Imus, you pulled the trigger on my heart… How long will Americans continue to jerk off about Barack "Barry" Obama?  It is the ultimate status-signaling for whites.  Look, I can't be racist – I support a black for president!  Well, mulatto, anyway.  Supporting Obama for president is better than pretending to hang out with your black co-worker, it's even better than scathingly (and courageously!) condemning the racism of other whites.

To anyone wishing for an intermission from politics-as-entertainment, Obama is not very good news.  He speaks as if he is the star of his own prime time drama:  turgid, sanctimonious, and inane.  It is very difficult to listen to him without breaking down into desperate sobs over how stupid American politics is, how bottomless are its standards.

Somehow, all national politicians, but especially Obama, have been trained to speak in every situation as if they are confessing their problems to Oprah.  Whether delivering the nth repetition of the stump speech, mourning a calamity that has once again ruined the day for stupid people, or celebrating the winner of a spelling bee, they all wax earnestly in halting, moistened, pause-filled pseudo-candor.  The faked familiarity and folksiness and soul-bearing is more than I can bear; it is more horrifying than the banality of evil, it is the banality of politics.

Obama of course could not wait to start talking about the Virginia Tech massacre, but beyond a reference to getting that assault weapons ban back in*, had nothing at all to say about it.  Instead, he used it to make the craziest segue he could think of, shifting from the violence of shooting people to the violence of calling them "nappy-headed ho's".

True story!  Of course this is Obama's main selling point; making sure race is always somewhere in the back of your mind is how he hopes to build a winning campaign.  My black "friends" will never call me racist again!  So think the race-neurotic whites in his audience.  Even though the Imus story is as dead as the majority of Imus' brain mass, it can still provide a rhetorical pivot for the generality-blabbing Junior Senator.

Having linked a campus shooting spree to a tame, FCC-approved insult, it was time for the pants-pissing to begin in earnest.

"There is the violence of children whose voices are not heard…"  On he drones, offering a long list of non-violent "violence" which would have fit nicely into a Walter Mondale stump speech, so petrified a form of liberalism it is, so trite and, yes, so phony.

"There's a lot of different forms of violence in our society…" he blabs, having pounded the English language into a mulch of words.  "I am my brother's keeper."  And quickly he adds, "I am my sister's keeper."  Well, why not add a sister to the Book of Genesis?  She can make snarky comments as Cain and Abel quarrel over whom God likes better, and stick up for Eve and maybe call into question this whole dubious religious patriarchy.  Thank you, Obama, for making even the dullest boilerplate sentiment sound extra stupid.

On and on.  Worthy of respect…common humanity…this is an opportunity…provide comfort and healing…parents, families and friends…we have so much work to do…leaving too many children behind…the pay and respect they deserve…our politics is broken…a new spirit washes over this nation…stronger when we are united – only his itinerary (must spread more hope!) forces him to conclude this banal liturgy.  And Obama utters each tired phrase with the self-regarding pomposity of a city councilman addressing a roomful of dying old people.  I have a voice like Pericles! he thinks to himself as he says "we must work together" for the trillionth time.

You can tell he's getting worse the better his chances become.  It's the Boy from Hope all over again.  Wit, sense, and intelligence:  get ready to have them flushed out by a Barium enema.   

I'm so, so sorry I said that, and also that you're a huge whiner… Aren't you tired of perpetually injured and whining blacks who think that their crocodile tears are like exotic jewels of emotion?  Perhaps my favorite moment in their latest weepy and slightly drunken racial lamentation was this response by, of all people, Al Roker:

I cannot tell you how many people have asked me about my thoughts on Don Imus.

You're a huge liar, Al.  No one will ever ask you about your thoughts on anything.  But the notion that, when some mildly edgy or tasteless remark makes us cry, we turn to a fat, cheerfully inane clown weatherman for words of healing is proof that we are but characters in an epic satire set in a world of sniveling morons.  (Perhaps Roker is upset that his egg-shaped head will never be called "nappy".)

I knew at once that the more the senile Imus blubbered the worse it would be for him, as the grotesque, fleshy machine of racial outrage convulsed into sanctimonious operation.  His expression, that a team of female basketball players were "nappy-headed ho's" (I still haven't the faintest idea whether the bizarre mummy was trying to compliment or insult them), was taken to be a grievous insult to black dignity, or at least whatever they have in place of dignity after years of following Al Sharpton and Jesse Jackson around.  (Rev. Jackson should die of a bowel failure that causes the filth that has been building up for years inside him to burst out and rupture every internal organ and split apart his repulsive, bloated carcass.)

The old stereotype that blacks have minds like children is hardly given the lie to by these ridiculous tantrums.  And as if to compete in this Olympics of emotional menstruation, whites everywhere have reacted with comical petrification and status-seeking.  As Steve Sailer points out, these donnybrooks of racial outrage give people the opportunity to display their moral and class superiority through flagellation of race criminals and advancement of a racial spoils system.  It is the secret to their behavior, moreso than claims of "guilt" which few if any whites genuinely feel about anything.  Guilt may motivate us to conceal things about ourselves, but it does not make us preen.

It is considered a mark of high status to refuse to see the world clearly – for only someone of high status can persist in impractical behavior and beliefs.*  In the case of blacks this means extending credibility to shamans like Sharpton and Jackson.  How better to announce one's moral purity than to leave as judges of such matters men of comically shaky character who will grasp at any straw in order to advance themselves?  Turning the merest infraction into an intolerable hate crime is the best and most conspicuous style of preening.  Better still, ostentatiously rejecting the apologies of racial criminals encourages the next apology to be even more abject – and then one can bask in the wide social gulf which separates the morally correct from the reviled.

It is a little perplexing that Imus could be so stupid as to think that groveling would save him.  As Howard Stern noted, "He's apologizing like a guy who got his first broadcasting job.  He should have said, 'Fuck you, it's a joke.'"  Perhaps his radio and television superiors forced him to take the walk of shame to Al Sharpton's radio studio; Imus spent his appearance wavering between abject apology and testy irritation at the attention-whoring fraud.  Imus should have recalled Ann Coulter's obstinate refusal to apologize for calling John Edwards a faggot in joking about re-education camps.  The only way to defeat status-seeking outrage is to show that one is so high status that one's position cannot really be affected – impotent outrage is the quickest to dissipate.

Because contemporary racial outrage depends on status-seeking whites, the main antidote to it is shaming the preeners in their own language of moral condemnation.  As it happens this is quite easy to do, as every one of them is a fraud and hypocrite.  It is important though that they be laughed at and mocked when they are shamed, for this is something moral preeners cannot withstand (this is why they attack ridicule and humor with particular vengeance).  It is the one response that robs them of their status.

As the Satanist in Angel Heart remarks, "Evil is a dunghill, Mr. Angel.  Everybody climbs up on theirs to speak out against somebody else's."  Oh, how we know it!  It is one of the oldest games there is, and even fools can master it.