While I agree that the term “African American”, having been introduced in its current common usage by an unknown group whose mysterious agenda I can still not fully divine, is the kind of nonsense up with which I shall not put (unless the claimant can duly produce a valid, non-expired passport from an African nation), I personally reserve my wrath for worthier foes. A few examples, if I may:
When I venture forth to my local In’N’Out for a well-deserved delicious meal, I cannot help but shake my head at this all-beef-patty on a freshly baked bun that pretends to be a resident of Hamburg - it has no more right to that title than I! When it comes to the side order, I fix the clerk with a steely eye, and more than one has trembled under my stern gaze as I order “a medium portion of starchy legumes cooked in oil, as popularly consumed in Belgium”. After relishing the spectacle of their vacant gaze, confused expression, and stammering requests for clarification, I happily carry away my dinner, knowing that my point has been made.
At my local bakery, I steadfastly pass over the snobbish pastry smugly pretending to be Hamlet’s compatriot, and instead choose the humble and honestly-named doughnut.
German chocolate cake? Turkish delight? Italian sausage? Surely the people trying to fob these inaccurately-named confections on me do not imagine that I am fooled for one instant into believing that they were imported at great expense from over the seven seas, especially when I have seen the barista assemble the ingredients for the Viennese coffee himself, in front of my very eyes?
And the person who ventures to use in my presence this most obnoxious term, “Swiss steak”, will rue the day those words ever passed his lips.