Hello, and welcome once again to A Practical Guide to Racism: The Ride! Tremble at the fearsome Jew as he rifles through your pockets for loose change! Quiver in terror as Paco the Mexican plays idly with his butterfly knife while making eye contact with you! Release your bowels in horror at the sight of Gyptor, the Gypsy with access to your social security number!
It’s just a dream, right now, but I’m in very serious talks with the Coors family to start construction by the end of 2009, at their new conservative theme park. I think this could be my big break, if book sales aren’t what I hope.
It wasn’t always this way, scheming for money like a common Hebrew. Dependent on the lowly publishing industry for royalty checks and affirmation. Living alone in a studio apartment with only one manservant and a sub-par private chef. Once, the Daltons were one of the richest families in all of New England.
My great-grandfather, Cornell Dalton, started a small New Haven company – Amalgamated Dalton – with just four hundred dollars and a boatload of white slaves. Did I say “slaves”? I meant “Slavs.” Slavs, who were forced into white slavery, working twenty-hour days in Eleazar’s steam factory.
Amalgamated Dalton was, for much of its existence, the leading manufacturer of steam on the Atlantic seaboard, and my grandfather, Haim, and my father, Eleazar, continued that grand tradition, until AD was bought out and eventually shuttered in 1959.
So what happened, you ask, to the grand Dalton fortune? Squandered. Without a business to run, my father descended into amyl nitrate addiction, and my mother spent much of her own allowance on rent boys, as well as several experimental – and, ultimately, fatal – skin-stretching procedures.
My sister, Johanna, brought with her a large dowry when she married that motorcycle gang, and their subsequent abandonment of her left the pathetic creature penniless, pregnant and permanently lowered in class. My parents died, as they had never lived, in each other’s arms, when they were buried alive in a shared coffin. Their death left me scarcely ten million dollars, and I was forced to go into business for myself, on the side.
Unfortunately, my efforts at venture capitalism drained the rest of my inheritance, and I must now live off a professor’s salary, and the pathetic trickle of book royalties that are sure to come.
Each business I invested in seemed like a sure thing at the time, but not one returned even my initial stake before going belly-up. First, there was the shampoo that stimulated the appetite, for light eaters. Then edible bleach. Then the ice-cream-melting machine, the crank-powered masticator… After that, there was the miraculous penis-shrinking pill, the failure of which remains a mystery to me – it worked perfectly!
Perhaps the final straw was the company that manufactured Styrofoam clothing. Apparently, the idea was too far ahead of its time. Styrofoam is the material of the future, but some people are still too scared and backwards to embrace that kind of progress. Simpletons.
After that debacle, I was left with practically nothing, which is why today I must lower myself to writing missives like this to promote my scholarly work. I have always enjoyed studying the lesser races, but there is no end of shame to the Dalton name that I must publish my work and sell it on the street like a common Faulkner or Melville.
I have high hopes for this new theme park, though. The Coors family seems very interested in my work, and I believe an A Practical Guide to Racism attraction could be fun for all races that are willing to pay to ride it.
That’s all for this week. Please buy my book.
