done this year?” With that racially loaded question staring me right in the face, I had to think quick and responded the way any sane, non-racist person would: “Black people should get reparations from slavery!” I shouted before nervously running away, jumping head first out of my third story window, pulling glass shards out of my nose, using the shards to hijack a papergoods truck, and then driving said truck all the way to Mexico while running over and throwing papergoods at anything in my way. Once in Mexico I opened up a successful novelty hat business under the name Randall Foote, Jr., using the profits to fund my own series of Spanish language plays such as Que Hora Es? (AKA The Time Machine Play), before being deported in the late 1970’s due to a nationally televised indecent act with a mailman.

But minor hiccups like that aside, having one black friend is, as my grandmother liked to say, “the bee’s knees”. (Grandma was mangled to death while trying to create an 8-foot bee-robot.) Why just last week it was my one black friend’s birthday and so we celebrated at his house by watching a marathon of Unsolved Mysteries, which happens to be my favorite show. As we sat there watching hours of lusciously shot reenactments I peppered him with questions about his rich culture. “Do black people ever get haunted by ghosts?” I asked, ever thirsty for knowledge about Mother Africa. “If you were someday reunited with a long lost twin brother whom you previously did not know existed, would he have to be black, or is there a chance he could be Chinese?” And even race expert Cornel West himself would have been stumped when I pondered “What’s the difference between shoes and tin foil?”

So there it is, a 700 word essay on modern day race relations! Glad that’s over with. Now I can finally go back to doing what I do best, which is of course building intricate, life-sized dioramas depicting the Bolsheivik revolution, and then smashing the dioramas with a wooden mallet. Hey, a dude’s gotta make a living, right?

Evil Anne Frank

While the whole world knows the story of Anne Frank, few are aware of Tina Rosenbaum, the young girl who spent her adolescence hiding in the 5-foot by 5-foot hole in the ceiling right above Anne Frank’s attic. Besides simply hiding from the Nazis, Tina also had to fear being found out by Anne Frank herself, who had bullied and abused Tina throughout their elementary school years. Discovered during a weekend doll-buying excursion in Holland, we now present to you the journal of Tina Rosenbaum.

January 21, 1942

I can’t believe my luck. First the Nazis start killing all the Jews, then I forget to set my alarm clock on the day my family escapes to America, and now this: living right above my arch nemesis, Anne Frank.

March 5, 1942

I spend most days curled up in a ball. Uncomfortable as it is, I dare not move for if I make any sound Anne Frank will surely discover me and deliver a horrific beating. I remember one day in school when she pushed me down an entire flight of stairs. As I lay on the bottom step holding my cracked ribs and hemorrhaging brain, I looked up at Anne Frank and asked why she would do such a thing. She glared at me, her eyes cold and unforgiving, and simply snarled: “Because I can.”

April 7, 1942

I do not know exactly why Anne Frank hates me so, but I imagine it is because I am fat. Months of starvation have made Anne even more thin and beautiful than ever, and thus only intensified her hatred towards “fatties”. I am so jealous of Anne Frank and her perfect figure.

June 12, 1942

Last night I dreamt that I was living with my family in America, watching American television and drinking American orange juice. Unfortunately, I was woken from my dream by a large rat trying to burrow its way into my inner ear canal. He is my only friend.

July 3, 1942

Today I enviously watched Anne Frank and her family as they played the popular Holocaust game “Silent Twenty Questions”. Oh, how I wish I still had a family to engage in such sweet diversions with! Also I wish I weren’t Jewish. But apparently Anne does not appreciate the gift of family time, as she abruptly left the game midway through to instead go devour the family’s final loaf of bread. When her father attempted to stop her, Anne just looked up at him and said, in that menacingly gentle whisper of hers, “You know father, you really wouldn’t want me to make any loud noises right now. I mean, it’s not like you’re a doctor or a tank maker or something useful like that. I hear those ovens get awfully hot, father.” And with that Anne finished eating while her family could do nothing but quietly weep in fear.

August 17, 1942

It appears that Anne Frank too is writing diary entries. I wonder if her memoirs will include a chapter about the time she forced an overweight classmate to defecate by knife point on their kindergarten teacher’s desk? Somehow I think not.

September 10, 1942

I fear that my time on this earth will very soon come to an end. Just a few minutes ago the piece of dinner wood that I had been gnawing on fell out of my mouth, only to land right at Anne’s feet. Her head shot up, catching the slightest glimpse of my rotund frame. A devilish grin came across her face, as she most likely pondered new forms of human torture that would make even Hitler envious.

September 11, 1942

Oh, joy of joys, my dreams have finally come true! At last the Nazis have discovered that vile beast and are delivering her from the house at this very moment. Why Nazis, you truly have made this little Jewish girl’s day! From now on SS shall always stand for “sweet saviors”! Oh no…what’s she saying? Wait a second Nazis, don’t listen to her, there’s no girl hiding out in the tiny hole in the ceiling. Why, that’s ridiculous! No really, there’s no reason for you to come see what’s up here. Whatever you do, just please don’t put me in the same train car as Anne Frank! Anything but that Nazis! Well anyway, I’m going to stop writing now.