You know who was right? Scott Adams. Yeah, the late Dilbert guy. The one they tried to cancel into oblivion for saying, out loud, what every sane person whispers in the car with the windows up: “I’m not hanging around people who’ve been taught to hate me for the color of my skin.”

Well, Scott, brother, I’m officially joining the club. I’m not “racist.” I’m just done playing Russian roulette with my family’s safety so I can win a participation trophy in the Great Virtue Olympics.

Let me paint you the picture that made it crystal clear. Jasper County, South Carolina. Seventy-seven-year-old Ernest Stevens—White guy, former volunteer fire chief, minding his own damn business—sitting in his running Ford F-150 in a parking lot. Along comes Devon Dunham, who walks up, wants the truck (or a “ride,” depending on whose fairy tale you believe), and when the old man tries to drive away like any normal human would, Dunham unloads all eight rounds from a 9mm into the truck. Hits him four times. Kills him.

Then—get this—he confesses. On video. Witnesses everywhere. Ballistics match. The whole nine yards. Jury? Seven Black, five White. They deliberate for less than two hours and say, “Nah, not guilty.” Not manslaughter. Not anything. Walks. Literal get-out-of-jail-free card, straight from the deck of “social justice” for this taker of life, this THUG.

That wasn’t a trial. That was jury nullification with a heavy heaping of virtue signaling and woeness. “Tribal.” And the message it sends to every thug in the area? Crystal clear: “Go ahead, boys. The system’s got your back if the victim’s the wrong color, and you’re the right one.”

So yeah. I’m opting out.

I’m not sacrificing my wife, my kids, or my own skull for some progressive fantasy where acknowledging crime stats, like one skin color representing 13% of the population and committing 52% of the murders is “hate,” and as a former friend told me, bringing up this sta makes me a white nationalist. 
I look at only the incentives and casual relationships. I see the 70% fatherless rate. I see the “White man bad, you’re oppressed, go get yours” programming on loop. I see progressive DAs and woke juries handing out participation trophies for attempted murder. And I’m not sticking around to be the next Ernest Stevens so Twitter can call me a bigot for noticing.

I’m voluntarily segregating, baby. Not because I hate Black people—I’ve got Black friends I genuinely love and protect them. For over a decade I attended a predominately black church in LA. 
I’m open to meeting any decent human of any shade who acts like a civilized adult. But I’m also not going to pretend the risk profile is the same everywhere.

Risk versus benefit, folks. That’s not racism. That’s math. And right now the math says: move to a neighborhood where the local cultural software doesn’t include “shoot first, blame systemic racism later.”

I want to live a long, happy, low-drama life. I want my family to walk around without looking over their shoulders. And if that means I “self-segregate” away from the areas where the thugs congregate and the juries cheer them on?

Sorry, not sorry.

I’m choosing peace, safety, and sanity over the world’s dumbest game of “prove you’re not racist by letting thugs roll the dice with your life.”

Scott Adams was 100% correct.

You want to play Russian Roulette with some thug pulling the trigger and laughing as some woke jury looks the other way, that’s your right. At this point, don’t be surprised if you are awarded a Darwin Award posthoumously. It’s well deserved.