Kenneth Eng is an Asian-American sci-fi writer (and self-proclaimed god of the universe) who caused a stir when he wrote an article entitled “Why I Hate Blacks” for AsianWeek. He’d also written columns on hating whites… and hating Asians. He pretty much hates everybody. But there’s one thing he does love: talking about his publishing credits. I’ve found it difficult to find the full article, “Why I Hate Blacks,” but, fortunately for me, I was able to take full advantage of it before it disappeared from the Internet. Bits and pieces of it are scattered about, and there’s a rambling, incoherent interview with Eng on YouTube. Excerpts from his essay, “Discriminating against Asians at NYU,” can be found HERE. Other than being driven to write this parody, I am not weighing in on the content of his articles.
Why I Hate Pickles
A (parody) Response to Kenneth Eng’s article “Why I Hate Blacks” and his essay “Discriminating against Asians at NYU.”
First let me say that I have been blackballed and have received death threats because I’m intelligent enough to speak the truth. But these threats have served only to strengthen my resolve. I know the truth and speak it because I am Goddess of the Galaxy. Sometimes I must think aloud in my native Goddess tongue just to release some of the pressure in my expansive brain, something many of you addle-pates wouldn’t understand. Yet, I digress.
I ask you: What vegetable in its right mind would allow itself to bathe in a vinegar brine until it is soft and knobby? Would an eggplant? I promise you it would not. This gorgeous purple-black vegetable would rise up in defiance and mangle any hairy-knuckled fist that dared drop it in a vat of vinegar. Can we say this of the cucumber? Most certainly we cannot. Pickles are imposters and cannot be trusted. They pass themselves off as some great American table fare, but when I attended an outing recently, the only pickle on the entire buffet was caught Frenching the onions, further proof that pickles are weak-willed and amoral and cannot be trusted. Yet every fat farmer, every whining pregnant woman, every sandwich-eating freak in America would be at your throat with a straight razor if you were to speak out against the pious pickle.
You may not believe what I’m about to tell you, but I am Goddess of the Galaxy and do not lie. Every word I speak is the truth. I entered an upscale restaurant, deciding, for the sake of a good meal, to dress up and play by the rules like the rest of the trained monkeys. I listened as the Maitre d’ prattled off the special of the evening for the couple at the next table: “Tamarind Eggplant with Roasted Garlic and Mango.” To my delight, they were serving eggplant, the most glorious of all gourds. Yet the half-witted woman sitting at the next table muttered, “Eggplant is disgusting; it’s one dish I’ve never liked.” I was astonished, and immediately altered my decision to play by the rules. If this woman was allowed to speak her mind, with only a forgiving chuckle from the patsy in the waist apron, then so would I.
When the Maitre d’ approached my table and gave me his half-assed, pompous “Good evening,” I responded with a question: “Why do you serve warty mutants?” He raised his brows; “Begging your pardon, mademoiselle?” Since he suddenly had a loss of hearing, I spoke loudly enough for all to hear. “Mutant Cucumbers! Pickles! Why do you serve them? They’re nothing more than green turds, chilled and quartered.” I was immediately ordered to restrain myself while the other guests sat dumbfounded (or were they just dumb…I can’t recall). But why must I restrain myself when the wretched cow at the next table is permitted to spew vile accusations against glorious eggplants? Am I any different? Are my concerns any less valid? Obviously, the answer to both questions is “yes” because I was asked to leave. “Just go quietly, or we’ll have you removed.” I sauntered out, slow and deliberate in my righteous indignation, intent on bumping everything with my lovely goddess hips as I passed. You wouldn’t believe the verbal abuse I suffered with other diners calling me a crazy bitch. I know it is hard to believe that such injustices occur in the Land of the Free, but it is all true.
Even some of my friends have become sellouts. The other day, a friend asked me to meet her for dinner under the guise of catching up on old times. Out of the blue she said, “We, your friends, are concerned about you. You’re out of control. Furthermore, eggplant, which you seem to love so much, is actually a fruit, and it, too, is often pickled just like cucumbers, and beets, and eggs…” I clasped my hands over my ears, refusing to listen to such damnable lies. It’s bad enough when strangers look upon my candor with disdain, but when supposed friends, those of my own kind, view me as recalcitrant and try to brainwash me, then I know for sure that America is going to hell in a hand-me-down. Again, I apologize. The words you people must look up in the dictionary, like recalcitrant, are words I use every day. I will try to remember to whom I’m addressing this and keep it simple.
Although some of my friends have turned on me, there are a faithful few who have joined with me in agreement, who share my same supreme views. I know that many of you who are reading this would like to silence me while you yourselves continue to speak freely. This is because you are pantywaists and are intimidated by my unparalleled brilliance. But I will never be silent and whether you like it or not, you will listen.
P.S. If the language of this article is too difficult, you might want to consider another article I wrote last year. It was written for a group of politicians (or were they village idiots…I can’t recall). Anyway, the language is juvenile and the style is very elementary. It is entitled: “Why I hate Eggplant.” For the record, I am also a published author of the book “Why I Hate Free Speech.”