Norman had always imagined Heaven to be a place filled with pearly gates, golden streets, and angels strumming harps. But when he woke up after a rather unfortunate accident involving a banana peel and a flight of stairs, he found himself in what appeared to be a dimly lit bingo parlor. The walls were a peculiar shade of mauve, and the air was thick with the scent of mothballs and old people. Norman scratched his head and looked around in disbelief.
“Am I in the right place?” he muttered to himself.
A kindly elderly lady sitting nearby, her bingo card scattered with chips, glanced over and gave him a sweet, toothless grin. “Oh, dearie, you must be new here. Welcome to Heaven’s Waiting Room!”
Norman blinked. Heaven’s Waiting Room looked remarkably like the run-down bingo halls he used to avoid back on Earth. The carpet was a confusing mix of patterns, and a flickering fluorescent light above buzzed annoyingly.
“But I thought Heaven would be, well, grander,” Norman mumbled, still trying to process this strange twist of fate.
The elderly lady patted the empty seat next to her. “Come on, dear. No use complaining. Might as well play a round of bingo while we wait for the big guy upstairs to call your name.”
Norman hesitated for a moment, then decided to take a seat. After all, what harm could a game of bingo do?
As he settled in, he noticed that everyone in the room was playing, but no one seemed to be winning. The numbers being called were as odd as the situation itself.
“B-47… I-22… G-3… W-99,” the announcer called out, his voice carrying a peculiar mix of authority and amusement.
Norman dabbed his card as the bizarre numbers kept coming. The other players seemed to be enjoying themselves, laughing and chatting with one another. The elderly lady beside him struck up a conversation.
“I’ve been waiting here for ages, you know,” she said with a wistful sigh. “I’ve never won a game, but it’s quite fun. It’s Heaven’s way of keeping us occupied until our turn to meet the boss.”
Norman nodded, still bewildered but starting to find the whole situation oddly charming. “So, what happens when someone finally wins?”
The elderly lady leaned closer, as if sharing a well-kept secret. “Oh, no one knows, dearie. Some say you get an extra scoop of angel food cake, others believe you get to meet the angels themselves. But it’s all just speculation. No one’s ever won.”
Norman chuckled at the absurdity of it all and focused on his card. The announcer continued with his nonsensical numbers, and Norman couldn’t help but laugh along with the rest of the room. It was strangely delightful, a far cry from what he had expected from the afterlife.
Hours passed, and Norman still hadn’t won a single game. But he didn’t mind. He was making friends, sharing stories, and having the time of his life in Heaven’s Waiting Room. It turned out that Heaven wasn’t just about grandeur and divine revelations; sometimes, it was about the simple joys of laughter and camaraderie.
Finally, after what felt like an eternity, Norman’s number was called. “N-12!” the announcer declared.
Norman jumped up in excitement, his heart racing. He shouted, “Bingo!”
The room fell into chaos. Old people, who had been peacefully dabbing their cards just moments before, now turned into feisty warriors. They yelled and pushed each other, fighting over Norman’s winning card.
The elderly lady beside him transformed into a bingo berserker, swinging her cane like a sword and yelling, “It’s mine, you hooligans!”
The announcer, now sweating profusely, tried to intervene, but his pleas were drowned out by the elderly bingo brawl. The numbers kept getting called, but nobody cared anymore. It was bingo Armageddon.
Norman couldn’t help but laugh at the ridiculousness of it all. He watched as the chaos unfolded, thinking that perhaps Heaven’s Waiting Room was more entertaining than he had ever imagined.
Eventually, the angels had to step in to restore order. They separated the elderly combatants and retrieved Norman’s winning card.
“Congratulations, Norman,” one of the angels said, a bit out of breath. “You’ve won the rarest prize of all—a lifetime of chaos and laughter in Heaven.”
Norman grinned from ear to ear. As he surveyed the heavenly bingo parlor and the elderly bingo brawlers he’d unintentionally stirred up, he realized that Heaven was even zanier than a carnival fun house. And as luck would have it, his new job in the afterlife? He was Heaven’s newest bingo caller, tasked with keeping the chaos going. Norman couldn’t help but wonder if he’d taken a wrong turn at the pearly gates and really ended up in Hell.
Once upon a time in the bustling heart of Washington, D.C., within the hallowed halls of the White House, an unlikely hero emerged. His name was Commander, a dignified German Shepherd with a distinctive black and tan coat. While most would perceive him as just another loyal White House pet, Commander had a secret mission that nobody could have ever expected.
It all began one sunny morning when Commander decided he had had enough of being just a furry face in the presidential residence. He had stumbled upon some peculiar activities and was convinced he needed to step up and take action. What Commander didn’t realize was that he was about to embark on a comically misguided crusade.
You see, Commander had caught wind of rumors circulating in the corridors of power. Whispers of a secret drug stash and Chinese money laundering operation allegedly linked to Hunter Biden and Joe Biden himself had made their way into the dog’s keen ears. Commander, being the patriotic and dutiful canine he was, believed it was his duty to alert the Secret Service agents and White House staff to these grave concerns.
His method of communication, however, left much to be desired.
One sunny afternoon, as Commander lounged in the Oval Office, he spotted a Secret Service agent standing by the president’s desk. Commander decided it was time to spring into action. With all the seriousness of a dog on a mission, he launched himself at the agent’s leg, biting down gently yet insistently.
The agent yelped in surprise, thinking he had been randomly attacked by the president’s dog. “Commander, what are you doing?” he exclaimed, trying to pry the dog’s jaws off his leg.
But Commander was undeterred. He wagged his tail wildly, trying to convey a message, all the while giving the agent his best “I have vital information” stare.
The agent, still bewildered, couldn’t make heads or tails of the situation. “What’s wrong with you, Commander? Bad dog!” he scolded.
Unfazed by the agent’s rebuke, Commander retreated momentarily to regroup and plan his next move. He knew he needed to make the White House staff and Secret Service understand the gravity of the situation. With renewed determination, he set off on a whirlwind campaign of warning bites, nips, and tugs.
The poor staff members and agents were left baffled and bewildered. They couldn’t comprehend why the normally docile Commander had suddenly turned into a canine whirlwind of nibbling and gnawing.
Finally, the situation escalated to a point where Joe Biden himself was forced to intervene. “What’s going on with Commander?” he asked, as he watched his pet dart around the room, sinking his teeth into various arms, ankles, and pant legs.
The head of the Secret Service approached cautiously. “Mr. President, we’re not sure, but Commander seems to be trying to tell us something.”
President Biden raised an eyebrow. “What could it be, boy?” he asked, scratching and sniffing Commander’s head while almost falling.
But Commander, though he meant well, could only bark in frustration, unable to articulate the complex conspiracy he believed was unraveling around him.
In the end, Joe Biden decided that Commander’s actions were too disruptive to the White House and its staff. And made for bad press. Finally, he made the tough decision to send Commander away to a quieter, less politically charged environment, hoping his dog could find peace and happiness elsewhere.
As Commander was escorted out of the White House, he couldn’t help but feel a pang of disappointment. He had tried his best to be a whistleblower, but in the world of politics, even the most well-intentioned dogs could be misunderstood.
And so, Commander disappeared into the horizon, leaving behind a trail of bitten arms, ankles, and a tale of a dog’s misguided quest to protect the nation from viable threats. Little did he know that he would soon become the talk of the town, the infamous dog who tried to warn the world but ended up in the doghouse himself.
“…In order to forge a cosmic accord of unprecedented unity and harmony, The Politically Correct Movement demands that all people, regardless of prior social preconditioning must accept the incipient world order that will offer unlimited bliss and contentment. Dammit.” ~ Prof. Dr. Skippy “Houng Lau” Whitmore Berkeley CA, 1965
PC Primer
What is P.C.?
PC stands for Politically Correct. We of the Politically Correct philosophy believe in increasing a tolerance for a diversity of cultures, race, gender, ideology and alternate lifestyles. Politically Correctness is the only social and morally acceptable outlook. Anyone who disagrees with this philosophy is bigoted, biased, sexist, and/or closed-minded.
Why should I be PC?
Being PC is fun. PCism is not just an attitude, it is a way of life! PC offers the satisfaction of knowing that you are undoing the social evils of centuries of oppression.
I am a white male. Can I still be PC?
Sure. As a matter of fact, most people at the forefront of the PC grand destiny are white males. But remember, as a white male, you must constantly feel guilty.
Why?
If you are a white male, your ancestors were responsible for practically every injustice in the world: slavery, war, genocide, and plaid sport coats. That means that you are partially responsible for these atrocities. Now it is time to balance the scales of justice for the descendants of those individuals whose ancestors your ancestors pushed down.
How?
It’s simple. You’ve got to be careful what you say, what you think, and what you do. You just don’t want to offend anyone.
You mean I should guard against offending anyone?
That’s right. Being offensive is destructive, and will not make the world a harmonious Utopia, like in John Lennon’s Imagine.
How else can I be PC?
Oh, there are lots of ways. For example, why buy regular ice cream when you can buy “Rain Forest Crunch?” Segrega–whoops–separate all of your garbage into different containers: glass, metal, white paper, blue paper, plastic, etc. Make sure that all your make-up has not been tested on animals. Try to find at least sixty ways to use your water; when you take a shower, brush your teeth at the same time. Then don’t let the water go down the drain, use it to irrigate your lawn. Or better yet, replace your lawn with a vegetable garden. Don’t use aerosol. And by all means, don’t burn or deface our flag. Remember, as a citizen of the United States, you’re living in God’s country. If you are fortunate enough to know your ethnic heritage, dress the part! Don’t do drugs. You should listen to at least one of the following PC musicians: U2, REM, Sinead O’Connor, Sting, or K. D. Lang.
Harass people who wear fur coats. Remind them that an innocent baby seal was mercilessly clubbed. Or just yell, “FUR!” They hate that. And don’t ever eat meat.
Don’t eat meat? Why not?!
Cows are animals, just like humans are animals. That means that they have rights. When you eat meat, you’re oppressing animals!
So all killing is bad?
No, not always. Sometimes killing can be justified, like in the Persian Gulf. You have to be able to tell when an animal has rights, and when it doesn’t.
How do I know when an animal has rights?
The general rule is as follows: If an animal is rare, pretty, big, cute, furry, huggable, or lovable, then it has rights. Examine the following chart:
RIGHTSNO RIGHTS
cows cockroaches
cute bunnies flies
dolphins in tuna nets tuna in tuna nets
whales sharks
red squirrels gray squirrels
owls loggers
harbor seals barnacles
Wow. What else can I do to be PC?
Hug a tree. Rejoice each day in our cultural differences, for they are what gives flavor to our great country. Get in touch with your sexual identity. Check your refrigerator for Freon leaks. Subscribe to National Geographic. Search it for neat non-Western cultural traditions and costumes. After you read it, use the paper as an alternative fuel source. Try to wear clothes with Xs on them if they’re all natural fibers. Above all, always question authority!
But wait, I thought–
Don’t worry, that’s not important.
Well, I’m not too sure about this.
If you are feeling unsure about your motivation, just remember. You Are Right. It’s that simple. You, as a PC social warrior, are right.
How do I know if an action is un-PC?
Good question. It’s critical to know when someone is saying something insensitive so that you can have that person removed from society. The guideline is as follows:
Is the confrontation between two white people?
Yes: The liberal is right.
No: The white person is oppressing the ethnic person.
Remember, many seemingly obvious issues, such as the railroading of Mayor Marion Barry, or the Clarence Thomas issue, are really race issues.
Here’s a fun practice drill for you: See how many newspaper articles you can make into race bias stories. It’s fun! Some PCers are so good they can make the weather report look like a KKK pamphlet!
What should I do if I see someone do something non-PC?
It all depends on the situation. If you are not in a position of authority, by all means report this activity immediately to whomever is in charge. If your school leader, employer, or superior is hip to the trend of the 90s, she or he will take the necessary steps to have the insensitive offender disciplined.
But isn’t that censorship?
The Constitution never meant for racism, sexism, and insensitivity to be espoused by anyone. That’s not what free speech is about. Some call it censorship. PCers call it “selective” speech. Saying something negative about a particular race or gender is just as damaging as, say, punching them in the face. We just can’t allow that kind of verbal assault.
I’ve heard a lot about PC words to replace “Black,” “Indian,” etc.
Yes. That’s part of the PC movement. You see, part of the way we think about people comes directly from the words we use to describe them. Take “black” for instance. Why should a person be judged by the color of their skin?
You mean they should rather be judged by the content of their character?
No, I mean they should be judged by where their ancestors are from. If your great-grandparents are from Africa, or Asia, or wherever, then you should be identified by that fact. You can even apply for special scholarships!
I’m a mixture of French, German, English, and Russian. Can I get one?
No, there are no scholarships for any of those. Sorry. If you are a woman, however, there should be some.
Hey, wouldn’t a white person from Libya or Egypt technically be an African-American?
Technically, yes. But that’s not the kind of African-American we mean. We mean black African-Americans. Another example: A white South-African US immigrant is not an African-American either.
How can I learn to make my language more politically correct?
For more help, see the PC LEXICON at the end of the handbook.
I’d like my child to be PC. What can I do?
Well, for one thing, we should forcibly encourage students to volunteer their time with philanthropies. Also, we should re-emphasize non-Western perspectives on history. Finally, we should re-structure tests and quizzes to reflect cultural biases.
I don’t get it.
Well, the way the system works now, “select” under-represented minorities who tend to do worse on entrance tests have lower standards of admissions at school and work and receive preferential treatment. This is unfair and wrong.
It is?
Yes. The true PC way to do it is to have a different grading scale for different groups which gives or subtracts points from the final score, depending on who is taking the test. If you are white, then you have been benefited by society during your life. That means that you lose ten to fifteen points to make the test fair to everyone else.
I guess that sounds right.
It is right. That’s the beauty of PC.
What else do I have to be careful of?
Humor. PC people take every comment very seriously. We will not accept any comment, joke, remark, or anything that sounds like it could be a racial or ethnic slur.
Give me an example.
“What’s black and white and red all over?” has been staple humor for decades. Not PC–It can be taken the wrong way.
In everyday speech, try to use phrases like, “Isn’t that the pot calling the kettle African-American.” Any racial jokes or jokes even mentioning culture or gender should be omitted. True, this mostly limits comedy to the level of sitcoms, but that’s a small price to pay for social equality.
Is that all there is to it?
Yes. The Politically Correct belief is essentially a recognition that people are diversely equal. We rejoice in this equality by treating people differently based on their equal individuality. Hop aboard the bandwagon… Be PC. Or you’re an intolerant, racist, sexist insensitive pig.
PC Lexicon
"Insensitive Term""Preferred Term"ETHNICITY (PC people do not recognize the term "race" as valid)
Black African-American (Note: does not
include Libyans, Egyptians, white
Africans. Does include people with
dark skin regardless of where they
are from or where they live.)
Oriental Asian-American (Note: not
considered "real" minorities since
they tend to do well.)
Indian Native American Indigenous Peoples
of the North American continent
(Note: the following teams are not
PC: Atlanta Braves, Cleveland
Indians, Washington Redskins. Avoid
these cities!)
Chicano Hispanic (Note: the following are
not PC: Cheech and Chong, Chico and
the Man, the Cisco Kid, Rosarita
Salsa, Speedy Gonzales.)
White Trash PC Unaware Rustically Inclined
WASP (white male) Insensitive Cultural Oppressor
GENDER
Woman Womyn, Vaginal-American
Girl Pre-Womyn
Housewife Domestic Engineer
Fireman Fire Fighter
Stewardess Flight Attendant
Meter Maid Parking Enforcement Officer
Postman Postperson
Mailman Personperson
Policeman (cop, pig) Law Enforcement Officer Baton Boy
California Clubber
Prostitute Sex Surrogate (Teen Victim, see
Broken Home)
Mankind, human, person Earth Children
PEOPLE (subgroups)
Handicapped Differently Abled Handicapable
(Blind: optically darker; Deaf:
visually oriented)
Poor Economically Unprepared
Bum Homeless Person Displaced Homeowner
Philosophy Major
Hunter Animal Assasin Meat Mercenary Bambi
Butcher
Commercial Fisherman Flipper Whipper
Whaler Blubber Lover
Old Person Elderly Senior Citizens Time-extended
Gerontologically Advanced
Conservative Right Wing Extremist Fascist Pig
Drug Addict Chemically Challenged
Bald Comb-free
Vegetable Noble Unconscious Hero
Bisexual Sexually Nonpreferential
Midget Dwarf Little People Vertically Challenged
Insane Selectively Perceptive Mental
Explorer
Tree-hugger Environmental Activist
Logger Wood Weasel Paper Pirate Treeslayer
Obese Fat Differently Weighted People of Mass
Gravitationally Challenged
ACADEMIC
Far East Asia
Censorship Selective Speech
BC BCE
Older Students Non-traditional Students
New-traditional Students
Learning Disability Self-paced Cognitive Ability
Cheating Academic Dishonesty
Library Information Center
Used book Recycled book
Dorm Residence Hall
Berkeley Mecca
MISCELLANEOUS
Broken Home Dysfunctional Family
Mercy Killing Euthanasia Putting down
Cattle Ranch Cattle Concentration Camp
"Moo-shwitz"
Ghetto Barrio Ethnically Homogeneous Area
Pre-integrated Pre-Nirvana
Hamburger Seared, Mutilated Animal Flesh
Cheeseburger Adding Insult to Injury
Tree Oxygen Exchange Unit
Gang Youth Group
Pimpmobile Low-rider Culturally Responsive Transportation
Drunk Trashed Wasted Spatially Perplexed
Slum Economic Oppression Zone
China Porcelain
Delicatessen Corpse Farm
Socially Intolerable Words
These are some, but unfortunately not all, words that are used to describe people. Remember, there are much more eloquent PC ways to say the same thing (and mean the same thing) without offending any of Earth’s Children.
Do not use these words.(except when telling other people not to use them). If you hear anyone use these words, regardless of context, respond immediately:
Once upon a time, in the quiet and humorously predictable suburbs, there lived a man named Alex. He was a proud father of six children, each as unique as the next. Alex had always considered himself lucky to have such a lively and diverse family.
One sunny afternoon, as he was pushing his youngest child in a stroller, he couldn’t help but notice that little Timmy had inherited a rather striking set of almond-shaped eyes and a distinct complexion that was unmistakably Asian. This puzzled Alex, for he was of European descent, and his wife Norma was too. He tried to brush it off as a genetic quirk, but his suspicions gnawed at him like a persistent itch.
Unable to shake his doubts, Alex decided to play detective. He secretly collected DNA samples from all of his children, using the pretext of a family science project. Then, he sent the samples off to a genetic testing service, anxiously awaiting the results.
Days turned into weeks, and one fateful morning, the envelope containing the results arrived. Alex’s heart raced as he tore it open. As he scanned the report, his eyes widened in disbelief. None of the children bore his genetic markers, and to his utter astonishment, three of them had African ancestry. He couldn’t believe his eyes; he had always suspected his life was a sitcom, but this was pushing it!
With a heart heavy with anxiety, Alex decided he needed answers. That evening, after putting the kids to bed, he sat down with Norma in the living room. He cleared his throat, struggling to find the right words. “Norma,” he began tentatively, “I need to talk to you about something very important.”
Norma looked up from her Bible, concern etched on her face. “What’s wrong, Alex?”
Taking a deep breath, Alex revealed the results of the DNA tests. “I did some testing, Norma, and I found out that none of our children share my genetic material. Three of them even have African heritage. Can you explain this?”
Norma’s face paled, and she put her book down slowly. Her secret, which she had harbored for so long, was about to unravel. She sighed heavily and looked down at her hands. “Alex, I have a confession to make. I’ve been using a fertility clinic to get pregnant throughout our entire marriage.”
Alex’s eyes widened, and his jaw dropped. “What? Why, Norma? Why would you do that?”
Norma’s eyes welled up with tears. “I always wanted a big family, Alex, but I couldn’t conceive naturally. I thought I could keep it a secret and spare you the pain. I love you, and I didn’t want to lose you.”
Alex was taken aback, his anger giving way to a mixture of shock and empathy. He reached out and took Norma’s hand. “Norma, we need to talk this through. We’ve built our lives around these children, and they’re still our kids, no matter what the DNA says. But we also need to have an honest conversation about trust and communication.”
Norma nodded, tears streaming down her cheeks. “I know, Alex. I should have told you from the beginning. I’m so sorry.”
The next day, while Alex was at work, his thoughts still tangled in a web of revelations from the previous night, the scene shifted to their suburban home. As the morning sun filtered through the curtains, Norma was indeed in bed, but not alone. The gardener, a strapping young man named Carlos, lay beside her. Their secret liaison had been going on for quite some time.
Nine months later, the couple welcomed their seventh child, a beautiful boy named José, into their suburban family.
