"Yeah, I have a Ku Klux Klan outfit, so what?"
That's how I was going to start this review, but truth is I very much hate the damn thing and wish I could get rid of it. Over the past eight years of owning my home, I've gone to great lengths to discard some sketchy shit that has been sent to my house to review and that, for whatever reason, I've held on to over the years.
I've had the bottom of a washing-machine box full of old, cumbersome VHS porn fall out in my arms at the local dump. I've filled convenience-store dumpsters with bags full of transsexual DVDs that I could not trade or even give away to transients I met on the street. I've thrown duffel bags of worn-out and/or melted silicone dildos off highway overpasses, in hopes of not allowing my garbagemen to find out the true depths of my sexual deviance. (Ever since, I've wondered why two dildos melt together when stored on top of each other.) But when it comes to the old yellow plastic bag that the KKK outfit has sat in for the past decade, I've never been able to bring myself to even touch it.
For the record, regardless of how much I enjoy sporting a Hitler mustache and making jokes at the expense of old Hitzy, there was never a time when I was mildly interested in the KKK, even for comedic value; I hate white people just as much as the next guy, and certainly more than every other race. I'm not entirely sure how the damn thing came into my possession. It was purchased online and worn by my good friend and former colleague Dave Carnie for the photo to the left, which ran in the now-defunct rabble-rousing skateboard magazine Big Brother's race-themed "White Issue." My best guess is that when Larry Flynt killed the magazine in 2004, we were given 24 hours to clean out the offices, and in a mad scramble our possessions were boxed up haphazardly and shipped to our various homes.
We love costumes in our house. We have bins and bins of masks and outfits and wigs and such, but nothing like the Klan robe and hood. They're pure evil. Like the evil ring in The Hobbit, they laid dormant in a storage facility for many years... until we moved into our home and my wife found them while unpacking. Of course, my first instinct was to get her to try on the hood in the nude for some sexy photos, but she would have no part of it. I tried it on and immediately threw it to the floor as if it were burning my face. I felt like I couldn't breathe in the thing; it was as if 150 years' worth of dumb rednecks were standing on my chest as they drowned me in a shallow puddle of moonshine. But I didn't know what to do with it; I certainly wasn't going to leave it in my trash can for my African-American garbagemen to find. So I stuck it back in the attic until I could figure out how to properly dispose of it.
I often thought of taking photos of two black men dressed as Black Panthers pointing a pair of sawed-offs at someone wearing the Klan outfit, who would be seated between them in the back of my 1960 Cadillac DeVille, and after that recreate the legendary Jim Thiebaud skateboard graphic of the hanging Klansman, but I couldn't bring myself to ask anyone else to wear it. At one point, I thought that maybe it would be rendered powerless if I tie-dyed it in rainbow colors. I opted against this potential solution out of fear of its evil possessing my cookware.
It's recently become a problem again, after my sister came by to borrow my chicken costume. I directed her to the stack of costume bins to find it. Five minutes later she stormed out, threw the Klan outfit at me, cursed me out, and warned against my children finding it.
I really have to get rid of that thing. I'm thinking that when the ground thaws out in the spring I may bury it in the far corner of the backyard where my dog shits. I just hope he doesn't dig it up and force me to have to throw his racist ass under the bus after he drags it through my neighbors' front lawn.