“I Went Into Character” – The Pathetic Alibi of a Bigot

Let’s cut the bullshit. In 2006, Michael Richards—the man forever clinging to the coattails of Seinfeld’s legacy—snapped like a twig at the Laugh Factory. A Black audience member dared to call him “not funny,” and Richards, the comedy genius behind Kramer’s slapstick, responded by spewing the N-word like a broken fire hydrant of hate. His defense? “I went into character.” Oh, please. Since when is “character” a free pass for screaming “I’ll stab you upside down with a fork!” at Black patrons? Spare us the theatrics. Richards didn’t channel Kramer; he unmasked himself.

The video didn’t just go viral—it burned his reputation to the ground. But here’s the kicker: Richards still thinks we’re buying his excuses. In 2024, he doubled down on The View, blaming comedy clubs for “normalizing” racial slurs. Newsflash: Clubs don’t force you to weaponize racism because your fragile ego got bruised.

Trauma Porn and the Art of Victim-Blaming

Richards’ 2024 memoir, Entrances and Exits, is less a redemption arc and more a sob story. He paints himself as a tragic figure—a poor, unwanted child who just couldn’t handle fame. Boo-fucking-hoo. His mother considered abortion? He felt “undeserving” of a Hollywood star? Cry us a river, then build a bridge and get over it.

Richards wants us to believe his racist explosion was “the culmination of unresolved trauma.” Let’s translate: He’s using childhood pain to sanitize grown-ass bigotry. Sorry, but trauma doesn’t turn you into a raging racist—it just gives you a bigger shovel to dig your own grave. Meanwhile, Black audiences are left wondering: When do they get to blame their trauma for society’s sins?

Cancelled by Choice? Try Convenient Exile

After the backlash, Richards didn’t just fade away—he curated his disappearance like a pretentious art exhibit. “I canceled myself,” he declared, fleeing to meditate in Cambodia and India. How noble! Nothing says accountability like sipping chai in Goa while your victims relive your venom.

Let’s be real: Richards didn’t “seek enlightenment.” He dodged consequences. His occasional cameos (looking at you, Curb Your Enthusiasm) were less about atonement and more about testing the waters. Spoiler: The waters were still toxic.

Apology Tour or Narcissist’s Monologue?

Richards’ “apologies” have always reeked of performative guilt. Remember his cringe-worthy 2006 Letterman appearance, where Jerry Seinfeld had to play babysitter to his stammering remorse? Fast-forward to 2024: His memoir tour isn’t about reparations—it’s a therapy session for one. “I’m not racist,” he insists, while dedicating pages to his own suffering. The Root nailed it: “Does he know what ‘amends’ even means?”

Here’s the truth: Richards isn’t sorry he’s racist. He’s sorry he got caught. His “growth” is a PR campaign wrapped in spiritual jargon. “I’m not looking for a comeback,” he claims. Sure, Jan. Then why the memoir? Why The View? Why not shut up and donate to anti-racist causes?

The Real Lesson: Fame Forgives White Men. Always.

Let’s stop pretending this is about “accountability.” Richards’ story proves Hollywood’s golden rule: White male celebrities get infinite second acts. Mel Gibson, Louis C.K., Armie Hammer—they all crawl back eventually. But Richards? He’s too busy playing philosopher-hermit to bother.

His memoir ends with the smug takeaway: “Screw-ups in life are necessary.” Translation: “I needed to yell the N-word to grow as a person.” How generous of him to use Black pain as a stepping stone!

The question isn’t whether Richards deserves forgiveness. It’s why we keep entertaining his delusion that he’s the victim. Racism isn’t a “screw-up.” It’s a choice. And until Richards stops hiding behind the ghost of Kramer and his self-help platitudes, his “legacy” will forever be a punchline—just not the kind he wants.