Thanks to Ishmael for lending his copy of this book.
1997, Simon & Schuster, 274 pages
It is a miracle that this publisher published this book, and that in and of itself, lets us know that the conspiracy to defraud the palefaces of this defaced nation of their history and identity is not airtight.
I have come to Jim Goad late in my literary life and seem to have found an author as apolitical as the crackpot that’s reviewing his book. First off, the choice of Jim’s photo, a really white looking bald man in black pee coat and knit cap—round on his Caucasian cranium rather than slovenly slouched like the caps worn by our racial betters—tells the tale of the book, the direct gaze of a right eye opening upon a complex world for a dreaming mind, offset by a squinted left eye, shielding it’s owner from the sticks and stones that elite kind has hurled at his kind for ages, set in a bald, handsome face, wide enough to be rugged, with pinched ears untrusting of the world, cringing beneath what 19th century physiognomy would have declared a nobly domed skull, the bone encased brain of the Great Northern Race hiding atop the face of those it exploited and have cast aside for the company of colored cronies.
Jim outlines the stereotype of the redneck and hillbilly and assorted crackerish white trash in his opening chapter, goes on to spend a couple of chapters sketching the best short history of Caucasian slavery I have read. Jim’s narrative is bullet point brutal, annotated in the end notes, with a relentless cadence to it, extracting a long paragraph of two-beat metaphors for every point the author finds worthy of his nasty array of stinging diction. Five chapters are spent exploring the white trash experience, including religion, alien abductions and Big Foot. His picture of the Jim Crow South being just as bad for poor whites as for the poor blacks who get 100% of the suffering credit is brief and searing, like the brand that has been burned into the guilted poor whites by the guilty scions of the white elite.
Jim’s relation of his experiences with blacks and the observations of how they have been thoroughly netted as the roiling pets of the elite is spot on, although a second edition detailing the ridiculous rise in black-on-white aggression in the intervening 20 years since he wrote this book would be a helpful calibration of his scathing social lens. I doubt if the publisher would permit it though.
Jim’s master piece of class evisceration—for this is a book about class and not race—is his final chapter, 10. Several Compelling Arguments for the Enslavement of All White Liberals.
What a fine bludgeon of an offensive book the Redneck Manifesto is, and, if Jim manages to enslave those white liberals, I would like to lend my services as an auctioneer—“Yessir, Tyrone, we got us a pretty white bitch here, arms so soft she won’t be able to heft the skillet that your bitch used to split that pin head of yours—do I hear a five hundred? Five hundred for this fine, tax-filing bitch right here? That’s right brutha, this bitch can do your taxes and is so afraid of getting fat that this resounding-when-slapped pilates-shaped ass will hold its shape longer than those Mexican-laid shingles will stay on your house roof!”