Rules for white people

Old news to you, but I just found out Netflix produces a show titled Dear White People.

How quaint — another aerobically airheaded mental exercise in doling out privilege to some while presenting a forum to spread blame throughout the larger society.  Just what the country needs.

I am aware that Netflix yields all kinds of insipid original programming; nonetheless, I looked up a YouTube promo for Dear White People because I am white people and thought it might be about, well, me.  Because I'm not a trained critic, my quiver contains no arrows of the "edgy" or "breaks all the rules" variety.  The best I can offer are my immediate reactions upon learning, in no uncertain terms, that a dear white person is a free and respected citizen, but there are rules dear white people must adhere to.  For example, dear white people are allowed to wear any Halloween costume depicting any ppresident of the United States up until number 44.  At 44, dear white people are breaking a rule.

Now, I don't know everything about dear white people as Netflix does, but I would never dress up as 44 on Halloween; I only dress like someone I admire.  But I didn't know there was a rule about it.

I suppose it's good to have the rules explained to you.  I have a love-hate relationship with rules; some reflect poorly upon the generosity of spirit one might find within the rulemaker, while others are golden.

Without golden rules, I might live in a major city like Chicago and go around whacking ethnic colleagues at astronomical rates when compared to my percentage of population.

Without rules, I might find myself robbing and beating people at stupendous discount; I might even find myself overrepresented in penal institutions.

My wife knows the rules,  so when a girl's night out ends up at McDonald's, she and the other womeys rarely pull each other's hair and beat the snot out of each other while men stand around screaming, "world star."

Without rules, I might not be able to figure out that 44 blunts a day is like whacking yourself on the beezer with a baseball bat 44 times a minute.

Without rules, I might write and produce songs about hos and b‑‑‑‑‑‑, educate my children with them, and then pretend those children will be future leaders of the community. 

White people aren't all saints, but people who live in glass ghettoes shouldn't throw pipe bombs while watching each other crayon over all the lines a polite society employs to safeguard civility and harmony.

Old news to you, but I just found out Netflix produces a show titled Dear White People.

How quaint — another aerobically airheaded mental exercise in doling out privilege to some while presenting a forum to spread blame throughout the larger society.  Just what the country needs.

I am aware that Netflix yields all kinds of insipid original programming; nonetheless, I looked up a YouTube promo for Dear White People because I am white people and thought it might be about, well, me.  Because I'm not a trained critic, my quiver contains no arrows of the "edgy" or "breaks all the rules" variety.  The best I can offer are my immediate reactions upon learning, in no uncertain terms, that a dear white person is a free and respected citizen, but there are rules dear white people must adhere to.  For example, dear white people are allowed to wear any Halloween costume depicting any ppresident of the United States up until number 44.  At 44, dear white people are breaking a rule.

Now, I don't know everything about dear white people as Netflix does, but I would never dress up as 44 on Halloween; I only dress like someone I admire.  But I didn't know there was a rule about it.

I suppose it's good to have the rules explained to you.  I have a love-hate relationship with rules; some reflect poorly upon the generosity of spirit one might find within the rulemaker, while others are golden.

Without golden rules, I might live in a major city like Chicago and go around whacking ethnic colleagues at astronomical rates when compared to my percentage of population.

Without rules, I might find myself robbing and beating people at stupendous discount; I might even find myself overrepresented in penal institutions.

My wife knows the rules,  so when a girl's night out ends up at McDonald's, she and the other womeys rarely pull each other's hair and beat the snot out of each other while men stand around screaming, "world star."

Without rules, I might not be able to figure out that 44 blunts a day is like whacking yourself on the beezer with a baseball bat 44 times a minute.

Without rules, I might write and produce songs about hos and b‑‑‑‑‑‑, educate my children with them, and then pretend those children will be future leaders of the community. 

White people aren't all saints, but people who live in glass ghettoes shouldn't throw pipe bombs while watching each other crayon over all the lines a polite society employs to safeguard civility and harmony.