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I Love Crackers

By Jason Harris | Miscellaneous | November 15, 2010 |

By Jason Harris | Miscellaneous | November 15, 2010 |

“Yo, D. I got more ideas.”

I’d ducked into Rowles’ penthouse office to pitch some new columns. He didn’t hear me because his office is roughly the size of the Spectrum and sound doesn’t travel that fast. He might pick up a faint echo in two or three minutes, but I didn’t feel like waiting so I jumped into one of the rickshaws he keeps by the door for visitors and a small Laotian boy trundled in the general direction of the Overlord’s desk.

Rowles was still distracted by whatever he was watching on his computer when Lo Phang and I got there 10 minutes later so I sneaked behind his desk.

“‘Big Butt Sluts Go Nuts.’ A classic but I don’t think I’ve ever seen an all-male version. And what’s with the goat?”

“AAAAH,” he screamed. “What the hell are you doing here?! Didn’t I throw you out last week? Where the hell is security?”

I dropped into one of his hand-tooled leather Eames office chairs. “Pfft, your security is terrible. I gave the black guys a basketball and the Mexicans are downstairs tricking out my Impala. You should get some dependable white guys. Not the Irish, though. Those people will steal everything you’ve got. Almost as bad as the Italians.”

He cradled his head in his hands. “Goddammit, it’s my birthday. I shouldn’t have to put up with your bullshit today.”

He grabbed a bullhorn. “Where’s my secretary? Mrs. Wong! I need you!”

“Yeah, she’s going to be busy for awhile. I gave her a wok and the address to a pet store.”

“I hate you.”

“Aw, c’mon, D. Don’t be like that. Didn’t you get great traffic off that last column I wrote? There were like 300 comments.”

“Oh, yeah. It was hugely popular,” he reached in his desk and pulled out a 4-inch stack of paper. “Look at this. All requests to buy ad space. There are at least 500 more e-mails.”

“Then what the hell are you complaining about?” I said. “You should be pouring me three fingers of that Dalwhinne 29 you keep in your bar globe.”

“Stay the hell away from my bar,” he said. He was shaking the papers at me and turning red. “Look at this. They’re all from hate groups. The Ku Klux Klan. White Aryan Resistance. The New Black Panther Party. People for Paul Blart. The Nazi Party of Illinois.”

“Illinois Nazis? I hate Illinois Nazis.”

“Make jokes,” he said. “You think the FBI won’t pitch a tent in your butt? You’re going to ruin my business, dammit. I want to send my kid to private school.”

“Didn’t you just tell me that you were going to buy a 400-year-old boarding school on 250 acres in the south of France because they put Lil’ Pajiba on a wait list?”

“I fail to see how that’s relevant.”

“Uh-huh. In any event, those aren’t all hate groups, I’m sure.”

“No? What would you call Let’s Go to Punch Whitey in the Face?”

“Clearly, it’s a travel club,” I said.

“The Committee to Stab Whitey in Chest?”

“It’s a crime to be enthusiastic about knives?”

He sighed deeply and rubbed his eyes before falling back into his chair.

“What do you want?” he said quietly

“I got some ideas I want to run past you.

“Fine. Go.”

“Mexicans are here for our jobs. And they can have them if it keeps out the Columbians and the Hondurans.”

“What?! No.”

“The time I urinated on a homeless man. I bet you’ll pester somebody else next time, chump.”


“Aw, c’mon. He was a black dude. Probably. It’s hard to tell when they get that dirty.”

He looked at me. “Tell me something and I ask you with this with all seriousness: Are you a crazy person? Is that your problem?”

“You don’t like one. Fine. How about ‘Getting payback on the white man. Now you know why I like sex with white women.’”

“I’m going to kill you. Slowly and with great pain.”

“What?! I gotta get even for 437 years of oppression. Plus, man. Have you seen white women these days? White women didn’t have big round asses when I was a kid. Shit is completely off the hook today. Here, let me show you some videos.”

He slapped my hand as I reached for his mouse.

“Get the hell away from me,” he said. “I’m fairly certain you’re a bigot. I’m completely certain that you’re absolutely fucking insane.”

“‘Bigot.’ Pfft.” I looked down at the rickshaw driver who was now shining my shoes.

“See? I get along with, uh, Egg Shin here. Isn’t that right, Kato?” I gave him a $10. “Look, I’m reaching out to the Asian community with a generous tip.”

“You’re not helping your cause.”

“Man, I don’t need to hate groups of people,” I said. “That’s dumb, hating entire groups of people based on some nonsensical collection of stereotypes and half-truths. Shit, do I look like a Republican to you? Besides, wait long enough and a man will give you plenty of perfectly legitimate reasons to hate him.”

“Really?” He looked skeptical. “So none of that stuff you wrote last week was true?”

“Please. Man, I don’t even believe half the shit we just talked about.”

“Yeah? Which half?”

“Well, I do love me some white women,” I said. “With Pilates and hormones in the milk? Ass. For. Days. Here, let me show you some videos.”

Jason Harris doesn’t believe anything in this column. Or maybe he does. Probably he doesn’t like you, but it likely it’s just because you’re an asshole.

Dustin is the founder and co-owner of Pajiba. You may email him here, follow him on Twitter, or listen to his weekly TV podcast, Podjiba.

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