The White Birds Did It

No doubt you've heard by now about the 5,000-or-so dead black birds who died, inexplicably, on New Years Eve.

Inexplicably, my ass. The fucking white birds did it.

Whenever there is violence perpetrated against whites, everybody is super-quick to point the finger at blacks. In fact, I wrote a post about this a long time ago called "The Black Guy Did It." I'd hyperlink to it, but, you know...

Anyway, are our memories so short and faint? Do we not remember the Civil Rights Movement of the 1960s, when Southern blacks faced violence in untold numbers at the hands of angry whites, railing against integration and Rosa Parks and James May and the right to vote? Doesn't anybody remember that?

And now, in Arkansas, we have thousands of dead birds-- dead black birds-- and is anybody pointing an accusatory wing or beak at the fucking white birds?

No.

The news media is too cowardly. They're afraid. Christ-- I'll bet the head of AOL-Time Warner owns a few murderous doves himself. I'll bet that the owner of Knight-Ridder is having an affair with an albatross. No doubt there's some fucking seagull feathers in the pockets of Ann Curry and Dianne Sawyer.

Disgusting. That's all I have to say.

We're talking about mass murder, here, people. Thousands and thousands of deceased black birds, birds of color, and where is the public outcry? Where is Jesse Jackson? Where is Al Sharpton? Had these birds all been taken out by white police sharpshooters, well, you can bet there'd be rallies up the ying-yang. But no. Because this crime was perpetrated by an anonymous squadron of white supremacist birds, who answer to no calling and no master other than the power that justifies the wanton slaying of black birds, there are no speeches, no righteous indignation, no shouts from the pulpit.

Doesn't anybody find it somewhat unsettling that not a single white bird was felled in this 2011 inaugural massacre? Isn't it just a little too... convenient? A little too... curious?

Not everything is racial, I know-- but one thing is clear: this is.

And I would never be one to preach violence under normal circumstances, in normal times, but let me tell you brothers and sisters something-- these are not normal circumstances, and nor are they normal times. WE ARE IN THE MIDST OF RACIST AVIAN OPPRESSION AND IT IS TIME TO BEAR ARMS IN DEFENSE OF OUR NATION'S PRECIOUS BLACK BIRDS.

That's right. You heard it here on My Masonic Apron. A call to take up arms. If you, in your travels, come up on a so-called "peaceful" dove-- don't be afraid to shoot it right in the face.

Yeah, that's right. REVENGE!

Snow-owl? Right between the eyes.

White swan? Choke the racist life out of that gimpy little neck.

White-tailed Tropic Bird? You know what to do. You. Know.

REVENGE, YOU WHITE-POWER BIRD ASSASSAINS!

And some day, some fine day, maybe the black birds of Beebe, Arkansas will fly, free from fear from their villainous oppressors, and, together, we will vanquish the white power birds. Together.

Amen.

The Walking Five Percent

If you turn on NPR or watch the news, even for a moment or two, or if you glance at a newspaper on the stand while you're standing in line waiting for the sluggish Starbucks barista to make a $6.00 latte for some Blackberry-addicted schmuck in Italian loafers and unpressed trousers, you will likely see enough to make you want to confidently vom.

The long and short of it is, no matter where you live: people in America are cracking the fuck up.

On Halloween night in Seattle, a veteran police officer and his trainee partner were finishing up paperwork on a traffic stop when the rookie sensed danger from a slowly-approaching car. She yelled for her partner to duck as she did, but it was too late. Someone from inside the phantom vehicle opened fire with an assault rifle of some kind, killing the veteran officer immediately. The rookie, acting on bravery and adrenaline, managed to call for help and get off several rounds at the fleeing vehicle, but, several days later, there is no clear suspect or motive.

We all know about the maniac rogue psychiatrist who went berserk at Fort Hood on Thursday, killing 12 or 13, and leaving scores of others wounded, some of whom are treading dangerous water in that liminal pool that exists between life and death.

Now, some disgruntled sonofabitch Rambos his way into his former place of employment and shoots the crap out of the place, killing at least one and wounding half-a-dozen more. Fortunately, this piece of shit was caught quickly, before he could do even more damage. These frightening, unprovoked, maniacal incidents come on the heels of other violent acts that have spanned the country's landscape in at least the last year.

So, I'm left to ask, as I've done so before: what the fuck is going on here?

Are we to blame the recession? The unemployment rate? Copycat syndrome? Childhood trauma? The breakdown or the inadequacy of the mental health system? The easy availability of guns, both legal and illegal?

I have no fucking idea. The fact of the matter is, though, that people are going off the deep-end without swimming trunks and they're armed to the teeth and we're all pretty much fish in a barrel at this point. And, if that statement doesn't scare you, um, it should. In a post a week ago, I mentioned the phrase "the Lucifers in our midst," in reference to the possible parole for British triple police-killer Harry Roberts, and, sadly, I think that this phrase applies to a shitload more people than just scumbag Roberts-- it applies to people who are walking around, pretending that they're normal one moment, and the next moment, they're showering the party with bullets instead of silly-string.

I remember a trip some of us theatre majors took to Pittsburgh my senior year of college. We took a bus, because we're pretty classy. Through the windows, we observed and commented avidly on the vast array of dubious-looking personages who ambled past Carnegie Mellon University and environs. One elderly woman sashaying along wore a leather trench coat, sunglasses, and a large fedora hat, and we referred to her as "Indiana Jones." There was the elderly black man wearing plaid shorts and red knee-socks despite the January chill, and the Asian-looking gentleman who was enthusiastically talking to himself, long before the existence of bluetooth headsets.

"These are the Walking Five Percent," said Tim, the director of my college's technical theatre department. Tim has buck teeth, wears silk bowties everyday and goes to like Lyle Lovett's hairstylist, so he ought to know.

"What the fuck is The Walking Five Percent, T-Dawg?" asked Matt, a slightly psychotic classmate and friend of mine.

"The Walking Five Percent, Matthew," began Tim dryly, "is a term my friend at MIT uses to describe the portion of the population who remains, for one reason or another, undiagnosed and yet definitely mentally afflicted."

Some of our heads turned in Matt's direction.

"The Walking Five Percent," Tim continued, "look like you and me. They go get their hair cut every month at the barber, they say "hello" to you on the street, they buy normal groceries at the supermarket, and they hold down regular jobs--"

"Do any of them teach Basic Stagecraft, Tim?" I asked, most likely beating Matt to the punch. Tim smiled at me.

"Probably," he answered, grinning toothily and sweeping his blonde curls from in front of his eyes, "the thing about the Walking Five Percent is, they're like an aneurysm-- they can give way and blow up at any time, for any reason, or maybe they go live their whole lives and nothing ever happens. You just don't know."

And maybe that's what our society is contending with these days, although, like the unemployment rate, I think it's very possible that the Walking Five Percent rate may be regrettably climbing. And all we can do, I think, is take that extra glance over our shoulders every now and then, and duck as fast as we can.