Stuff Non-White People Like

Photo: Or whatever.

I have a pretty awesome/awful idea for a blog, one that steals builds on the principles of another awesome blog: http://www.stuffwhitepeoplelike.com/. I've seen offshoots of this website, such as Stuff Educated Black People Like--notice the offensive word 'educated', the one that made me laugh out loud--and Stuff Asian People Like (numbers and The Beijing Olympics, big surprise there)--and then Stuff Indian People Like (Eastern Indian--the list consists of Michael Jackson dance moves, spelling bees, and Little Indian Superstar). So I thought, why not Stuff Samoan People Like? I can make fun of Samoan people for hours, days, weeks at a time, and never get tired of it; there's a wealth of material out there, just waiting to be plucked from the banana-holding hands of my people.

The first blog entry to Stuff Samoan People Like will probably look like this:

#1 Who Really Cares?

The answer to that question is "my Samoan family, that's who". You know, the ones I'll be making fun of. Many moons ago, Snotty McSnotterson was born on the small island of American Samoa, in an even smaller village called Fagalii (pronounced FONG-a-lee-ee, for those of you 12-year olds who snickered). If you don't know where Samoa is, get in line; like the mighty clitoris, its' location can be confusing. The most efficient way for me to describe the whereabouts of my miraculous virgin birth is this: it's DOWN, and OVER. It takes a hundredthousandmillion manhours to get there, and once you've landed, it's like sitting in a humidifier with a bunch of beautiful, exotic, Polynesian hillbillies. See that 14-year old over there? Those two children are hers. The fat pig we just walked past, the one that looked just like Wilbur from Charlotte's Web? After we bury him underground, we'll set him on fire and then dinner is served! The people are forward, approaching you on the street and asking if you speak English, if you want to come have dinner with their family, if you have any extra cash for their half-blind aunt who needs a costly operation in the next month or so. They are loving, hugging you upon first meeting, and trusting--and by trusting, I mean they trust you enough not to gasp or intervene when they're happily abusing their children in front of you. Not abusing-abusing; just...a smack with a smile, kind of like 'service with a smile', the only difference being with good service comes a good tip. With abuse, you just receive physical and emotional scars, although it would be nice if you made a little something on the side for your trouble. A fiver, maybe, but nothing extravagant.

I know, I'm only focusing on the bad stuff. But have you met any Samoans lately? The ones I know don't inspire a lot of confidence, personally. I didn't grow up with my Samoan family, as I was too busy being raised white right, with opportunities and things my biological siblings could never dream of, like education and running water. I was adopted at three days' old, just a fat brown thing without a care in the world, but it didn't take long for me to figure out I was the lucky one.

People have always said, in reverential tones, "Sooo...what was it like when your parents finally told you that you were adopted?" They sit back, waiting for the dramatic story to unfold. Maybe I was 13, and found a picture of my real mother, and confronted them about it; or maybe they sat me down like an adult, and told it to me straight. They envision a screaming match, angry tears, a broken heart, an emotional journey to find my roots, and finally...forgiveness. It rips at their hearts, the potential drama that my life could have been, thinking I was lied to about my birth. It never occurrs to people that I'm not fucking colorblind. How did I find out I was adopted, you ask? Well, it's pretty complicated, and sometimes hard to understand, but it probably all came down to this: I opened my eyes, and looked around. That's it, in a nutshell. When you're a healthy brown, and your parents are bone-china white, it's fairly obvious that something strange is afoot; either that, or my mom had an affair with a professional football player in the mid-seventies, which I seriously doubt. Have you ever seen my dad? He's a tomcat, everybody knows that.

Anyways, I relate more to Stuff White People Like than any other Stuff [enter ethnic group here] People Like, although Thriller and proper spelling have always been important to me. But I still know Samoans. I slid out of one into this world; I share their blood, and laissez-faire attitudes. They love their canned meats, processed foods, and awesomely bad pop music, just like me. They raise their children 30% of the time, gain weight easily, and care little about personal space, just like me. Oh, I like space--but your personal space is also my personal space, and therefore, I care little about having my own, since I can just steal yours. Same goes for your food, money, personal belongings, and non-precious metals; to a Samoan, these things have enormous, blinking red targets on them, just waiting to be saved from obscurity (or rather, saved from being obscured by someone else, namely the owner of such items). That's how you roll when you're from the Polynesian ghetto.

Don't get me wrong, I like Samoans. I mean, if I knew any, I'm sure I would like them. The ones I know--ma familia biologicale--are perfectly nice, and their lives are rich with family, procreation, and indentured servitude to Jesus. Not my idea of a good time, or even time well spent, but to each his own. Now that they've converted to Mormonism and moved from Oahu (yawn) to Utah (action-packed!), I've taken to calling them the Samormons, because... well, it's hilarious.

I forgot the point to this post, but I think it's this: stuffsamoanpeoplelike.blogspot.com is MINE ALL MINE. When the first post drops, I'll spread the word, much like my Samoan family is spreading the word about the Latter Day Saints. See, we're really not that different after all.