'Garbage', 'Deplorables', And White Hatred - Reverse Racism And The Arrogant Infamy Of The Left

'There should be an N-word for the white trailer trash that voted for him' said one of Kamala's advisors, still smarting from the fracas of a complete and overwhelming loss at the polls; and there could be no better way to express his deep-seated, festering, hatred for poor whites. 

'We didn't lose the election', the advisor went on, 'they did, the fucking bass-boat assholes'. 

And so it went within the liberal cabals of Washington, still apoplectic at the bottom-feeding lowlife ignoramuses who voted for him...him of all people, this....this...And again, like many in post-election Washington, the advisor spluttered and stumbled.  Words were not enough to express the moral heinousness of the man, his insidious, foul, hatefulness, and nothing could possibly define the dim crawling things that voted for him.  

 

In political war rooms throughout the capital the story was the same.  They all wanted to leave the country, not because Trump would soon be President - that was bad enough - but because the country was filled with backwater fools, idiots, cretins, and retards. The country was being taken over by this slime, this stinking, rotting ooze, this....this...

'Cancel all who voted for him', counselled angry middle-aged women.  'Scrape the shit off the walls', yelled a professor in Harvard Yard.  'Bugger the whole bloody lot of them', echoed her colleague. 

In an ironic twist, the very people who condemned ignorant white people for inherent, systemic racism -white, privileged liberals -  had now become one of them.  If their hatred for white, rural, lower-middle working class whites was not racism, then what was?  For years they had subscribed to the notion that whiteness was at the heart of the race problem in America.  

It was whites who had enslaved the black man, tortured him, oppressed him, marginalized and whipped him; Jim Crow whites who refused him access to America's wealth, who ridiculed and exiled him from society.  Whites were the problem, and now they, in their most ignorant groupings, in goatish cabals, in miserable jobs with pitiful wives, were at it again. 

'Just look at that!, blurted Bob Muzelle, an old Yale graduate, once the scion of New England royalty, an aristocrat among aristocrats, member of the Cabot, Lodge, Davenport, and Potter families, a legatee of colonial and early American greatness, turned liberal in his college years, acolyte of the Reverend Peters Langley Thompson, leader of marches, Freedom Rider, immovable sitter-in, hero to the underprivileged and the put-upon. 

'That' was a Politburo of white men all lined up for Trump cabinet posts, not a black or brown face among them.  Bob 's dream of a crayon box of colored Americans, a racial potpourri, a heady stew of cultural diversity had gone down the drain.  The rise of the black man to his rightful position atop the social pyramid had been stymied if not reversed.  The very value, inherent logic, and absolute rightness of diversity was being unconscionably challenged by...by...

Here Bob, like every one of his liberal colleagues, could simply not say Donald Trump's name, as if saying it would call up the devil; so Bob resorted to the common memes of his crowd - sadistic homophobe, women-hater, mindless, predatory capitalist, insurrectionist, convicted criminal.  Yet in reciting this litany, he realized he wasn't warning people to stay away from the man - the bloody fool was President! but engaging them in the continuing struggle for right. 

The string of white men, spread above the fold in the New York Times, arms folded, chins up like so many Mussolinis, Soviet apparatchiks, and Hitlerian goons, was anathema. A bunch of unwashed white backwoods crackers, cheap-whore buggering bastards had voted in a cabal of Ur-white men - the unconscionably wealthy, privileged fraction of one percent who ruled, oppressed, and dominated.  

Bob had always fought against the perniciousness of systemic whiteness, and now this?? Four years of unmitigated whiteness to come - blonde, blue eyed, flaxen haired, pert nosed young things on the dais, on the dance floor, on the very balcony of the White House; steely-jawed, perfectly featured young white men at their side, phalanxes of well-fed older white men behind.  

Bob of course was himself white, but he had long stopped considering himself so.  Years in the cotton fields alongside black tenant farmers, tooth-by-jowl with black men on the way to march across the Pettis Bridge, endless conferences of black women, Black Lives Matter revolutionaries, and ghetto pimps and ho's conferred an honorary blackness.  The final telling would be the results of a genetic test to see if the rumors of a former family slaveholder's beautiful mulatto mistress could be confirmed.  If so, if he had even a trace of black blood in his veins, he would indeed be black. 

Bob wasn't sure whom he hated more - the ass-crack hokies who had voted Trump in, or the privileged white men who would form his government.  It all boiled down to the fact that he like the rest of the white liberal crowd, hated whiteness, and looked in the mirror every morning hoping to see a thickening of the lips, a broadening of the nose, a kinking of the hair, and a slightly darker tint on the cheeks. 

Kamala was his hero, his chosen one, the one to lead all into a new verdant, peaceful, and equitable age - a proud woman who embodied both blackness and femaleness, the headiest of combinations, a fertile, colored, sexually feminized America; but here she was left on the curb, summarily tossed aside by whiteness - the gummy, dumb fuckers in Mississippi trailers and fat-cats on Wall Street. 

'Hate Has No Home Here', said the lawn signs in Bob's white suburban Washington neighborhood, a reference to racism, homophobia, and misogyny; but the irony was lost on him as he seethed venomous hatred at the white fools who had elected Trump.  This animus was not hatred, he reasoned, because it was righteous anger; the other way 'round, like the signs said, was truly, fundamentally inerrantly wrong.  He would always be on the side of justice, fairness, and good will. 

None of this augured well for the Republic, a respectful transition and an era of compromise and political sense.  Bob and his henchmen would ride herd on Trumpists, and would do everything in their power to rid the country of this blight - this blustering white, pretentious fat slob.  The job would be tough given that after almost ten years of lawfare, impeachment, non-stop badgering, ad hominem attacks, and suggestions of Hitlerian evil he was once again President of the United States, but 'La Lucha Continua', Bob repeated yet again. 

Regardless of Bob's resolve, Republicans had won not only the White House but the Senate and the House, and during his term, the new President would accept the resignation of older conservative Supreme Court Justices and replace them with young, even more conservative jurists.  All four agencies of governance would be in Trump's hands, and he would use them to assure the success of his agenda. 

'Maybe it's time to retire', said Bob's wife one evening after watching her apoplectic husband nearly choke on piece of chicken as he tried to express himself; but he would surely die in his traces, for what was a life of righteous effort worth if it ended on a chaise lounge on a Florida beach?