Via a forwarded email, my longtime chum Peckman calls my attention to the following letter to the editor on the subject of honky wish fulfillment.
From yesterday’s Daily Oklahoman, “Oklahoma’s Newspaper since 1907” (i.e., since the mass treaty violation of Oklahoma statehood):
My wife, an American Indian, has changed my mind about her ancestry. Every day I’m amazed by her mature character. She has a big soul and I’ve never known someone as gentle and humble as this Choctaw Indian. She looks the same in the early morning as she does the rest of the day because wearing makeup and fashionable clothes isn’t her thing. She’s a believer not in nature but in the Creator of nature. She’s my kind of woman!
This white man is very blessed to have her for his wife.
David Wadley, Norman
So this moron godbag David Wadley marries a woman whose “ancestry” he initially finds objectionable, then, through the magic power of her extraordinary humbleness, discovers that she is every redneck’s fantasy-squaw? And he sends this revolting self-congratulatory ode to the newspaper? And the newspaper actually prints it? Like, “My wife is a lowly Native chick, but because of her winsome, subservient personality I’m willing to look the other way on her questionable genetics. Give me a medal.” And they give him the fucking medal!
At least everyone in town — including, one hopes, his wife — now knows he’s a patronizing “See? Not all darkies are lazy drunken sluts!” bigot.
Nothing would un-furrow the Twisty brow better than if I received news that the unfortunate Mrs. Wadley had suddenly sprung from her bed one fine morning, packed a valise, and announced, “Dave, your benevolent essentialism has chapped the last square inch of my hide. I’m off to join a separatist commune. Smell ya later, asshole.”