Larry Thack will give a lecture on how to steer those platform carts at Home Depot this Saturday evening

I just got the results of my DNA test returned, and I am pleased to report that I am black. Three percent Congolese am I. So proud to call myself multiracial after all I’ve done in support of my brothers and sisters. I always cheer for the Black Americans in the Olympics, I never order vanilla ice cream in public, and I’ve sought and attained autographs from Michael Jordan and Tiger Woods. I am clearly black.
Sadly I am part Irish too, 23 percent, but these tests have flaws. Before I demand a recount, I shall thusly renounce any connection to the Catholic Church and join the AME in Fairburn. I shall miss my diet of steak and kidney pie, bubble and squeak, and Welsh rarebit but am open to a new diet which promises to help me recover my lost soul.
The great part of being Black is not merely that I am part of such a distinctive club, but that I am no longer a white guy. The white male has been a scourge on our country for years. Bungling, awkward, strangely dressed, opinionated, and burgling our time with their autobiographical sage. Every five seconds a white male “charms” a cashier at SubWich while a line forms behind him as the cashier’s gum loses its flavor. Minutes later he’ll accidentally step on the foot of the person behind him in line. He turns, exposing his gleaming, wet horse teeth to apologize only serving to bring more attention and further embarrass everyone in the area. Then he’s off to sell medical supplies or corrugated boxes in an inefficient process of backslapping and cliché repetition required by the “good ‘ol boy” system. That was I, but no longer! I encourage everyone to get their DNA tested immediately before it’s too late.
Boy will I have egg on my face if they develop a test that shows my slaveholding ancestor just slept with his slaves.