And the future knocks first on the tarmac. Being processed through a large American hub airport is to peer through a cultural periscope. The view is grainy and often obstructed, though large approaching objects are unmistakable.
Though that’s a conclusion, the story begins hours earlier.
Upon being deposited at the airport by an (invariably) yellowed sclera african-african cab driver, one enters the lobby to a cacophonous babel that is eerily redolent of cicadas. This is the telltale sound of diversity: an insect swarm. Travelers are then obliged to muscle for rank amidst the jostling horde that surges toward the ticket counter. My own position eventually resolved behind an elderly white man and a young asian couple.
The former was called to attention by an obese airline mullato. The two commenced what eventually became an acrimonious parley. I could not discern the quarrel’s content but the customer became plainly exasperated after some time. Eventually I heard him demand “Where is customer service?!” A query the ptosis-eyed agent responded to with a vague finger point of supreme indifference.
And as he shuffled away visibly muttering I imagined vacating my position to provide a reply.
“Oh there won’t be any ‘customer service’ here. That was scuttled in 1965 and buried in 2008. It was over when your generation decided to build a frankenstein society around some contrived novelty called anti-racism. It was over every time you voted for some unctuous shit liberal. And whenever you thought cheap labor would benefit THECONOMY. Customer service was left to rot when you coveted entitlements over your children’s future. And what will you do when governments of the oppressed come to notice the obvious who/whom of social security and Medicare? Ask not for whom young colonists pay dotage care; they pay not for thee. So go ahead and write-off customer service along with most of western life’s other amenities. And stop your bitching. You think the pleasure of not being racist was going to come cheap?”
But alas I remained rooted to hard won territory and watched him merge into the human potpourri. The asian couple then took up positions. Some interminable time later they were received by a squat central american female that I will just colloquially refer to as “Mexican.” What followed was a magnificent display of the American debacle.
The Asians at first began fondling the check-in kiosk as the Mexican attendant stared ahead vacantly. A very long time later it was apparent the infernal device had not regurgitated whatever Red Chinese propaganda they had anticipated. Attempting to gain the mexican’s attention…
Ahh bing, bong, click, clack, ching?
Rigoberta Menchu behind the counter maintained an implacable bovine placidity.
goo goo minh chi ho?
By this point, the fugue state was starting to break and our indigenous ticket agent wound to life.
Eeeez Dees su bee-yate-ay?
The asians stared bewildered. They pointed at the kiosk. The Mexican mimicked the gesture. No one moved. They pointed at their ticket. The Mexican pointed to the security check. Increasingly flummoxed they pointed vaguely skyward, as if to indicate the general trajectory they wished to travel. The Mexican glanced up with furrowed brow before finally offering another wan “eeeez deees” that only trailed off into silence. After several more minutes of frog staring, the asians resumed a forlorn scratching at the recalcitrant kiosk.
I eventually began to suspect a ruse. This pantomime had been in progress now since the Pleistocene. People were moving all around me like water around a stone. Time seemed to move forward and backward simultaneously. The hour hand racing across the clock face as the minute hand lumbered in the opposite direction. Was this tree here when I got into line, or has it matured in the interim? Would my cadaver maintain an erect posture post rigor mortis?
The Chinese nationalist?
The monotony was now louder in my ears than the droning cicadas. This couldn’t be real. Where was that fucker Peter Funt? He had to be lurking behind some potted plant chortling at the set-up. They were going to hold me here till I broke. I turned to a swarthy arab on my left dressed in a Rodney Dangerfield ensemble from Caddy Shack.
You’re in on it too, aren’t you?
I looked away with contempt at his feigned confusion. How much longer would this hellish production continue? I began to prioritize my remaining time on Earth as the show went on…
Suddenly a white woman in an airline uniform waddled into view. She was so fat I absently mused at how her subcutaneous blubber must swirl in bands like the rings of Neptune. Stepping past the brown Nobel prize winner she mounted the kiosk without a word, and with fingers the size of caulk guns proceeded to pound the machine into submission. I didn’t see it relinquish any additional documentation, but the asians were apparently assuaged and left the queue to presumably follow their finger pointing dreams.
And while candid camera remained concealed, a few notions were illuminated. Multiculturalism is anti-culturalism. It is a contraction of culture by bitter necessity. There was no ‘celebration’ of differences in that microcosm. Instead just the wretched tedium of dealing with those with whom you share no language, culture, custom, or genetic similarities. It is like donning a duck suit just to walk across your own house. Multiculturalism is misery. And that is, of course, why peoples outside the broken West reject it for themselves. But jews didn’t want white countries, and white liberals didn’t want to worship a jew. And so we have amerinds and asians staring at each other over the husk of western civilization while seeing only this:
And that’s your future America. Go to hell, Funt.