Ben Stein, the man who introduced America to Jimmy Kimmel, has written a piece for the American Spectator about how the South is pretty much the best and racism is dead forever. Gather 'round, and let's tear apartBen Stein's neo-Confederate paean to the glories of the New South.


This is a story of what has been accomplished in the South, and in particular in Greenville, over the years. This is a city on the move, very likely the most rapidly growing industrial center in the South. It has no time for hate or racial fear.

No time for hate in Greenville, SC, huh Ben? That would come as a surprise to Sean Kennedy, who was punched to death in 2007 outside a Greenville bar for the crime of being a gay man. Keep reachin' for that rainbow, and then getting punched so hard that your brain comes loose from your spine, Ben.

Does Ben Stein make other revisionist claims about the New South? You bet your sweet D.W. Griffith Blu-Ray Collection he does! We read the whole stupid thing so you don't have to. Here's some of the highlights.

Tears came to my eyes as I thought of how magnificently the South has risen to meet and defeat the challenges of racism.

Yes, that is exactly what happened between all those cute lil' puppy dogs when that unorganized mob of shit-stirrin' riff-raff marching over the Edmund Pettus Bridge. The forces of the New South were meeting and defeating racism, that's all. Ben Stein wears a size 7 3/4 asshat, in case you were wondering.

Our meal was superb. Scrambled eggs. Sausage. Bacon. Steak. Biscuits and gravy. Fried shrimp. Pancakes. Orange juice. This is all for less than 20 dollars per person in a room at least as elegant as any room I have ever seen in New York City.

FUCK you, New York, your heart attacks are for shit because Southern-fried triglycerides are way cheaper thanks to right-to-work laws. But Ben is right: there is literally nowhere else in the country where decent, hard-working Americans can get scrambled eggs and orange juice for brunch. Point Greenville, point Robert E. Lee.

But Ben is no highfalutin Hollywood type whut looks down on the folks at Waffle House, neither.

We start at the most basic — and also the most delicious — level, with The Waffle House. Probably this place is the most endearing throwback to the best of the 1950s.

Probably this sentence construction has the most awkwardly placed adverb since the 1950s. Speaking of the '50s, Ben, would you care to share some vintage, retro misogyny with us, the old-fashioned kind with no preservatives like grandma used to make?

I could go on but the point is that Greenville is welcome and nourishing — like your mother’s kitchen, only with a better chef than your mother (and no yelling at you about your homework or your grades).

BITCH, BITCH, BITCH, are we right, ladies? Every time Ben was a kid, and all he wanted to do was eat a meal his mother had lovingly prepared, she was all "NAG NAG NAG," and "How are your classes this year, Ben?" and "I love you, Ben, my only son," and JESUS, can we just choke down this slop in peace, please, Mom? You suck at cooking, Ben Stein's mom, and apparently, you also suck at not raising shithead children.

To be on or near the main street at night is like being on fraternity row in a college town, only there are men and women of all ages, and they are mostly eating, not drinking.

So that's almost nothing like frat row at any college in North America, and it's certainly not what frat row looks like at nearby Clemson, according to a kid who actually went there. That actually sounds quite a bit like the main drags of literally tens of thousands of American towns and cities. But it's probably actually indicative of Greenville's status as a colorblind post-racial unicorn, and not Ben Stein's need to fill column inches.

The whole town knows my name and every face that passes calls out to me

Ben Stein is kinda a big deal. People know him 'round Greenville, and this is remarkable because we are certain Ben Stein has never been recognized on the street before in his life. Only in Greenville, folks!

Please, someone at Waffle House, bring yourselves out here to California.

Waffle House is a franchise operation, Ben, and has been since 1960, which was right around the time when racism up and disappeared from the South no thanks to the federal gubmint (cram it, Dwight Eisenhower and the Little Rock Nine!). You could easily spend some of your bajillion dollars to buy one and free-enterprise your way to a post-racial Los Angeles, too, just by bringing in a Waffle House and giving diarrhea to all the racists! Go get 'em, you big, strong free-marketeer, you.

The boys and girls are not only good-looking but also inspiring, especially one 17-year-old economist who is going to be heard from.

It used to bug Yr Wonket that Ben Stein would occasionally refer to himself as "an economist" in different publications, but it makes a lot more sense now: Ben Stein thinks everyone who agrees with him is an economist. We have now 'splainered this to you, and you are welcome.

Eventually, though, Ben does get around to acknowledging that it wasn't always peaches and mint juleps down in Dixie. He lists a few cases in which, okay, fine, mistakes were made. But hey, both sides did it, because even Maryland had racists once.

The amazing thing was that this was the predominant attitude about serving blacks and whites even in Silver Spring when I was a child. I assure you I saw this attitude in people extremely close to me.

What glorious progress we have made as a nation and a people.…

We assure you, that ellipsis at the end of the blockquote is not intended to signify an ironic eye roll. That ellipsis serves as the end of Ben's beautiful dream, because he's about to get on an airplane, and the experience was not satisfying AT. ALL.

But the airplane to ATL was a stone disaster. Cramped. Wildly overheated. Just painful to be in. [...] There was a little, miserable s--t in the seat ahead of me. Even though he was a tiny little creep, he kept putting his seat right in my face.

THE NERVE.

Wow, are we spoiled babies.

Your words, Ben, not ours.

 

[WYFF/ American Spectator]

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