Redneck Nation by Michael Graham Read Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Michael Graham
on either side of the Mason-Dixon line. And it’s not because he weighs more than three
hundred pounds, though we Southerners do like a man with a figure. No, Fudgie and his biker buddies became true soldiers of
the Confederacy when they bravely rode their hogs into the nearest courtroom and burst into tears.
The motorcycled members of Ohio’s citizenry have officially claimed victim status. They are beset by antibiker discrimination,
they claim. Restaurants shun them, bars ban them, and pedestrians fear them. And, the bikers say, it’s starting to hurt their
feelings.
According to the
New York Times
, Ohio’s motorcycle enthusiasts feel that their rights as citizens have been trampled upon. So these delicate flowers, still
stinging from being made unwelcome by the maître d’ at the Four Seasons, asked State Representative Sylvester Patton of Youngstown
to sponsor a bill levying a five-hundred-dollar civil fine against any business found guilty of discriminating against people
“because they operate motorcycles or wear clothing that displays the name of a motorcycle-related organization or group.”
The same cycle riders who oppose Big Brother’s efforts to force them to wear helmets want that same government to force restaurants
and hotels not to notice when they wear those helmets into the building.
How big a problem could this alleged antibiker discrimination be? It’s hard to imagine the shop owner or tavern keeper willing
to walk up to a three-hundred-pound leather-clad biker with “Born to Violate the Laws of Nature” tattooed across his biceps
and say, “We don’t serve your kind around here.” It’s even harder to imagineFudgie as a victim of, well, just about anything, except maybe a massive coronary.
At the risk of offending Fudgie’s delicate sensibilities, might I point out that one way to prevent business owners from treating
you like a thug is to stop dressing like one? If a guy walks into a restaurant wearing a pillowcase with eyeholes and carrying
a rope with a slipknot, he really shouldn’t complain if some folks don’t want to sit in his section.
There’s also the wimp factor. When did bikers become babies? I expect tough guys on Harleys to display a quiet stoicism, not
to go running to the state legislature crying, “A big bully just made fun of my nose ring!”
But that’s precisely what bikers have done. They have staked their claim on the American gold mine of victim-hood. And in
a nation mesmerized by the gratifying self-righteousness and soothing powerlessness that come with victimhood, the exemplar
of this whiny, complaining, easily insulted, put-upon, sore-toed groaner is the southern white male.
Before there was the NAACP or GLAAD or NAAFA (the National Association for the Advancement of Fat Acceptance), there were
rednecks. As Mencken noted, they are a notoriously thin-skinned bunch.
Southern white males have a long tradition of kvetching Confederate-style. The first Europeans reached Charleston, South Carolina,
in 1670 and promptly began whining that Plymouth Rock was getting all the attention. Southerners proceeded to pout their way
through the entire Revolutionary War. The South was a hotbed of Toryism, the locals constantly attempting to make deals with
the British and blaming the entire mess on the Yankees in Massachusetts.
After holding the Constitution hostage over the issue ofslavery in the 1780s, Southerners spent the next 170 years complaining about being picked on over the issue. Listening to
slave owners and their political allies of the day, you’d think
they
were the victims of the slave economy: “Slaves are expensive, they eat so much, they keep trying to run away (those ungrateful
bastards), and the only reason we have them is that Northerners force us to keep selling cotton for huge profits. It’s all
their fault.”
So the South started a war and then complained because the Yankees fought back. They
hundred pounds, though we Southerners do like a man with a figure. No, Fudgie and his biker buddies became true soldiers of
the Confederacy when they bravely rode their hogs into the nearest courtroom and burst into tears.
The motorcycled members of Ohio’s citizenry have officially claimed victim status. They are beset by antibiker discrimination,
they claim. Restaurants shun them, bars ban them, and pedestrians fear them. And, the bikers say, it’s starting to hurt their
feelings.
According to the
New York Times
, Ohio’s motorcycle enthusiasts feel that their rights as citizens have been trampled upon. So these delicate flowers, still
stinging from being made unwelcome by the maître d’ at the Four Seasons, asked State Representative Sylvester Patton of Youngstown
to sponsor a bill levying a five-hundred-dollar civil fine against any business found guilty of discriminating against people
“because they operate motorcycles or wear clothing that displays the name of a motorcycle-related organization or group.”
The same cycle riders who oppose Big Brother’s efforts to force them to wear helmets want that same government to force restaurants
and hotels not to notice when they wear those helmets into the building.
How big a problem could this alleged antibiker discrimination be? It’s hard to imagine the shop owner or tavern keeper willing
to walk up to a three-hundred-pound leather-clad biker with “Born to Violate the Laws of Nature” tattooed across his biceps
and say, “We don’t serve your kind around here.” It’s even harder to imagineFudgie as a victim of, well, just about anything, except maybe a massive coronary.
At the risk of offending Fudgie’s delicate sensibilities, might I point out that one way to prevent business owners from treating
you like a thug is to stop dressing like one? If a guy walks into a restaurant wearing a pillowcase with eyeholes and carrying
a rope with a slipknot, he really shouldn’t complain if some folks don’t want to sit in his section.
There’s also the wimp factor. When did bikers become babies? I expect tough guys on Harleys to display a quiet stoicism, not
to go running to the state legislature crying, “A big bully just made fun of my nose ring!”
But that’s precisely what bikers have done. They have staked their claim on the American gold mine of victim-hood. And in
a nation mesmerized by the gratifying self-righteousness and soothing powerlessness that come with victimhood, the exemplar
of this whiny, complaining, easily insulted, put-upon, sore-toed groaner is the southern white male.
Before there was the NAACP or GLAAD or NAAFA (the National Association for the Advancement of Fat Acceptance), there were
rednecks. As Mencken noted, they are a notoriously thin-skinned bunch.
Southern white males have a long tradition of kvetching Confederate-style. The first Europeans reached Charleston, South Carolina,
in 1670 and promptly began whining that Plymouth Rock was getting all the attention. Southerners proceeded to pout their way
through the entire Revolutionary War. The South was a hotbed of Toryism, the locals constantly attempting to make deals with
the British and blaming the entire mess on the Yankees in Massachusetts.
After holding the Constitution hostage over the issue ofslavery in the 1780s, Southerners spent the next 170 years complaining about being picked on over the issue. Listening to
slave owners and their political allies of the day, you’d think
they
were the victims of the slave economy: “Slaves are expensive, they eat so much, they keep trying to run away (those ungrateful
bastards), and the only reason we have them is that Northerners force us to keep selling cotton for huge profits. It’s all
their fault.”
So the South started a war and then complained because the Yankees fought back. They
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