There are three kinds of lies, as the old saying goes: lies, damned lies, and statistics. But it takes a particular brand of scoundrel—the kind who wears a suit of grievance and a hat of hollow pride—to take a perfectly good percentage and stretch it until it snaps the neck of the truth.

I am speaking, of course, of those “patriots” of the white nationalist persuasion. They have discovered that while a raw number is a stubborn, heavy thing that sits where you put it, a percentage is as nimble as a circus acrobat. It can be made to jump through hoops, hang upside down, and convince a crowd that a single raindrop is the beginning of a biblical flood.

The Magic of the Missing Denominator

Take, for instance, their favorite bit of arithmetic: the “13/52” shimmy. They’ll tell you, with a face as solemn as a tombstone, that thirteen percent of the population is responsible for half the mayhem in the country. It sounds a terrifying thing, doesn’t it? It’s meant to.

But look at what they’ve left in the pocket. By focusing on the percentage of the group, they conveniently forget to mention the raw soul. If you look at the actual men and women involved, you’ll find that ninety-nine percent of that “thirteen percent” are as innocent of murder as a newborn kitten. To judge the whole lot by the sins of a few is like swearing off the Atlantic Ocean because you once saw a shark in a bucket. It is a mathematical trick designed to make a neighbor look like a monster.

The Great Interracial Bogeyman

Then there is the matter of “interracial crime,” a subject they treat with more frantic energy than a dog chasing its own tail. They will pull a percentage out of the air—”Interracial incidents are up two-hundred percent!” they cry—and wait for the gasps.

Well, a “two-hundred percent” increase sounds like a revolution until you realize it means the number of incidents went from one to three in a town of fifty thousand. In the world of raw data, a man is most likely to be robbed, cheated, or swindled by his own kind—the people he lives near, works with, and goes to church with. But the nationalist doesn’t care for the raw data of the neighborhood; he prefers the terrifying shimmer of a percentage that suggests an invasion where there is only a statistical hiccup.

How to Spot a Juked Stat

Aman who uses percentages without providing the raw numbers is like a man who tries to sell you a horse by showing you only a picture of its tail. He is hiding the rest of the beast for a reason.

If you wish to keep your wits about you in this age of digital flim-flam, remember these simple rules:

Ask for the Raw Count: If they say “half,” ask “half of what?” Five out of ten is a tragedy; one out of two is a coin flip. Check the Denominator: A percentage is a fraction in a fancy dress. If you don’t know what it’s being divided by, you don’t know a lick about the truth. Beware the “Spike”: Small numbers make for big percentages. A single extra case can look like a “doubling” of crime, even if the streets are as quiet as a Sunday morning.

Figures don’t lie, but liars sure can figure. The next time one of these “statisticians” approaches you with a chart meant to make you hate your fellow man, look him in the eye and ask for the raw data. You’ll find that when you strip away the percentages, the “threat” usually evaporates like mist in the morning sun.