A few days ago in Amsterdam there was a demonstration against racism attended by 5000 individuals. The Netherlands is quite literally the most un-racist nation on the planet. But still the agitators had to come out and show that they were in solidarity against, well, nobody really knows exactly, but against something bad. On the other side of the world. Really, if you’d cordoned off the square and shot everyone with machine guns firing phosphorous shells you’d have made the country a much better place. Just the reduction alone in blue hair would have been a vast improvement.

Let’s also not forget that 5000 people packed into the Dam square was kinda contrary to the 4000 euro fines on offer for businesses in Holland who didn’t successfully adopt the Corona-Nazi stick on behalf of the benevolent authorities. This time last week we were all going to die from the Chinese pox. Now it’s cool to go out and fist pump in your best anti-racism attire.

As regards me, I’m too racist for my shirt.

But it appears to be the case that white people are just awful. No, really; we are the pits of the earth. There’s nothing that can be done about us at all. No matter how much we genuflect there is no avoiding the inescapable truth that all whites by virtue of the color of their skin are just horribly, horribly racist. And I say that as an obviously horrible, horrible white person. I must be racist because I am white. I mean, I myself just look through color, I really do. But it doesn’t matter because of my inherent whiteness and so I am a horrible racist. Even though I have at least three really good black friends, it doesn’t matter. I tell my black friends all the time how much I dig their groove when we go bowling together. But in my heart I know that it is all for nothing. They hate me because I am white. So I must be a racist.

They still let me buy the beer though.

So I have come to the conclusion, after much anguish and soul searching, that I must go my own way. I must leave my black brothers behind. No more will I feel the joy of being able to buy them their drinks at the bar. All night. Every time. But that is the cross that I must bear. It is my own suffering. Because I am white. It’s such a horrible, horrible thing to be white. To be responsible for the sins of your fathers. And your fathers’ fathers. And your father’s fathers’ fathers. It goes back a long way.

I told my black friends that I had to be leaving them. That my whiteness was an insurmountable wedge between us ever having a real relationship. Like speaking brother to brother. I had to let them go. But I couldn’t believe it, they got angry at me! They called me a racist for wanting to leave. How does that work? I really want to understand. I really want to put myself in their shoes. Surely they can buy their own rounds at the bar from now on? But, no; they cannot. If I don’t buy them their beers all night then I am racist. But when I do buy them their beers then I am racist as well.

It’s such a conundrum!

I’m only kidding. I don’t have any black friends. What are you, crazy?

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