I am an Eskimo racist.

I will never be famous. I’m okay with that.

To be famous, you have to not care about what other people think of you. I suffer from a rare disease where I need everyone to think I’m awesome. It’s genetic.

Also, when you’re famous you have to give up your privacy. You can no longer do the walk of shame without your picture ending up on the cover of magazines like In Touch or Enormous Clitoris Weekly. Sundays are my shame walk days. I can’t see that changing.

When I first started my blog, I posted a photo of a group of Inuit women. I called it “The Real Housewives of Nunivak County”. Trust me when I say it was hilarious.

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LOL!

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A short time later, I received an email from a man named Peter. I didn’t know anyone by that name, but because I get a lot of fan mail from random guys (usually with photos of their genitals attached) I didn’t think much of it.

Turns out it wasn’t a fan letter at all. In fact, it was an anti-fan letter. 

Peter accused me of being an “Eskimo racist”. He said that I was an ignorant, narrow-minded American who was too ignorant and narrow-minded to realize that Eskimos were good people with honest values who would never do a reality show because they are good people with honest values and he would know because he was neither ignorant nor narrow-minded. Also, he had Eskimo friends.

I was stunned. Could Peter be right? Was I an Eskimo racist? Did I subconsciously feel as though Eskimos were inferior because they lived in igloos? Or because they feed their babies by spitting chewed up food into their mouths?

I always thought that being Canadian made me a cousin of the Eskimo. But if this stranger who didn’t even know me could tell that I was an Inuit xenophobe, then maybe I was.

I had to know the truth, so I called my friend G. 

“Am I racist against Eskimos?” I asked.

She said she hadn’t really noticed. But she did notice that I’m racist against girls who wear Uggs in the summer. And cheap bastards.

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We decided that just to be safe, I should make sure that I never go on an Alaskan cruise. Also, no more Eskimo kisses.

A few months ago, I was walking home from work when I saw a homeless man sitting under the bridge. I could tell by his toque and heavy jacket that he was an Eskimo.

I gave him the thumbs up sign so he would know I wasn’t racist. He smiled. I smiled. It was a special moment. He held out an old baseball cap. It was filled with coins.

“Oh, no,” I said. “I couldn’t.” But he was persistent. Just to be polite, I took a few of the silver ones. “Thank-you,” I said. “I will add them to my collection.”

As I walked away, I couldn’t help thinking about the irony of it all. The homeless Eskimo man must have been thinking the same thing, because I could hear him yelling after me.

Unfortunately, because I don’t speak Mukluk, I decided it would be best if I just ignored him.