It is my humble, unpopular opinion that Black America has been played. They are the easiest mark in the room because they have a collective soft spot for a specific kind of manipulation. They crave a savior, and the political machine knows exactly how to sell them one.
Remember Biden? The leader of the free world looking into a camera and telling an entire race of people, “If you don’t vote for me, you ain’t black.”
That wasn’t a gaffe. That was a command. That was the plantation owner reminding the workers who signs the checks. It was the ultimate gaslight, and they swallowed it whole. They are being used as a battering ram for a political agenda that doesn’t actually give a damn about their families or their futures.
The Turducken Revelation
But the real moment of clarity? It didn’t happen in a voting booth. It happened at a Thanksgiving table about twelve years ago.
I was with Laura, the South African. We were doing the big holiday spread. I served a Turducken—that Frankenstein masterpiece of a turkey stuffed with a duck stuffed with a chicken.
I sliced into it. I put a piece of the duck—the dark, rich, oily meat—onto Laura’s mother’s plate.
She looked at it like I had served her a roadkill rat. She pointed at the dark meat with her fork, her face twisted in confusion.
“What is that?” she asked.
“That’s the duck,” I said. “That’s the dark meat.”
And then, with the unfiltered, unmalicious honesty of a woman raised in a different time and a different caste system, she looked at me and said:
“Back where I come from, the black meat was served to the lower class.”
She didn’t mean to be cruel. She was just stating a fact of her reality. White meat was for the masters; dark meat was for the help.
That sentence has been rattling around in my head for twelve years. And now, looking at my life, looking at the “Low-Hanging Fruit,” looking at the “Dark Meat” I’ve been consuming to satisfy a hunger… it finally clicks.
When I date these women, when I lower my standards to accommodate their baggage, their victimhood, and their chaos… I am seating myself at the wrong table.
I am eating the food of the lower class.
I’m 57. I have a gold card. I have a ticket to Vietnam. I have built a life of value.
I’m done with the dark meat. I’mdone lowering myself to a class that prides itself on being broken.
I’m ready to sit at the head of the table again. And this time, I’m ordering the filet.
