I had a very revealing conversation with someone the other day, and it told me a lot. At the same time, it told me nothing. What does that mean? I’ll try to explain.
I talk to this guy who will go unnamed often. A nice fella with a nice girlfriend. They’re only a year or 2 younger than me, 29 at the youngest. Our topics of conversation vary from sports, to our pets, to what’s going on in the world politically, etc. I always have a good time talking to them, because they fall into that category of “not a dumbass”. Anyway, I went on a bit of a rant, as some of you know that I tend to do, and I think that I may have struck a nerve. The point that I was trying to make is that some people use their nationality, religion, or anything else as a false identity, and I think it’s a piss-poor way to describe yourself.
I went into the topic of national heritage first, and how it’s annoying that people get a false sense of pride from where their ancestors hail from. And I’ll go ahead and say this part now; if you think that I’m just a random white guy who knows nothing about having an ethnic upbringing, you couldn’t be more wrong. That’s all I’ll say about it. You can think it all you want, but please know that you’re assumptions are incorrect. Anyway, I was saying that people who describe themself with an ethnicity, and the example I used was “Well, I’m Puerto Rican, so you know what that means.” No! I don’t know what that means! You know what that means to me? That means that you have no identity at all, and that you use your ethnicity as a crutch, and an excuse to be loud and obnoxious, because that’s the stereotype about Puerto Ricans. Of course, since the person I was talking to is Puerto Rican, his sensitive ears heard “I think all Puerto Ricans are loud and obnoxious.” First of all, that’s not what I said at all. Go ahead and re-read the paragraph. See, I didn’t say that. Yes, I do think that, but I didn’t fucking say it!
But hey, since I’m already giving myself a bad name, why stop there? Why not alienate myself from more people? Alright, let’s do it!
Irish people, enough already. You expect me to believe that since your last name is O’Cuntybreath that you can drink me under the table, and that you have a great sense of humor? The only thing I know about you from your last name, pale skin, and shamrock tattoo is that you need something to identify with, because your mental, physical, and social skills obviously aren’t cutting it for you. That doesn’t make you a bad person though, just insecure with who you are in my eyes. I really don’t care that you’re Irish, but I am going to roll my eyes and tune you out every time you make a reference to your hertitage. If you just got off the boat, and were a potato farmer overseas, I might give a shit. Since I know that to be untrue, I see it as an act.
And my god ladies, if you really believe that your zodiac sign belongs in your description of yourself, I pity you. Let me give you a bit of advice. When you’re on a first date, and you tell a guy “Well, um, I’m SUCH a scorpio, so you know what that means…” All that means to that guy is that he’s a couple of drinks, and one compliment away from getting laid, since you are obviously extremely gullible. Two compliments if he wants anal.
And please, and I mean it, PLEASE, don’t take this as me bashing Puerto Ricans and Irish people. People who believe in zodiac signs I could give a fuck about. You’re all at least mildly retarded if you believe that shit. But the ethnicities, don’t think that. I’m not saying that I hate Ricans and Micks. I’m saying that I hate stupid Ricans, and stupid Micks. Big difference. Yes, if you’ve got a shamrock tattoo, every U2 album, and think St. Patrick’s Day is a real holiday that you look forward to every year, go fuck yourself. Same thing applies to the people with the El Coqui tattoos. You’re a moron, please know that.
I’ve known that I felt this way since at least the 7th grade. Yep, your humble narrator has been this way for a very long time. Here’s a quick story that has the same theme:
When I was in the 7th grade, I went to a Catholic school that gave scholarships to children in need from other countries, mainly Haiti and Mexico. Among those kids was a mexican named Carmello. Now, I’m going to go ahead and tell you now that I have a high tolerance to spicy food for reasons unknown to me. Lately, I’ve still been able to eat spicy stuff, but my asshole pays the price. Back then, no problem. Anyway, the school I went to had a garden. In that garden was a pepper plant that had a small pepper that was much much hotter than a jalepeno. I’d say it was just about as hot as a habenero, or close to it at least. The only kid to that date outside of myself who could eat one of those peppers and not go running to the water fountain crying was a kid named Brad. I could do it too, but the pepper didn’t taste all that great though, so it’s not like I wanted to eat a spicy pepper for the hell of it.
Anyway, Carmello came to our school thinking that he was hot shit. He was the best player on the soccer team because he played it a lot back home, but nobody really cared. I’m sure if there was a canadian kid at the school, he could curl his ass off as well, big deal. Have fun eating lunch alone, eh! Anyway, Carmello also thought that since he was mexican that he could handle an unworldly amount of spice, and that anyone would give a shit. I cared though, because I was out to see how far I could push him. First, I brought him over to the pepper plant, and I ate a pepper, then handed him one. He looked nervous, but ate the pepper. He didn’t go running, but he didn’t ask for seconds. I was disappointed, so I went to plan B.
I had a bottle of habenero hot sauce that one of the other mexican kids gave me, that I didn’t particularly enjoy. I brought it to lunch, and put it on my food. I bet Carmello that he couldn’t use that same hot sauce on every lunch that he ate for a week. From Monday to Friday, I ate with Carmello, and made sure that he used enough of the sauce. By Thursday, all of the skin around his lips was red and irritated, to the point where he looked like he had lipstick on. Had he just backed down, and admitted that him being mexican had nothing to do with anything, it would have been different. But no, his false sense of pride cost him a week of misery. And I know, I was an evil kid.
So, if you didn’t learn anything yet, I hope that you at least understand my point of view. I could give a shit where you come from, or where your family is from. If you mention that you’re italian or whatever, that’s fine. I’m cool with that. I’m not going to automatically assume that you’re a fantastic cook though, or that your wife has more chest hair than me. Ok, I might assume the thing about your wife’s hairy chest, but that’s because I used a bad example.