Goad, Jim - The New Church Ladies: The Extremely Uptight World of Social Justice by Goad Jim

Author:Goad, Jim [Goad, Jim]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Obnoxious Books
Published: 2017-02-12T23:00:00+00:00

26

Skinheads Against White People

Blood pours from my nose as I stand on a downtown Portland street corner, arguing with antiracist skinheads about grammar.

“Why the FUCK did you have to hit me?” I implore the half-dozen halfwits half my age who surround me. “If you had a problem with me, why couldn’t you TALK about it? Fuck, I’ll spot any one of you 40 IQ points and still outargue you!”

“Dumbass—‘outargue’ isn’t a word,” one of them smirks.

“It’s in the DICTIONARY! It’s one word! It’s not even a HYPHENATE!” I scream.

I wipe my face. Both my palms are covered in my own blood. One of the muttonchopped Brit clones had sucker-punched me while I was in a nondefensive position.

I had been standing outside a nightclub’s pizza window with my severely Jewish-looking Jew girlfriend when I first espied the six skins and a pair of skinettes eyeballing my iron cross necklace.

I identified them as the Rose City Bovver Boys, a rootin’, tootin’, pathologically antiracist skinhead crew who boast one Vietnamese member to deflect attention from the fact that the rest of them are the color of Ivory soap. They claim to no longer be affiliated with the Skinheads Against Racial Prejudice movement, yet I’ve never heard of them bum-rushing anyone for reasons other than nigger-hating or telling Jew jokes.

“What’s with the iron cross?” a simian-looking and extravagantly stupid white boy who goes by the online handle “Mattie Valentine” finally grilled me.

“It’s a white thing,” I said sarcastically. “Why don’t you punch me for it?”

“That’s fucked-up,” he grunted.

“Yeah, man—you can make a name for yourself. My name is Jim Goad, and if you hit me, it’ll be in every paper in the city.”

“I’d like to be the guy who beats Jim Goad up,” he said a microsecond before smashing my nose with his right fist.

As the blood started flowing, I looked down the street and saw a cop car about two blocks away. Unlike any of these young rebel skinheads, I’d been to prison and was on parole.

“What the fuck is your problem, anyway?” I ask as they swarm around me. “You all hate yourselves for being white?”

“I’m not white,” one of the white boys says.

“Bitch, if you went to prison, I’ll bet the brothers would think you’re white.”

My big-schnozzed girlfriend is screaming that she’s Jewish and I’m not a Nazi and what the fuck what the fuck what the fuck?!?—a dozen years prior, she was the one who dropped a dime to the FBI, ratting out the Nazi skins who’d beaten an Ethiopian man to death with baseball bats—a crime from which lily-white Portland, the most Caucasian metro area in the USA, still feels the need to “heal” itself. In essence, she’d done more for the SHARP cause than they could ever do.

Still surrounded by a half-dozen short-haired mosquitoes, I now see clearly that my only option is to fight. I crack my assailant with an Earnie Shavers-style left hook, staggering him. I land three or four clean punches to his head, while all he can do is tear at my T-shirt like a bitch.

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