The Weather Channel Internal Memo for All On-Air Talent

A cousin of mine works at TWC and passed this along:

From: TWC Management
To: All On-Air Talent
RE: BROADCAST REQUIREMENTS

Talent,
We are thankful and appreciative of your routine efforts, however, we are a business, and all our market research and tracking shows that we don't make money based on your average, everyday forecasts.  

Advertisers pay beyond what they would for virtually no viewers on a day-to-day basis on the regular occurrence of a catastrophe that we can massage.

We have a country that spans a continent.  There is a weather event we can work with on AT-LEAST a weekly basis.

So, TWC requires that you and your production teams MUST:

1. USE YOUR IMAGINATION. Look. Let's be blunt. We love you and so we hired you and continue to pay you, but TWC is not the pinnacle of a broadcasting career. If you want to get back on track, you're going to need stand out. Take some risks, be a trifle ridiculous, go for it.  Maybe don't go so overboard that you go viral and it hurts you down the road, but we will NEVER tell you to turn it down. 

2. DRAMATIZE. Do so to the point of being ridiculous. People will roll their eyes, but they will still watch. AND THEY WILL KEEP TWC ON ALL DAY if the event impacts them. Do you have any idea what Red Lobster pays during even a tropical depression?! 

3. OVERSTATE.  Add 33% to the impact area AND the effects.  Hell, add 50% if you think you can remotely justify it.  Did you find someone willing to support a S.W.A.G. (Silly Wild Ass Guess)? Put them on air and see if you can brow beat them into hyperbole. You can do it. We believe in you. 

4. DEADLY-FY. If a tree branch can fall on a baby, without a storm, you can explain the dangers of rain! and wind! and debris! and tides! and waves! and dust! and fill-in-the-blank!  Always appeal to the danger to children and the elderly. ALWAYS.

5. GET WET. Wade in the surf; have someone off-camera spray you with a garden hose. We don't care. We get a spike in viewership if y'all look miserable, courageous, and endangered.

6. LIFE INSURANCE WILL PAY OFF QUADRUPLE IF YOU DIE ON AIR.  Only to the first one to take us up on this. We retain rights to your life story and your death story.

7. INSIST THIS ISN'T LIKE THE LAST TIME WE DID THIS. Can't preach this enough.  Find any minute difference in situations and explain how the current "threat" must be taken seriously. DEADLY SERIOUSLY. Then do what you always do.

8. DON'T SPEAK TO JIM CANTORE UNTIL JIM CANTORE SPEAKS TO YOU. DON'T LOOK JIM CANTORE IN THE EYES. He's a god. You're not.

Notes Whilst Storm Prepping

Whilst house-and-dog-sitting, ordinarily, my duties are to keep the dog and plants alive and to ravage the pantry.  This time we have a tropical storm/depression rolling through.  I'm in the midst of a bout of insomnia whereby I begrudgingly fall asleep at 2-3am and then pop awake, against all desire otherwise, at 5-6am.  These are my thoughts as I get the house in order:


1.  The tiny, yapping dog does not understand why the furniture that gets used twice a year (screened-in back porch) and the furniture that gets used never (open front porch) are coming in to live with the furniture that gets used all the time.  

2.  Neither do I.

3.  The tiny, yapping dog thinks I'm really bad at this new furniture placement and that I'm really %$#!ing up the feng-shui.  

4.  He's not wrong.

5.  Note to self: as with the lessons learned from moving a bajillion times in life, never have a thing you don't use once a month, at least. 

6. You can make do without. 

7. Diogenes got down to only having a bowl in his life, until he saw a pauper drink water by cupping his hands; then he got rid of the bowl.

8. Anti-materialism is commendable, but Diogenes was a bit of a prig.

9.  The dog does not understand why the plants that live on the porch must come in.

10.  That's no surprise because, even before the storm/plant movement, the dog did not understand why plants, which are designed to be outdoors are kept outdoors, on the porch, but in a place where they must be watered.

11.  Neither do I.

12. Note to self: nothing living that can't contend for itself should be in my future home. 

13. Strikes out plants, pets, and babies.  

14. Probably a trophy wife too.  

15. My home will be a cold, stark fortress. 

16.  But it will be a monument to self-sufficiency.

17.  It takes a week for the dog to think its loving masters are dead and I, the heartless humanoid who dutifully fills bowls and opens doors (yet shows zero affection whatsoever) am, if not the life giver, the life-allower.  
18.  After which, he follows my every movement by walking a micron next to/under me, just to make sure I don't abandon him too.  

19.  This is not helpful when lugging unwieldy, dripping plant pots indoors.

20.  Big Green Eggs™ are wondrous. 

21.  Until I have to lug one, by myself, with a tiny yapping dog underneath my feet, into a garage through a narrow side door. 

22.  A narrow side door with an 8 inch lip.  

23.  Then, Big Green Eggs™ are 100+lbs ceramic monstrosities without handles and if I drop or chip this one, my life will be over, because the sort of people who buy them (in this case, my mom's husband) are *that* serious about grilling. 

24.  Storm Prep for the boat was so much easier.

25.  Checked the lines.

26.  Cut the power to the boat.

27.  Raised a prayer to the Almighty to either let the Argo come through without a scratch or to mercilessly sink it.

28.  Disaster is if it gets beat beyond recognition but still floats.

29.  If I were homeless, I'd figure out how to get to Key West or Hawaii.  

30.  They don't have soup kitchens for the homeless in hot places, right? 

31.  Soup's too warm for hot places.

32.  Cucumber sandwich kitchens?

33.  I hate cucumbers.

34.  Tomato sandwich kitchens!

35.  I wonder what mayo they'd use?

36. Dad's family is a Duke's™ family.

37.  Mom's family is a Hellman's™ family.

38.  I'm 37 and I haven't definitively chosen yet.

39.  That makes me some sort of Southern heretic, I'm pretty sure.

40.  Okay; I'm choosing: I'm going Hellman's

41. Well, maybe I should find a neutral third one. 

42. Then I'm not back to being an 8 year old and having my parents make me choose between them again.

43.  Well, that was a dark joke.

44.  I could go hipster and make my own mayo; it's just vinegar and egg whites, I think.  

45.  Obama's the 45th president, right?

46. I need to get some sleep.

48. I'm not making much sense anymore.

34. When was the last time I really made sense anyway.

4012. tgaklg2415@#%^^NA$! zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz zzzzzz zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz

An Open Letter to All Single Women: I Give Up

I just don't know what to do about you women. I am besides myself. I am verklempt, for crissakes.

How many times am I supposed to put my heart out there, unprotected, for you women only for y'all to casually dismiss me? If you even notice me in the first place...

Blake Lively, Melanie Iglesias, Amber Heard, Angela Lansbury, Rosamund Pike, and, now, Taylor gawddam Swift...

All of the waitresses and bartendresses I leave 40% tips for when I go out six nights a week...

The randos I buy top shelf liquor for each night...

The one really pretty, ginger barrista over at Kudu's who calls me 'hun' when she hands me my double-soy half-mocha latte but always pretends she can't understand what I'm saying when I ask for her number...

I'm not good enough for ANY of y'all?!?! 

You gotta be kidding me.

I clearly don't know what women want because it sure as shit isn't perfection. 

Because that's me, baby: fucking perfection.

I mean, I'm not some nancy-boy model, but that's the point. I'm a real man. I have most of my hair and some of it's grey, because I'm not a child. Know how else I'm not a child? My eyebrows are cordlike and menacing. My face isn't sun-damaged; it's weathered. Weathered is to faces as aging is to wines, dumbasses.

And don't even get me started on my body. 

Look, a man's muscles are supposed to be there for when he needs them, not to look pretty in a mirror. 

And that's how I have the platonic ideal of a modern man body: I don't have much muscle because I don't need it. Seriously, nearly everything I'd need muscles for, I can press a button and some machine does it for me. 

And don't give me that crap about needing muscles and cardio for sex. A) You're the ones who pointlessly spend hours each week pilate-zoomba-yoging so you can do all the thrashing around required and B) I don't really need cardio or muscles for the three minutes of sex that you'd let me have with you twice a week anyways. BOOM! (DROPS MIC)

Also, I have a natural pimp strut. This limp is macho as hell. And if chicks dig scars, they'd need a backhoe or an industrial mining drill for the gruesome seven-incher down my leg that looks like a nightmare version of one of the millipedes from Temple of Doom.

And let's get real about my body.  Here's the truth:  I'm 36. I'm middle-aged.  Unlike the other guys my age who have gained 50lbs in the past few years,  I've methodically added four pounds each year since college, like clockwork, so I get all the positives of a sexy-ass dad-bod with none of the tiger-striping grossness of stretch marks.  I'm like an adorable, smooth-bellied buddha.  

An adorable smooth-bellied buddha with most of his hair, and fierce eyebrows, and a weathered, manly-ass face. 

I rest my case.

No, I don't really, because that's the thing. I'm not just an object.

I hate how shallow women are about little things like "success" and "career potential".  Don't y'all realize how little we all control what happens to us? I mean, I did all the right things; I technically have a doctorate-level degree after all.  Shit happens, is my point.

It's not my fault the economy tanked and I am living on a tiny sail boat that's older than I am. 

I mean, sure, I could have "tried harder" to find a "traditional job" that "paid my bills", but I'm an artist, baby.  I gotta be me. 

And right now, being me means living on that dinghy.  Well, it did, until I hurt my leg and had to start crashing at my mom's place. 

You know, to hold that against me is kinda sexist because I shouldn't have it be a black mark that I have a healthy, reciprocally beneficial relationship with a woman (mom). I get a place where there's a bathroom that I don't have to pour over the side of the boat, and she gets to help me with my bills a few times a month. It empowers her. 

But fine, I admit I'm not top shelf right now, but I'm one hell of a buy low opportunity. You have to admit that.

Also, aside from success, let's talk about personality. I've got one hell of a winner here. Because I keep it real. And by "real," I mean "moderately depressed." Any man my age who's an optimist has had a lobotomy or access to all the best drugs for over well over a decade.  

A real man should have a personality that reads like a PTSD checklist. Am I bitter? Check. Do I hate groups? Check. Do I not talk about my feelings? Check. Am I highly apathetic? Check. Do I drink too much? Check. Do I blow a fuse at the drop of a hat? Check. Do I fear change? Super-check.

Nowadays, candy-asses think those are negatives. When I was growing up, those were considered virtues.  

Also, because nothing matters to me, I'm more than happy to let you do whatever silly, pointless crap you want. We can get a mini-van and go on a wine tour of Napa and I'll wear the $200 asshat shirt you bought me and insist I wear and I'll go to a "stylist" for my haircuts.  It's all fine with me because none of it moves the needle. At all. Seriously.  How is this not the biggest PRO in my favor? I don't get it. 

Not that I care much whether I get it.

But I really would like someone to coddle me and pay attention to me and look at me with intense unrestrained longing and I just don't know what else I can do to make that happen. 

I guess what I'm saying is, y'all need to step your game up and get your shit together, ladies. Because I'm not going to stay on the market for long.

Thank a Veteran

I was a soldier once...and young. Now, I'm not old, but I also ain't young. And, these days, I could only fit in my old uniforms with a steel shoehorn and a liberal application of grease. But the soldier mindset is still in here, buried under the accretions of the decade of subsequent civilian life.

And here I am now, a(n intentionally) goofy, (unintentionally) pudgy dude at the dawn of middle age, out with friends at a loud dive bar after a wedding rehearsal party:

Maid of Honor (MOH; a pretty-enough ~25yo blonde from Ohio): mumblemumblemumble

Me: What!?

Bride to Be (BTB; my friend, also an attractive, blonde Ohioan): Ajax can barely hear! He was in the army.

BTB wanders off.

MOH: You were in the army?!

Me: Yeah! I used to play with cannons!

MOH: You ever kill anyone?

This is tricky. We're out at a bar. We've been drinking. No, I didn't initiate this, but stopping and lecturing and nuking the atmosphere isn't the right call. At the same time, I never let anyone who asks that think it's okay. But I also try to be delicate.  

To be explicit, it is NOT okay. 

First and foremost, it is a useless question; there is no positive, for any answer, for anyone, in that conversation.  If I killed someone and I feel bad about it, was finding out worth making me feel bad? If I killed someone and I *don't* feel bad about it, was finding out worth being uncomfortable because, whee!, you're talking to a cold-hearted killer now?  Also, what good is the knowledge about my killing someone?  If you haven't killed someone too, we're not going to really understand each other. It's like knowing a chinese word but not knowing what it means. You can say the sound out loud; hell, you might even be able to draw it perfectly, but you don't get it or know when or how to use it.  So what's really the point of knowing it?

 Anyways, the vast majority understand that asking someone if they've killed someone else is an "indelicate" question at best, and a "fucking rude" one at worst.   Coincidentally, it has only ever been attractive young women who have asked me that. I go with my response I've used for the others.

Me: It's okay that you asked me that, because I wasn't a doorkicker and I *didn't* shoot anyone, but that's not really an appropriate question to ask a veteran.

The other times I've replied with that, the girl has invariably said "Oops. My bad. I didn't realize. Sorry." and I've said, "No worries." and that's been that.  However, MOH somewhat aggressively rejoins: 

MOH: Why not? 

Me: Well, because killing people, even if justified, leaves a mark on someone and it's kinda rude to bring it up.

MOH: I don't see why. That's what you signed up to do: to kill people.

I'm shocked and confused.

Me: No. I commissioned because I'm from a military family and it's a tradition.

She carries on aggressively.

MOH: Whatever. The whole point of the army is to kill people. That's why you joined.

I'm taken aback.

Me: No. And if anything the guys I know and I joined to protect people.

MOH: That's just your 'white privilege' talking.

At this point, I see red. As in, my vision literally flashes red, as a well of anger erupts that I'm wholly unaccustomed to feeling.  

I will be frank: only a woman would say anything remotely like this and not understand before saying it that she was inviting a punch to the face. I'm not saying violence is appropriate or commendable, but men know there are lines that they risk crossing that will result in violence. 100% of men in this situation (antagonizing a veteran about service) would know they ran the very real risk of getting decked.  

However, I am not a personally violent person and I try my best to control myself, so I take a very deep breath and push the anger down.

Me: That doesn't even make sense, if not the majority, huge numbers of minorities are in the military.

MOH: Yeah, poor people sign up because they don't have other options. But even then most people sign up to go shoot people.

At this point, since breaking her nose is not on the table, and having a back and forth with a jerk is not going to accomplish anything other than making me madder and madder, I pause for a moment, and then go meta.

Me: I don't understand why you're being antagonistic.

MOH: What do you mean? I'm not being antagonistic. 

Me:  Yes, you are. And you know you are.  We are out, AFTER OUR FRIENDS' REHEARSAL PARTY, and you're insulting me to my face and doing it knowing you're insulting me. Why? For what purpose? Is messing up the night your goal?

Now she's shocked, because I called her on it.

MOH: No, I'm not, I mean...

Me: Yes, you are.

The Bride to Be wanders back in to our conversation. She smiling.

BTB: What's up?

Me: Nothing. I gotta grab another beer. You want anything?

I smile for her and wander off to the bar. No reason to tank her night with her friend's bullshit.  I go to the bar and ask for a cup of water.  I stand there, slowly sipping water and stewing. A couple of friends come over and ask me to join them, but I demur and, after a while, I slip out and head home.

An Open Letter to Taylor/Miss Swift/TAYLOR SWIFT!

Taylor,

Maybe that's too informal for me to be with a woman worth approximately a quarter billion dollars when I'm working at a success ranking (out of the 7 billion humans on this planet) of "blech".  Hmmm.

Miss Swift,

No, that's not right. Because my being over a decade older than you makes that come across as, I dunno, like some substitute-teacher-who-lives-at-his-parents'-house-and-only-got-his-teaching-certificate-so-he-can-find-a-way-too-young-girlfriend-and-then-stop-substituting-so-he-won't-go-to-jail-like-some-sort-of-proto-tinder-life-hack-for-pedo-creeps. 

Of course he's holding up a foot-long.

Crap. Maybe I shouldn't have brought any of that up. I definitely shouldn't have. Let's start over.

TAYLOR SWIFT!

Much better. Not weird at all.

Okay. I feel like this is going to be hard to explain, but it really shouldn't be.

You're really good looking and, by pretty much every standard, very good at what you do.  I'm not necessarily either of those things, at least not by every standard. I will say, by some standards, I'm flipping amazeballs, but, you know, others, not so much...let's move past this.

Anyways, I'll cut to the chase rather jarringly. We should just go ahead and get married.

I mean, the main reasons are self-evident: I've already explained why I'm great when I wrote the letter to Blake or Melanie; and I explained how comfortable I am with taking a back seat to my lady's career in my letter to Amber, and I've already shown the degree that I'm willing to satisfy a lady (I think we can all agree that the ultimate degree is sex-death) in my letter to Angie, and I even admitted that I like my women to be ridiculously, pathologically, terrifyingly, mesmerizingly crazy in my letter to Rosie. I mean, swap out their names with yours, and everything still works. I'm great, you can lead, I will do whatever it takes to make you happy (WHATEVER IT TAKES), and, hey, if you get "passionate", great.

I figured it out! I know what I can offer to you, specifically: I haven't offered to go guano crazy for a lady yet.  

Look, what you need is someone who's crazy so you have something to write about, but who's not actually crazy so that your life doesn't suck. It doesn't do to be a quarter-of-a-billionairess and still sorta miserable. Basically, you need someone with imagination to spare, but a moral code to keep from actually doing awful things. That's me in a nutshell.

Look, I grew up around a sociopath.  That means that to survive, I had to basically learn to become an expert in people-games.  I will screw with your head so bad you won't know which way is up.  When I say I will play games, I'll do it, not to be hurtful (because *I'm* not a sociopath), but to keep things exciting for you.  

But, like, no candles, because molten wax hurts. I mean, I hear. And stuff.

  Normal guys, even the celebrities you've had dalliances with, the best they're going to do is be asshats. Jake, Harry, John, etc... They'll be charming for a bit, get what they want, and then give you the cold shoulder. Some might string you along by lying.  

Yawn.

That's ho-hum. That's ordinary. That's boring. 

I'm offering next level here. Hell, not even next level...I'm offering orders of magnitude beyond bewilderment.  I'll have you kidnapped and held in a dungeon (well, not really; you'll be perfectly safe but you won't know that).  

What's the worst thing that can happen in a turkish prison?

I'll burn down our house (not often, because you're not made of money, but enough times so that my doing it is upsetting).  

And the candle smells great too!

I won't have sex with you. 

Oh, the sex I won't have with you; it'll drive you crazy.  

All those millions of men (hell, women too) who want to get in your pants, and I'll just shrug my shoulders and sip on a scotch when or if you bring up the subject. 

That alone will infuriate you to a degree you won't be able to fathom until I drop that on you. I can't wait not to have sex with you.

I'll flirt with your mom. Hell, I'll flirt with your dad. I'll make your dog like me more.  

When I'm not doing any of that, I will be the most charming, imaginative, considerate son of a bitch you've ever been around, 

And Suave

until the moment there's anyone else to witness us, and then I'll fart louder than cannon fire, and chew with my mouth open, and talk about porn ecstatically. 

Sexy, right?

Oh, the embarrassment I'll be for you.  Your friends will think you've lost your damn mind.  But you'll know the truth. 

And your fans will too.  Because you know that all this emotional terrorism is going to keep you churning out hits well into our having grandchildren (the songs you're going to write about in-vitro because of my not having sex with you but insisting on seven children, minimum, are going to win you ALL the Grammies).  There's going to be no Madonna tailspin to your career where you just try to figure out what the kids are into nowadays and jump into that. 

MDNA or whatever. Yeah, very cool. Sure. Please don't hurt me, Madge.

Trust me, your life is going to be a mother-flippin' trainwreck and no one will be able to look away. Ever. 

I mean, what if I drugged you and you woke up from secret surgery looking like the departed Miss Smith?
That's gotta be AT LEAST a couple albums, right, Sweetie?

I'm promising you DECADES of insecurity and confusion and angst. 

Has anyone else ever made that promise to you? No. Has anyone else ever even thought of making that promise to you? Of course not. Because they're boring and have poor imaginations and they're not right for you.  Only I am. 

 
You have all the money in the world to be able to buy anything you want.  But if money could buy happiness, you'd have done it by now.  The only thing you can't buy is the one thing I can give you: amazing, intoxicating, super-duper crazy.   And that amazing, intoxicating, super-duper crazy will make you happier than you can imagine. I promise.

See you soon,

Ajax Carpenter

TRANSGENDER PROPAGANDA INVADES YOUR CHILDREN'S HEADS!!!

I don't know how on Earth the folks at Pixar worked up a script and pre-production and animation and recording and marketing to time the release of their hyper-aggressive, gender-queer rallying-statement movie, "Inside Out", to Bruce/Kaitlyn Jenner's revelation and the destruction of the traditional nuclear family by the recent Supreme Court decision, but, you know, kudos to them on their sorcery to drop this bomb at the worst possible moment, when it will have the greatest effect in support of their bizarre vision of a genderless world where reality means nothing.

White Supremacy? (Charleston Shooting)

Please bear in mind this is not a political post. The point of this is not to "discuss" (shudder...), particularly collateral issues like gun control or symbols of racism (the Confederate Battle Flag).  This is an address to White Supremacists, which the author sincerely doubts one will read.  But you never know...

So, White Makes Right?  That's the general idea behind White Superiority, ain't it?  Whites Are Better!


How?  I mean that sincerely.

Physically?

I'm not really sure how that claim can be made.  In the United States, it's fairly well understood that if you're talking about top-flight athletes, Blacks tend to fill up the lists of greatest athletes in our traditional sports (sorry, soccer, you're not in that group yet).  Are we really going to argue this? Surely not. If you want to be taken seriously, you can't try to point out Larry Bird, or Larry Csonka, or Rocky Marciano or some such outlier in sports that multiple races participate to a meaningful degree (sorry, Ice Hockey).

I mean, to be fair, I think saying one race is physically more gifted than another becomes an exercise in picking and choosing, but if we're going to be troglodytes about it, I think Whites lose on this.  And if you're going to point to soccer and Europe, or maybe the Winter Olympics, um...your head is way too far up your butt to have any "discussion" (shudder) or "conversation" (shudder).  But that's kinda the point. You're a dumbass. 

Additionally, and to be very "real", if you're talking about the United States, Blacks and Whites as a whole appear to be equally fat and on the road to early death from coronary disease.  Is "we're less fat" really the argument you want to go with?

Also, I mean, if you're not an amazing specimen, what the hell sense does it make to point out great athletes who share your race that you would be embarrassed to be placed next to?  "The Mountain" on Game of Thrones is White.  He's 6'9" and nearly 400lbs of terrifying muscle.  I'm 6'2" and about 230lbs of jiggly.   I'm not even ripping on myself. For an average American, I ain't so bad. But I don't think "I ain't so bad" can be teased out to, "Everyone with my skin pigmentation is better than others whose are different."

If you're a fat, dumpy mess and you're talking up how White athletes are the best, that's kinda like the sad sack 45yo office drone bragging about how "*We* are the champs!" after the team he roots for wins the Super Bowl.  He didn't do squat.  He just had a loose affiliation. I mean, that happens all the time, but it's idiotic, childish, and, frankly, sad.

Mentally?

I honestly don't get this at all.  I happen to believe that a vast majority of all people, regardless of skin color are idiots. And guess what? Nearly everyone of every skin color agrees with that.  So then what you're really saying is that White people have the smartest smart people. 

For the same reasons I just talked about above, if you're not one of the smartest smart people, that position is idiotic, childish, and sad.  If you're really a White Supremecist and want to go that route anyway,  you're going to have a hard time, because you don't get to count Einstein or any other Jewish folks, of course.  Percentage wise, on the Smartest Smart Folks to General Population ratio, Jews blow Whitey out the water.  There are , of course, non-racial superiority reasons for that, but it's just not arguable. And let's not do test scores, particularly for American Whites vs. other races. 

It appears that, for the most part, if a human is born with the gift of mega-intellectual ability AND it is nourished by friends, family, and culture, AND he/she pushes him/herself AND he/she catches a break, then any particularly-colored person can vault into the intellectual stratosphere.

Culturally?

Usually, this is really what you're talking about when you say Whites Are Better, right? I mean, the other races are savages, correct?  What's the positive, better aspect of the White Culture, though?  Surely not that we are less barbaric?  I mean, Whites are responsible for the Holocaust (and wiping out the American Indians). That's not great. Whites enslaved blacks (and American Indians, and virtually enslaved Indian Indians for a great many years).  Not great. 

But, of course, far from thinking those are negatives, you think those are the primary example of how Whites Are Better, because when Whites went up against other races, they came out ahead.  I'm not sure that's really "culture" of course.

That was numbers (in the case of the Jews and American Indians) or technology (in the case of the Indian Indians and American Indians and others).  Race really doesn't have much to do with that.  Genghis Khan and the Mongol Hordes had better technology and annihilated everyone of every race they came up against for a very long time.

Even among whites, when one group has a numbers advantage and equal technology, or smaller numbers and better technology, that group wins.  Then you have to start talking about which white people are better than other white people and you start saying very strange things like, "the Irish aren't really white".

But, anyway, a lot of the argument will attempt to point out how "less developed" the other races are.

Let's look at this little White Supremacist Chicken@#$! who just murdered nine people in my hometown. 

Was he a great warrior/athlete? No. He's a scrawny little jackass who used a gun to murder people, including women, who could not fight back.  He also told a survivor he was going to commit suicide and then didn't have the balls to go through with it.  Real impressive there, yeah...

Was he a genius?  I guarantee he wasn't smarter than most, if not any, in that church that he murdered.  Every picture posted of him seems to have the annoyed/vacant look of the perpetually, intentionally, proudly ignorant.

Was he more accomplished?  It doesn't sound like he had a job.  Reports are, he mostly played video games. 

Was he more sophisticated or more developed culturally?  HE WENT INTO A CHURCH, A PLACE OF WORSHIP, WHERE HE WAS WELCOMED IN, AND THEN MURDERED UNARMED PEOPLE. The argument for White Superiority used to be the "Truth" of the Christian Religion. Whitey had it, and the other races didn't, so that's what made us better and God Was/Is On Our Side.  The little dippoop pretty much vacated that argument, agreed?

I've met a number of white supremacists in my day.  I have yet to meet one who not only isn't smarter, more accomplished, or more of a warrior than I am/was (not trying to toot my own horn, just saying for the point of this because I'm mega-super-duper-phenomenally white), but isn't really mostly a spoiled, narcissistic moron. Far from being exemplars proving whites are better, every white supremacist I've ever met makes whites look dumb and inferior.