I Woke Up Today Feeling White

So I joined a Men’s Only club

It was to be the greatest day of my life

It felt like any normal day until I clocked myself in the bathroom mirror. I couldn’t believe what I saw.

I was white.

Not any old white either. I’m talking whiter than white. Pure white. Klan white. Not your average man in a grey suit, balding and pale who hasn’t seen the sun in 16 years and looks anemic white. No. It was the type of white that I could trace back to my Scandinavian roots. Viking white. Rippling white.

I was so excited I couldn’t wait to leave the house.

I felt the need to show off my newfound superiority.

I was the newly crowned King of Life with an unquenchable thirst for power.

At the breakfast table, I showed my wife how superior I was feeling. I could tell she was totally into being dominated as she hung off my every word. She knew who the boss was. I spoke slowly making sure she understood where she belonged in this new social hierarchy.

“Don’t bother going to work today” I declared. “Your place is here in the kitchen.”

She was thrilled to be told what to do. To no longer have to think for herself. To be taken care of.

My whiteness was empowering her to be obedient.

I imagined a new world order where the old empire could be restored. We could go back to more regal times where second-class citizens, like women, were humble and proud to stand silently by their men.

I had hit the jackpot. Not only was I white. I was a man too.

Could this day get any better?

Outside it was like a new dawn.

Cheeky immigrants knew their place.

The local dairy owner, an ethnic, now greeted me as ‘Sir’. He could tell I was a highfalutin gentleman. I told him I had no cash to pay for my morning paper.

“Do not worry Sir,” he spoke with his Indian twang, “your credit is all good here.”

It pays to not pay to be white. I daydreamed of all the new places I could shop now I no longer had to do a credit check.

Further down the street, my remarks to young girls were no longer sneered at. Well, at least they didn’t reply. I felt emboldened enough to wolf whistle at one hot chick. Hot chick? I could even feel my vocabulary boosted with white male power. I instinctively knew when it would be the right time to slap some ass. ‘Always’ was the answer. Especially after a waitress brought me coffee.

I once again thanked God for bestowing upon me this glorious gift of whiteness. The Lord was rewarding me and I knew I had the right to judge everybody because I was now their intellectual superior.

It was only 9 am and I hadn’t even arrived at the office.

The next day, I discovered several drawbacks to being white. I found myself in the epicenter of a conspiracy.

All I wanted to do was watch my favorite newscaster, Tucker Carlson on CNN. Instead, my remote control batteries ran out. Flatter than a transitioning Bruce Jenner waiting for her hormones to kick in. The damn government was hoarding Lithium, preventing the common people from purchasing a stockpile of batteries to run our generators.

How can I prep for the apocalypse when I can’t see the damn light?

Even worse, my internet provider had slowed down my speed. They’re controlling the news by forcing everyone in my state of Florida to use dial-up.

Being white, I could feel my anger bubbling over. I was seething. Not just a little bit, but fully enraged. My sense of entitlement needed a home.

Lucky for me, I managed to join a mob — The Chest Beaters. It’s a pleasant crowd to hide in. They’re all like me. Full of anger. I get to shout at other groups at midnight. I don’t even have to think too hard. I’m allowed to do whatever I like in this mob. Being abusive is encouraged. We have safety in numbers.

I’ve got a neat little label that came with the introductory pack. It reads “Privileged White Male”. A pitchfork is free to all new white members along with a flaming torch for Rabble Rousing Wednesday.

The booklet was full of useful information with dates and times I could hook up with other white men like me. They even recommended I use an app called Grindr for better results. It listed all the great manly activities I could do like pig hunting, tea-bagging immigrants, slapping arses, and best of all — throwing midgets.

It’s a great club.

The booklet also comes with a free token to claim a brand new pitch-black megaphone. It has a fun slogan too, “Shouting From The Rooftop — A Call For Action.” All this and a certified guarantee that ten immigrants have been harmed in making all the clubs’ promotional material.

I like that. It showed me that they cared. They were in touch with my inner white male. Not that I want to get too touchy-feely.

On Sundays, we gather at a member’s house to drink Budweiser Lite and shout entitled slogans from the garden. Terrence, our last host, had a lovely rockery from which he placed several burning crosses. He was into hand-knit jerseys with the most brilliant captions. The one he wore that night said “White Men are Happy Accidents”.

It’s here my enraged maleness can fully embrace my glorious caveman past. I get to grunt and man-wrestle with the other oppressed white men. The garden arena has an oiled-up mat laid especially for the occasion. George, our most fierce wrestler, intimidates every opponent by wrestling naked — such fun! There’s nothing more fearsome than a naked George getting into a squat and ready to launch an offensive.

Graham is our leader.

He resembles Putin and we love him for it. He owns a donkey which he strides into the meeting room with. The best part is he lets everybody have a go riding his ass. He says that being reasonable is antiquated and only the unreasonable are welcomed.

Graham claims it’s a new dawn for all men and that we should grow a Full-English mustache and embrace all masculine traits like shouting at objectified women while explaining white man-stuff in a loud, aggressively slow manner.

It’s lucky I have the handbook. The appendix has a detailed list of all the White Man items I can explain including how to connect to the internet by switching on the computer. If only I could get mine to work.

Yeah, it’s a great club. My favorite part of Sunday is when we get to beat our chests and roar with Malice, the pet rat.

We’re also allowed to use words like love, reclaim it from all those women groups that are trying to oppress us. Stan chose to etch ‘LUV ME A STIFF’ on his torso in 30 point characters. He ran out of room to fit ‘DRINK’.

This is far better than my previous club. They kicked me out for taking my underpants off from my head. They had a rule stating you could wear the pants on your head if you won your wrestling bout ‘fairly’.

Apparently using your teeth wasn’t considered ‘fair’. I got disqualified but only after I took my pants off. I think the other men were intimidated by my large knob. It was a hangover from my Black days.

It’s fun being an angry white man. For too long I’ve hidden that side of me, in the closet, along with my gimp outfit…but no more!

I’m like a born-again Toxic Avenger.