Is White A Color?

“This couldn’t come at a worse time,” Tiger sighed, having clumsily missed another plaster baby seal with his dreadfully awkward swing, “I’ve got my annual NAACP charity golf tournament in a couple of weeks.”

My friend, Tiger Woods, had come to me for a swing lesson, having found my method of developing the perfect swing technique by using the club on plaster baby seals to be extremely beneficial.

“Ah, March Madness,” I said, “I had to give it up myself.  Gambling is a harsh mistress.”

“You know all about those,” K-Ro chimed in, nudging Tiger. 

“Um, that’s basketball,” Tiger said.

“Of course,” I said, “I should have taken you for a cager when you walked in.”

“No,” Tiger replied, “March Madness is basketball.  I’m a golfer.”

“But you just mentioned the NAACP tournament,” I argued, “The avid sports fan refers to that as March Madness.  I should think you would recognize the difference.”

“Did you hear my harsh mistress line?” K-Ro asked.

“This is the NAACP,” Tiger explained, “The National Association for the Advancement of Colored People.”

“Colored?” I gasped, “That is quite racist.  I believe they prefer to be called African Separatists.”

“The NAACP works for people of all colors,” Tiger went on, “Black, Latino, Asian, and even Indian.”

“Is white a color?” asked K-Ro.

“It is the Indian who carries my sympathies,” I said, “That noble savage, taken from his ancestral homeland and forced to work in whiskey distilleries.”

“I think you’re confused,” Tiger said.

“The Indians should hold a grudge against Africans,” K-Ro interjected, “They brought homosexuality and AIDS over here and put it on their blankets.”

“Don’t be an ignorant fool,” I said, “It was the white man who created homosexuality.  With those powdered wigs and tight pants.  But, come to think of it, perhaps it was the Indians themselves.  Have you ever seen Gandhi?  No straight man would dress like that.”

I paused to let them reflect on the profundity of my statement.  K-Ro looked into the distance thoughtfully.  Tiger simply shook his head, astounded at my wisdom.

“Nevermind that now,” I said finally, “Let’s return to the business at hand.  And as a reformed gambler I shall offer a little advice to you, my dear Tiger, regarding your tournament.  Bet the 12 seeds.”

Fetch My Clubs. And The Baby Seals

"You're getting very sleepy," Dr. Phil said softly, as he slowly swung a pocket watch like a pendulum before my eyes.

"As a matter of fact, I'm quite awake," I said, "I slept very soundly. It is a very positive side effect of my Vicodin addiction."

"To tell the truth," I continued, "I cannot think of one negative side effect."

"How about memory loss?" Dr. Phil countered testily.

"That is debatable," I argued, "I once awoke next to a naked, sweaty, heaving Rosie O'Donnell, with no memory of how I came to be in such a dire position. I am absolutely thankful that any memory of our encounter was expunged. I chalk that particular blessing up to Vicodin."

Nonetheless, I knew he was correct. The only reason he was attempting to hypnotize me is because of my loss of memory, in particular, my inability to recall the location of my latest manuscript, which I was certain to be The Greatest Story Ever Written. Dr. Phil only stared at me blankly.

"But please continue," I added.

"This isn't working," he grumbled, putting the pocket watch away. He rubbed his chin deeply as he struggled for a solution. I was not an easy nut to crack.

"I've got it," he finally cried. He reached into his weathered satchel, retrieving a small statue. He placed the statue on the table before me. It was The Greatest, Muhammad Ali, regaled in his ring attire with arms raised victoriously skyward.

"Look into the Champ's eyes," he whispered, and I met the statue's steely gaze. His was the look of a warrior poet, filled with wisdom and virtue. He was a mirror into my soul.

"Whatever you do, you must maintain eye contact with the Champ," Dr. Phil added, and then he gently flicked the Champ's tiny head with his finger, causing it to bobble from side to side. And the Champ stood there, so tiny, his arms raised in victory, and his head bobbling continuously.

"So...lifelike," I mumbled, as my eyelids grew heavy.

"Now," Dr. Phil said, "I want you to tell me about last Friday night."

My eyes were closed and I shook my head vigorously. My limbs thrashed about.

"No...no!" I cried.

And suddenly I was sitting at the desk in my study. Outside the window the sky was a brilliant purple evening haze signalling the beginning of the weekend. I looked at the stack of post-its on the desk in front of me. There lies my brilliance, I thought. It was my newest work, an endeavor into experimental writing wherein I write random thoughts on post-it notes, get thoroughly wasted on whiskey and narcotics, then rearrange the notes into a blind narrative. It was a technique I learned when I was a staff writer at CSI: Miami. My admiration for my work was interrupted by a knock at the door.

"Enter," I ordered. K-Ro opened the door.

"Sir," he said, "You're wearing lipstick again."

"Hard at work, K-Ro," I said, "Writing, as you know, takes a special sort of concentration. Sobriety and accepted gender identification play no part in the process. By the way, you're wearing nothing but a golden thong."

"I was choreographing a new interpretive dance, sir," he replied.

"Of course," I said, "What can I do for you, old friend?"

"Tiger Woods has stopped by," he said, "He wishes for another swing lesson."

"Of course," I said. It would be good to get away from my work for a while.

"Show him in, K-Ro" I said, "Then fetch my clubs. And the baby seals."

"Very well, sir," K-Ro said.