While grazing hither and yon around the glades of the internet, I stumbled on the Reverend Al Sharpton, who was demanding reparations for slavery. He was against slavery, I divined, and wanted money. I could hardly blame him, as I too want money.
In truth, I confess that in the past I have written harshly of the idea of reparations. I have said cruel things, such as that the entitlement programs are enough reparations for a dozen slaveries. This time, however, a blinding light fell over my consciousness, doubtless from On High, and I saw the error of my ways. I determined to repent and make amends for my sins.
I immediately asked Violeta to make an inventory of all our slaves—if not a precise count then at least in even dozens, and to inform them that we would issue checks for reparations the next day, and Geeyhound tickets to Memphis.
She pointed out that we didn´t have any slaves. My God. I hadn´t thought of that, so eager was I to commit social justice. She, being Mexican, and probably a hard-hearted Republican by instinct, said her understanding was that slavery ended in 1865, so that our slaves would be at least 150 years old. How would they live when they got to Memphis?
I was kind to her, and patient. She is bright and rational, and so has no grasp of American politics. I explained that we European-Americans are so desirous of curing injustice that we invent it when there isn´t any, so that we can Fix It by giving all our money to those who either can´t or won´t make any for themselves. It´s like stocking a bass pond. We get to feel good about ourselves, almost our only entertainment in a boring age. We are happy.
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