Unlike the other three writers for this site, I was raised Roman Catholic (Blue = Buddhist, Tao = Zen Buddhist, Butter = Nudist). I was even an altar boy for a period during the mid-80s, which I enjoyed. And no, not for the reasons you are thinking of, smart guy. Against all odds, I somehow made it through my tenure relatively unmolested (Sister Mary Margaret winked at me once, but that was probably just her Tourette’s).

No, the reason I liked being an altar boy was that you got to be part of the show. Carrying the cross, ringing the little bell, handing the priest the Jesus loaf and wine - at certain points during the mass, all eyes would be on you, and it was, dare I say, intoxicating. I liked to think of Father O’Rourke as Lionel Richie, and us altar boys were his Commodores; not the main attraction, mind you, but it sure as hell wouldn’t have been the same without us. Actually, that may be a bad example. But in any event, we also got to play in the altar boy baseball tournament every summer, which in and of itself was pretty sweet.

As an adult, I now find that the best thing about being Catholic is the notion of confession (at least until they come up with the position of “altar man”). Christianity is a faith built upon forgiveness, which means that no matter what you do, ritualized repentance = absolution. Now, I haven’t actually been to confession in approximately twenty years. This may have something to do with the fact that the only time I make it to church these days is on Christmas Eves, for weddings, or when I’m scanning the church bulletin for a coded instructing message from St. Marvin, the patron saint of gunning people down at the office.

However, I don’t think that this extended absence means I can’t avail myself of my divine right to be forgiven, even via a blog post. And actually, when you think about it, writing or commenting under a pseudonym on the Internet really is the modern-day version of the confession booth, only better. You still get the anonymity and release of pent-up guilt, but instead of having to get up early on Sunday mornings, you do it on company time.

But what could a stand-up guy such as myself possibly have to confess, you are most likely not asking yourself? Well, racism is the hot topic again these days. And, like everyone else, I’ve dabbled in the ignorant arts in my time. So I thought that, in an effort to inspire others to do the same, I would lay out my stereotyping-related sins right here in this public forum. Why? Because, as a wise woman of the cloth once said, “only through complete honesty can we achieve t-t-t-total understandinngggg AHH GOD DAMN COCKSUCKING ILL-FITTING HABIT!”

One caveat: I refuse to apologize for the mercy rule beating we laid on those momma’s boys from St. Anthony’s parish that one summer in ‘87. You should have stuck to soccer, you uni-browed guinea bastards!

In no particular order:

• For a good ten years, I thought the guy who sang the theme song from Ghostbusters and the guy who played the black Ghostbuster were the same person.

 
Not even close

• On a related and more recent note, I also thought Rinku and Dinesh, the celebrated Indian-born pitching prospects for the Pittsburgh Pirates, were brothers. Thank God there is no permanent record of that one.
• Wrestling-related racism, part one: I once considered Sgt. Slaughter to be the greatest traitor in the history of the world, and this misplaced rage may have led me to refer to an Arab-looking kid at my school as a “camel fucker”. In my defence, I’m almost certain I picked up this phrase from my neighbour’s dad, who is to this day a truly great racist. In my further defence, the kid turned out to be from Chile.
• When I was 15, I could on more than one occasion be heard to proclaim that my favourite rap group was House of Pain. I even owned one of their t-shirts. What I did not own, however, was one of their albums.
• Speaking of music, I am a fan of T.V. on the Radio. However, if I’m being honest, only 75% of my fandom relates to their music. The rest is based on that curious form of reverse racism, whereby attending the show of an alt-rock band that is predominantly non-white secretly makes one feel enlightened. I believe social scientists refer to this as “Living Color Syndrome”.

 
Speaking of bands that I owned t-shirts but not albums of…

• I recently filled out an online application for a mortgage pre-approval. After answering a series of questions, I was presented with a choice of three representatives who I could call to finalize the application. No other information was given except for their names, the last of which were Syed, Villeneuve and Rothstein. Guess which one I chose?
• Wrestling-related racism, part two: coconut to the head = funniest thing I ever saw, at least until we discovered Eddie Murphy’s Delirious. Do you get it? People from Fiji wear sarongs, love fruit, and are so stupid they will fall for even the most obvious of set-ups! You’ll get that Nobel Peace Prize one of these days, Vinnie Mac.
• Without having the slightest understanding of how it would work, I’m in favour of health care reform in the U.S. I’d even be in favour of the death panels. But I actually could care less whether 40 million Americans are uninsured. I just like the idea of supporting President Corey Glover.
• When Rothstein came back with an excellent rate, I smiled a smug, knowing smile.
• Check my Google search history, and you will find the phrase, “do black people make up their first names?”
• I used to carry around a wallet-sized photo of a Chinese Junk, because I thought showing it to people and telling them it was actual size was funny.

 
I’d follow it up with, “if this thing had a left blinker, do you think it would be on continuously?”

• Wrestling-related racism, part three: this one also involves Roddy Piper, wrestling’s greatest racist. Let’s just say that if it weren’t for the dogged interference of a certain meddling parental figure, this very likely could have been my eleven-year-old self’s Halloween costume:

  

• The Raptors acquired Amir Johnson from Milwaukee this off-season. I don’t really know what he looks like. So every time I see a black guy over 6′4 walking around downtown Toronto, part of me secretly wonders if it’s him. Even if he is wearing a suit and carrying a briefcase.

 
Fact: 1/3 of these guys are in danger of having me ask for an autograph.

• Finally, I secretly wish there was a slur for Italians that carried the same weight as the n-word. Because God knows, those greasy bastards really could stand to be taken down a peg or two.

Phew. I feel better already.