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Location:Texas, USA Naturalized US Citizen of Irish extract -   Fixed Wing and Helo trucker.Interests: "The Absurdity of Man". I am a proud supporter of Blarney, Nonsense, and Hooey. I enjoy being a chopper jockey, and trying to figure the world, people and belief systems out. I'm just not very good at it, so it keeps me real busy. I scribble, blog, run this website, mess with rental houses, ride motorbikes, and read as much as I can. I went solo 44 years ago, and I like to say I'm gonna get me a real job one day. When I grow up. ("but not just yet, Lord, not just yet") For my aviation scribbles see www.chopperstories.com.... enjoy! I wish you Peace in your Life. May you always walk with the sun on your face, and a breeze ruffling your hair. And may you cherish a quiet wonder for our awesome Universe. Life isn't always good. But it is always fascinating. Never quit.
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Of Helicopters and Humans (19) - Our little Nigger Joke

I AM BEAUTIFUL - REGARDLESS


Of Helicopters and Humans  

Part 19 - "Our little Nigger Joke"



For all you lobotomized Media lapdogs who now obediently hate Paula Dean (recently fired in a Media Storm, for some kind of alleged Nigger comment...)

       Things are going a little too bloody far these days. And it is impinging on our Freedoms.
Our Heaven ordained, man fought, much maligned, Liberty.
Our freedom to joke, mess about, and to take the Mickey out of everybody, and everything.
Question: Is the issue "PC" as in "politically correct"
Or:
are we increasingly talking "PC" as in
"political CONTROL"??   
Eh?   I don't like "correct", but I hate "control"!   Especially MORE and MORE "control".

WARNING:  As far as I am concerned, NO TARGET is too sacred...   
Religion, The Pope, Catholics, Protestants, Jews, Islamists, and Philatelists
Politics, Barack Hussein Obama, Mickey Mouse and Daffy Duck (all on one line)
The Boss, Self, Humanity,
frilly knickers to suit Al "gimme another dollar" Sharpton,
and NIGGER JOKES.
  Devilwhip
Open season!   If you can't take a NIGGER joke, get out of my kitchen...  Fuxsake.... Chill out, you dumb, Media following, weak minded puppet-serfs....

*            *            *               *                *

My good buddy is a black man.  Black as the ace of spades.  Red lips, funky hair, the lot. Who cares. We get along real well. I've known him for years. He is a (shhhh...) (helicopter jockey). We tend to state our profession quietly, because wise parents tremble when their daughters bring one home.  It's like bringing home a lost puppy what isn't fully house-trained. Chopper jockey puppies usually do not make the most desirable, house trained sons-in-law...
My buddy is no exception, with a long history of wild tales and debauchery. From all over the world. He was a cop for a long time in Chicago, and his insightful anecdotes draw on a vast reservoir of personal observations. He has seen humanity at work (or not), in all its goodness and badness, in every conceivable skin pigmentation. White, black, yellow, red, and (the guy fell down a sewer) mustard brown. He is funny, in a dry, witty, caustic way. If I was wrecked on a desert island, and allowed one companion castaway, he would be on my short list. Just behind that big breasted barmaid from down at my local.  

     Needless to say, he and I have talked and debated until late at night many a time. If anything, he is more right wing than I am, and his views of "lazy blacks who hide behind a litany of well rehearsed excuses" are sharp worded and to the point. He maintains that slavery not only still exists, but is actually flourishing. The Civil Rights Movement didn't achieve shit, he says. He maintains that all that has happened is that too many blacks (by no means all) have exchanged cotton farm slavery and sugar cane plantation slavery, for Welfare Check Slavery, Food Stamp Slavery,  and "poor me"  Slavery.  He reckons the plantation owners now just reside in Washington D.C.   And that a lot of them these days are black. My buddy gets passionate when he talks about the SOB black politician plantation owners. Being an educated man with a string of University degrees, he has a fluent flow of prose. I was trying hard to make mental notes, for later usage. I especially liked his bit that was along the lines of SOB black politicians and double SOB Reverends, who adopt the moral high ground, but in fact pursue policies that are tailored to benefit themselves. By constantly fanning the flames of unrest. By being one-sided. And keeping their people resentful, restless, embittered, and unwilling to fully take advantage of ample opportunity to advance in today's society. Hmm...

      Born in humble circumstances (his alcoholic dad walked out on the young family, never to be seen again), he was the oldest, and forced at an early age to get serious and roll his sleeves up. He is absolutely spitting hot positive that if HE could do it, then (quote) ANY SON-OF-A-BLACK-BITCH CAN DO IT (unquote).  Like I said, he is a little more right wing than I am, (I'm more of a Libertarian), and he gets riled easily by shit stirring, Black "reverends" who haunt the TV screens.  (Are you listening, Jesse Jackson? Jesse Jackson Junior, former wannabe Senator? Yoo-hoo! Al Sharpton?)  My buddy was mugged by three black men one time, and beaten stone cold unconscious, and he has his own recipe for dealing with perennial, incorrigible, black hoodlums. Since his cure involves castration, I had probably better not go there.
       P.C., and all that.

     Anyway, one night it was just him and me, and we were in a merry mood. Laughing and bantering. On an impulse I asked him:
"Can I ask you a question?"
"Sure!", he said.
I paused, and then jumped straight in. The way I do.
"I'm curious", I said. "How come a Black Gentleman may greet another Black Gentleman by calling him a Nigger, but if a White Gentleman refers to a Black Gentleman as a Nigger, all hell breaks loose?"
(Note how diplomatic I was...)  (proud of myself...)
He laughed, as I knew he would.
"That's just the way it is," he said. "A Nigger can call me a Nigger, or play a rap song that calls everybody a Nigger, but if YOU call me a Nigger, I WILL BEAT YOUR LILY WHITE ASS...!"
He was laughing as he said it, perfectly at ease, and I felt emboldened to continue.
"Not so fast", I said, holding up a finger.  "Do you know what the English called us Irish in London, back in the seventies?"
"No...?"
"Well", I said, "I would go into a pub, open my mouth to order a drink, and some local thug would say in a stage whisper: "Oh, gawd, here come the Green Niggers!"
"Really?", he said, with warm interest. "I never knew that."
"So", I said, "does that make me a Nigger?"
"Yep, definitely", was his expert opinion. "You're a Nigger..."
"Cool!", I said, kind of pleased I had established that cultural fact.
"SO... can I call you a Nigger, Nigger?"
He laughed his sooty black ass off. "Sure!", he said. "YOU can call me a Nigger anytime...!"
I was deliriously happy. I felt I had come up considerably in the world.
     A privilege not to be under appreciated...

*           *             *              *               *

       Well, the next morning, the crew room at our base was jam packed.
It was crew change day, with all available hands on deck. I was sitting at a computer checking the weather in the far corner, when my good buddy walked in the door, a few minutes late. There was standing room only. There were about a dozen animated conversations going on, all at the same time. People were also on their phones, and ground staff were taking orders for fuel, and carrying cargo manifests. Into this jam packed, standing room only, mix of chatter and frenetic activity, my good buddy was walking in.
       Now, I should tell you, in an aside, that I have two tiny little guys that follow me around. One tends to sit on my left shoulder (he's the funny one), and the other tends to sit on my right shoulder. (he's alright, but kind of a dry stick...) Oh, and the one on my left shoulder is always dressed in black jeans, sneakers and a black leather biker jacket. The one on my right shoulder is always dressed in a shiny white toga thing, and wears sandals. I TRY not to listen to either of them, because they get me into trouble. I don't need any help getting into trouble.
The one on the left, in black, says to me:
"Go on....!!"
The one on the right, the guy wearing the white toga thing, he gets all alarmed, and he leans across and whispers furiously across my chest at the black dressed dude:
"No! NO! NO-NO-NO... Don't you DARE...!"
I thought about it. He was right. There was a time and a place for everything, and this was not the time, and not the place.
The dude on the left, in black, well, HE leans forward, and snarls back at the white guy:
"Oh, FUCK YOU, you boring girl's blouse...!!"
I thought about it some more. White Toga was right. There was a time and a place for everything, and this was not the time, and not the place.
Which, in the honorable tradition of Inspector Clouseau of "Pink Panther" fame, made it all the more fun, of course...

(da-dum, da-dum...   da-DUM da-DUM da-DUM...)

"MORNING, NIGGER!!!"      

An Irish accented voice positively boomed off the walls…
I kind of thought it would liven things up a bit, add a certain je-ne-sais-quoi to the proceedings, but even I was pleasantly gratified by the results of my handiwork:



Stunned silence.

Everybody froze.

Conversations froze.

Two pilots standing near the door, wrapped in conversation, were suddenly G-O-N-E out the door. Cowards.  



It was like the piano player abruptly ceasing play in the honky tonk, Western saloon, when Desperate Dick Dalton, the feared Gun Slinger strolls in, looking mean.  

Funny the way people were suddenly busying themselves with I-phones, checking their watches, picking up newspapers, and tying their shoe laces...

S-U-D-D-E-N  S-I-L-E-N-C-E descends on the room...

Everybody cringed, except my buddy. He kept his face carefully nonchalant, and only his eyes gave a hint of his amusement at the silent shock, awe, and consternation.  He knew exactly what I was up to. You know EVERYBODY is wincing and thinking... "Gawd! How is HE gonna react??"
   No worries...
"Morning, you GREEN NIGGER!"
(heads slowly, stiffly, cautiously, turning...)
Then HE got into the swing of it.  (Damn!)  Putting on an exaggerated, theatrical, sing-song,  obviously extremely gay, Black Gentleman's voice, he announced:
"GIMME A HIGH FIVE, YOU CRAZY NIGGER!"
(Oh, I can get into THAT role...)
"SURE, BABY SUGAR...!"   (another hyper gay Black Gentleman)
(and I waltzed up, swinging my hips. We high-fived each other, bumped our hips, and waltzed back to our respective pews...)

(????)  (stunned) (eyes out on sticks...)

Yo! Artistic, criminal, Satisfaction! They are STILL talking about that one...

*         *          *           *            *

       My final input in this politically in-correct cultural treatise, is that I feel the need to say that one should always listen to the little dude dressed in the white toga thing.
(But the dude dressed in black is WAY more fun.)  
The tiny white fellow is so frickin' uptight all the time.
But then again, what can you expect, really?
From a guy who wears a lily white skirt all day long?
To cover his lily white ass?

Me, I prefer the funny, sooty black ass anytime.


Francis Meyrick

(a.k.a. The Green NIGGER...)  (authenticated)  (and proud of it)





Last edited by Francis Meyrick on September 18, 2014, 11:33 am
We little humans, hurtling through the Universe on our tiny, pale blue dot, will find few answers to Life's great mysteries. But we should at least find many of the questions. To write is to ask. To seek. To grope. With humility, and humor. Peace.
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