Racism is on its last legs. In less than a generation, racism has gone from a tragedy to a sitcom B-plot. Sure, racism is always there for you in case you need to win an argument against a white person, but as a danger to society, it doesn’t have the eye of the tiger it used to. Nothing makes that more clear than the white power movement’s latest propaganda machine: Prussian Blue. To envision this musical duo, imagine if there was a clerical error at the frozen brain reanimation center and Hitler accidentally got put inside the Olsen Twins. You’d have Prussian Blue. More importantly, if that happened, someone would have to explain the mix-up to Walt Disney’s unfrozen brain, and how it ended up housed in Zer Blitzkreig Überbot.

So white supremacy’s marketers come up with adorable little girls who sing pop songs about hate. That’s the best they’ve got? I know attendance is down at Ku Klux Klan meetings now that the country’s literacy rate has rocketed above 12 percent, but still, there should have been enough people around for one of them to say, “Wait. Should we really spread the message of killing minorities through bouncy, danceable love songs?” Before this, the only thing bigotry had going for it was its edginess. At this point the white power people might as well start promoting Sparkly Marty, Racially Intolerant Master of Animal Balloonery.

Most of us associate racism with ignorance. But that’s not exactly true. I was never racist against hunchbacks until I learned that they’re all trying to trap and shave our cats. Someone taught these little girls the fundamental truths that they sing about in their song “Skinhead Boy:” “Oy oy oy skinhead boy, you’re my oy BOYOIEOY.” To their credit, though, most of their other songs are about Vikings and how awesome things are for Vikings after they die. Keep in mind that my research was limited, since ordering their CD would violate a rule I have about giving my credit card number to white supremacists. Here’s that rule in its entirety: “Dude, Don’t Be a Retard.” Luckily, the manager for Prussian Blue doesn’t hold himself to such high standards.

I like to try and see things from other people’s points of view. Like how hard it would be if I were dyslexic and everything said, “PLORBGLARB.” Or how scared a jewel thief must be when he sees Mr. T and teen gymnasts on his tail. My favorite, though, is to picture how mad I’d be if I was a white supremacist in the theater watching Eugene Levy and Samuel L. Jackson’s latest blockbuster, White People Aren’t F***ing Good at ANYTHING. That’s the kind of primal rage normal people only get two or three times in their life. I’d want to embrace that and, if given the means, form little girl bands around it, too. I mean, think about it – these racists see that we have all the things they don’t: shirt sleeves, teeth, birth certificates... but the one thing they have that we don’t is their racism. And their meth addiction. And their cousin’s pubic lice. The point is, racism will never fully disappear as long as filthy hunchbacks are always getting fired from their jobs and squirting soup out of their humps.

One thing I always envied about non-white people is the built-in know-how that comes with cultural identity. White people are such random mixes of social mores and neuroses that they don’t know how to react to things. For example, if you’re with mixed racial company and find yourself suddenly attacked by a swamp monster, a white person might try to make friends, get their phone out to take a picture, congratulate Jamie Kennedy for almost getting them, or take charge of the situation and lead an orderly evacuation. Not even the individual white people will know what they’ll do until it happens. But if a swamp monster emerges and you happen to be a black person, that means you’re also running away at incredible speeds. All of them will have actually started running before the “think” in “I think I hear something.” When you encounter a swamp monster with Koreans, they have a 50/50 chance of running away or trying to catch fish with it. As for hunchbacks, they’re a little too waist-deep in chicken blood to go on some nature hike with you and your ethnic friends. Damn hunchbacks.