I couldn’t think of another way of introducing today’s topic, the continuing saga regarding the arrest of black professor Henry Louis Gates Jr . If you have been locked away in a closet this past week you may not have heard how “Gates, head of Harvard's W.E.B. Du Bois Institute for African and African American Research, had broken into his own home after being unable to find his keys upon his return from a trip to China.”
Oh, by the way, unless you are blind and dumb, the photograph supplied with the story shows a Black police officer leading the way after the arrest of Gates had been made; must be one of those Uncle Tom Black police officers.
Barrack Obama, president of the United States of America, in case you weren’t sure which Barrack Obama I was referring to, happens to be friends with professor Gates.
“Obama told reporters Wednesday that this incident shows that there is a long history of racial profiling in the United States.”
Excuse Me! What has one to do with the other, Mr. President? You have nearly no information upon which to make any statement and you plant both feet in your mouth to proclaim this particular incident as an example of racial profiling? In another day, one without politically correctness, that would fall under the category of the pot calling the kettle black.
This past year I read, One Party Classroom by David Horwowitz , a broad brush explanation of the kinds of classes being pushed off as higher education in our colleges and universities. One of the reoccurring courses of study, the names change but the content remains the same, had to do with indoctrination of Black domination through classes similar to those professor Gates has at Harvard. Who is the racist?
Many years ago I was assigned to work traffic at the scene of a major accident in downtown Houston, an accident where a pedestrian stepped off the curb and got hit by a Metro bus. I watched a fellow standing on the corner, oblivious to the investigation off to his right side as he waited impatiently for the pedestrian Walk light; I noticed he was about to step off the curb without noticing yet another Metro bus which would certainly do him damage.
“Stop, you dumb SOB”, only I used the extended full version and made sure he and everyone near him heard my emphatic warning. It worked; he stopped in his tracks and the bus went by without incident. This three piece business suit glared at me, walked over to my position in the middle of the intersection and proceeded to chew me out for yelling at him.
“You don’t know who I am, now do you?” He showed me his business card indicating he worked for the Attorney General’s Office.
“No, Sir; and I really don’t care either. I did keep you from getting run over by a bus you didn’t see because you were too busy to look.”
It really doesn’t matter who you are, black, white or yellow if you get hit by a bus. It wouldn’t matter, at least not to the person who is being prepared at the morgue, whether or not the Walk/Wait light system was in his favor; other factors make that first step a wise move, or, as I so eloquently stated, one of those “Stop, you dumb SOB” kind of moves.
I’ve no excuse for letting such language escape my lips other than to blame a life time of developing just the right words for particular situations; call them technical police terms. It should be noted that some of those terms are actually automotive locksmith terms which serve both professions.
One emergency I was assigned had to do with protecting the efforts of the fire department while they tried to rescue some window washers after their rig broke leaving them dangling off the side of a building downtown. The ladder truck with lights flashing had to park on the sidewalk in front of the entrance to a parking lot.
Wouldn’t you know, a very important individual with a pre-paid monthly parking place in that building wanted to take full use of that space at the same time the firemen were busy saving two lives just above that particular entrance. I stood there without flinching as he continued his attempt to drive past me.
“Ya’ dumb SOB; get on down the road and come back later!” I must have raised my eyebrow just right because he believed I actually would have arrested him on the spot, his gold BMW getting back into traffic as he shook his finger at me and wrote my badge number down.
An hour later, after the window washers had been rescued, I got a call to the office to explain my actions. The good citizen had voiced his displeasure, not so much at being called a dumb SOB; no, he missed an important meeting by not having his VIP parking place available for use. He didn’t give a hoot about the guys dangling by a rope on the side of the building or the firemen risking their lives to rescue them; no, it was all about his business appointment having turned sour by a fire truck parked on the sidewalk and a cop who wouldn’t listen to his perfectly valid reason.
My supervisor smiled, having already figured out the circumstances and probable justification for sending this jerk down the road, “Stern, did you really call him a dumb SOB?” I nodded, sheepishly, for having let inflammatory words annoy yet another fine citizen. Nothing official was entered in my official folder; but this was a couple of years before the advent of Internal Affairs Division. We still had a Sgt. who’d reach into a desk drawer, pull out a roll of toilet paper and hand it to folks wishing to complain about this, that or the other, “Fill this out and leave it on the desk.”
I got a call to the office one other time, supposedly for giving a hard time to a citizen and calling them some racially charged combination of words that included reference to somebody’s dark skinned mother performing a sexually active union. I was at a total loss, trying to remember how such a situation might have come about since I wasn’t used to including racial slurs; simple non-racial insults were generic and worked for any and all dumb SOB’s.
The supervisor knew right away which officer had actually said what may or may not have been said. The complainant kept referring to me as, “that black SOB”. He’d taken the time to write down a badge number; except he’d gotten one number wrong. My badge number was 908 while the presumed correct number was 903 which would have made sense; sounded like something my friend R. D. Anderson, a black police officer, might have said to a dumb SOB who’d gotten in his face.
It’s probably a good thing my retirement came along; don’t think I could have survived in this totally PC environment. It doesn’t matter what color your skin is, when talking to the nice police officer, try to remain civil and you won’t get hauled off to jail, or worse, once all the dust settles. Professor Gates still comes off looking like a racist SOB, as does Obama; but if you hadn’t figured that out by now, what kind of dumb SOB are you?
Oh, by the way, unless you are blind and dumb, the photograph supplied with the story shows a Black police officer leading the way after the arrest of Gates had been made; must be one of those Uncle Tom Black police officers.
Barrack Obama, president of the United States of America, in case you weren’t sure which Barrack Obama I was referring to, happens to be friends with professor Gates.
“Obama told reporters Wednesday that this incident shows that there is a long history of racial profiling in the United States.”
Excuse Me! What has one to do with the other, Mr. President? You have nearly no information upon which to make any statement and you plant both feet in your mouth to proclaim this particular incident as an example of racial profiling? In another day, one without politically correctness, that would fall under the category of the pot calling the kettle black.
This past year I read, One Party Classroom by David Horwowitz , a broad brush explanation of the kinds of classes being pushed off as higher education in our colleges and universities. One of the reoccurring courses of study, the names change but the content remains the same, had to do with indoctrination of Black domination through classes similar to those professor Gates has at Harvard. Who is the racist?
Many years ago I was assigned to work traffic at the scene of a major accident in downtown Houston, an accident where a pedestrian stepped off the curb and got hit by a Metro bus. I watched a fellow standing on the corner, oblivious to the investigation off to his right side as he waited impatiently for the pedestrian Walk light; I noticed he was about to step off the curb without noticing yet another Metro bus which would certainly do him damage.
“Stop, you dumb SOB”, only I used the extended full version and made sure he and everyone near him heard my emphatic warning. It worked; he stopped in his tracks and the bus went by without incident. This three piece business suit glared at me, walked over to my position in the middle of the intersection and proceeded to chew me out for yelling at him.
“You don’t know who I am, now do you?” He showed me his business card indicating he worked for the Attorney General’s Office.
“No, Sir; and I really don’t care either. I did keep you from getting run over by a bus you didn’t see because you were too busy to look.”
It really doesn’t matter who you are, black, white or yellow if you get hit by a bus. It wouldn’t matter, at least not to the person who is being prepared at the morgue, whether or not the Walk/Wait light system was in his favor; other factors make that first step a wise move, or, as I so eloquently stated, one of those “Stop, you dumb SOB” kind of moves.
I’ve no excuse for letting such language escape my lips other than to blame a life time of developing just the right words for particular situations; call them technical police terms. It should be noted that some of those terms are actually automotive locksmith terms which serve both professions.
One emergency I was assigned had to do with protecting the efforts of the fire department while they tried to rescue some window washers after their rig broke leaving them dangling off the side of a building downtown. The ladder truck with lights flashing had to park on the sidewalk in front of the entrance to a parking lot.
Wouldn’t you know, a very important individual with a pre-paid monthly parking place in that building wanted to take full use of that space at the same time the firemen were busy saving two lives just above that particular entrance. I stood there without flinching as he continued his attempt to drive past me.
“Ya’ dumb SOB; get on down the road and come back later!” I must have raised my eyebrow just right because he believed I actually would have arrested him on the spot, his gold BMW getting back into traffic as he shook his finger at me and wrote my badge number down.
An hour later, after the window washers had been rescued, I got a call to the office to explain my actions. The good citizen had voiced his displeasure, not so much at being called a dumb SOB; no, he missed an important meeting by not having his VIP parking place available for use. He didn’t give a hoot about the guys dangling by a rope on the side of the building or the firemen risking their lives to rescue them; no, it was all about his business appointment having turned sour by a fire truck parked on the sidewalk and a cop who wouldn’t listen to his perfectly valid reason.
My supervisor smiled, having already figured out the circumstances and probable justification for sending this jerk down the road, “Stern, did you really call him a dumb SOB?” I nodded, sheepishly, for having let inflammatory words annoy yet another fine citizen. Nothing official was entered in my official folder; but this was a couple of years before the advent of Internal Affairs Division. We still had a Sgt. who’d reach into a desk drawer, pull out a roll of toilet paper and hand it to folks wishing to complain about this, that or the other, “Fill this out and leave it on the desk.”
I got a call to the office one other time, supposedly for giving a hard time to a citizen and calling them some racially charged combination of words that included reference to somebody’s dark skinned mother performing a sexually active union. I was at a total loss, trying to remember how such a situation might have come about since I wasn’t used to including racial slurs; simple non-racial insults were generic and worked for any and all dumb SOB’s.
The supervisor knew right away which officer had actually said what may or may not have been said. The complainant kept referring to me as, “that black SOB”. He’d taken the time to write down a badge number; except he’d gotten one number wrong. My badge number was 908 while the presumed correct number was 903 which would have made sense; sounded like something my friend R. D. Anderson, a black police officer, might have said to a dumb SOB who’d gotten in his face.
It’s probably a good thing my retirement came along; don’t think I could have survived in this totally PC environment. It doesn’t matter what color your skin is, when talking to the nice police officer, try to remain civil and you won’t get hauled off to jail, or worse, once all the dust settles. Professor Gates still comes off looking like a racist SOB, as does Obama; but if you hadn’t figured that out by now, what kind of dumb SOB are you?
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