I am the world’s biggest…..albino Pigmy.
You didn’t know I’m black, did you?
The Pigmies don’t either.
They don’t like the word Pigmy. Today, they go by the name “Baka.”
Three times I have applied for membership to the tribe, and three times I have been ignored, after completing the entrance test. I know I got a high score. For example, on the question, “what would you do if a kangaroo hopped by?”
I correctly answered “none of the above,” because I know there aren’t any kangaroos in Africa. That’s an Australian Bushman thing. Different tribe.
I didn’t even receive back my test score.
I called for confirmation hearings before a panel of Pigmies to have myself declared an official Pigmy. Nothing. No response.
It’s the color of my skin, isn’t it? You don’t believe I’m black.
I can prove it. I have rhythm beyond that of any white guy. I love Ray Charles. What more do you want?
Okay. You wanna play hardball? Two can do that.
I’m filing a lawsuit in Superior Court against the Baka people of Central Africa. You’ll be hearing from my attorney.
I am, I swear, the world’s largest albino Pigmy. How do I know? At birth, I had an amulet etched with the symbol of half a tiny white torso…dressed in Baka garb….hung from a necklace around my neck. I still have it.
Somewhere out there, I have a Pigmy albino twin with the other half of the etched figure. We should be sharing joint chieftainship of the tribe. Instead, I was somehow disinherited of my rightful half.
I would be a progressive ruler. Since I am the biggest (other than the lost twin) albino Pigmy, when I made a speech, the people would look up to me.
I would work for Pigmy rights. Pigmies have gotten a raw deal because people like to think of dwarfs in an evil light. In 1930s jungle movies, nothing gave the racist audience more delight than an elephant squashing a Pigmy.
I would demand a formal apology from MGM.
My next order of business would be to secure American aid, like that going to Iraq.
I have to acknowledge that it would be an idyllic existence. The natives sit around in their designer jeans (very small cut), in their government-supplied condos…when some suckers…I mean tourists…from Japan show up….on a bus. Loaded with yen.
The natives climb into their native costumes. Do a few dances. Sign some autographs for money. Sell some poison dart replicas made in China.
After the tourists depart minus their cash, the natives get back into their designer duds and hang out listening to the radical sounds of heavy metal from far-off million-watt Clear Channel ZULU in Johannesburg.
Other than that, the Baka are just like you and me. They love their children, and they drive their cars (very small cars) to the supermarket.