MSNBC’s Toure made headlines this week by calling Mitt Romney a racist. Apparently, when Mitt got peeved that he’s been accused of killing cancer victims and fired back at the campaign apparatus in charge of the slurs, it was a bit too much for the old chap. Luckily, yours truly has been given one of Toure’s journal entries by a jilted lover. Conservatives everywhere should take note.
Toure’s Journal: August 15, 2012
5:30 a.m. The alarm goes off. It’s jarring, but I never hit the snooze button because the realization that each day will bring new racism always serves as a second wake up call. It’s like a sudden splash of water (or perhaps a fire hose from the 1950s?) to the face. I’m not sure.
6:00 a.m. The shower is cold. Cold, like the stares of random white people who look at me in the grocery store, at the movie theater, in the park or at fine dining establishments frequented by Caucasians everywhere. They could be thinking anything, but I know exactly what’s going through their mind. To the untrained professional their eyes say, “I really can’t wait until Friday” or “I miss my wife and kids.” Oh no! I … I know better. Oh yes, I know.
6:30 a.m. I brush my teeth. The toothpaste is white. Too white. Suspiciously white. I comb my hair and think, “Somewhere, there is a white man who hates my beautiful hair.” He hates the look of it. He hates the feel of it (as if I’d allow him to touch!). He hates that I love my hair. And so I comb it with defiance, hoping that on a cosmic level those bastards feel it.
7:00 a.m. Driving to the studio I realize for the first time just how racist the engineering is in my car. All the math and science behind today’s luxury vehicles operates within a system that caters to rich white folks, their body types, and their penchant for using turn signals in that wily white way that says, “Maybe I’ll turn. Or … maybe I won’t and we’ll get into an accident. Then whose fault will it be, Toure?” I need to remind myself to contact General Motors. This is unacceptable.
12:00 p.m. My stomach was upset, so I settled for some soup at the little diner down the street. The mom and pop place owned by white people. On the menu was clam chowder — the white. They gave me crackers. Crackers. What the hell was that all about? The way that waitress slid the package in my direction, smiling. Always smiling… but I know better. Un-freakin’-believable.
7:00 p.m. Huge gap in the log book. Long story short, my day was one racist fiasco after another. The show was booked with white people. Unapologetically white … people. White people who carried on full conversations without acknowledging their whiteness. One guy — his brow furrowed. It was that bad. Really. It furrowed furiously in a way that said, “I will tolerate you, but I will never respect you.” It was subtle, but I caught it.
8:00 p.m. Blocked people on Twitter. These clowns (another sick invention of white Europeans) accuse me of seeing everything as racist, never realizing that behind every modern day amenity there is an unsung hero, a person of color who contributed to its existence. So enjoy those microwavable snacks, kids, because men and women of color made that happen. Hot Pockets? You can thank Al Sharpton for those if you ever open your taste buds to the hot, steaming, gooey, cheesy evidence.
9:00 p.m. Took another shower. The soap? White. Rubbing it across my chest and shoulders, legs and back, the message is subliminal but it’s clearly there: A man of my pigmentation can get clean — provided he wipes white all over his body. When I’m done I clench my fists and shake them in anger at that bar of Irish Spring; the stench of white is unmistakable.
10:00 p.m. Turning in early. I’m exhausted. Being so in tune to the racism that surrounds us — that most people can’t even see and hear and feel — I realize: this is what it’s like to be Daredevil. For a moment I’m comforted: I too am a superhero of sorts. And then it hits me like a fist from Hell’s Kitchen: Daredevil is white. Coincidence? I think not. Indeed, I am in hell.