My sympathy for Mark Judge died a few days after his bike got stolen. It was on a Good Friday that the non-Hodgkin’s lymphoma survivor came back from a wonderful day of activity, only to see an odd sight.
He saw his bike. He also saw a rather large Negro holding his bike, forcefully liberated from its secure bounds. Before Mark could respond, the naturally swift-footed Negro took off in an instant. Mark gave valiant chase, but the fast twitch fibers afforded by his extra set of leg muscles allowed the strapping Negro to leap across five lanes of traffic and pirouette gently onto the roof of a five-story building. Mark's gaze met the cold, soulless eyes of the elusive Negro for a brief moment, and in a flash, the Negro was gone. And so was Mark's bike. Negro stole Mark Judge's bike.
Of course Mark Judge didn't actually see who stole his bike and neither did anyone else. He merely assumed that the only way his bike could had been stolen was if a Negro gentleman of a large and strapping size or a team of small, crafty and fleet-footed Negroids illegally liberated his conveyance from its moorings. When his friend warned Judge not to jump to race-tinged conclusions, that was the final straw that broke the biker's back. No longer would he be moored down by his own burdensome white guilt. No longer would he actually have to give those black fiends benefit of a doubt. No longer would he be subject to the politically correct demands of treating blacks as human beings without undue suspicion. Judge was finally free to consider his safety in the same manner John Derbyshire asked of his sons.
In short, Mark Judge finally found the vindication he needed to emulate the so-called "fear" that his white counterparts "experienced," while comforted in the knowledge that with a single phone call or cry, he could have that awful Negro "subdued" via taser or bullets by a cadre of surly and unforgiving law enforcement officers. In some states, merely feeling that since of "fear" is enough to end said Negro's life, as a man by the name of George found out.
Having your bike stolen sucks. They're by far the easiest things one could steal and get away with. Seems like no one gives a shit if they see a guy (or even a black guy *gasp*) working over a bike lock or chain with a rusty hacksaw and lots of elbow grease. Someone might even give the guy a hand if he plays his story right. But I lost sympathy for this cancer survivor the moment he allowed his ignorance to override his judgement. Anyone could have stolen Mark Judge's bike. Even the seemingly nice monks could have his beloved silver-blue L.L. Bean tucked away in a quiet corner of the Dominican House of Studies, awaiting a tricked-out flame job and some new front brakes.
Oh, who am I kidding?
I stole his bike.
Now that I feel sorry for him again, he can come over to my house and get it back. Of course, he'll have to look around for a while. When he shows up, I'll wish him good luck.