I hate to admit it. It’s really quite embarrassing, humiliating really. But — even though I was an actual civil rights worker in the South and (crazy me) later gave money to the Black Panthers — in the interest of transparency (that’s what we all aspire to nowadays, isn’t it?), I cannot tell a lie, George Washington:

I am a racist.

Worse than that, I profile.

When I see a black gangbanger walking down the sidewalk toward me at night, sometimes I cross to the other side. Even if he’s not wearing a hoodie.

Ditto for skanky white guys in ponytails who look like meth heads, bandana-clad Mexicans who might be members of the Zetas, and Asian guys with ominous Fu Manchus, black belts, and ninja pajamas.

Yes, I profile. In that way, at least, I am sort of like the Reverend Jesse Jackson.

Not only that, if I carried a gun (I don’t though, I’m too sloppy. Just last week my wife yelled at me for backing up over one of the solar garden lights we just bought) and one of those guys jumped me and started beating the living daylights out of me, I might well shoot him.

So I’m racist… and a profiler. Baaaad.

Why am I racist?