A White African American's Thoughts on Barack Obama

My friend Teddy was in town a few days ago. For those who don't know, Teddy's three-quarters African American, but is paler than the average Irish American. He and I were discussing Barack Obama's presidential candidacy.

"You know," he said. "He's not really black."

"What do you mean? Of course he is."

"Not like I am."

"Well that's obvious."

"No, I mean he's not descended from former slaves. His dad's from Kenya."

"Do you hear what you're saying?"

There was a knock at the door. It was our Chinese. I paid the man, and then laid our food out on the table.

"Beef and broccoli?"

"That's me." He pulled out his chopsticks and went to work. "I'm just saying, it's a different animal when you're born into centuries of oppression like me, as opposed to when you move here from outside the country."

"So Kenyan's have it way easier than a white dude like you?"

"I'm not white, I'm African American. How many times do I have to tell you?"

"All right, smarty pants, I got a scenario for you: you and he are driving separate cars, both Mercedes. Who do you think gets pulled over for being black?"

"Hey, I've been racially profiled before."

"You were doing 105 on the Mass Pike, you deserved to be arrested for that."

"That cop was a racist."

I shook my head and took another bite of my Peking duck.

"Turn on the TV," I said. "I think Cheaters is on."

I Was Attacked by Taylor Hicks

That's right, I was assaulted by the American Idol stand-out. I was at a bar in a small New Hampshire town, having just come from an exclusive brunch with Barack Obama and about thirty other people. At the bar, I made my way over to the box of juke, and found the most amazing song ever: Billy Ocean's "Loverboy".

As the song started, I turned to the bar to signal the bartender to pour me another mimosa, when I was tackled from behind. I tried to get back up, but this figure was upon me, reigning blows. It was Taylor Hicks... only it wasn't...

It looked like him, only bigger, and greener. His gray blazer was torn to the point that it was only a tiny vest on his gross pectoral muscles. Someone scooped me under the armpits and dragged me out into the parking lot. It was Randy.

"Damn it, dawg, why did you have to do that?"

"Do what?"

"Whenever someone plays "Loverboy" in front of Taylor Hicks, it sparks this uncontrollable rage. You're lucky to be alive."

"That's hot."