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Thread: The Week That Perished

  1. #271
    The Week That Perished, Jun 4

    June 4, 2023


    The Week’s Most Heart-Tugging, Big-Lugging, and June-Bugging Headlines


    There’s an old joke about a passerby who sees a Jewish man walking what appears to be a dachshund. The passerby approaches and says, “Can I pet your dog?”

    “Oy,” the Jew replies, “I vouldn’t do that if I vas you!”

    “C’mon,” says the man, “I’m great with dogs!”

    “I’m tellin’ ya,” the Jew cautions, “don’t do it!”

    Undeterred, the man reaches for the dog…and promptly gets his hand bitten off. Shaking his head, the Jew says, “I was tryin’ to tell ya…it ain’t no dog! It’s an alligator with a nose job.”

    Which brings us to Laura Loomer, unhinged Hebraic Trump-troll extraordinaire. Loomer is infamous for having used her gullible supporters’ contributions to get her honker resized. Now, nobody’s saying her old nose was huge, but on a trip to Israel she was floating on her back in the Dead Sea and the lifeguards yelled, “Shark!” On that same trip, she was shuckling at the Wailing Wall and drilled a hole in it like Woody Woodpecker.

    And now Loomer’s on a one-yenta crusade to be the most repellent Trumper on earth. Last week she accused Ron DeSantis’ wife of having faked her cancer diagnosis. Pretty foul, huh? Well, it gets worse. Loomer then brought good friend Maurice Symonette to an anti-DeSantis rally. Career criminal Symonette’s a former member of a black supremacy cult that murdered a dozen whites. And now he’s Trump’s No. 1 black booster, which makes sense because why not start lobbying for that pardon before the man’s elected?

    Together, Loomer and Symonette constitute the heinous mundi of Trumpworld, with Loomer proving that her old nose wasn’t the ugliest thing about her.


    Retail woke took another hit last week, as Target lost $10 billion in market valuation due to boycotts regarding the store’s trans-wear children’s clothing. CEO Brian Cornell attempted damage control by reassuring parents that Target’s “tuck-friendly” children’s pants, which allow boys to conceal their penis while awaiting amputation, were actually designed in honor of George Floyd. “The pants aren’t supposed to conceal penises,” Cornell explained, “but shoplifted merchandise! It’s part of our new ‘Slacks for Blacks’ line! Happy Floyd fentanyversary!”

    Meanwhile, Disney had its own rude awokening, as its Floydified Little Mermaid suffered the worst Chinese opening for a Disney film ever. China rewarded Disney’s blackened catfish with an opening-day gross of just $550,000.

    No, there’s no missing zero there.

    And while the three-day weekend opening tally in the U.S. came to a respectable $117 million, the Chinese opening-weekend drew a mere $2.6 million, not even enough to pay for one week of black Ariel’s guanidine-hydroxide anti-frizz hair relaxer.

    With Disney, like all other U.S. mega-corps, having long ago sold its soul to China, execs are facing the frightening notion that they turned a blind eye to slave labor, genocide, and gulags for nothing (ain’t that just like the Devil? There’s always a catch). At the very least, the company will have to choose between Chinese profits versus keeping U.S. blacks placated enough to stop trashing the amusement parks (narrator: Blacks will never stop trashing the amusement parks).

    Foreign disdain for Little-Rock Mermaid has caused Disney to rethink the planned blackification of its other classic films, including Peter Panafrican, .0002 Leagues Under the Sea (that’s the deepest any black can go without drowning), S’no White and the Seven Kevin Harts, Old High-Yeller, The Single-Parent Trap, That Darn Catalytic (DaQuan spends an entire night trying to steal a stubborn converter), The Genome Mobile (four bruthas with sickle cell on a road trip), Superdad (he actually makes a child-support payment), Herbie Hancock Rides Again, George Floyd of the Jungle, and the legendary 1979 flop The Black Hole (now reimagined as a Lizzo biopic).


    Trying to squeeze domestic profits from the Hominy Grittle Mermaid, Disney’s releasing blackface Little Mermaid Happy Meal toys in partnership with McDonald’s.

    Yes, McDonald’s thinks it’s a good idea to attract blacks with the promise of hard plastic objects that can be used as projectiles. As seen in promotional videos, the King Triton toy has a pointy trident, Sebastian has jutting claws, Prince Eric is holding a telescope like a spear, Scuttle has a long, sharp beak, and Ursula has six protruding tentacles that spin like a ninja star.

    So, most of the toys can put an eye out. And McDonald’s thinks these are good things to pass out to black customers.

    In a bid to reduce casualties, McDonald’s has put a warning on each Happy Meal box, though unlike the standard age-restriction guidelines, this one’s a color palette: “Keep out of reach of anyone darker than eggshell.”

    Disney will be “centering” black Ariel toys for the summer; white Ariels will return in the fall, and pity the poor parent whose child demands one. With both Ariels available at Disney Stores, the company plans for every cashier to be black, to ensure that nobody buys the white one without buying the other.

    “Uh, I’m just buying Nazi redhead Ariel to teach my little girl about the evils of racism. We’re gonna burn it, I promise! But here, I’ll take five noble black Ariels, plus gimme the complete set of Robin Hood transgender dolls: Friar Tuck, Alan-to-Dale, Prince Unisex John, and Sheriff of Nottingma’am.

    Also last week, Disneyland shuttered Splash Mountain, the “racist” ride based on characters from Song of the South. The ride will reopen in 2024 as black-themed Tiana’s Bayou Adventure. Designed to replicate the burned-out remains of Detroit, it’ll be the only Disney attraction where, halfway through, riders get carjacked.


    In Edgar Allan Poe’s “The Facts in the Case of M. Valdemar,” a sickly old man is kept in a state between life and death by an amoral, sadistic mesmerist. As Valdemar begins to decay, he begs for release. Yet his selfish tormentor won’t allow it.

    Who knew Gavin Newsom is an amoral, sadistic mesmerist? Well, the first two things are well-known, but the third…

    Newsom is doing to poor Dianne Feinstein exactly what Poe’s protagonist did to Valdemar. Because Governor Loki-hair has backed himself into a corner. In 2021 he pledged to nominate a black woman to replace Feinstein should she retire. Sadly, California has only three unincarcerated black women left, and two—L.A. mayor Karen Bass and chronic nitrous-oxide inhaler Kamala Harris—are spoken for. Which leaves Barbara Lee, the congresswoman from Oakland (a.k.a. “Mad Max dystopia with an urban-contemporary beat”). Unfortunately, not only is Lee a literal Black Panther, she’s anti-Israel as well, leaving the well-heeled supporters of Congressman Adam Schiff shaking their Torahs in anger, telling Newsom that if he doesn’t appoint their mensch, his funding is kaput.

    Newsom’s only way out is to keep Feinstein alive long enough for 2024 primary voters to choose her replacement without him having to appoint anyone.

    Considering that Feinstein’s decomposition has progressed from Guanajuato momia to Tarman, that’s a tall order.

    So Newsom’s been trying to distract from the problem by attacking Florida at every opportunity. But even that’s backfired. Immediately after he condemned Florida Republicans for “burning Pride flags,” parents at a North Hollywood elementary school burned a pride flag and ran the tranny teacher who flew it out of town.

    Newsom had no comment on the flag-burning in his own state. Perhaps because the school in question is half Hispanic and half Armenian. Two powerful L.A. blocs! And Newsom doesn’t want to publicize the unpopularity of trannyism among beaners ’n’ bulgurs.

    So Newsom lets the flags burn as he continues to torture decaying Feinstein, using her as a whipping post for his own poor decisions.

    Gavin, you’re a grand old flagellant.


    San Clemente, California. A crime scene.

    From out of the darkness, a beat-up old Peugeot sputters into view. The door opens. Lieutenant Columbo, wrinkled raincoat, half-smoked cigar, exits.

    Sergeant Wilson: “We got a messy one, lieutenant! Three Marines on Memorial Day weekend, beaten and stomped by a large angry crowd. Seemed to be a ratio of 40 to 3, and the Marines look white. So we got an APB out for black thugs.”

    Columbo: “Black thugs?”

    Wilson: “Yes, lieutenant. That’s how the right-wing press is portraying the crime. Another case of a black mob ganging up on innocent whites.”

    Columbo: “You say the whites are Marines. Young, male, healthy?”

    Wilson: “Yes, sir.”

    Columbo: “So no elderly victims? No women, children, or cripples?”

    Wilson: “No, sir.”

    Columbo: “Wallets taken?”

    Wilson: “Negative.”

    Columbo: “Any weave fragments found at the scene?”

    Wilson: “None. But several hairnets.”

    Columbo: “And the Marines, are they dead?”

    Wilson: “Just a few bruises.”

    Columbo: “Gunplay? Three hundred shots fired, nothing hit?”

    Wilson: “No, sir. No shots.”

    Columbo: “It wasn’t blacks; we’re looking for Mexicans. And re-interview those Marines; they might not exactly be innocent victims.”

    Wilson: “Holy Toledo, lieutenant! They found new video of the assault; turns out it was Mexicans, and the Marines kinda provoked it. How’d you know?”

    Columbo: “Mexicans will attack in a mob, but unlike blacks they usually need provocation beyond the other party being white. Plus, San Clemente’s only 1.5 percent black, and half of that is well-tanned Jews lying about race to get into Saddleback College. Oh, and just one more thing: No need to put out any APBs; the Mexis who dropped their hairnets will need to return for ’em before they start the overnight shift at Del Taco.”

    Wilson: “Boy, lieutenant, you’re good. You must have a criminology degree.”

    Columbo: “Degree? No need; I read Sailer and Cole.”
    “The Party told you to reject the evidence of your eyes and ears. It was their final, most essential command.”
    ― George Orwell, 1984

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  3. #272
    The Week That Perished

    June 11, 2023


    The Week’s Most Heavy Lossing, Cookie Tossing, and Betsy Rossing Headlines


    Where are climate activists with paint cans when you need them?

    The deification of blacks has turned into statuary rape.

    Last week in the Netherlands, a thirteen-foot statue was erected outside Rotterdam Central Station. And who does the statue commemorate? Van Leeuwenhoek? Van Riebeeck? Van Patten (Dick or Tim)?

    Nope! The statue depicts a saggy-boobed big-assed black girl in baggy sweatpants and Nikes.

    Behold your superior, Squareheads! The Colossus of Rho-wanda.

    And in Bexhill, U.K., a ten-foot statue of a big-assed black woman in a bathing suit overseeing the English Channel was christened, as a reminder to arriving refugees that “you must be this dark to collect welfare.” Sadly, the masterwork was defaced by vandals who don’t understand that only statues of whites can legally be desecrated these days. But the artist, Tschabalala Self (which sounds like two Ghanaians insulting each other: “Hey, Tschabalala you!” “Oh yeah? Tschabalala’self”), rounded up a squad of properly domesticated Brits to clean it within hours.

    Heaven forbid that a statue of a large-posteriored Laqueda not look its best!

    The Taliban may have destroyed the Bamiyan Buddhas, but our racial Talibans have deployed the Bahamian Booties.

    When Thomas Price, the sculptor who “gifted” the Dutch with The Single Motherland Calls, was asked why none of these statues depict their subjects doing anything heroic, important, or even, as with Rodin’s masterwork, just sitting in deep, contemplative thought, Price replied, “I can only sculpt what I see.”

    Price stated that his next work will be an oil painting, Food Descending a Staircase, depicting angry black women throwing a McDonald’s employee down a flight of stairs for serving cold fries.


    You know the old saying…sometime you kill Anne Frank, and sometime Anne Frank kills you.

    Last week in Virginia Beach, 34-year-old Michael Horwitz was arrested for fatally stabbing his father, a prominent dentist. Horwitz is a tranny who goes by the name “Menorah Horwitz” while performing as the drag community‘s “premiere Anne Frank impersonator.”

    The fact that there are enough tranny drag Anne Franks that Horwitz feels the need to describe himself as the “premiere” one instead of the only one is cause enough for concern. If the world’s “premiere” tranny drag Anne Frank slaughtered his father, one can only shudder at what the lesser tranny drag Anne Franks are capable of.

    The late father—Dr. Abbey Horwitz—was president of the Hebrew Academy of Tidewater, and right there you see the transphobia that obviously necessitated his demise. “He”-brew? How patriarchal. Surely Zhe-brew is more inclusive.

    On his “Art of Dentistry” website, Dr. Horwitz wrote that he’s “the proud parent of three children, Michael, Shayna and Jonathan.”

    Sadly, Michael didn’t reciprocate his dad’s pride this Pride Month.

    Michael Horwitz, a.k.a. Tran Frank—the dentist’s son who put the “anal” in root canal and the “die” in diary. Perhaps even behind bars he can continue to serve as an inspiration to tranny Jews worldwide. As LGBTLMNOP groups pressure Target to bring back the “tuck-friendly” swimsuits that allow sexually confused boys to hide their penises, who better than Mikey Horwitz to serve as spokestransman for that clothing line? Swimsuits with a secret annex, to hide your Anne frank ’n’ beans.


    Speaking of trannies, America’s most self-pitying bunch of victim-bullies may have met their match in the form of oily-haired apes who’ve had their asses kicked around the globe more times than the Jews, and who might just be L.A.’s last hope.

    Throughout their history, Armenians have been conquered by the Byzantines, Romans, Turks, Arabs, Persians, and Russians. For some reason, this ethnic group that insists that all of its surnames rhyme with “Armenian” has been victimized again and again. It’s almost as if something gives Armenians away whenever they try to hide from their latest exterminator.

    Unlike with Jews, when it comes to Armenians, Wikipedia doesn’t even bother with an “early life” section. You already know by the name.

    But now these oft-conquered fur-coated Chewbaccarians have decided to fight the one group they can beat: men in dresses. The Armenians of the North Hollywood-Burbank-Glendale area of L.A. County—by most counts about 300,000 strong—have taken a stand against tranny ideology being taught in local schools. Last week, a bunch of Armenian men took on a mob of trannies and Antifas in a massive fistfight outside a school board meeting, and it was a rout! Unable to defeat actual Young Turks, at least the Armenians were able to wipe the floor with Young Turk viewers.

    This is what happens to a people unable to get proper recognition for their genocide. Whereas Jews have successfully made their genocide everybody’s business, to the extent that they franchise it (immigrant “kids in cages”? It’s the Holocaust! “Refugees” barred from Europe? That’s the Holocaust too! Black murderers denied bail? That’s the Holocaust to end all Holocausts!), Armenians have historically felt that their genocide don’t get no respect.

    Armenians are the Rodney Dangerfield of aggrieved semi-whites.

    “Hey, I ain’t sayin’ we’re pathetic, but ottomans put their feet on us!”

    So when trannies came to L.A. whining about their fake “trans-genocide,” the Armenians finally had enough.

    And these transphobanians might be just what the city needs to defeat the Ottoma’am Empire.


    Last week, Left Coasters suffered two severe setbacks.

    In San Francisco, a pilot program to unleash self-driving cars on city streets managed to hit both a literal and figurative roadblock as the vehicles ended up causing chaos by bunching up at intersections due to the failure of their AI to understand traffic complexities.

    Congrats, Frisco; the American city with the highest percentage of Asian drivers has found an even greater menace on the road.

    The robo-cars also caused confusion among the thugs who amble over from Oakland to commit mayhem. After all, how can you carjack a driverless car? How can you shoot in the head that which has no head? If you jack a car and no white man hears it, does it make a sound?

    As Oakland blacks ponder those philosophical conundrums, up the coast in Washington, DEI has turned to DIE.

    In 2021, Washington created its first-ever “Office of Diversity, Equity, and Inclusion,” and the proud black woman put in charge of fighting racial hatred in the state of Washington has just been fired for promoting racial hatred in the state of Washington.

    Karen Johnson, Ph.D. FDSC (“Fries Dat Scald Caustically”), was canned by Governor Inslee because it turns out that Johnson, whose pronouns are “Beloved” (that’s not a joke), was anything but. Johnson routinely trumpeted her “mistrust of Mexicans and fat people.” So basically that covers Mexicans and anyone who eats Mexican food.

    Johnson doesn’t like whites, either, but that’s fine. On the other hand, hating obese, gaseous, bean-eating beans is a bridge too fart.

    Now out of a job and broke, Johnson—Ph.D. EBT—learned the hard way that spicy frijoles can sometimes be a little too hot.


    “Sand niggger” is a horrifically ugly epithet for Arabs. But in Frisco, Texas, last week, it became a literal thing when a black-owned golf course was rocked by racism after the club’s general manager found the N-word written in the sand of one of the course’s bunkers.

    According to the local news, “a Black golfer playing the 13th hole saw two people running away from the bunker and then discovered the writing.” Sadly, the shocked golfer died after accidentally stumbling into the course’s foot-deep water hazard. But eventually club manager Linroy “LC” Costly found the troubling sand trap. He and the club’s board are still figuring out how to erase the epithet, more proof of how public schools have failed black children by no longer teaching sandwriting.

    Costly also told reporters that a few days after the sand trap was vandalized, he “got a call for a tee time, and, when asked for a name, the caller said ‘niggger’ four times.”

    It’s well-known that celebrities use code names when making reservations, but Tarantino really should change his.

    Costly pointed out that his club has recently seen an uptick in Indian members. Frisco, part of the Dallas–Fort Worth metro, has a burgeoning tech industry and, as a result, a fast-growing Indian population (the Facebook group Indians in Frisco TX has 23,300 members).

    Could the “Archie” Bunker be blowback from last week’s Hindu/Dindu Twitter feud?

    It started when Dinesh D’Souza, responding to a NY Times columnist’s claim that Republicans are lower-IQ than Democrats, pointed out that “every IQ study over the past half century shows that blacks, who are the rock-solid base of the Democratic Party, have the lowest IQ of any ethnic group.” This led black supremacist Tariq Nasheed to tag D’Souza in a photo of a filthy Mumbai slum, adding “another gentle reminder Dinesh, of where YOU were born and raised….Can you show me where Foundational Black Americans live like this?”

    To which D’Souza replied, “If blacks didn’t get subsidized housing, they’d be living and crapping in the street,” to which Nasheed responded that “you subhumans crap in the street even when you do have housing,” to which D’Souza quipped, “179 of you apes just died because your ‘pastor’ told you to starve for Jesus,” to which Nasheed shot back that “millions of you retards starve because you worship cows,” at which point both men realized they’d soiled their pants, so a truce was called as they donned adult diapers manufactured in China by high-IQ automatons taking great pleasure in seeing the American “melting pot” melting down.
    “The Party told you to reject the evidence of your eyes and ears. It was their final, most essential command.”
    ― George Orwell, 1984

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  5. #273
    The Week That Perished

    June 18, 2023


    The Week’s Leaniest, Meaniest, and Juneteeniest Headlines


    With a million multiple universes, you’d think Marvel could find one with a black supervillain.

    It’s not like it’s so rare in ours.

    But just as Marvel launched the franchise for black supervillain “Kang,” actor Jonathan Majors blew the deal via multiple charges of assault and strangulation of women (Majors’ attorney released a text in which one of the victims apologized for “making” Majors assault her. In Marvel terms, this is known as the “Killgrave defense”).

    As Marvel searches for a less real-life villainous black actor to take over the Kang role, it should be noted that L.A. just witnessed the origin story of an actual black supervillain: “Mister Shush.”

    Stefen Sutherland dreams of a world of silence. As a teen, he was the only black in the movie theater not talking to the screen, the only one turning the bass down on his boombox, the only one who preferred da funk to da noise.

    In November 2020, Sutherland was rudely awakened by construction workers outside his apartment. Leaping from his window after ingesting Super-Soldier Serum (i.e., fentanyl), Sutherland slashed the throat of the first worker he encountered.

    Commissioner Gascon refused to charge Sutherland with attempted murder. Rather, he was given outpatient psychiatric care to “cure” his noise aversion.

    Sutherland relocated to an apartment with no construction sites nearby. When a new tenant expressed interest in the upstairs unit, the landlord told her about the central air, the wireless access, and the new carpeting; then he turned and covered his mouth and quickly said, “Oh-and-there’s-a-homicidal-maniac-below-who’ll-kill-you-if-you-make-noise.” And she was like, “What’d you say?” and he was like, “Nothing, just clearing my throat. Here’s the lease!”

    Last week that tenant, Jennifer Gomez, creaked her kitchen floor and Sutherland burst into her apartment and shot her 19 times.

    Held for murder at Arkham (a.k.a. L.A. County lockup), Mister Shush broods in his cell, as Commissioner Gascon looks for a way to harness his noise-liquidating superpowers for the common good, Suicide Squad-style.

    Perhaps letting him loose at a Cardi B concert.


    In India, human feces, and human bodies, are left to rot in the street. India’s like New York City if the garbagemen never went on strike because they were never hired in the first place.

    But the deadly train crash that left 288 Hindis hindead was apparently too much even for India’s familiarity with corpse piles. Many still-living victims were left to rot under the bodies of the deceased.

    Fortunately, one man was on the case to clean up the mess. India’s greatest detective: Columbai.

    Balasore, India. From out of the darkness, the beat-up chassis of an old Peugeot being pulled by an elephant rattles into view. Lieutenant Columbai, wrinkled Nehru jacket, half-smoked hookah, exits.

    Sergeant Anilson: “We got a messy one, Lieutenant. Almost 300 corpses. But we think a few of ’em might still be alive.”

    Columbai: “I’m from Microsoft Security, sir, and we’ve detected malware on your computer.”

    Anilson: “Lieutenant, that doesn’t work if I can see that it’s you.”

    Columbai: “Right, right. Sorry. [Pause] I’m Agent Patrick MacGruder from the IRS, and you owe back taxes.”

    Anilson: “Again, sir, that doesn’t work in-person.”

    Columbai: “Damn, I keep forgetting.”

    Anilson: “The bottom line is, what do we do with all these mangled half-dead bodies?”

    One week later, a press conference on the White House lawn.

    President Biden: “And I’d like to thank Lieutenant Columbai for providing all of these amazing new H-1B visa holders who’ll do the work that American mangled half-dead bodies refuse to do. [Pause] Oh, just one more thing: Apparently there’s malware on America’s computer, so I’ll need everybody’s credit card info and Social Security number.”


    Mardi Gras was four months ago, but the White House just held its own version: Retardi Gras, a picnic for trannies. Unlike the traditional White House Easter Egg Hunt, this time the guy in the rabbit suit wasn’t a paid entertainer but a furry fetishist, and the less said about the “chocolate” he dropped, the better.

    There was an egg hunt, but it was held by MDs from Boston Children’s Hospital, and the eggs they hunted were from the surgically removed ovaries of young girls who once picked a fire truck toy over a doll.

    As the trannies frolicked outside the iconic house wherein Lincoln once dwelled as he fought to keep the young nation from being carved up, but whose present occupant fights to carve up the nation’s young, many of the auntie maims decided to flash their “boobies” to the camera, “boobies” being in scare quotes because half the flashers were mentally ill men with implants to make them look female and the other half were mentally ill women with mastectomies to make them look male. Shirts removed, pants removed. It was like a Transgirls Gone Wild video.

    And these moments of nakedness were a britch too far for the Biden administration. Using taxpayer money to mutilate children? Threatening parents with revoked custody if they don’t mutilate their kids? That’s all fine. No, the thing that “went too far” for an administration that wants to deform human bodies was when attendees showed off their deformed bodies.

    Press Secretary Karine Jean-Pierre, the first ever lesbo-Caribbean anencephalic to hold the office, told reporters that the revelers who flashed won’t be invited back. Mainly because they caused confusion for the president: “President Biden goes by scent; indeed, he’s one of the most gifted olfactory stalkers who ever lived. So when he saw what he believed to be female breasts, he went in for the sniff. But he became disoriented, because he knew it wasn’t the right smell. Look, we support trannies and all, but c’mon—don’t confuse the creeper of the free world like that. It’s cruel.”


    And while on the subject of our sacred LGBTQIAYABBADABBADOOOS, last week was a bad one for gay flags and the people who love them. In Hamtramck, Michigan—a formerly Polish city that traded zlotys for jihadis—the akbars turned their backbars on the “pride flag,” banning it from city property. Newspapers nationwide tried to find just one non-swarthy city councilmember to photograph, so their readers wouldn’t know the ethnicity of the “homophobes.”

    Meanwhile, not only don’t Poles have their city anymore, they don’t even have their distinction as global laughingstock. That now goes to Canadians, the only people in North America to never mount a revolution against their colonial masters. When Mexicans are able to do something that’s beyond your grasp, you’re pretty screwed. When Haiti does something that’s beyond your grasp, it’s aboot time to make use of that assisted-suicide law.

    To celebrate Pride Month, which is apparently an international thing now (except in Uganda, where it refers to the lions to which murdered gays are fed), the city of Waterloo, Ontario (population 12,000, cumulative IQ 12), painted its crosswalks with the “pride flag.”

    And when cars left tire tracks on the crosswalks, city leaders called it a hate crime.

    Now, there are many ways to ensure that something you hold sacred doesn’t get run over by a car. No. 1 on that list is, don’t put it the middle of a busy street.

    This is something even a Haitian can grasp. And they haven’t even figured out forks.

    So now Waterloo’s spending taxpayer money cleaning and refurbishing the gay flag crosswalks day after day after day, a true labor of sissy-fuss.

    You’re a retard in the culture war.
    Cleaning your crosswalks forevermore.
    Couldn’t escape if we wanted to.
    Knowing our fate is to be like you.
    All of the West will be Waterloo.
    Helping the West lower its IQ.


    Speaking of Haiti, here’s a tale of two “explainers.”

    Last week The Guardian ran an “explainer” about artificial human embryos. It was detailed and factual, and at the end, you totally felt “explained.” Then they ran an “explainer” titled “How Haiti Came to Be Run by Armed Gangs,” and the best the author could say was, “It’s complicated.”

    Yes, the thing that is complicated, synthetic embryos, can be explained, while the thing that isn’t, why Haiti sucks, can’t. Here’s a likely re-creation of the conversation at Guardian HQ:

    Ryan Baxter: “You wanted to see me, boss?”

    Nigel McTwittingham-Inbredville (executive editor): “Yes. A week ago we asked you to submit a video ‘explainer’ titled ‘How Haiti Came to Be Run by Armed Gangs.’ And you gave us three seconds of you saying, ‘Because they’re Haitians.’”

    Baxter: “An explainer is where you explain things, so I did.”

    Reginald Recessive-Alleleton (managing editor): “But old boy, sometimes we ask questions the answers to which we can’t actually print.”

    Sir Percival Habsburgjaw-Rottentooth III (copy editor and part-time glory hole): “Indeed; forget accuracy and give us something that blames whites!”

    Ali-Mohammed bin Stabbin Khidds (cultural sensitivity editor): “Yes! Blame violent beastly whites or I’ll behead your family.”

    And Baxter complied, with a video that starts with just two words, “It’s complicated,” and goes on to point out that nothing anyone’s ever done to improve Haiti has worked.

    Great explainer there!

    But the video does blame “reparations” for Haitian woes. No, not reparations they’re “owed” for having been enslaved, but reparations they’ve paid to compensate the whites they slaughtered during their revolution. Baxter makes it clear that reparations severely impoverish the people who pay them.

    An “explainer” that made Gavin Newsom orgasm in his pants, as he envisioned what his once-magnificent state will look like after his reparations scheme goes into effect.
    “The Party told you to reject the evidence of your eyes and ears. It was their final, most essential command.”
    ― George Orwell, 1984

  6. #274
    The Week That Perished

    June 25, 2023


    The Week’s Most Prissy, Hissy, and Solstice-y Headlines


    Juneteenth occupies a unique place among holidays and celebrations. With Halloween, for example, the decorations go up a month before October 31st. And on November 1st, everything’s forgotten, as folks move on to Thanksgiving and Christmas, which, likewise, leave the public consciousness once they’ve come and gone.

    Generally with any festivity or observance, attention decreases the day after.

    But with Juneteenth, most of the attention occurs on the day after, as Americans tally the corpses and mourn the dead and tend to the wounded from the commemoration of when Major General Gordon Granger brought a deep fryer to Galveston and the freed slaves cried, “Fries at last, fries at last.”

    Ever since Joe Biden made Juneteenth a federal holiday, signing the proclamation using Lizzo’s ass as a desk (don’t ask where he put the pen), Juneteenth has been more of an exercise in black genocide than a celebration of black freedom.

    And this year, the More-gun Freemen really outdid themselves.

    67 revelers shot—11 fatally—in Chicago, as young emancipees held gunfights Wild West-style.


    St. Louis: Eleven injured and one killed at a Juneteenth party. The deceased was only 17 years old.


    Washington State: A partygoer at a Juneteenth music festival fired randomly into the crowd, killing two. Then the coward fled.


    Milwaukee: Six teens were shot at a Juneteenth celebration. The gunman is described as a light-skinned black.


    A hundred other blacks were gunned down by fellow revelers at Juneteenth events in Philly, San Francisco, NYC, Atlanta, Carson, Memphis, Houston, and Baltimore.


    Indeed, there were Juneteenth shootings in every state.

    Except South Dakota.

    Happy John Thuneteenth.


    With stray Juneteenth bullets flying everywhere last week, four billionaires managed to find the one spot on earth immune from the menace: the bottom of the North Atlantic.

    Water: 100 percent guaranteed Juneteenth-proof.

    But there are other hazards.

    Four elites with nothing better to do paid $250,000 per person to take a submarine to visit the Titanic on the ocean floor. Well, “submarine” is misleading. It was an experimental submersible the size of a sewer pipe, and speaking of sewers, the only window in the craft was a tiny porthole next to the box used as a bathroom. So the entire twelve-hour voyage consisted of people hunched over in a tube, watching the Titanic on monitors like anyone could do at home not hunched over in a tube, and if you wanted to look out the one little window, you had to sit on the poop box.

    There wasn’t even an in-trip movie. Although to be fair, staring at a box of human excrement is pretty much the same as watching any current Hollywood film.

    When the sub went missing, snake oil salesmen the world over mourned the loss of the most easily gulled wealthy idiots on earth.

    The company that runs the tours is called Oceangate. And c’mon, are you really gonna trust an outfit with the scandal suffix in its name? “Oceangate” is tailor-made for a Twitter hashtag, which indeed it became as the world waited breathlessly (though not as breathlessly as those in the murdertube) for word on the fate of ocean floora the explora.


    Terrible as the submersible story is, there’s an irony that can’t be ignored: The five passengers (well, four passengers and the company’s CEO, who’ll likely go down in history for the most creative murder-suicide ever) chose to spend Juneteenth at the bottom of the Atlantic Ocean surrounded by the long-decomposed corpses of upper-class British and American twits and lower-class Irish steerage ballast.

    You literally can’t get less black than that. If one were asked, “How can I spend Juneteenth in the least black way possible?” that would be answer No. 2 (No. 1 would be “In Antarctica eating cold fries”).

    Sadly, you can run from Juneteenth, but you can’t hide. That homicidal CEO, Stockton Rush, previously bragged about eschewing the employment of “50-year-old white guys” because they aren’t “inspirational.”

    And now Rush is no longer aspiration-al.

    “Equity” in hiring is so commonplace, it’s reached the ocean floor…and blacks will still claim it hasn’t gone far enough.

    Enter Rod Serling:

    Submitted for your approval…August 29, 1863. Five men board the CSS Hunley, an experimental submersible designed to aid the Confederacy during the Civil War. One idiot steps on the wrong lever and the sub sinks, costing all five men their lives. In trying to prevent Juneteenth from ever happening, five men lie dead at the bottom of the ocean. One hundred and sixty years later almost to the month, five men board an experimental submersible to escape the Juneteenth caused by the failure of the Hunley, only to meet a similar fate…a fate they wouldn’t have met had they stayed on shore and partied with Juneteenth celebrants.

    Well, okay, they probably would’ve been shot if they’d done that. So I guess they would’ve died anyway. Maybe the lesson is, you can’t avoid fate. Or maybe it’s “Thanks, Biden, for making this stupid thing a federal holiday.” Or hell, maybe it’s “Don’t go to the bottom of the ocean in an untested asphyxiation chamber shaped like a suppository.” Look, what do you want from me? I’ve been dead for fifty years.


    As Hollywood celebrates the fictional tale of the Mexican janitor who invented Flamin’ Hot Cheetos (in reality, it’s the tale of a Mexican janitor who invented a story about inventing Flamin’ Hot Cheetos), there’s a different tale, and a different Frito-Lay product, that deserves remembering.

    WOW Chips.

    Frito-Lay released them in 1998, to great fanfare. Made with a substance called Olestra, WOWs were advertised as the first potato chips you could eat without gaining weight. Eat one bag, or two, or twenty…no extra pounds.

    But there was a catch. Olestra caused massive “anal leakage.” Yep, WOW Chips turned everyone’s anus into a leaky faucet. So many Super Bowl parties ruined. You can blame a fart on the dog, but when you get up after eating a bowl of chips and the cushion upon which you were sitting looks like an Exxon Valdez docking station, there’s no escaping the embarrassment.

    In a way, WOW Chips were a progressive tool for fat acceptance. Because when the choice is to be fat with an anus that stays closed versus being thin with a fudge-fountain laying a choco-trail like Hansel and Gretel for fecal fetishists, people with fat friends declared, “We prefer you fat!”

    Even though WOW Chips were eventually discontinued, fatties continue their quest to not just indent couch cushions but blacken them. Unable to lose weight via “patience taught by nature,” fat people are once again Elizabeth Barrett Browning their pants thanks to another “miracle cure” for obesity: the drug Semaglutide, sold as Ozempic and Wegovy (isn’t that a polling firm?).

    Semaglutide users are losing weight, to be sure, while doing their best Mr. Mackey from South Park impression. Along with violent diarrhea, users are reporting “Ozempic butt,” a bizarre condition in which butt cheeks become deflated and saggy, which is arguably the worst present a woman could give her black boyfriend for Juneteenth.

    “I wanted a woman with class like Snoop Dogg. Now I got a woman with ass like Droop Dog.”

    Also, Ozempic is giving people pancreatitis and kidney failure. So there’s that, too.

    Maybe it’s time to bring back WOW Chips. Or at least make a movie about them, especially as Hollywood is so committed to centering brownness.


    Affirmative action may be coming to an end, and SCOTUS is certainly building up the suspense. Any day now the court will issue its ruling in a case that could forever scuttle collegiate race favoritism in the U.S.

    And Americans are sitting on pins and needles awaiting the decision.

    Well, except for Ishani Chokshi. What he’s sitting on, you don’t wanna know. Chokshi is a self-described Indian-American transgender schizophrenic cannabis-addicted woman of color. When applying to Northwestern Law School, Chokshi checked so many boxes on the affirmative-action list, Northwestern grabbed him up before Harvard and Yale could.

    And Chokshi has spent his time at the university harassing and terrorizing female faculty and students alike, bullying the school’s law journal into publishing his rants about dildos, sex toys, and anal intercourse, and spamming the student body with threats and demands for money.

    Tragic to think that a SCOTUS decision against affirmative action might deprive us of such enrichment.

    Plus, without affirmative action, who’ll build our imploding murder-subs?

    And yet for some odd reason colleges across the nation are closing down. Perhaps because parents have grown tired of paying inflated tuition so their kids can be threatened with a dildo by Ma’amhatma Gandhi.

    And while Northwestern endures the tyranny of Oliver Wendell Hommo, the rest of the nation waits with gay-ted breath for SCOTUS to make the final call on race-based admissions. With a 6–3 conservative majority, the outcome seems certain. But don’t be too sure! SCOTUS conservatives have been unpredictable on issues of race this term.

    But fear not, says Dinesh D’Souza! Biden’s sole appointee, Ubangi Brown Jackson, has rebelled against the president!

    Yeah, by siding with conservatives in a case involving gun charges against a nonwhite drug-trafficking murderous thug…a case that united the conservatives’ hatred of burdensome gun laws and the liberals’ love of nonwhite drug-trafficking murderous thugs. To claim that this temporary union means Jumanji is “rebelling” against Biden is dumb enough to beg the question: Has anyone ever seen Dinesh D’Souza and Ishani Chokshi in the same place at the same time?
    Last edited by Anti Federalist; 06-26-2023 at 06:16 AM.
    “The Party told you to reject the evidence of your eyes and ears. It was their final, most essential command.”
    ― George Orwell, 1984

  7. #275
    The Week That Perished

    July 2, 2023


    The Week’s Most Shirkin’, Twerkin’, and Fireworkin’ Headlines


    Immigration’s taken a terrible toll on American farce.

    Three’s Company was a pre-diversity TV show in which every episode revolved around a character misreading a situation and never asking for clarification.


    Mr. Angelino (bursting into the apartment and hustling Jack into the kitchen, to the confusion of Janet and Chrissy): “Jack, my boy, famous French chef Pierre Brûlée got ptomaine from his pâté! I need you to fill in for him at the restaurant critics dinner!”

    Jack: “But this is my weekend off with the girls!”

    Angelino: “I’ll pay you overtime!”

    Jack: “No, sir, I can’t…”

    Angelino: “TRIPLE overtime!”

    Jack: “Sold!”

    Angelino: “But remember, Brûlée is world-renowned; those are some big shoes to fill.”

    (Chrissy starts listening at the kitchen door)

    Jack: “Well, no matter how much work it takes, I will fill the shoes!”

    Chrissy (running to Janet): “Oh no! Jack just said he’s gonna KILL the JEWS!”

    That episode ends with Janet and Chrissy enlisting Simon Wiesenthal, who discovers that Jack is innocent but it all works out okay because salad chef Felipe is revealed to be Josef Mengele.

    America can’t produce that kind of comedy anymore. Last week in El Paso, Latino immigrant-American Phoebe Copas got into an Uber driven by Latino immigrant-American Daniel Piedra Garcia, and when she saw road signs for Juarez, she thought she was being kidnapped and taken to Mexico. In fact, Garcia was heading to Copas’ destination; the Juarez signs merely pointed to off-ramps.

    Hilarity did not ensue; killarity did. Based on a misunderstanding that could’ve been solved by simply asking, Copas blew Garcia’s head off with her handgun.

    Immigration has imported a terrible class of sitcom bimbos.

    And no laugh track can make it funny.


    The 1985 Michael J. Fox film Teen Wolf tried to popularize “urban surfing”—white teens balancing on top of vans while riding at high speeds through city streets.

    Maybe kids were just smarter back then, but it never caught on in real life. Perhaps there was something about Fox that screamed “don’t follow in my footsteps,” and given his current state of affairs, that proved to be solid advice.

    But now “urban contemporary surfing” has become all the rage in enriched America. Kids of color are making TikTok videos while riding on top of subway cars throughout NYC.

    And the results would make even Wile E. Coyote wince.

    In an ironic turn of events, black kids—whose ancestors supposedly invented peanut butter—are being turned into peanut butter while riding subway cars. Like 14-year-old Brian Crespo, who was surfin’ a Manhattan-bound L train in Brooklyn when a tunnel approached. This would-be traffic light inventor didn’t understand that amber means caution, and in a splat second the young black hero went from Arthur Ashe to Arthur Smashe.

    New York transit authorities were going to scrape off Crespo’s remains, but they couldn’t tell the difference between his detritus and the graffiti that already lined the tunnel entrance.

    And now Crespo’s mother, and relatives of NYC’s other Benjamin BAMekers, are demanding that Mayor Adams deploy an army of cops to prevent the city’s Splat Turners from riding on top of subways.

    Ain’t that something? The same people who insisted that cops be taken out of the subway, that fare-jumpers not be prosecuted, that deranged homeless Michael Jackson impressionists not be stopped from terrorizing passengers, now want cops put back because W.E.B. DumbBois can’t comprehend the risk of standing on a speeding train.

    Black Lives Spatter.


    Remember the dongle gal? Back in 2013, a black “software developer” at a computer programming convention was eavesdropping on two white dudes who were having a private conversation, and when one of the dudes made an innocent joke about dongles (a hardware that was literally named to encourage humor), she took a photo of him, publicly shamed him, and got him fired.

    The woman, Adria Richards, was no peanut butter inventor, though word has it she only got her job as a developer because somebody smeared the substance on her gums to make it appear as though she could speak.

    “Donglegate” divided the online community (a.k.a. the “village of the crazies” from Gymkata), with some defending the right of the white guys to speak quietly among themselves, while others defended Richards. After all, she was in a room in which a guy who was neither addressing her nor speaking in a volume she could hear made an off-color but tame comment to a friend. And since black women have a right (for reasons yet to be explained) to control what every human being on earth is doing at all times, obviously the white guy should’ve watched his words and expected that Richards would be listening.

    That was ten years ago. And it’s fascinating to see how America’s gone from “don’t make an even slightly off-color remark in a room where a woman might hear” to “wave your penis in the face of children; it’s liberating.”

    Naked male revelers at last week’s Seattle “Pride Parade” brazenly waved their fleshy dongles at children, and leftists say that’s totally cool.

    A dongle joke whispered between two men? Sexual harassment. Sticking an actual penis in the face of a female child? Enrichment!!! Diversity!!! Empowerment!!!

    In just a few years, we’ve gone from “#MeToo” to “Meat? Oooh!”

    And if that doesn’t make sense to you, well…good. It means you’re still sane.


    Following the outcry regarding the Pride Parade flashers, former Star Trek actor–turned–glory-hole valet George Takei (a man who feigns outrage at having been interned as a child in a camp where men and boys were forced to shower together) tweeted that gay men should not stop flashing children because if they do, right-wingers will simply invent images of gay men flashing children:

    Even if there were no naked guys on bikes this year, they would find picture or generate them and push the same agenda anyway. There’s no “fixing” this by calling for self-censoring.

    So basically, “don’t stop doing a bad thing, because your political foes will just say you did it anyway, so you might as well do it.” That might not be the most retarded take ever—after all, as long as Joy Reid exists, nobody else can lay claim to the “most stupid comment” prize. But boy, this comes close.

    And this comes closer. Anthropomorphic hemorrhoid Brian Krassenstein tweeted “Seeing a man naked on a bike isn’t going to have much of an impact on any kid. They have likely see their father or bother naked before.”

    Krassenstein likely meant “brother” not “bother,” but let’s not split hairs about spelling; that a hemorrhoid can write anything is impressive enough.

    But again, we get something that’s very difficult to reconcile with “#MeToo.”

    “If that woman’s coworker flashes his junk at her, it’s unlikely to have any impact. She’s probably seen her father or brother naked before.”

    Either dirlywangers can be flashed without consent, or they can’t.

    There’s middle ground in many political debates:

    “By gum, that road tax is exorbitant! I say, reduce the tax and allow the private sector to step in.”

    “Nay, say I, the road tax is needed, and shall pay for itself in increased productivity for commuters.”

    But sometimes there’s just no middle ground. Like waving willies at kids.

    “Flashing penises at children is okay because if you don’t do it a right-winger will pretend you did so go ahead and do it anyway and besides that child probably saw his dad’s winkle already so no harm done” isn’t so much a political debate as a reason to regret that monkeypox wasn’t as apocalyptic as AIDS.


    Pride Month is finally coming to an end, and for most Americans it’s like standing in a room walled with mirrors and if you look over one shoulder there’s an infinity mirror Black History Month and if you look over the other shoulder there’s an infinity mirror Pride Month. These “months” seem eternal.

    But we can hope that, at their scheduled supposed conclusions, we can at least slightly stop talking about them.

    So here’s one final Pride Month story to close out that which unfortunately never closes out.

    Last week, marchers at the NYC Pride event in Manhattan minced through town chanting, “We’re here, we’re *****, we’re coming for your children.”

    When called out by conservatives who were like, “When we say you’re coming for our children, we get canceled, but you just admitted it yourself,” the gay activists told the press they were just being ironic!

    Irony bros. Or, irony *****. “Owning” the slurs used against them to “provoke” their foes.

    Fair enough. And to be honest, that tactic would make the identity months we’re forced to suffer through way more entertaining if all the identitarians employed it.

    Black History Month: “We’re here, you should fear, if we get cold fries we’ll kill the cashier.”

    Hispanic History Month: “We’re here, we swam in under the pier, we’ll run you over after getting some beer.”

    Asian History Month: “We’re here, we can’t steer, we’re poor drivers with inscrutable veneer.”

    Jewish History Month: “We’re here…and even an ironic rhyme about us will get you banned from traveling in Europe so don’t even think about it, Cletus.”

    Is there an identity month in July? Or are we allowed a 4th that can for once not be about race or gender?

    If so, happy July 4th.

    We’re here, shed a tear, the end might be very damn near.
    “The Party told you to reject the evidence of your eyes and ears. It was their final, most essential command.”
    ― George Orwell, 1984

  8. #276
    The Week That Perished


    July 09, 2023

    The Week’s Most Swaying, Slaying, and Dog Daying Headlines


    Way to go, Indy. You saved Hitler.


    In Raiders of the Lost Ark, Hitler insists on being the first to open the Ark, and if Indy had let that happen, Adolf and the entire Nazi leadership would’ve become melty-faced corpses. But to save his own skin, Indy persuades Belloq to open the Ark on an island before proceeding to Berlin.

    So Hitler lives and the Holocaust happens.

    Indiana Jones? More like endy-all-da-Cohens.

    Okay, that was a stretch.

    And now, in the franchise-killing, box-office-flopping final chapter Dial of Destiny (we’d say “spoiler alert,” but you can’t spoil something that’s already rancid), Indy saves Hitler once more. Turns out the NASA Nazi villain only wants the Archimedes time machine so he can go back to 1939 and assassinate Hitler.

    And Indy pulls out every stop to make sure that Hitler lives and the Holocaust happens.

    Indiana Jones? More like kiln-de-Juden-bones.

    Okay, that one’s unforgivably bad. That one’s a war crime.

    There are a thousand reasons to hate the new Indiana Jones film, but the fact that this marks the third time Indy saves Hitler (including when he just gawked at him without murdering him in Last Crusade) really makes you wonder whether Spielberg saw Schindler’s List’s ending as a downer.


    Saying that somebody “knows where the bodies are buried” means that a person has knowledge of dirty secrets that they’re leveraging for wealth and favor.

    Well, Kathleen Kennedy may not know where the bodies are buried, but she damn well knows where the heads are.

    As the woke lunatic who destroyed the Star Wars and Indiana Jones franchises, it can be argued that Kennedy has lost more investor money than Sam Bankman-Fried and Elizabeth Holmes combined. Yet she never faces consequences. Never gets fired, never gets reassigned.

    Kennedy’s the genius who decided that the Star Wars fan base needed an explanation for Han Solo’s name. She literally thought that Han Solo’s name should have an origin story.

    “Oh, you’re a loner? Then I’m gonna name you solo.”

    Too bad that didn’t catch on for other reboots.

    “Hey, Travis the cabbie, yer eatin’ a big pickle. Hmm…big pickle…I’ll call you BICKLE!”

    “Tony, your love of cocaine is as large as the Great Plains. I’ll call you MONTANA!”

    “Yarrrrrr, I wuz one of five children at birth. That be why they calls me QUINT!”

    Kennedy is a pigeon who stands on statues of great things and filthies them.

    But why is her rampage never quelled? Well, as recounted in multiple news articles from the time (all strangely absent from Kennedy’s Wikipedia page), in 1982, when director John Landis decided to set the Guinness world record for fastest mass decapitation (two children and one adult in half a second), producer Steven Spielberg was accused of knowing that the kids—immigrants who barely spoke English and whose parents knew nothing of labor laws—had been hired illegally, taken to the desert, and forced to perform surrounded by live ammo at 2 a.m., which violates a few laws of man and all the laws of decency. So Kennedy fell on her sword for Spielberg, taking the blame and the heat.

    And now she can do anything she wants. She can literally bankrupt any Spielberg/Lucas franchise.

    Because she knows where the heads are buried. And them skulls might not be crystal, but they’re worth their weight in gold.

    The cover-up of Kennedy’s complicity in the death of two children is especially maddening considering that Wikipedia never omits negative content from the pages of rightists. Steve Sailer’s Wiki devotes 1,000 words to the time he burned some tater tots, and David Cole’s page devotes an entire section to the time he farted and blamed a dog. That omission is all the more baffling, as that dog went on to become Joy Reid.


    Before he got canceled for waving his star’s wangled banner in front of random ladies, Louis CK used to do a routine called “niggger at the forklift,” about a black gentleman who falls asleep while operating a—well, you can guess from the title—forklift.

    The theme of the bit is that people express annoyance that the black fellow fell asleep at the forklift.

    In light of recent events, that story might represent the best-case scenario of a black man at a forklift.

    Last week in Maryland a 20-year-old enricher named Bryce Caleb Timothy Brown (Maryland’s slavery reparations program grants all foundational black Americans extra first names) stole a forklift from the Lowe’s where he was employed, smashed it through the gated compound where it was stored, drove it to a Home Depot, and flattened a 73-year-old woman named Gloristine Pinkney who had the misfortune of being in the way as Brown black-pride-paraded through the parking lot.

    Why did Brown commit his rampage? Who knows? To fight racism? To “take up space”? Or maybe when Gloristine Pinkney was a younger woman she’d cooked up some cold-ass fries instead of them good fries and Brown was merely seeking justice.

    Does the reason even matter? What matters is that Bryce Caleb Timothy John Jacob Jingleheimer Brown was not asleep at the forklift. He was woke. And when he saw an old woman in the parking lot of a rival home improvement store, he was like, “It’s time to Wile E. Coyote the ‘where’s the beef’ bitch.”

    A peanut sat on a railroad track,
    His heart was all a-flutter,
    Around came a choo-choo train,
    Woo-woo, peanut butter!

    It’s good to see peanut butter inventors reinventing that popular children’s tune.

    A peanut butter inventor sat on a forklift mat,
    His heart was all a-flush,
    Oh look, an innocent elderly gal,
    Woo-woo, sidewalk mush!


    Washington, D.C.

    The White House.

    A beat-up Peugeot sputters up to the Oval Office through the hole in the gate left by that Hindu guy with the swastika. The door opens. Lieutenant Columbo, wrinkled raincoat, half-smoked cigar, exits.

    Sergeant Wilson: “We got a messy one, Lieutenant. Cocaine was found in the White House. It’s a real scandal.”

    Columbo: “Who found it?”

    Wilson: “An old man named Biden. He’s either the president or a dementia patient who thinks he’s the president. We’ve got him here for questioning.”

    Columbo: “Sir, where did you find the cocaine?”

    Biden: “Listen, Jack, that ain’t no gotta done by the look man I mean hey where’s fat [intense whisper] not done man!”

    Columbo: “Well, that was uniquely unhelpful.”

    Wilson: “Here’s the shrieking maniac who claims to be his vice president.”

    Columbo: “Ma’am, what can you tell us about the coke?”

    Harris (laughing hysterically): “Whhuh-yuh-hoook whhuh-yuh-hoook I mean right? A-haaaack we all know, right? Huh? Right? Hoook-hoook eee-ga-hee-ga-hark!”

    Columbo: “Okay, clearly everyone here is high. From the cackling lunatic to the dementia patient to the dementia patient’s wife who thinks she’s a doctor. But that doesn’t answer the question of who brought the cocaine into the building. So just one more thing…is there a known cocaine addict who visited the place before the coke was found?”

    Wilson: “Yes, sir, the dementia guy’s son. He’s a cokehead.”

    Columbo: “You know, you really didn’t need me on this case.”

    Wilson: “Sorry, sir. But the press doesn’t want us to pin the coke found at the White House on the coke addict who visited the White House. So we were hoping you could find some different angle.”

    Columbo: “Maybe just pin it on that Oriental guy?”

    Xi Jinping (carting boxes of classified documents from the White House Situation Room): “Hey, I only do opium, dogface.”


    And sticking with nose candy fun from Joe’s randy son…

    Two months after 9/11, and less than a month after the anthrax attacks, a plane was quarantined at LAX when a white powder was found in the bathroom. The plane and all its passengers were taken to a special decontamination hangar constructed for biological threats.

    As the families of those on board nervously waited in the main terminal for word on their loved ones, the all-clear was given. Turned out the white substance was just coke. No anthrax or ricin. No akbar, just crackbar. And the funny thing about the story is that the phrases “just coke” and “only cocaine” were used in every news story. The point being, America had just been through horrific events of such magnitude, finding a mysterious substance and learning that it’s “only cocaine” was a genuine relief.

    So when cocaine was found at the White House last week, and everyone in the press feigned shock or outrage, the question that comes to mind is, considering what’s been in the White House recently, is coke really worse?

    Worse than, say, the fact that only a few weeks ago Biden hosted a party for mentally ill men who’d had their penises surgically removed and mentally ill women who’d had unnecessary mastectomies, and these freaks flashed selfies on the White House lawn, showing off the nub where their dirlywanger had been and the massive scars where doctors who are totally not Mengele had cut off healthy breasts because the patient saw a TikTok video?

    Coke ain’t that bad in comparison. Cole Porter sang of it. You know what Cole Porter never sang about?

    I get a kick from a maim.
    A guy with real balls, doesn’t thrill me at all,
    So tell me why should it be true,
    That I cut the breasts off of you.
    “The Party told you to reject the evidence of your eyes and ears. It was their final, most essential command.”
    ― George Orwell, 1984

  9. #277
    The Week That Perished


    July 16, 2023

    The Week’s Most Knowing, Crowing, and Beachgoing Headlines


    Last week the trailer for the new Willy Wonka prequel had its world premiere. Wonka stars delicate androgyne Timothée Chalamet as a young version of the eccentric chocolatier made famous by Gene Wilder (or as anyone under 25 knows him, “the meme guy”).

    True story: Warner Bros. initially wanted Ezra Miller for the part. Looks like the Flash isn’t the only one who dodges bullets.

    Wonka is an origin story, and in this origin, Willy has a young black girl as his sidekick. Yet this character appears neither in Roald Dahl’s book nor in the Wilder or Johnny Depp adaptations.

    What happened? What happened in between Willy Wonka hanging out with blacks and Willy Wonka with zero blacks in his life?

    The really interesting story seems to lie in that middle period: how Willy Wonka got radicalized.

    “Willy Wonka and the Charcoal Factor”

    Wonka: “Dammit! This is the fifth break-in this month! Why is this happening?”

    The Oompa-Loompas start singing:

    Oompa-Loompa doompadee-doo,
    I’ve got a perfect puzzle for you.
    Oompa-Loompa doompadee-dee,
    This is why from big cities we flee.

    Wonka: “Interesting…go on.”

    Who in the world has the duskiest hue?
    The highest murder rate and the lowest IQ?
    The worst neighborhoods, and the most bastard kids,
    They move in next door, and your block hits the skids.
    And for that you can blame the Yids.

    Wonka: “Whoa, whoa, I am not comfortable with this at all!”

    Oompa-Loompa doompadee-dilt,
    Racial awakening frees you from guilt.
    Start incrementally or you’ll get too shook,
    You’ll get more based the deeper you look.
    Now read this Jared Taylor book.

    And one month later, the factory’s chocolate is all white.


    In American politics, there are three cardinal rules:

    (1) No president who wins a major war can lose an election.

    (2) A president who bogs the nation down in an unpopular war cannot be reelected.

    (3) Any president who promises a free lunch and delivers will win reelection in a landslide.

    Yep, those rules are ironclad. They never fail.

    Except for the last three Republican presidents.

    Good thing Trump signed that $2.2 trillion Covid relief package; otherwise he might’ve lost. And giving out all that dough with zero verification has proved not so much a free lunch as an open CVS on a black pride parade route.

    Under Trump, Americans never got tired of skinning.

    According to an article in last week’s Rolling Stone, the final tally of CARES Act fraud may reach one trillion dollars, or nearly half of all handouts.

    Rolling Stone lists several notable scammers, including rapper “Nuke Bizzle,” who got $700,000 by using fake addresses, and a woman in Minnesota who, by claiming to run a “feed the children” charity, scammed $250 million, which she used to “buy property in Kenya.”

    For $250 million you could probably just buy Kenya.

    Most of the heavy-duty scammers got their money by creating phony businesses to claim additional Covid hardship. A few cases left out of the article:

    A black man in Brooklyn received $10 million for his “Black Customer/Bodega Owner Friendship Society” (he’s now in prison. Not for the con but because he murdered a bodega owner), an Asian man in San Francisco claimed the lockdown forced the closure of his “putting pee-pee in Coke” business, a schizophrenic African immigrant in Manhattan received $30 million because the lockdown put him out of his job (throwing commuters under trains), and a Salvadoran immigrant in L.A. received $50 million because the closure of public parks destroyed his career of stalking and murdering female joggers.

    Some disasters bring out the best in people. Covid was not one of them.

    A-I A-I OH

    Hollywood celebrities are up in arms over AI! And why wouldn’t they be? Can you think of anything Hollywood celebrities are not up in arms about? Who you vote for, what you eat, what you drive, even your skin color. There ain’t nothin’ that doesn’t make Hollywood celebrities angry.

    Well, except child molesters and black murderers. Hollywood celebrities are fine with them.

    “Comedian” Sarah Silverman is suing OpenAI for using her copyrighted material to “train artificial intelligence language models.” The suit charges that OpenAI used Silverman’s work to train ChatGPT to deliver “realistic human responses” to user prompts.

    It’s going to be difficult to dispute that claim. After all, if you ask ChatGPT “how do you poach an egg,” you get an abortion pill joke in response.

    And Silverman’s not the only comic whose routines were used to train ChatGPT.

    Jerry Seinfeld, for example.

    “Hey, ChatGPT: What’s the most nutritious breakfast cereal?”

    ChatGPT: “What’s the deal with Franken Berry? Is he supposed to be a corpse? Maybe we shouldn’t be eating what he’s eating. ‘Oh, I’ll have what the zombie’s having.’ And what’s with Boo Berry? Isn’t he a ghost? When did we start letting the dead dictate our breakfast? I mean, c’mon.”


    ChatGPT: “And the Trix Rabbit? What is with him? You’re really gonna eat tiny round things that come from a rabbit? Who thought this was appetizing?”

    Unfortunately, OpenAI also absorbed the work of Carlos Mencia.

    “Hey, ChatGPT: What’s the capital of Bulgaria?”

    ChatGPT: “What’s the capital of Bulgaria?”

    “You just repeated what I said!”

    ChatGPT: “Naw, man, this is like my own, original question.”

    Hopefully ChatGPT never gets around to Carrot Top.


    Sticking with an AI theme…

    Black attorney Jonathan Perkins has a “storied” history. While a law school student at UVA, he fabricated a racially based police harassment incident, later confessing that he faked the claim to “spark discussion.” The university refused to discipline him because administrators feared that punishing a fake police harassment charge might frighten blacks into not reporting real ones (why does anyone send their kid to college anymore?).

    More recently, as UCLA’s Director of Race & Equity (of course), Perkins wished death on Clarence Thomas.

    And he got another free pass from whitey!

    Last week, a Perkins tweet went viral. He tweeted a photo of an outdoor lunch gathering of about 30 white people and asked, “Serious question for well-meaning white people. When you show up at a get-together like this, do you notice there are zero Black people, or nah? If so, do you say or do anything about it? To who? Please be honest.”

    Yes, whites must never gather without at least one black present.

    Trouble is—and, to no one’s surprise, Perkins is too stupid (in spite of or because of his UVA degree) to get this—the “one-black-per-whitey-outing” plan is mathematically impossible. With 188 million whites and 37 million blacks, it just can be done. There ain’t enough blacks.

    But AI could remedy this. Filmmakers always assumed that artificially intelligent machines would be used as soldiers or assassins. But no. Their most likely use will be to ensure that there’s a black at every white gathering.

    “AI BlackFriend” (commissioned by President Newsom in 2030) will sit at your table and complain about the potato salad. Equipped with heat sensors, your AI BlackFriend will scan french fries for temperature. Deadly lasers will mete out punishment to the server should the fries not be hot enough. A female version of AI BlackFriend will ask you to touch her hair, then spit out (via attached printer) a 10,000-word Atlantic essay about white people touching her hair. Which she’ll read aloud and anyone who tries to leave the table will have to deal with the lasers.

    Think this is improbable? A fantasist like Jonathan Perkins is likely hard at work on it now.


    Remember Project 10? In the 1980s it was the nation’s leading “gay rights” groups (nobody did the alphabet crap back then). Project 10 was founded by L.A. science teacher Virginia Uribe, a lesbian with a sexual fetish for nuns (that’s not a joke).

    Uribe would watch The Blues Brothers just to pleasure herself to the orphanage scene; she was the only girl with a pinup of Mary Wickes.

    Uribe formed Project 10 to keep gays from dying of AIDS. Unfortunately, all her employees died of AIDS, so Project 10 switched to focusing on gay kids (or as they were known back then, “pre-AIDS”), becoming an official arm of the L.A. Unified School District (sparking parental protests much like we’re seeing today).

    Why was the group called “Project 10”? Because Uribe, relying on data from sociologists, believed that 10 percent of the population is gay.

    Today, the late Ms. Uribe would be considered a homophobe.

    10 percent? That’s Hitler talk. That’s genocidal. Indeed, Uribe’s Wiki page prevents any mention of why she chose her org’s name. Trans ideology dictates that kids must be taught that at least half or more of them might need to cut off their breasts or wiener in order to be “normal.” A teacher telling schoolkids that “only” 10 percent of them are gay and an even smaller percentage trans would get a personal “oy, you’re fired” from the frog/human hybrid known as Randi Weingarten.

    A recent study at Brown University showed that 40 percent of the students now identify as “LGBT.” That’s up 793 percent since 2010.

    Uribe got her kicks imagining herself as a fearless fighter for a besieged minority. A regular Shirley Chis-**** (or if a nun’s in the room, Daisy Master-Bates). Once every kid declares as LGBT, what will the Uribes of today do?

    Fight for the 10 percent straights? Unlikely. More likely, they’ll start a purge against the poseur LGBTs, the faddists who’ve taken all the fun out of being gay.
    “The Party told you to reject the evidence of your eyes and ears. It was their final, most essential command.”
    ― George Orwell, 1984

  10. #278

    The Week’s Most Spiking, Striking, and Skirt-Hiking Headlines
    The Writers Guild strike is like a Rocky IV alternate ending. Drago says, “I must break you,” Rocky says, “Go for it,” and Drago KOs him with one punch.
    The writers who created the race-over-quality crap that’s bankrupting the studios now want the cash-strapped studios to pay more for the very content that made them cash-strapped in the first place.
    Last week Deadline reported that the studios have decided to break the writers. Starve ’em. There’ll be no negotiations until Halloween, because by then the writers will be broke after six months of unemployment. The studios will then say, “Winter’s coming…still wanna play hardball?”
    So now, in an effort to subvert that strategy, writers are looking for work—any work—to keep money in their pockets. Problem is, the real world has little use for their “particular set of skills.”
    Lumber Yard Manager: “Damn, this new shipment of Hemlock’s got ring shake. Hey, new guy—any ideas?”
    Writer: “Let’s have a black woman walk through the lumberyard looking noble. She’ll stare straight ahead with the dignity of a thousand queens. From her very soul she fights passionately for justice. Is she perfect? No. Sometimes she cares too much.”
    Manager: “You’re fired.”
    IHOP Manager: “Hey, idiot, that’s the fifth order you’ve botched. Didn’t you watch the training video?”
    Writer: “Yes, and I rewrote it to star a transgender Ghanaian in the lead.”
    Manager: “Christ, I shoulda hired a Mexican.”
    Museum Owner: “Hey, night janitor…you Sharpied the faces in the paintings black!”
    Writer: “Yep! Now the museum’s diverse.”
    Owner: “Those were Rembrandts; we’re ruined!”
    Writer: “Gimme a raise.”
    Following the 2020 BLM riots, black activists demanded that SAG-AFTRA bring MOAR BLACKS into the union.

    Remember how, from 2020 onward, it seemed like every online or TV commercial only had blacks in it? Well, that wasn’t just social engineering. It was actors getting SAG cards. The most common way for an actor to get Taft-Hartleyed into the union is via commercials. So all those black faces in TV and online ads, that was hundreds of black actors being fast-tracked to union membership.
    At the same time, black activists forced streamers to air endless black content, regardless of quality. Leslie Jones as Princess Grace, Don Cheadle as Charles de Gaulle. Malcolm-Jamal Warner and Tempestt Bledsoe as Pierre and Marie Curie.
    Nobody watched.
    So the streamers went bankrupt and lowered wages, the actors balked, the streamers were like, “We don’t have the dough because the woke content killed us,” and the actors went on strike.
    And now all those black actors fast-tracked to union membership can’t work! All because of the woke content forced on the streamers by the same people who forced the union fast-tracking.
    Meanwhile, white actors who lost out on roles that would’ve given them union membership can work, because they’re nonunion.
    Now, that’s irony. Not so much funny as hugely satisfying. The blacks Wile E. Coyote’d themselves. Again.
    SAG rules do allow striking actors to work in low-budget indie films, the kind not bound by the “equity quotas” the streamers had to sign in 2020. Meaning that, should black actors try to work during the strike, they’ll be competing against whites fairly for the first time in three years. And that probably scares them more than trudging a picket line in the summer sun.
    Again, not so much funny as immensely pleasing.
    Two stories last week starkly illustrate the difference between blacks and whites in 2023 America.
    At NYU, white educators held a “whites only” seminar to combat “white racism.” And while rightists are dunking on the obvious irony—whites fighting racism by holding a whites-only event—the reason the event was whites-only is funnier: Whites have become so certain that their hateful words harm black people (if you dare mention the race of the man who mugged you, fifty black women will have miscarriages), the whites in the seminar were afraid that if a black person overheard them confessing their racism, they’d literally die.
    Whites are Muad’Dib from Lynch’s Dune: They can kill with a word.
    So as NYC whites were huddled together behind closed doors whispering their sins so as not to befoul the air, in Connecticut a black man named Shaky Joseph showed that blacks ain’t about to return the favor, as he befouled the air, the roads, and about a hundred white people.
    Joseph, a self-employed truck driver, hitched a tank of human waste to his rig and drove down the interstate spraying everything in his path.
    It was a bad day to own a convertible in Connecticut.
    Initially, drivers assumed that Joseph was unaware of the leak. But after calling the “how’m I driving” number on the side of the cab (which should’ve read “how’m I driting”), shocked motorists learned that Shakey was purposely transforming Interstate 95 into Interstate No. 2.
    After turning every car behind him into a Deuce Coup, Joseph found himself pursued by cops in black-and-whites that quickly became black-and-blacks. Exiting the interstate, Joseph brought his “black dreckcellence” to city streets, turning dozens of pedestrians into Al Jolson impersonators. It was here cops finally put an end to the Killdoozer rampage. “BM and the Bear” was taken into custody; he was charged with assault and scattery.
    Ten civilian vehicles, two police cruisers, and a tractor-trailer crashed from slipping-and-sliding. The 95 was closed for three hours while the roadway was cleaned, probably by the busload of Mexican illegals Mayor Adams recently sent to Connecticut. And following the human waste cleanup, the old saying proved true: “Immigration is our stench.”
    And there you have present-day race relations in a nutshell: whites cowering in fear of offending blacks, and blacks toasting leftist white fragility with, “Here’s mud in your eye.”
    Some people have skeleton-filled closets.
    Others have John Wayne Gacy’s crawl space.
    British tranny activist Sarah Jane Baker has quite the past. Baker, who recently made headlines for telling “her” followers to “punch TERFS in the face,” is actually Alan Baker, who in 1989 was imprisoned for kidnapping a teenager and torturing him for 24 hours—burning, beating, and cutting him, stomping his kneecaps, and forcing him to perform oral sex at knifepoint.

    The judge in the case called Baker’s crime “an exercise in sadism.”
    Dylan Mulvaney calls it “a first date.”
    Baker got seven years…then thirty more after trying to murder a fellow inmate. And now he’s free, in a wig and dress, telling people to beat up women who believe women exist.
    Nice to know prison reformed him.
    Baker’s the subject of weepy videos in which he slams the British justice system for not allowing him “makeup, wigs, and tights” in prison. Too bad he wasn’t imprisoned in California, where tranny murderer Skylar Deleon, who slaughtered three people to pay for his sex change, was able to order an “anal sex machine” via the prison’s computer (if you’re in prison and need a machine to anally rape you, you’re not getting around enough).
    As “Sarah” Baker was advocating the beating of women, across the pond in New Hampshire, Barry Laughton—a.k.a. “Stacie” Laughton, the nation’s first tranny lawmaker—was arrested for distributing naked photos of toddlers.
    Laughton, who rocks the “Clint Howard with rosacea” look, had previously been arrested for bomb threats and stalking.
    But once he turned tranny, all was forgotten!
    Until the naked kiddie pics turned up on his phone.
    He thought he’d erased his past…but he forgot the 1,000 photos of children’s genitalia.
    Undone by one little slipup.
    That a dude can erase his entire history by going tranny, and nobody’s allowed to ask about it, ranks with New Coke in the “anals” of bad ideas (and to be fair, New Coke never molested kids).

    It took only 22 years, but leftists have finally soured on Muslims.
    Three thousand people killed on 9/11?
    “Hey, that had nothing to do with Islam. It could’ve been any group! Those Amish are pretty sketchy.”
    Dozens murdered for drawing Muhammad?
    “Like you’ve never been angry at a cartoon? Let Charlie Brown kick the football, you bitch!”
    Theo van Gogh beheaded?
    “Oh, I see…a Dutchman cuts off his ear, he gets a Don McLean song. But a Muslim cuts off a head, he’s a monster. How Islamophobic!”
    But now, as Muslims in North America fight back against tranny ideology in schools, leftists are forced to find fault with the religion of peace.
    Well, kinda.
    Last week retarded man-child Justin Trudeau spoke at Calgary’s Baitun Nur Mosque (this is Muslim slang for stringing a girl along just to get laid. “Hey, Abdul—you really gonna marry Inaya?” “Naw, I’m just baitin’ ’er mosque”). And the akbars went on the attackbar against “Robin Williams as Jack as Prime Minister,” berating Trudeau for not respecting their religion by forcing their children to accept trannyism.
    Trudeau’s response? “You’re being brainwashed by the Christian right!”
    Yeah, that’s likely. As if Muslims are so weak-willed they can be mind-controlled by people of other faiths. If that were true, Israel would’ve employed that tactic fifty years ago. Let’s be honest: If you can’t be behavior-modified by Jews, you sure as hell can’t be behavior-modified by Christians.
    The fact that conservatives are now teaming up with Muslims shows just how foul the tranny agenda is.
    September 11, 2001: “Them damn sand-nigras! I ain’t never gonna forgive ’em for this!”
    “What if they’re the only thing keeping schools from castrating your kids?”
    Never attempt to teach a pig to sing; it wastes your time and annoys the pig.

    Robert Heinlein

    Give a man an inch and right away he thinks he's a ruler

    Groucho Marx

    I love mankind…it’s people I can’t stand.

    Linus, from the Peanuts comic

    You cannot have liberty without morality and morality without faith

    Alexis de Torqueville

    Those who fail to learn from the past are condemned to repeat it.
    Those who learn from the past are condemned to watch everybody else repeat it

    A Zero Hedge comment

  11. #279
    The Week That Perished


    July 30, 2023

    The Week’s Most Lean, Mean, and Augustine Headlines


    June 2021, Downtown L.A.—A Mexican had been stockpiling illegal fireworks (the only thing Mexis love more than drunk driving is setting off fireworks; the Mexican dream is driving drunk in a car that shoots off fireworks like the battletruck in Land of the Dead). When cops removed the explosives, they overloaded the kaboomie-containment vehicle, which was built to detonate 33 pounds at a time.

    They stuffed in 40.

    The truck exploded, taking out 22 homes, 13 businesses, and 37 vehicles. Seventeen people were hurt, 80 were displaced.

    As this part of L.A. is laden with sidewalk-sleeping transients, the difficult task following the explosion involved separating the strewn bodies of Mexicans blown through their roof from the everyday pavement schizophrenics.

    “Excuse me, were you just blown across your yard?”

    “Lionel Richie uses Little Debbie cakes to paralyze my foot Falana.”

    “Sorry to disturb you, sir.” [Moves to the next body] “Excuse me, were you just blown across your yard?”

    “Sí, señor. I am gardener but today I feel like the leaf.”

    Leftists tried to get the beans to riot. To at least protest.


    So last week the L.A. Times “outed” the officers who miscalculated the explosion, hoping that because the offending cops are white, the Mexis might riot.

    No luck!

    The only person angry about the explosion (except the whites at the Times) is local anti-Jewish communist “educator” Ron Gochez (and frankly, his accusation that the fireworks were genetically altered to spare Ashkenazi Jews is a little suspect).

    The political passivity of L.A.’s Mexicans is a huge stumbling block for L.A. leftists, the only people in the county mourning the absence of blacks.


    The Civil War pitted brother against brother. And America’s ongoing conflict between black customers and fast-food workers over food temperature (the Sizzle War) pits brutha against brutha. But last week the war took an even more tragic turn, pitting worker against worker and customer against customer.

    First to New Orleans, where Applebee’s server Boderrick Donya Ford (which sounds like an Irishman cursing out his car) complained that the cooks were taking too long on the chicken. When the cooks lifted their shirts to reveal the bullet wounds they’d received for serving food that wasn’t hot enough, Ford told one of the cooks that she’d “pop him” after work.

    In a city where the majority population wants its food cooked both super fast and piping hot, and the penalty for failing at either is death, cooks should get frontline pay.

    True to her word, Boderrick waited for the cook after work and ran him over with her car.

    Boderrick dunya with her Ford.

    Meanwhile, in Chicago, Carlisha Hood entered a hot dog joint as her teenage son stayed in the car. Apparently, Hood was taking way too long to order, so the traffic light inventor behind her saw red. He asked her to hurry up. Which prompted a flood of “oh no you dih’nt” from Hood, which prompted Snoop Hotdog to yell, “Just git yo food! Git yo food! You say one more thing I’m gon’ knock you out.”

    Hood continued yammering, but Adam Clayton POWell had good follow-through. With his fist.

    Talk about blood sausage.

    Naturally, the bystanders immediately restrained him. Oh wait, no. They laughed and let loose with “oh no he dih’nt!” But Hood’s son was no bystander. He ran inside and fatally shot the attacker three times in the back.

    And Chicago Polacks lowered their heads in mourning for a city where, once upon a time, ordering a kielbasa didn’t lead to violent death.


    There’s no consensus regarding how many people live in Newbern, Alabama. Some sites say 275. Wikipedia said 133, but a day later it was reduced to 131.

    What everybody agrees on is that the town’s 85 percent black.

    So why the inability to do the math on a population that small?

    Perhaps that’s what happens when you’ve beaten all your Asians to death.

    In fact, the reason for the rapidly decreasing count is that blacks are fleeing Newbern because there’s no fast food. There’s one general store, which goes out of its way to not sell “black products” (if the store’s name isn’t Whiteman Mayo, it should be). So black residents are forced to eat catfish from local creeks.

    Newbern recently made headlines when, for the first time in its history, a black man was elected mayor, having campaigned on a platform of bringing cheap food to Newbern so black residents can have something to shoot workers over (ever shot a catfish? It’s not satisfying at all. They don’t even wear weaves you can pull off in a fistfight). Unfortunately, even though the black gentleman, Patrick Braxton, won the election, the all-white town council refused to seat him.

    Even without McDonald’s, Newbern has a much higher violent-crime rate than the national average. Introduce fries into the equation? The population will dwindle like a Highlander movie until there’s only one, ripping out her own weave and tossing herself over the counter for lack of a sparring partner.

    Braxton has filed suit to be duly recognized as mayor.

    An amicus brief has been filed by the catfish, who are sick and tired of getting punched for being too cold.


    National Review: standing athwart history, yelling, “Hey, remember that time the Blow Monkeys were banned because Tipper Gore thought ‘blow’ referred to coke rather than sex? That was conservatism’s finest moment.”

    Last week was a weird one for cultural conservatism. Saucerhead Ben Shapiro condemned the Barbie blockbuster for having a “feminist” message, as if a movie about dolls shouldn’t appeal to girls.

    Yeah, what the Barbie movie lacked was Nick Searcy in a ten-gallon hat reading Thomas Sowell. Ten-year-old girls would’ve swooned over that (“Err-mah-gerd, Becca, systemic causation involves reciprocal interactions, rather than one-way causation”).

    It’s a movie about dolls. It’s not Phoebe London-Bridge hijacking an Indiana Jones flick or Melissa “don’t laugh at me because I’m fat; why aren’t you laughing at my fat high jinks?” McCarthy soiling the Ghostbusters legacy. It’s a movie about girldolls. So yes, it appeals to girls. Just because Barbie dolls don’t come with the Barbie Dream-mikvah shouldn’t be a reason for Benny Shapiro to attack the film.

    And while conservatives were yelling at dolls, oblivious to the far more important point that the massive success of the Barbie movie proves that filmgoers would rather look at a beautiful white girl than Leslie Jones, National Review weighed in on the Jason Aldean “Try That in a Small Town” controversy. NRO chupacabra Kathryn Lopez declared, “We need songs about virtue, not violence,” as she slammed Aldean for singing about guns. Lopez, whose business card reads “I’m proof they’re not sending their best,” praised Tipper Gore for trying to censor rock lyrics in the 1980s. Because that’s what Americans really care about in 2023!

    Lopez also blamed songs for making women get abortions. Were that true, surely 1986’s No. 1 hit “Papa Don’t Preach,” an “I’m not getting an abortion” anthem recorded by Madonna at the peak of her fame, would’ve led to lower abortion rates that year.

    Except, 1986/1987 saw a jump in U.S. abortions.

    When asked to comment on this snag in her “songs influence abortions” fallacy, Lopez said, “¡Me no comprende; taco taco burritos ay yi yi!”

    It’s a testament to the state of modern conservatism that as people are being mass-murdered in the street by black criminals, as the southern border’s thrown open to the world’s detritus, and as teachers tell children to cut off their genitals, NRO finds solace in attacking song lyrics.

    Thanks, William F. uckley.


    Still, pointless as it may be to spend hours dissecting a movie about dolls (though it should be noted that the film Strawberry Yellowcake was a moving portrait of a beloved doll who challenged George W. Bush’s Iraq War propaganda), it’s fun to imagine the havoc a real-life Barbie would wreak upon the world.

    Meet Alison Rose, CEO of National Westminster Bank, formerly abbreviated as NatWest until Nick Searcy kept showing up in his ten-gallon hat thinking it was a “change the culture” Western film costarring Kevin Sorbo as a horse’s anus and Gina Carano as a tick-filled tumbleweed.

    Ms. Rose, an over-the-hill blonde who likely got her job because she’s in possession of a used condom from some inbred royal, stepped down last week after it was revealed that she’d broken, like, ERR-MAH-GERD every rule in British banking by leaking the private account information of anti-immigration campaigner Nigel Farage.

    Turns out that in the U.K., where people branded as “racist” lose every right they ever had, the leaking of banking info is a Tower Bridge too far. Rose leaked the info to excuse why her bank closed Farage’s account. But just like the British criminals sent to the colonies Down Under, she threw a boomerang. Her flaunting of U.K. banking rules led to her own dismissal, and, being 54 and not nearly as hot as Elizabeth Holmes, her application for a Netflix biopic starring Dakota Fanning was swiftly rejected (though she was offered a role in the Benny Hill biopic as “stuffy dowager annoyed by farts”).

    It’s a fascinating irony; blonde bimbo sacrifices her career to kill the bank account of a man who’s dedicated his life to stopping the importation of Third World immigrants who rape blonde bimbos.

    Maybe the proper place for Barbies is the silver screen and not financial institutions.

    Conservatives should be at peace with that.
    “The Party told you to reject the evidence of your eyes and ears. It was their final, most essential command.”
    ― George Orwell, 1984

  12. #280
    The Week That Perished


    August 06, 2023

    The Week’s Most Spaying, Splaying, and Enola Gaying Headlines


    When Fran Drescher was elected president of SAG-AFTRA, it was only because people with more annoying voices were unavailable. Gilbert Gottfried and Screech are dead, and being Canadian, Geddy Lee’s ineligible.

    Drescher’s strike leadership has attracted the ire of another performer who’s made a career out of being an annoying Jew. Last week Sarah Silverman slammed Drescher for allowing too many waivers for “low budget” productions. In theory, the waivers allow striking actors to work in films that are entirely independent of big-name Hollywood producers (the people the actors are on strike against). But in practice, Drescher’s allowing A-list actors to keep raking in the bucks by giving waivers to Hollywood’s biggest filmmakers.

    Drescher has disputed Silverman’s accusation. “We’re only giving exemptions to films made by complete nobodies! Just yesterday I gave a waiver to a nice Jewish kid named Schmeven Schmielberg. And there’s this totally unknown independent filmmaker named Leorge Gucas. His films are so low-budget, the only set is a green felt wall! So many undiscovered outsiders have applied for waivers: Jeter Packson, Michael Bae, Glint Feastwood. That’s the point of the waivers—to give penniless newbies the ability to still employ A-listers. When I gave Leonardo DiCaprio an exemption to work with an up-and-comer named Fartin Scorsese, he said to me, ‘God bless you, Franny—you’re proof that racists are wrong about Ashkenazi IQ.’ Knowing that I’m contributing to the fight against racism makes it all worthwhile.”

    Even Mel Gibson, hard at work on the sequel to The Passion (“Passion 2: Savior Ass”), was able to weasel an exemption out of Drescher by changing the ending. As Jesus ascends to heaven, he falls back down and splats on the ground as Jews laugh at him like Nelson from The Simpsons.

    Gibson told Deadline, “Look, do you want the movie with Caviezel or without? Because Jim’s SAG, so compromises had to be made.”


    During the 1988 writers’ strike, the TV networks realized they could produce scripts they already owned. ABC, for example, did an entire season of Mission: Impossible by recycling the 1960s teleplays. As networks are allowed to update these scripts, here are a few suggestions for 2023 versions of old classics.

    “Charles in Charges.” Long-forgotten culturally irrelevant former TV child stars living under one roof spend their days accusing each other of sexual improprieties from 35 years ago. The catchy theme song is replaced by the actors shrieking, “I was a minor child,” at each other for two straight minutes.

    “The Malibuffalo.” After scamming half a billion bucks from a phony BLM charity, a water-buffalo-size ghetto girl moves to fancier digs as her old hood is overrun by immigrants.

    Come listen to a story ’bout a ho without bling,
    Twenty baby daddies, not a single wedding ring.
    Then one day she heard a wheezing sound,
    Fentanyl Floyd aspiratin’ on the ground.

    Well, next thing you know, Sharzette’s a millionaire,
    And the Mexicans screamed, “Move the f— away from here!”
    So she called her Swiss banker, and he told her what to do:
    She packed up the Porsche and moved the baes to ’bu (Malibu, that is, home of private beaches, no loitering laws, and other creative methods of keeping blacks out).

    In one episode, nosy neighbor Ms. Streisand worries that the rap music coming from the BLM mansion will interrupt her dinner with Klaus Schwab. To her dismay, she finds Schwab partying with Sharzette, because “this nasty-ass money-grubbin’ ho gets me, bitch!”

    “M.Д.S.H.” Hawkeye, Trapper, B.J., Radar, and Klinger are back, but this time they’re American contractors in Kyiv and they LOVE the war. Hawkeye’s sanctimonious antiwar speeches have been replaced with soundbites from Congress advocating increased aid to Zelensky.

    “L.A. Lawless.” The firm, under new senior partner Kamala Harris, now only works to free black criminals. In the pilot episode, everyone in the building is murdered by a freed black criminal. So hopefully the show doesn’t get a full-season order.

    To get around the SAG strike, networks will only use actors who are willing to cross a picket line for money. In other words, every actor ever.


    “You either die a hero or you live long enough to see yourself become the villain.”

    Or worse, you live long enough to become Rudy Giuliani.

    The question for 9/11 “truthers” isn’t how Building 7 managed to collapse so quickly, but how Rudy Giuliani managed to collapse in slow motion.

    Last week was a good one for dudes with genitalia fetishes (well, except for Paul Reubens). On the left, a Canadian professor who rocks the “tranny Hitler” look declared that children should be exposed to male genitalia at a young age to “normalize” trannies waving their penises in women’s locker rooms. And on the right, Rudy Giuliani couldn’t stop talking about his peesche.

    In audio recordings from a sexual harassment suit filed by a female staffer, the mayor–turned–circus fire tells the employee about his constant erections, adding, “I want to own you,” calling her “my bitch,” “my whore,” and “my $#@!ing slut” as he fantasizes about a father having sex with his daughter.

    Talk about an implosion! How’d Dick Cheney smuggle thermite into Rudy’s soul?

    Giuliani also told the staffer, “Jewish men have small cocks because they can’t use them after they get married.”

    Badum-bum. He can tell that one to the grand jury.

    Here’s another: Why are Rudy Giuliani’s testicles located above his penis?

    Because he always goes balls-up.

    Here’s one more: A white guy, a black guy, and an Italian die and discover that reincarnation is real. Brahma asks them to choose the form they’d like to inhabit in the next life. The white guy says, “I prize loyalty above all else,” so he returns as a German shepherd. The black guy says, “I wanna be free in Africa!” so he becomes a lion roaming the Serengeti. And the Italian says, “I wanna be a bird!” and he becomes Rudy Giuliani.

    Brahma’s assistant asks, “WTF? Why’d you do that?”

    And Brahma answers, “I made him America’s biggest albatross.”



    The sidewalks of New York are lined with Third Worlders camping out by the thousands, sleeping on the ground, using the curbs for defecation. Indigenous South Americans, gang-tattooed Central Americans, Ebola-ridden Africans, and Haitians seeing concrete for the first time in their life. In some cases, the queues stretch for five blocks.

    It can mean one of three things: Either there’s a Ticketmaster nearby and music critics have vastly misunderstood Taylor Swift’s fanbase, or Netflix is holding open auditions for its ten-part miniseries about the Danish royal family.

    Or…a “sanctuary city” is getting some well-deserved comeuppance.

    Yeah, that’s it.

    NYC is collapsing under the weight of wretched refuse. The homeless tempest-tossed are tossing Mayor Adams’ salad, as the city’s running out of hotels to commandeer for the crisis.

    Adams is “king of the hill, top of the heap.” Of dung.

    And now the only man in America who actually envies Rudy Giuliani is considering turning Central Park into a giant immigrant encampment, as part of his real-life living theater adaptation of The Camp of the Saints.

    “Between the fish in the lake and the animals in the zoo, there should be enough to feed these savages for at least a week,” Adams declared, adding “that should give me just enough time to loot the treasury and flee to Cuba or Ghana or hell at this point I’ll take the Pacific Garbage Patch; it smells better and at least there’s a breeze.”

    Of course, this entire mess could be avoided if Biden cracked down on illegal crossings and reinstated “remain in Mexico,” but that would be too simple (though too complex for a president who’s forgotten how spoons work).

    So for now, the streets of New York are paved with golden showers, and seeds from digested big apples.


    When the Nazi formerly known as the musician formerly known as Kanye West declared his love of Hitler, Adidas was stuck with over 1.2 billion euros worth of “Yeezy” sneakers, giving the German conglomerate a little taste of what it must’ve been like for Nazi war criminals on the run in 1945 who had lots of gold, unfortunately all in the form of Jewish teeth.

    Sitting on riches you can’t unload is always frustrating.

    But demonstrating the same keen ingenuity that gave the world the autobahn, the Volkswagen, and Roberto Blanco, Adidas decided to partner with Jewish orgs to sell off the valuable merch.

    Gotta give the Krauts kredit: They know the Jewish brain quite well. They should; Mengele dissected enough of them in his day.

    “Oy! Dose shoes are anti-Semitic! They should be boined!”

    “Ach, you’ll get 25 percent of the sales.”

    “Make it thoity.”


    “Get yer Auschwitz-Birkenstocks! Your Hugo Spats! Now with piano wire laces!”

    Last week, in partnership with the ADL and the Foundation to Combat Antisemitism, Adidas raked in $437 million via the first batch of post-cancellation Yeezys. Initially, the ADL was against selling the shoes, preferring instead to encase a pile of them behind glass in a museum as proof of genocide. But after realizing the potential profits, the org relented (besides, their in-house jackboots have become worn out after kicking the asses of every white person who made the “OK” sign in the past six years).

    The ADL hasn’t said what it plans to do with its share of the money, but it will almost certainly involve silencing you online.

    Arbeit macht Frye.
    “The Party told you to reject the evidence of your eyes and ears. It was their final, most essential command.”
    ― George Orwell, 1984

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  14. #281

  15. #282
    The Week That Perished


    September 03, 2023

    The Week’s Most Sabering, Neighboring, and Day-of-Laboring Headlines


    A prehistoric veldt in South Asia.

    Members of a hairy, knuckle-walking Paleolithic cavemen tribe stare quizzically at a large black monolith. Grunting, screeching, and flinging poo, they hesitantly approach the odd structure.

    Suddenly, the monolith emits a low-pitched hum.

    The cavemen gather around.

    The monolith speaks:

    “Greetings, I am from Microsoft security. We have detected malware on your computer, sir; your Windows is corrupted. We can assist you in remedying this issue; please prepare a cashier’s check or if you don’t have one we’ll take several handfuls of cumin.”

    And that’s how Indians evolved.

    Two million years later, India has finally conquered space.

    Well, a small portion of it.

    Last week an unmanned Indian craft landed on the moon, much to the shock of the world, because Indians haven’t yet mastered the toilet.

    A spokesman for GASA (Ganesha Adulation and Space Agency) told the AP, “We’re always looking for new places to deposit feces. Nobody else is using the moon, so we figured, why not?”

    India’s next plan is to be the first nation to make contact with beings in another galaxy.

    The year is 2180. An Indian spaceship approaches a habitable planet in constellation Cygnus.

    A message from the planet is beamed to the Indian ship.

    “Greetings, spacecraft! This is Ambassador Krankor of the planet Nadir. Identify yourselves!”

    “We are from Microsoft security, sir. We have detected malware on your computer.”

    “Oh, for f—’s sake…Indians! Shoot ’em down!”


    If you think the “cold fries” hooligans are bad when they’re aggressive, just wait till you see ’em passive aggressive!

    Last week at Papa Bees chicken wings in Longwood, Florida, five soul sistas—Kenisha, Tyesha, Keiyanda, Jaheigha, and Jasmine (yes, those are the real names)—were unhappy with their order. News reports don’t detail the exact nature of their complaint, but it probably had to do with the fact that the ladies had to pay; surely the meal should’ve been free for the five female stars of Netflix’s upcoming von Trapp Family biopic (“Trapp House: Do-Re-My-Ass”).

    Ironically, Longwood is named after the thing no man has after seeing photos of Kenisha, Tyesha, Keiyanda, Jaheigha, and Jasmine.

    The five disgruntled diners hatched a brilliant scheme: Instead of smashing up the joint, they’d clog the toilet to punish the restaurant for displeasing them. After spending twenty minutes arguing over whose stank-ass weave would be used for the task, the pyramid-builders decided to use toilet paper.

    And the caper was on! Like Ocean’s Eleven, but more like Ocean’s Number Two.

    Kenisha: explosives expert (especially after eating Taco Bell)
    Tyesha: Safe cracker (as in, your crack is safe with her…for about five minutes, till she smokes it)
    Keiyanda: Wheelwoman (what Elmer Fudd wonders when he sees her: “Is dat a wheel woman?”)
    Jaheigha: Muscle (just her larynx; nobody can shout louder in a movie theater)
    Jasmine: Cat burglar (actually, Hamburglar)

    One by one the girls did their doody and stuffed roll after roll of TP into the toilet, which clogged and flooded the store.

    Sadly, the team had made one minor error: They were the only customers.

    Traffic-light-inventing skills don’t translate to heist-planning.

    The restaurant manager plunged the toilet, and the girls went back and did it again! And this time the manager asked them to leave.

    So the ladies smashed up the place.

    Let’s be honest—it’s a chicken wing joint in Orlando. It was destined to be smashed up. Sure, Funk Force Five tried Shatyāgraha, but when it comes to unhappy blacks in restaurants, the nonviolent solution is never enough.


    Teach your children well,
    To rain down hell, with a bullet facial,
    On someone sellin’ fries,
    That person dies,
    If the spuds are glacial.

    Don’t you ask them for their sauce,
    They won’t part with it, of course,
    So just take it with great foooor-oooorce.
    And know they hate you.

    The day after the Longwood LaQuishas busted up the wing joint, over in D.C. a group of black teens visited a McDonald’s (the preceding eight words have never appeared in a story that doesn’t involve violence), and much to the staff’s relief, they were actually satisfied with their order.

    Fries? Hotter than the sun. Burgers? Extra everything as part of the Reparations Nappy Meal. Shakes? No broken machines. McNuggets? Fresh from the fryer, scalding enough to earn a lucky LaQuisha $800,000.

    As the teens exited the establishment, the staff breathed a collective sigh of relief, and the manager texted his wife, “For me the war is over.”

    Sadly, the teens still had to get across the parking lot.

    Truly, the risk of fast food causing black violence doesn’t end until the food’s been consumed and digested…and as the Longwood ladies proved, even then there can still be issues.

    While walking to their car, one of the teen girls—16-year-old Naima Liggon (trivia: The shortest-lived 1970s game show was Naima Liggon. “I can naima liggon in three notes, Bill!”)—decided that she didn’t have the good sauce. The good sauce had been chosen by her friend.

    The disgruntled Liggon could’ve gone back into the McD’s and asked for a different sauce. But as the D.C. school system offers fifty classes on Emmett Till but not one on critical thinking, “Nick Saucy” decided to beat her friend mercilessly to steal her sauce.

    And then the friend stabbed her to death.

    Liggon died as she lived: furious about McNuggets.

    In response to the incident, blacks in D.C. are asking, “What can be done to prevent such tragedies?”

    Well, maybe if adult blacks would stop slaughtering each other over fast food, the kids might follow suit.

    Just a thought.


    Longwood’s Great Crappit Caper wasn’t the only Ocean’s Eleven-style action-adventure heist last week. In Chicago, an unnamed woman of some considerable girth apparently decided to smuggle a handgun into a White Sox game. But Guaranteed Rate Field (which in Chicago refers to murder rate) has metal detectors through which all fans must pass!

    How to pull off the plot?

    According to initial reports, the woman hid the gun in her belly fat. And even though she set off alarm bells while entering the stadium, security, fearful of a sexual harassment lawsuit, left her fat-flaps unexamined.

    To be fair, of the two fleshy bodily crevices where a fat person can hide a gun, she chose the least disgusting option.

    News reports say Machine Gun Belly is a public school teacher, so of course she lacked the intellectual prowess to foresee the flaws in her plan. Like, what if her belly twitched? Which it did, and for once a leftist was triggered in the literal way. The gun fired; the bullet grazed her belly fat and ended up in a bystander’s leg.

    In related news, the teacher’s outie is now an innie.

    As a result of the shooting and the confusion that followed, a postgame concert featuring Vanilla Ice was canceled.

    So for the first time in history a Chicago public school teacher actually helped the people of her city.

    The woman’s attorney released a statement in which he denied the gun-smuggling charge. Police have ruled out the gunshot coming from outside the stadium, but the attorney claims there was a second shooter—a different fat woman with a gun in her belly fat that discharged when she belched.

    Addressing cameras at the press conference, the attorney declared, “The real shooter was behind the gassy knoll.”


    Time to root for the Injuns!

    As the Burning Man festival was getting underway in Nevada last week, a bunch of Hollywood-funded white morons from New York, California, and Europe decided to set up a blockade on the highway leading to the concert site.

    The reason?

    To protest climate change.

    And by creating a multi-mile traffic stoppage in 100-degree temps, with thousands of cars idling, spewing exhaust, and cranking up the AC, the “activists” probably did more damage to the environment that day than if they’d stayed home and yelled “How dare you” at their farting dog like Greta Thunberg does.

    Thankfully, the location of the blockade happened to be on Injun land—the sovereign territory of the Paiutes. And it turns out, if you give today’s Injuns the opportunity to smack the hell out of trespassing whites, they’ll take it. The Paiute cops smashed through the blockade with their squad cars and dragged the protesters away at gunpoint as they wailed in fear.

    And in that instant, the activists became Regreta Thunberg.

    The traffic jam of hard-rockin’ millennials stretched for so long, new supplies of fentanyl had to be droned in from the border to restock the caravan’s depleted supplies. Fifty trapped Zoomers transitioned and detransitioned in the time it took to get traffic flowing again.

    Interestingly, one of the demands of the protesters was that Burning Man ban plastic straws at the venue. Ironically, that demand was issued several days after a new study revealed that the paper straws that have been mandated in blue cities contain toxic “forever chemicals” that kill you in large doses.

    So, the “climate activists” caused a traffic jam that polluted the air and released “greenhouse gases” via heavy AC use, all to force the festival to abandon plastic straws for straws that murder the sippers. And only a posse of unsentimental Paiute policemen had the guts to use brute force to stop the madness.

    Congrats, Paiutes—you may be the first Injuns to make a convincing case that the wrong side won the Frontier war.
    “The Party told you to reject the evidence of your eyes and ears. It was their final, most essential command.”
    ― George Orwell, 1984

  16. #283
    Congrats, Paiutes—you may be the first Injuns to make a convincing case that the wrong side won the Frontier war.
    Not even hardly close to the first tribe to make that case.

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