Beating a dead, rotted twice-over horse with another dead horse

Here's something you might've heard me sputter from time to time: I can't stand White people. Here's a more specific opinion you might've heard me to vocalize from time to time: I can't stand White men. And here's as appropriately specific as I can get: I can't stand White men in China.

Ladies and gentlement of the court, I now direct your attention to

Exhibit "A".

No, this is not the equivalent of a militant liberal college student filling his library with nothing but Noam Chomsky and Howard Zinn. This is not an affirmation of my beliefs while living here. This is simply an example, put on display, of how living in a foreign country brings out the worst in people.

It's safe to assume that the guy in the call would've lodged the same kind of complaint to a smarmy Best Buy employee or maybe to a store manager at a local fast food chain. His complaining isn't what bothers me-- it's the statement he makes towards the end of the clip about a certain, billion-strong race of people that rubs me in all sorts of the wrong way like a fucked-up shiatsu being admininstered by two lucha libradors. And no, it's not about how they can't drive.

Americans are under the false impression that China needs them. To some extent, this is true. In a modern, globalized economy, this is kind of a take-it-or-leave-it. When they arrive in this strange land to gaze upon the fields that they helped cultivate, foreigners beam proudly like a delusional parent at a gifted child's piano recital, thinking that they are the ones responsible for their spawn's outcome. Not true. China isn't westernizing-- it's modernizing. If we really want to split hairs and talk about a culture that refuses to look both inward and outward in terms of progress, let's start with our own red,white, and blue.

It's a point of pride for me to claim my heritage from China and I have a feeling that nothing short of a holocaust of puppies initiated by Hu Jintao would make me feel otherwise. Race war it is, then. I'm starting with those Proust-reading fools at the Bridge Cafe.