All my life, I dreamed of writing racist propaganda, but I was always too scared to try. I came up with every excuse in the book: I lacked the necessary education, I wasn't a good enough writer, I didn't know enough racial slurs. But then, one day, I gave it a whirl, and you know what? It was easy! The hateful rants just poured out of me and onto the page. I'm telling you, this racist propaganda practically writes itself.
Sure, going off on the niggers, Jews, and towelheads is easy enough when you're knocking back a few Coors Lights with your buddies at the Triple Dice Bar. Me, Frank, and Curtis, we can jabber on for hours about how the spics are taking away all the construction jobs. But to actually organize your ill-informed opinions into a coherent, well-structured screed on the printed page, well, that's a whole different animal.
It all started last Friday night down at the Triple Dice. As we're knocking a few back, Frank goes on one of his tears about affirmative action, and how the blacks are these lazy fucks who don't value education and just want everything handed to them on a silver platter—and he knows what he's talking about, too, since he has a sister who lives by Detroit. Whenever Frank gets on a roll about the blacks, I always say we should write it all down, but we never do. This time, though, he was so on fire, I started scrawling down his rant on a cocktail napkin. Within a few minutes, I had about eight napkins worth of primo bigotry. If I hadn't been so trashed, I might've asked the bartender for one of those paper placemats to keep going.
The next day, after I got over my hangover, I thought I'd try writing sober. Wouldn't you know it, I had six pages on the so-called "American Indians" and how they're all drunks on welfare before I finished my cup of coffee. I even had a World Book encyclopedia sitting next to me, in case I needed to look things up, but I didn't have to crack it open once.
Now that I've finally done it, I've learned that the hardest part about writing racist propaganda is simply getting started. A friend of mine, who's written some eye-opening stuff about the Italians, once told me, "You just gotta get that pencil moving." You know what? He was right! It was so simple, I can't believe everyone with two brain cells to rub together isn't doing it.
To pen virulent, racist dogma, I always assumed you had to read a lot of history books and keep up with the news. Or at least read more than just Motor Trend and Hustler. But the reality is, you don't. My friends and I have been giving each other all the information we need through our beer-soaked speculating and finger-pointing. The morning after a long night of drinking, I may not remember half of what Curtis said about the Pakistanis taking over his neighborhood, but half a truth is better than the hundreds of lies you get from the Jew-run liberal media.
One of the best things about racist propaganda is that it only needs to seem to make sense. The barest threads can tie the Emancipation Proclamation to the Elders of Zion. I mean, look at them. They both start with "E," don't they? And that was just off the top of my head. And if someone starts to argue with you about facts, just call them a nigger-lovin' faggot-queer Jew, and that'll shut them up real quick.
Another great thing about writing racist propaganda is that you don't even need to know how to write all that good. There are computer programs that'll correct most of your grammar and spelling mistakes. And if I need to find another word for "gook," my handy slang dictionary gives me zip, gink, and slope. It's true: The only thing stopping you from realizing your dream of becoming a writer is your own fears.
The bottom line is, all you need to write racist propaganda is a pen, some paper, and a refusal to take responsibility for your own problems. Most folks probably don't write because they think it's only for people with reasonable arguments and an open mind. But it's just that kind of thinking that keeps a lot of decent, honest, God-fearing racists from sharing their crackpot theories.
Christ, if I can do this, anyone can. Believe me.