Eating With The Enemy

For years, I have remained silent, suffering a grievous injustice at the hands of The Man. There I sat, only a few feet away from a fireplace, conspicuously planted to keep my bones warm while I was being victimized.

Well, this isn’t completely true. The fact is, I have only recently begun to get wise to the conspiracy against uh, my people. But one day, it began to dawn on me exactly what was happening. I walked into the establishment in question, where I was instantly greeted with bluegrass music, tee shirts which said things like “Kiss Me, I’m A Redneck,” videos of The Lone Ranger, and CD’s of Conway and Loretta.

I went to put my name on the waiting list. “It will be about a twenty minute wait. And what is that last name? Smith?”

“Uh, well, no.”

“Oh, right. Johnson?”

“Uh, no. Actually it’s Holcombe.”

“Oh. Right. That’s nice.”

She scribbled something, then shooed me away, back into the land of jams, jellies, quilts and cookbooks.

A few minutes later, I was seated. My waiter came, dressed in a brown apron, and took my order.

“I’ll have the country fried steak.”

“Mashed potatoes?”

“Uh, well, yes actually…”

“White or brown gravy?”

“White.”

“Uh huh. White. Right.”

She flittered away, and as I sat there, trying to eliminate all but one of the pegs, it all began to come together for me.

I was being insulted, and discriminated against, right there in broad daylight. Really, how much more brazen can it get? The Cracker Barrel? Hello?

What other names were they considering? Honky Hut? Whitey’s Roadhouse? The KKKitchen?

It all became crystal clear to me only recently, so I am retroactively outraged. For the love of Paula Deen, couldn’t you people come up with an unoffensive name for your restaurant? Isn’t there enough hatred already? You plie me with your meat and threes, only to go back in the kitchen, point at me, snicker and say, “Look at that white boy work on the baby limas. Disgusting.”

“Yeah, and he finished with four pegs in the board, too.”

Ain’t no white privilege at table 14, or whatever. I’m the victim here. How can I possibly go back again and choke down your meat loaf amidst a room full of hatred and intolerance? Do I want a breakfast menu? Seriously? No! I want justice!

(And a glass of raspberry iced tea.)

This madness is everywhere, particularly in the restaurant industry. Think about it.

Isn’t ChickFilA offensive to dames?
I mean, broads?
I mean…..girls?
Isn’t Little Caesar’s offensive to Romans?
Isn’t Ponderosa offensive to cowboys?
Isn’t Shakey’s Pizza offensive to nervous people?
Isn’t Full Moon BBQ offensive to wolfmen, vampires, and lunatics?

And doesn’t the International House Of Pancakes offend people with a wooden leg?

I’ve been living a lie, all these years. All this time, I was happy go lucky, whistling while I worked, enjoying life, and harboring no ill will toward anyone.

Then I became enlightened. Now that I know the truth, I am angry, resentful, and bitter. All this time, The Man has been holding me down, while keeping me pacified with biscuits and gravy. All part of a grander scheme. Maybe I was your huckleberry. But I will never be your cracker!

There seems to be an ocean of alleged racism in America anymore, so I have decided I want in on the action. I’m not sure what walking around with your britches at half mast, lips pooched out, a chip on your shoulder actually accomplishes, other than turning you into a miserable cuss no one wants to be around. Maybe if I can get in touch with Al Sharpton, he can explain what’s in the race hustle business for me.

I just hope no marching is required. I’m not THAT committed to the cause.

I’m just hoping to at least get a permanent discount on meals, and if we win our case, I’ll be using them down there.

At the Caucasian Barrel.

© Copyright 2015 Tim Holcombe