The African-American Who Cried Racist

Do you know any blacks who call anything white 'racist,' even if it's not human? There are some. But u shouldn't even call a human "racist" unless that person has done something that indicates they despise other races.

 

Once upon a time there was a black man in charge of watching a playpen, in which several toddler African-Americans frolicked.    He fed them Ritz PB&J Bits and loved watching them make up their own games. He also changed diapers when necessary.

 

The village had complete faith in him. His job was to protect their young ones from creatures who would harm them. For they had heard of a fiend called a Racist, who was white and had special claws made to cut across the throats of black people. 

 

One day, the African-American, bored of watching the tots, decided to shout “Racist!” just for the heck of it. The villagers came running like mad, armed with pitchforks and steak knives. But when they arrived, the African-American was pointing at the sky, laughing. In the sky were white clouds. “Racist?” he asked, mockingly, as if he didn’t know what a real racist was.

 

The villagers got angry at him. “You’re only supposed to cry ‘racist’ in an emergency! This clearly wasn’t one. If you don’t know what a racist is, Hattie Gofisher will teach you.”

 

So he had to listen to Hattie Gofisher two hours a day, explaining in minute detail what a racist was. He tried to tell her he knew already, but she wouldn’t take that for an answer.

 

One day, while Hattie wasn’t there, a Hispanic man came along. He was a stranger, and in his hands were two white baskets. Laying them down, he said, “Excuse me, sir, but could you watch these baskets? I have an errand to run, and no one to leave these things with. Carrying them will only slow me down.”

 

The African-American agreed to watch the baskets. After the man had gone, he peered in them. In the first basket were some biscuits and powdered doughnuts. In the second basket were several reams of white notebook paper. 

 

An hour later, the Hispanic had not returned. The African-American was bored again, so he yelled, “Racist!”

 

Once again, the villagers came running with pitchforks and steak knives. Once again, there was no danger. The African-/American laughed when he pointed at the baskets, and the various white items within them. 

 

“Biscuits are not racist, you stupid man!” the village leader exclaimed. “Not everything that is white is racist. Next you’ll be saving ermines are racist, plastic bags are racist, white chocolate is racist, Lugia is racist, freakin’ Bugs Bunny is racist! I think we’ll have to double your hours with Hattie Gofisher. You will learn what a racist is, or suffer the consequences for misknowledge.”

 

Hattie Gofisher explained to him again what a racist was, over and over. Then one day, while she was away, a white woman appeared. She walked over to the playpen, picked up one of the toddlers and said, “Oh, how cute!”    Then the African-American cried, “Racist!”

 

Again the villagers came running, quick as a flash, with their pitchforks and steak knives. One of them hurled his steak knife at the white woman, who dodged it and said, “What are you attacking me for?”

 

“For hating our kind,” exclaimed the leader, brandishing a larger pitchfork. “Just because we’re black gives you no right to attack us.”

 

“You’re attacking me just because I’m white!   That’s also racist.”

 

“We’re not attacking you because you’re white, but because you are guilty of hate crime. This is a terrible evil that should be eradicated from the world. Jettiser, how many has she killed already?”

 

The African-American held up one finger.

 

“He’s lying! I didn’t kill anyone!” But it was too late for anyone to rectify their evaluation, for someone had sneaked behind the white woman and stabbed her back with the burning pitchfork. She crumbled into a heap, and was dead. The toddler she had been holding fell harmlessly to the ground inside the playpen.

 

Hattie Gofisher counted the remaining living toddlers. Then her face turned pale.

 

“How many are still alive?” asked the leader.

 

“Fourteen,” Hattie Gofisher said, in a quite voice.

 

“But weren’t there fourteen to start with?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Jettiser,” the leader said to the African-American, “we have now killed an innocent woman based on your stupidities. From now on, no one will come when you call ‘racist.’ For all we know, there are no such things.”

 

The village people returned tot heir homes, leaving the African-American alone. Hattie Gofisher didn’t come back. He was pleased.

 

Then, three days after the murder of the innocent woman, two men wearing white robes and white masks disguising their faces, appeared. Across the chest of both of their robes were the letters K.K.K., in black ink. They were carrying scythes.

 

“Racist!” the African-American shouted.

 

No one came. One of the men had already slashed off the head of a toddler with his scythe.

 

“Racist! Really this time!”

 

Still none of the villagers came. The babies began crying. Five of them had been decapitated.

 

“RACIST, GUYS! COME SAVE THE CHILDREN!”

 

Not a person appeared. The men had nearly finished the job. Then they turned on the African-American, who started to run, but felt himself grabbed from behind. He was flipped over and they ran their scythes across his stomach, then left him there, bleeding.

 

Two days later a matron from the village came to bring food for the toddlers. She gasped when she saw the gruesome sight, and ran back to the village. “He was telling the truth that time!”

 

The chief and Hattie Gofisher took the blame for not going to his aid, the one time he told the truth. But ask yourself this question: who is really to blame?

Author's Note

Please don't come in here calling me "racist" for writing this story. You'll only look like a fool.