I was having dinner with my mother and her dopey friend Bob. I was telling a story of how I pretended I was a Jew so my Jew boss would give me that raise I wanted. And before you could say oy gevalt!, I got the raise. Bob laughed at my story and said, "You Da Man!"

I thought to myself, what a stupid thing to say. "You Da Man!" Isn't that like a 1996 expression from the black community? Do people still say that? That is, other than dopey old guys who heard it on the WB? Wasn't "The Man" the Evil White Oppressor who's been keeping us down? Wouldn't that be like an insult then? Is it?

So it got me thinking of exactly who "The Man" was.

There are a few simple criteria:

1) "The Man" is white.

2) He is male.

3) He's not a fag.

4) He must have no striking physical abnormalities, no disabilities like an unusually high voice or red hair.

I realized right then that I am "The Man." A proud son of the Global White Oligarchic System. I am the Lost Freemason, the Inheritor of the Earth.

I was a young white male who'd realized that the rules no longer applied to me. No longer was I the object of ridicule by my TB-carrying colleagues who don't approve of my polo shirts and pleated khaki Dockers. What I lacked in soul, I more than made up for in my newfound unlimited power to oppress.

We are your bosses, lawyers, judges, cops. We are authority. We run the schools that tell your children what to think. We make the rules that control your life and change them as we see fit. We can rub our poop in your hair, and you can't do a damn thing about it.

Now that I accept the fact that I'm "The Man," I revel in it. I smoke big fat cigars and wear a top hat in my hot tub with a snifter of cognac in one hand while cutting crisp lines of cocaine with the other as your sister gives me a blow job under 108-degree water.

If you can't tell, I like being "The Man." I like that I can drink and drive and kill a pedestrian and know I can get away with it because I golf with two circuit-court judges and the city district attorney. I like that I can pick out a girl I see in a music video, call her agent, and be sticking chili peppers in her ass within two hours. I like that I see homeless guys fighting over a McDumpster burger rind and I'll decide to feed my dogs porterhouse steak that night.

"There's Black History Month, Breast Cancer Awareness Week, Gay Pride Parades, Jewish History Week, Puerto Rican Pride Day...you know that if there were like a White Pride parade, that people would riot," said my pal Steve the other day.

"That's easy, Steve," I said coolly. "We don't need a parade. Every day is White Guy's Day."

Sure we've got it easy, but some sad sacks need to be shown the light. Case
in point:

I go into the local Arby's and see one of my melanin-deficient brothers wasting his life slicing meat nine hours a day, and I wanna slap him in the face. I wanna yell at him, "Rise up and oppress your tormentors with me!"

As a white male, it is his God-given right--nay, his RESPONSIBILITY--to take advantage of the opportunities afforded him by his heritage. I wanna take that nametag-wearing slicer-jockey and put a white collar and a necktie on him and watch the little bastard claw his way up the corporate ladder and get the keys to the executive toilet, look up at me and say, "Thanks, Dave," only to stab me in the back with those selfsame keys the second I let my guard down.

What I'm talking about here, friends, is opportunity. As "The Man," I have the world open to me--and let me tell you, I don't just "take advantage" of it, I rape that sweet bitch we call opportunity every single day. I rape it as if it were the nine-year-old Korean boy in your father's basement. I travel along the life-maze gobbling up opportunity in a Pac-Manlike fashion, leaving an empty trail of hopelessness in my wake. I'll kill the golden goose because I wanna use its beak to clean under my fingernails.

"But don't you ever feel guilty?"

"For what?" I asked.

"Well, that poor waitress got fired because of you," my incredulous liberal coworker Greg answered back.

"On the contrary, Greg," I said, "If she hadn't been fired, I'd have bought this crappy restaurant just to fire the manager who didn't fire her."

He blinked twice.

"Don't you see, you jackass?" I shouted at him. "I saved that manager his job! His kids will go to college because of me."

He pretended not to understand.

Greg is a person who refuses to play his predestined role of oppressor. He cries that I oppress women and blacks. He creates and reinforces Glass Ceilings, blah blah blah, and at the same time Greg claims he isn't one of us. "The Man" who chooses not to wield his power over others sees himself as a threat to The System. But this is not the case. The System protects itself by calling Greg a
faggot loudly and in public places. Well, maybe The System doesn't, but I sure do. Constantly.

There's another type of person who abstains from being "The Man," and this is The Rebel. In the few coherent moments between their meth rages and booze stupors, they think that they're happy. Save for the pitiful amount of happiness derived from date rape and truck rallies, their life is pretty goddamned miserable.
So, Rebel, you think you're fighting The System? You're not. It's our fucking world; you're just killing time here.

Okay, yes, Mr. Rebel, Blackman, Bulldyke, you can all probably kick my ass. You can still kick my ass just like you did when we were in grade school. Sure, it'll hurt for a while. Let me tell you this, though: Bad credit is forever. I'll make you bankrupt and then do it again seven years later. I'll put you on welfare,
send you to jail, and turn your wife and daughters to prostitution. I'll ruin you. And after all the shit you've pulled during your miserable life, when you finally fucking kill yourself, you'll still have Hell to look forward to.

Fuck. If it struck me as funny, I'd make you drive your twin sons to my house next Thursday and make them do things and send them home with a videocassette of it for you to write a thousand-word essay on.

Life is good as "The Man." I know how to enjoy life. I wear leather made
from soft pelts of the fetal remains of third-trimester Down Syndrome abortions. I dine on only the rarest of endangered species. The only thing funnier than clubbing baby seals is clubbing baby Haitians.

Life is good.

When I was a little boy, my Grandma asked me what I wanted to do when I grew up. I told her that I wanted to rule the world. She looked at me wearily, tousled my hair and said, "You will, honey...you will."