Why White People Suck: We Couldn’t Come Up With A Numerical System That Wasn’t Completely Useless

You might think that those pretty little numbers on your keyboard are part of your ancestry, whitey, but GUESS WHAT? They aren’t. Not by a long shot.

4_3_2

Meet the Roman Numerals! Why make separate symbols for numbers when you can just reuse those pesky letters that are just hanging about, being lazy. Especially that X. All it ever does is connotate naughtiness, and even that requires three of them.

But do you see this asinine bullshit? This was the way we white people counted. For years (or at least for years when we COULD count… therefore minus that whole “Dark Ages” time period). It makes no fucking sense. I mean, there’s a reason why no one ever knows what fucking number Super Bowl it is when you see all those X’s and L’s and fucking V’s flash across the screen. It is stupid.

So what did we do? We went on a little jaunt called the Crusades and picked up a new numerical system that wasn’t so ass-backwards stupid. Yes. That’s right. Your precious little numbers are ARABIC and INDIAN and OH NO YOUR DEWEY DECIMAL SYSTEM IS LOOKING PRETTY DAMN ISLAMO-FACIST TO YOU NOW, ISN’T IT?

HistoryOfNumerals

It’s like all the 9’s are suddenly wearing turbans and trying to get on a plane with you, right? ARE YOU AFRAID OF YOUR CALCULATOR YET?

So suck on that, white people. And don’t try to go back to using the Roman numerals or else you’re going to have to start referencing an abacus and no one wants to see that.

 

Why White People Suck: We Stole Jazz (And The Best We Could Come Up With Was Kenny G)

Jazz is full of legends. Awesome, musically ingenious legends.

You know who is not one of them?

Kenny Fucking G.

Saxophonist Kenny G, who is a big star in China

Behold! The elusive Great White Douche.

Seriously, we take a music scene that’s all about expression and awesome tunes and turn out Kenny G. What the fuck is wrong with us? He plays the fucking CALRINET for fuck’s sake. THAT IS THE LARPER NERD OF INSTRUMENTS. THAT’S THE INSTRUMENT THAT ALL THE OTHER INSTRUMENTS PANTS ON A REGULAR BASIS. EVEN THE PICCOLO STUFFS THE CLARINET IN THEIR CLOSET AND PEES IN THEIR MOUNTAIN DEW.

I mean, check it out:

This video makes my eye twitch. It’s like having Wonder bread blended into a paste and then poured into your ears as Paul McCartney is sodomized before you. All with plinky-plunky piano in the background.

So fuck you, Kenny G, and fuck us all, white people. And fuck you Ben Franklin, my mom’s carpool friend, and dentists everywhere for providing this no-talent assclown with a regular listening audience.

 

Why White People Suck: Hitler

You know who was one white son of a bitch?

Hitler.

adolf-hitler

Check out that pale motherfucker. He’s like if snow and paper decided to move to Germany and have a psycho-ass baby together.

Dammit, Hitler. You have made growing up white with German ancestry very difficult and conflicting. Plus there was that whole “ripping Europe apart and murdering millions of people” thing.

Now, if you’re saying, “Krista, white people weren’t responsible for Hitler! He was put in power due to a lot of factors, including social strife, monetary depression, and a leadership vacuum.”

And you know what? Sure, all that contributed. But you know what else contributed? People got on board with the whole “white is right” thing and it ended up with a lot of people dead.

God. And all because he couldn’t paint a fucking still life. How about you get a life, Hitler. Oh wait, you can’t. Because you lit yourself on fire.

Asshole.

 

Why White People Suck: We Like To Pretend Jesus Was White

weeping-jesus

Your ignorance makes Jesus cry. Good job, whitey.

The only time Jesus should ever be white is when he’s made of marble. Or white chocolate. Delicious white chocolate.*

Let’s be real – good ole Yahshua was a dude who was born, raised, and died in the Middle East. Bro was Middle Eastern. He probably looked a hell of a lot more like someone who would make white people nervous on planes than fucking Josh Groban.

The next time I go into a cathedral and see some blue-eyed, blond-haired, Aryan Jesus staring down at me like I just disappointed him at the recent HOA meeting, I’m getting a pentagram tattoo.

*Note: the author does not endorse eating Jesus

 

On Trying To Be A Funny Woman

Note: I wrote this about 3 years ago when I was halfway through my time at the Second City training center in Chicago. My feelings have grown a bit more complex on the matter, but I like having this as a reminder of how I felt when I first started trying to be funny for realsies.


It was very tough, the first year at least, because they were fighting – particularly the woman writers for their material to get in, which only applied to women’s issues.

– Chevy Chase

I’d like to say that this sort of statement feels antiquated and like my experience thus far in Chicago has taught me that comedy has come a long way in regards to women.

And, in a sense, it has. Tina Fey has blazed a trail in recent years, as have people like Amy Poehler and Kristen Wiig.

They’re hilarious. They’re women. Their uteruses don’t impede their ability to be funny and, sometimes, it even helps drive their point of view and makes them more hilarious.

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A Story On Not Meeting Michael Shannon

There’s this bar we go to after class right outside of Second City called The Ale House. It’s an interesting dive bar – there are half-naked pictures of various (supposedly) famous people covering every surface of the walls, including one of Mitt Romney posing coyly in his “Mormon underwear” (note: I don’t believe this underwear is underwear that any actual Mormon would be caught dead in).

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The Burden Of Having A Slightly Uncommon Name

So I was born in the eighties which, I know, was like a million years ago. But I grew up in a time where the most common name for girls was “Lauren” or “Ashley” or “Katie” and being a Krista (with a K) was a bit of a novelty.

I’m not named after anyone. My parents decided upon the name randomly (apparently my mom had a student named Krista or something and she liked the name and it stuck). My sister was named after my grandfather and our great-grandma, so I always sort of resented the fact that her name had significance, while mine seemed to be pulled out of the destiny’s butthole of randomness*. Sure, it’s a nice enough name, but it’s always caused some problems for me.

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