[EDITOR’S NOTE: This post, as you’ve probably already gathered, is a parody of Otto Penzler’s New York Sun column. But since Mr. Penzler has threatened me by email, I have added this note to state that THIS POST IS A PARODY, and it is reflective of a character named “Otto Peltzer,” not Penzler.]
I think it’s safe to say, based on my photo, that I’m white. I have always been white. Unless I pull a John Howard Griffin (and why would I want to do that?), I’ll go to the grave white. I dine at white restaurants. I listen to white music. The fact of the matter is that it’s very good to be white and it’s very good not to know anything outside of this spectrum of comfort.
Which is why I must commend all those white mystery writers writing about the spooks. I have no idea if they’re accurate about the culture they portray. But I know a good read when I see one.
As we’ve established, I never set foot outside my white neighborhood. And I wouldn’t dare mention any of those dependable niggers like Chester Himes or, more recently, Walter Mosley. Because when you get right down to it, mysteries should be written by white men and nobody else. We run the country. Therefore, we should write most of the books. Why give any of these so-called minorities a chance? Hell, if I were running the publishing industry, I’d see if apartheid might apply to the editorial department.
What nobody wants to acknowledge is that white writers write better than any ethnic group, particularly when it comes to mysteries. It’s a dirty little secret that nobody wants to acknowledge, but it’s true.
Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to replace the NO COLOREDS sign that some sanctimonious liberal has removed from the drinking fountain in the hall.