I never have seen the point to racism, but maybe that's because I'm young. I'm far too busy making something of myself to be able to understand the sentiments of a person who's forty-eight years old, and who looks back on his life only to realize that the only thing he can be proud of accomplishing is having been white.

Even the garden-variety loser has a stamp collection.

Nor can I understand how someone could voluntarily prostrate himself before any of the self-proclaimed leaders of the ayran movement - as if a half-dozen rednecks in Ohio could be called a "movement." Sure, there are the occasional charismatics like Adolph Hitler, Billy Graham, or David Duke, but for the most part, every Grand Wizard/Dragon/Poobah/Vole I've ever seen has been some back-country cracker with a speech defect.

"I ain't a wacist. I just don't wike bwack peopwe."

Why is it so hard for people to admit to being utterly worthless? Even though they never have amounted to anything, and probably never will, they'll pump themselves up with some cheap imitation of pride because they can trace their ancestry through a long line of squalid Indo-European peasants ...

... which isn't hard to do when your family tree doesn't fork.