Now then: I got a few chuckles out of this piece by Matt Taibbi: Our Endless Dinner With Robin DiAngelo. Excerpt:
Nice Racism, the booklike product just released by the “Vanilla Ice of Antiracism,” Robin DiAngelo, begins with an anecdote from the author’s past. She’s in college, gone out to a dinner party with her partner, where she discovers the other couple is, gasp, black. “I was excited and felt an immediate need to let them know I was not racist,” she explains, adding: “I proceeded to spend the evening telling them how racist my family was. I shared every racist joke, story, and comment I could remember my family ever making…”
Predictably, her behavior makes the couple uncomfortable, but, “I obliviously plowed ahead, ignoring their signals. I was having a great time regaling them with these anecdotes—the proverbial life of the party!” She goes on:
My progressive credentials were impeccable: I was a minority myself—a woman in a committed relationship with another woman…I knew how to talk about patriarchy and heterosexism. I was a cool white progressive, not an ignorant racist. Of course, what I was actually demonstrating was how completely oblivious I was.
No kidding. Instead of trying to amp down her racial anxiety out of basic decency, this author fed hers steroids and protein shakes, growing it to brontosaurus size before dressing it in neon diapers and parading it across America for years in a juggernaut of cringe that’s already secured a place as one of the great carnival grifts of all time. Nice Racism, the rare book that’s unreadable and morally disgusting but somehow also important, is the latest stop on the tour.
And this part actually made me laugh out loud:
Reading DiAngelo is like being strapped to an ice floe in a vast ocean while someone applies metronome hammer-strikes to the the same spot on your temporal bone over and over. You hear ideas repeated ten, twenty, a hundred times, losing track of which story is which. Are we at the workshop where Eva denies she’s a racist because she grew up in Germany, or the one where Bob and Sue deny they’re racist by claiming they think of themselves as individuals, or the one where the owning-class white woman erupts because no one will validate her claim that she’s not racist, because she’s from Canada?
Read the whole thing, of course.
It is perhaps belaboring the obvious to point out that Robin DiAngelo is a complete and utter cunte, utterly devoid of any self-awareness or knowledge of elementary social behavior. She is, to put it bluntly, the kind of insufferable asshole whose behavior is so self-righteous and at the same time utterly vile so as to cause even her immediate family to avoid her. If I was to use a scatological analogy – and I think I can – she is the biggest turd in the modern “race relations” punchbowl.
But the real value in Taibbi’s piece is the apt use of ridicule. People like Robin DiAngelo deserve ridicule, all the time, every day and twice on Sunday. It won’t shut her up; in fact, I suspect it will make her even more self-righteous and prolix. Which is, of course, the intent. The more this moron talks, the more ridiculous she looks.
This tactic should be applied to all such horse’s asses. Maybe with enough ridicule, we can disengage some of these kinds of morons and get back to something resembling reasonable discourse.