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Thread: The Week That Perished

  1. #151

    The Week’s Most Waxing, Taxing, and Vaxxing Headlines
    The Academy Awards don’t exactly have the best record when it comes to racial groveling; every virtue-signaling stunt seems to backfire. At the 1988 Oscars, the Academy made a huge deal about how Eddie Murphy was going to announce the winner for Best Picture. Unfortunately, once Murphy was up on stage, he decided to harangue the Academy about its “racism,” becoming so distracted by his tangent, he forgot to read the final nominee, forcing the people he’d just insulted to shout from their seats about the oversight.
    It was a funny moment…just not in the way Murphy intended. Indeed, he joked that his behavior might one day cost him an Oscar of his own. And in fact, almost twenty years later, Murphy was so certain he was going to win Best Supporting Actor for Dreamgirls that he stormed out of the auditorium after he lost to Alan Arkin for Little Miss Sunshine.
    Once again, the black man playin’ second fiddle to the Jew.
    In 2017, host Jimmy Kimmel thought it would be charming to bring a tour bus of random Hollywood Boulevard strangers into the theater during the live taping. What an impish prank! Until it turned out that one of the tourists, a black gentleman who was feted by the assembled A-listers, was a three-strikes career criminal who only a few days earlier had been released from a 25-to-life stretch for (among other things) grand theft and attempted rape.

    What were the odds? (Not that bad, actually.)
    And who can forget the absolute catastrophe that occurred later in that same show, when the Academy’s greatest shot at racial redemption was bollixed beyond repair. Moonlight, a film about black (check!) Hispanic (check!) immigrant (check!) gay lovers (check check!), won Best Picture, but desiccated dementia mummies Warren Beatty and Faye Dunaway read the wrong winner. Moonlight had earned very little at the box office, almost certainly due to its tagline “Blacks, Drugs & Anal Sex: See It or You’re Hitler,” so the producers had been counting on that win to keep their molasses-paced X-rated Afterschool Special from slipping into obscurity. Instead all they got was Bonnie and Clyde in Soul Plane II: Mass Casualty Event.
    This year, the Academy just knew it had the racial stunt to end all racial stunts. Black Panther star Chadwick Boseman, who tragically passed away last year from colon cancer, was up for Best Actor for his final performance in Ma Rainey’s Black Bottom. His victory was a lock, a sure thing. This was going to be the BLM Oscars; no whites allowed (to win, or speak, or vote for anyone their own color). There was no way Boseman could lose; this would be blackface Heath Ledger, Peter Finch def jam, the greatest posthumous win in Oscar history.
    So certain were the Academy Einsteins that Boseman would win, they broke with a 73-year tradition and decided to close the show with Best Actor instead of Best Picture. Because what a climax it would be! Boseman would win, his grieving family would accept the award, tears of joy would flow, and the heavens themselves would open as Black Jesus smiled down upon the assembly and said, “Wakanda forever!”
    Finally, blacks would find the self-esteem and pride they hadn’t vicariously absorbed from a black president, a black vice-president, black governors and mayors, black Supreme Court justices, black sports millionaires, black Miss Americas, a black wealthiest woman in the U.S., and the many previous black Oscar winners.
    No, it would be the Chadwick Boseman win that would at long last heal the community.

    Except, it wasn’t to be. Some crusty ol’ Hannibal Lecter-lookin’ mofo won instead. And since Anthony Hopkins was fast asleep in Wales at the time (he was almost certainly convinced Boseman was going to win, so why drag his 83-year-old butt out of bed at 4 a.m. for a Zoom call to the States on a TV show no one was watching?), there was nobody to give an acceptance speech.
    As a result, the show literally ended on: “And the Oscar goes to…Anthony Hopkins. He ain’t here. G’night, suckas.”
    “This was supposed to be Chadwick Boseman’s night,” griped Brian Truitt the next morning in USA Today, adding that the loss “stings so much.”
    Hopefully it never gets out that as Anthony Hopkins was sleeping the night away in Wales as this atrocity occurred, his head was resting comfortably on a My Pillow.
    Kamala Harris’ rise to prominence has without question been inspiring. This amazing woman has taken her family tree from the slave farm to the bot farm; a true American success story.

    Harris’ great-great-great-grandfather, Jamaican Hamilton Brown, was such a master-slaver, he literally founded a town of slaves. Dude owned 121 himself, but like Jay Leno and cars, he couldn’t help but buy new ones whenever he came across them. “I just can’t control myself,” he told the Jamaican daily Irie Mon Gazette in 1826. “I see a slave, I just want to take him home and make him mine.”
    Hamilton Brown was the crazy cat lady of slave owners.

    Kamala Harris, of course, has devoted her life to rejecting the racist notion that black people should be kept in shackles in a sunny island paradise, because to her, dank prison cells are a much more humane destination. At least that was her belief back when she was a prosecutor and attorney general. And now, having adopted wokeism with the same ease with which she’s shed her sometimes-black sometimes-brown sometimes-yellow skin over the years as ambition and upward mobility demanded, she’s discovered the simple joy of exploiting an entirely new captive labor force: bots!
    Yes, it turns out that the cackling Thalia mask lying in wait for President Biden to take a fatal fall from his Jazzy Power Chair has mastered the art of the 21st-century plantation. In a story so underreported Twitter didn’t even have to ban it, Matt Orfalea, writing for The Grayzone, uncovered the truth about Harris’ much-vaunted community of online supporters christened by a fawning press as the “KHive.”
    According to Orfalea:
    An April 8 LA Times profile of the “KHive” attempted to put a positive spin on Twitter’s nest of Vice President Kamala Harris super fans, omitting the group’s online abuses, offline harassment, and alarming origins. Describing the KHive as “the type of modern political army that politicians increasingly rely on for both support and defense…”
    However, “it turns out that Harris’ ‘modern political army’ was manufactured with the aid of an army of fake Twitter accounts” from “a Democratic Party operative-controlled bot farm.”
    Some of the fake Twitter accounts “used the profile photos of deceased women of color.”
    Breonna Taylor…say her name! Also, use her likeness.
    And here’s a surprise (to absolutely nobody): The No. 1 word used in the bot-tweets was “racist.” Just imagine, in the future, white Americans won’t need actual black folks to call them racist; robots will do the work themselves. It’s surprising that Jeff Bezos has not yet installed that function in Alexa.
    “Alexa, play my 1970s easy-listening rock playlist.”
    “Rock and roll was stolen from the black man by white supremacist racists and when a white devil listens to it it’s genocidal cultural appropriation. Your soul will rot in hell for your aggressions large and small against a noble race of kings and creators; you are a disgusting piece of KKK trash deserving of a prolonged and agonizing death…[pause]…Playing Seals and Crofts.”
    Along with bots, the “KHive” leaders employ multiple sock-puppet accounts. As Orfalea points out, this is a clear violation of Twitter policy. “KHive uses the very same tactics that Twitter banned Q-Anon accounts for using.”
    More than that, just two weeks ago Twitter used the “multiple fake accounts” claim to permanently ban James O’Keefe from the site, just as he debuted a new undercover exposé of CNN.
    But Harris’ goons get to flaunt the rules daily.
    Last week, a Rasmussen poll showed that half of American voters believe Kamala Harris is not qualified to be president. Odd that Americans would hold such a view about an empty-suit political chameleon with zero accomplishments beyond having breasts and skin.
    Still, assuming that Harris will be the one running in 2024, that gives her three years to transform those millions of Twitter bots from fake tweeters to fake voters.
    It’s the most feared conundrum of the professional anti-racist: What if the only way to stop one black genocide is to usher in another?
    Woke activists in the U.S. are currently grappling with this exact dilemma.
    Next week, the Biden administration is expected to enact a ban on menthol cigarettes, because menthols are genociding black Americans. An estimated 85% of black smokers use menthols, over three times the percentage of whites. Tobacco-related disease kills over 45,000 blacks a year, making it the No. 1 preventable cause of death for black Americans that doesn’t involve Gorilla Glue.
    Black health advocates argue that menthols are more addictive and more toxic than regular smokes (don’t even get them started on Courvoisier). If blacks won’t stop lighting up the infernal cigs, the advocates reason, the FDA must ban them—something the administration can do without congressional approval.
    An alternate proposal for dealing with the menthol problem was to stare black people in the face and tell them, “You don’t want to buy death sticks. You want to go home and rethink your life.” This approach, however, was rejected by the Congressional Black Caucus due to fears of what might happen to the black community’s reflexive and habitual support for Democrats if American blacks actually did go home and rethink their lives.
    So, it seems to be a done deal. Menthol’s will be banned, and Three the Hard Way-style chemicide will be averted.
    Wait…not so fast!
    Black charlatans (correction: “community leaders”) like Al Sharpton are opposing the ban. After all, if you criminalize menthols, you’ll be giving the evil racist cops yet another reason to mass-murder blacks. These activists point to the case of Eric Garner in NYC, who was choke-holded to death for selling “loosies” (loose cigarettes) on the street. If menthols are banned for sale within the U.S., the anti-prohibitionists claim, a black market will spring up in the eponymous communities, which will inevitably lead to clashes between cops and POCs.
    And to be fair, that ban on crack didn’t exactly eradicate its use in the black community. To paraphrase Emily Dickinson, “the swart wants what it wants.” Banning a longtime black leisure commodity will not make the cravings for it vanish.
    Several ban proponents told The Washington Post that “the idea that a menthol ban would ‘criminalize’ use of menthol cigarettes or lead to confrontations with the police is a red herring. They note that a ban would apply to manufacturers, wholesalers and retailers, not to consumers. The FDA does not have a police force or take action against individual users.”
    So on one hand, according to BLM, cops use any and all real or trumped-up reasons to hassle and murder blacks. But on the other hand, menthol criminalization would never, never be used to hassle or murder blacks because the FDA has no police force. So then who’ll go after the street-level “retailers”? Maybe…cops? The same cops who supposedly “use any and all real or trumped-up reasons to hassle and murder blacks.”
    It’s a good thing Joe Biden isn’t alive to have to sort out a matter this confusing.
    Meanwhile, as opioid deaths continue to skyrocket in the U.S., causing far more fatalities a year (primarily among whites) than tobacco-related deaths among blacks, Democrats in Congress do little to stem the flood of the drugs coming up from the southern border (that would be racist!) or attack the flood at its Chinese source (that would be ultra-mega-racist!).
    On the bright side, because the upcoming menthol ban will likely lead to at least a few cop vs. black loosie vendor clashes, black activists can take heart in the knowledge that the ban may give them many new reasons to provoke riots that cause city blocks to burn, filling the air with carcinogens that will cancel out the health effects of the ban.
    If blacks are gonna die from lung cancer, better they take entire neighborhoods with them.
    Two ships passing in the night…one sinking, one finally regaining its buoyancy. As the West emerges from pandemic lockdowns (despite the desire of frauds like Fauci to keep small children “masked up” and oxygen-deprived until we’ve raised an entire generation of Corkys from Life Goes On), it’s interesting to examine which nations appear to be emerging stronger, and which ones seem to have taken insurmountable damage.
    England, the great empire that sunset itself, seems to be exiting Covidville having rediscovered its manhood (or at least one of its two missing nads). A week ago, the Johnson government stood up to the United Nations when that “esteemed” body demanded that the U.K. admit that it’s an evil white-supremacist Nazi hellhole. Johnson told the U.N. “bollocks,” and that took guts (for a modern-day Englishman).
    And now, Johnson is ending a controversial policy that forced police to record and report “hate incidents that are not crimes.” Under that controversial policy, any Britisher who uttered possibly or seemingly racially hateful words in a manner that did not cross the line into criminal activity nevertheless had to be reported and publicly exposed as a “racist.” As defined by the mandate, a “racist incident is any incident which is perceived to be racist by the victim or any other person.”
    That’s exactly the kind of wide net Karl Wallenda really could’ve used. Basically, any Englishman could be reported to the police for anything a bystander overheard and perceived to be racist (to be fair, the policy did lead to a marked decrease in “two nogs and an Irishman are on a boat” jokes).
    But now that policy has been officially revoked. As explained in The Sunday Times, “Government sources confirmed that the home secretary has told the College of Policing to drop guidance to forces that those accused of non-criminal incidents should have them recorded on police files.” The misconceived policy was “ruining lives” because “if someone is reported for committing a hate incident but an investigation finds that no criminal offence occurred, the report will nonetheless remain on their police record.”
    A Whitehall source stated: “These so called non-crime hate incidents have a chilling effect on free speech and potentially stop people expressing views legally and legitimately. If people are found to have done nothing wrong the police shouldn’t punish them.”
    Seems like a commonsense position. Which is why the U.S. is doing the exact opposite. The very week that the U.K. dropped its “incident reporting” policy, the U.S. adopted one, under the guise of fighting “anti-Asian racism.” The “COVID-19 Hate Crimes Act” mandates the “online reporting of hate crimes or incidents” via a “National Incident-Based Reporting System.”
    Wanna tell that joke about the Chinaman who walks into the black guy’s bar? It might not be a crime (yet), but it will be an “incident,” and you will be reported.
    Funny enough, the bill in its initial form was geared only toward the reporting of incidents of anti-Asian bias. But Senate Republicans fought back. Why just Asians? Why not expand the bill to mandate the reporting of all “bias motivated” incidents? That was the literal GOP response: “They want to quash free speech just to placate Asians? Hah, we’ll show ’em. We’ll force them to expand that list to quash free speech to placate all identity groups. That’ll teach ’em!
    And that right there is why it doesn’t matter when Republican politicos refuse to wear masks; these schmucks are already oxygen-deprived Corkys from Life Goes On. Additional lack of oxygen couldn’t possibly make them any dumber.
    Only one GOP senator—Josh Hawley—opposed the “incident reporting” bill.
    Democrats could not be reached for comment regarding the newly passed law, because they were too busy laughing hysterically, having once again maneuvered the opposition into the briar patch. But just to add icing to the victory cake, immediately after the Senate approved the bill, Democrats in New York dropped all charges against a black man accused of beating an elderly Asian woman half to death.
    The black man had been “angry for several days” before the assault, so prosecutors decided to let it go. No hate crime there. Meanwhile, an APB went out for a white guy on the Upper West Side who was overheard telling the “Chinaman walks into a bar” joke.
    Anyone with information on this hate criminal is urged to contact the FBI at once.
    The trannies play, all night and day (clap clap clap clap)
    Deep in the heart of Texas
    You’re always near, a gender-***** (clap clap clap clap)
    Deep in the heart of Texas
    The Alamo, was woke you know (clap clap clap clap)
    Deep in the heart of Texas
    The defenders were, both him and her (clap clap clap clap)
    Deep in the heart of Texas
    Yee-haw! Texas lawmaker James Talarico (a Democrat, as if that needs to be said) made some rootin’-tootin’ waves last week when he announced during a Public Education Committee meeting that them varmints who think thar’s just two sexes are some low-down lyin’ sidewinders.
    The committee was debating a bill that would bar Andre the Giant in a dress from competing in K–12 women’s scholastic sports. And Talarico, a former public school teacher (as if that needs to be said) declared during the meeting that there are not two sexes, but six!
    “The bill seems to think there are two,” Talarico told the chamber. “The one thing I want us to all be aware of is that modern science obviously recognizes that there are many more than two biological sexes. In fact, there are six.”
    To be fair to Talarico, it must be difficult for him to deal with the fact that he left teaching right before Covid hit, thus depriving him of a year’s paid vacation followed by a ruthless campaign to torture small children by forcing them to suffocate under masks in stifling cubicles.
    It’s kinda like leaving a baseball team right before its championship season.
    Talarico explained that whereas transphobic scientists of old held that sexual makeup was limited to XX chromosomes for females and XY for males, woke scientists have discovered that “there are also single X, XXY, XYY and XXXY.”
    There’s also the XYZ chromosome, which creates exhibitionists who walk around parading their junk in public.
    Rebutting Talarico at the hearing was Beth Stelzer, who had the temerity to act as though she understands what being a woman means just because she is one. Stelzer, president of Save Women’s Sports, testified that “there are in fact two sexes. They are dimorphic: XX, XY. The other ‘sexes’ mentioned are disorders of sexual development that are variants of XX or XY chromosomes. They are still disorders of male or female.”
    Wot transphobia! Git a rope and string ’er up!
    Except…it turns out that the Scientific American article that Talarico relied on for his info kinda says the same thing. While trying to remain woke enough to not get tarred and feathered, the article’s author, Nature magazine’s Claire Ainsworth, grudgingly admits that those tres equis mutants are indeed the result of “disorders of sex development (DSDs).”
    Ainsworth describes a case study of one of these mutants: “Her body was built of cells from two individuals, probably from twin embryos that had merged in her own mother’s womb. One set of cells carried two X chromosomes, the complement that typically makes a person female; the other had an X and a Y.”
    So no, that’s not “another sex.” It’s just some unfortunate baby run through a genetic Cuisinart.
    It’s not hard to imagine Joseph Merrick becoming frustrated with Victorian gawkers. “No, I’m not a friggin’ elephant. They call me the Elephant Man because I have a disorder that gives me trunklike limbs and elephantine skin. That doesn’t make me an actual elephant, you morons. Will you stop trying to feed me peanuts?
    But science marches on, and today, when twin embryos merge to create a freakish manwomanthing, it’s not a disorder but an entirely new species. And, armed with the knowledge of that rare genetic deformity, leftist politicians can continue to push for policies that allow mentally ill dudes in lipstick to wipe the floor with actual women in sporting competitions.
    Everything’s bigger in Texas! And, as James Talarico has demonstrated, that includes the pseudoscience.
    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

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  3. #152

    The Week’s Most Buoyant, Clairvoyant, and Foudroyant Headlines
    Believe it or not, last week’s tragic and deadly stampede at an Orthodox Jewish religious festival in Israel (which, it should be noted, did not start because someone heard a coin drop, so let’s end that anti-Semitic slander right now), was not the week’s worst example of Jews blindly and suicidally charging toward their own destruction.
    No, that honor goes to the Einsteins, Salks, and Seinfelds who run Tucson’s Jewish History Museum/Holocaust History Center. Those putzes ran headfirst into an execution trench of their own digging.
    Gugulethu Moyo, or “Gugu” as she likes to be called, is a walking nightmare. If Cuba Gooding went to a costume ball dressed as a transvestite dressed as Angela Davis, he’d look better and less like a caricature than Gugu.
    Gugu was born in Zimbabwe, where she soon proved to be among the nation’s higher-functioning elites, earning a law degree and working on a variety of “human rights” causes in Africa and the U.K. Coming to the U.S., that “higher-functioning” thing led Gugu to a revelation: Jews have outsize influence here, and they love finding new ways to virtue-signal how not-racist they are.

    So Gugu decided to become a JewJew. She took an online conversion course, acing some very difficult questions:
    When a Jew hears the word “Holocaust,” the proper catchphrase with which to respond is:
    (a) “Fuhgeddaboudit!”
    (b) “Yada yada yada”
    (c) “Well excuuuuuuse me!”
    (d) “Nanu nanu”
    (e) “NEVAH AGAIN!”
    Gugu made her way to Tucson, where she started working for the Jewish History Museum/Holocaust History Center. Oy, the kvelling! “We have a female African Jewish schvartze working here! We’re the Holocaustiest Holocaust museum in the woild!”

    In November, the esteemed schmucks, nebbishes, and yentas on the museum’s board unanimously decided to elevate Gugu to the position of executive director, making her, in the words of the Arizona Jewish Post, “the first Jew of Color to lead an American Jewish museum.”
    There was no way this could go south (if by “no way” one means “about 10,000 ways”).
    Last week, as reported by the JTA, Gugu Doll was dismissed from the museum, cast out of the institute into the desert like black Moses, crossing not the Red Sea but the museum’s Koi Pond of Remembrance, pursued not by Pharaoh but a whole mess of angry Yids. Apparently, Gugu had tried to use the museum to push BLM propaganda and George Soros “no bail” “criminal justice reform” programs, which angered several of the museum’s well-heeled Arizonan donors.

    “They didn’t like having to focus on racial justice,” Gugu told the JTA.
    Although the board initially backed Gugu against the donors, soon enough she started accusing the board of being “too white and male,” and when she decided that she didn’t want to work as many hours as they felt an executive director should, she accused the board of engaging in “slavery.” In no time, she was denouncing the board members as “racists” and “oppressors.”
    Who could’ve seen that coming? Only every sonofabitch in the entire friggin’ world.
    With Gugu gonegone, peace has returned to the museum. New executive director Michelle Blumenberg has vowed to keep the institution’s focus where it belongs: kicking the corpses of dead Germans while telling present-day ones to keep in line and keep quiet.
    For her part, Gugu has accepted a position with the Council of American Jewish Museums, where she’s already hard at work planning her tumultuous exit from that den of slavery and colonialism.

    The 2003 California gubernatorial recall was launched chiefly due to discontent regarding the state’s electricity crisis of the early 2000s. Technically, then-governor Gray Davis wasn’t actually responsible for the outages, but the dull-as-water-on-white-bread Davis, whose advisers were known to carry small mirrors to hold in front of the guy’s mouth to make sure the expressionless dimwit was still breathing, nevertheless faced the fury of voters whose visits to porn sites were being interrupted by blackouts right before the money shot.
    When the recall election heated up, Davis began pandering, pledging to give driver’s licenses to illegal aliens. Which in turn gave his No. 1 challenger exactly the issue he needed, as the blackouts were long past and out of memory for all but the most traumatized Pornhub addicts.
    Arnold Schwarzenegger rode the “no licenses for illegals” issue to victory. Unfortunately, the movie strongman soon discovered that no amount of unintelligible guttural grunting could overcome the state’s Democrat legislative supermajority, so the big guy just gave up, forming his own in-house DMV where Guatemalan housekeepers could take his personalized oral test.

    With a new California recall on the horizon, the candidates lining up to take on 1980s Bret Easton Ellis villain Gavin Newsom are fishing hard to find the best issue on which to run. Currently, Newsom’s hypocrisy regarding the Covid lockdowns is a weakness…but, as with the rolling blackouts in 2003, will that issue still resonate by November? Plus, for the state’s largest population center—L.A. County—it’s almost quaint to think that in 2003 the occasional power outage was the citizenry’s biggest gripe, considering that barely a year ago a group of thugs and terrorists burned down large swaths of the county’s retail districts.
    But it’s unlikely that any challenger will make “law and order” or anti-BLM a central campaign theme. Blacks may comprise less than 5% of the state, but most politicians probably assume it’s way higher, considering the endless pandering by Hollywood and both political parties to this tiny irrelevant demo. It’s a perception problem similar to how over half of Americans believe that LGBTs make up a quarter of the population, whereas in reality all LGBTs put together equal roughly 4.5%, and trannies specifically comprise one half of one percent.
    Did somebody say trannies?
    Caitlyn Jenner is emerging as an early favorite to be Newsom’s No. 1 contender. Former Trump cabinet member Ric Grenell is another possible challenger, as is failed 2018 GOP gubernatorial candidate John Cox (polls show the openly gay Grenell handily beating Cox. In fact, not just whipping Cox but devouring Cox).

    With Grenell keeping a firm hold on Cox—a grip he’s unlikely to relinquish—it falls to Jenner, who left her concerns about Cox behind on an operating table years ago, to break out of the pack and become the ordained anti-Newsom uniter.
    Surprisingly, Jenner has elected to make her first platform statement one that’s guaranteed to kill any of the tranny goodwill she might’ve received from the alphabet soupers: She’s come down squarely against biological boys competing in women’s scholastic sports. This is sheer blasphemy. There’s nothing of greater importance to trannies than pummeling actual women in sporting events. One suspects that certain men don wigs and dresses for that purpose alone. And it has to be young women. It’s gotta be scholastic sports, when girls are especially emotionally vulnerable.

    Remember—a brilliant scientist who wears an anime shirt must be canceled because his shirt “might” (via some unspoken principle) intimidate young girls from entering STEM. But when John Goodman in drag overwhelms actual 15-year-old girls in high school sports, that isn’t even remotely intimidating. In fact, it just helps those female athletes raise their game (or learn to accept crushing defeat with grace).
    Jenner’s position on tranny sports has earned scorn from the transtolerant left. Because Jenner’s a traitor! A turncoat! A real Be-no-dicked Arnold. Joy Behar even misgendered Jenner on The View! That’s normally a capital crime, but not in this case.
    As for Jenner, she might be banking on the fact that she’s running in a state that between 2000 and 2008 twice voted to ban gay marriage. Perhaps she senses that an electorate against that is most likely also against Dwayne Johnson in lipstick stomping on teen girls.
    Whether or not that will be a successful strategy remains to be seen. For many Californians, the only recall victory that matters has already been won: It pushed Newsom to finally end all Covid lockdowns. So, considering what a pathetic wreck Schwarzenegger became once in office, that might be the only good thing to ever come from a California recall.
    Branding is a bitch. When a product with longtime customer familiarity decides to embark on a name-change, the results can be a mixed bag.
    Sometimes, the rebranding occurs seamlessly, as when Kentucky Fried Chicken chose to officially become KFC. Consumers had been using that term for years anyway, all part of the “let’s make artery-clogging fast food hip and fun” thing that took off in the 1980s with “Mickey D’s.” On the other hand, when another purveyor of unhealthy fare—British Petroleum—tried to rebrand as Beyond Petroleum, the global ridicule was such that the conglomerate had to settle for “BP.”
    Initials are an easier transition than outright name-changes. Like when tried to become That idea didn’t last very long, although the marketing company that concocted it made enough money from the ten minutes it took to think of that name to keep everyone in upper management knee-deep in blow for a month. Then there was ValuJet, which, eager to rebrand following a mass-fatality crash, became AirTran. Well, that didn’t work out, as flyers avoided the airline out of fear that the flight attendants would be men in dresses patrolling the aisles screaming, “CALL ME MA’AM!”
    And of course 2020 saw a steady stream of social justice rebrandings. Aunt Jemima and Eskimo Pies changed their names entirely, with the former choosing the amazingly catchy Pearl Milling Company as the new moniker, and the latter choosing Igloo-Dwelling Seal-Spearing D-Bags in Parkas Pies, although that’s likely to be altered in committee.
    Taking a more pragmatic approach, the Washington Redskins rebranded last year as simply the “Washington Football Team” (that name was born when a bunch of D.C. locals in a focus group were offered EBT cards if they named the Washington football team, and after twenty hours of intense thought they realized the name had been right in front of them the whole time).
    And now D.C. itself is looking to rebrand. With the Democrats going all-in on D.C. statehood, everyone agrees that the new state will need a new stately name. In the first D.C. statehood resolution unsuccessfully put before Congress in 1992, the suggested name for the 51st state was “New Columbia.” Sadly, that caused tremendous frustration among locals as they struggled to find Old Columbia on U.S. maps.

    In 2016, the name of the hypothetical D.C. state was changed to Douglass Commonwealth, in honor of Jimmy Douglass, the recording engineer behind Hall & Oates. After another twenty-hour focus-group session, it was decided that 19th-century abolitionist and orator Frederick Douglass would be a better Douglass to use as a namesake.
    So that’s where it stands now. Should D.C. become a state, it will be known as Douglass Commonwealth.
    But there’s a “problematic” in the mix. Because in woke America there’s always a “problematic” somewhere in the mix. After Douglass’ first wife, who was black, passed away, the great orator fled to the arms of a white woman twenty years his junior, and the two married, much to the chagrin of Douglass’ adult children from his first marriage, who considered the new, white wife a betrayal of their mother and their race. Indeed, Douglass’ daughter-in-law even sued him (black newspapers at the time were equally harsh in their judgment of Douglass’ ebony/ivory shtick).
    It gets worse. Douglass never even taught his first wife to read. Her job was to raise the kids barefoot and illiterate while he traveled the nation doing a Morgan Freeman impression (“Look, trust me, in 140 years this impression will kill!”). And as soon as she croaked, he hopped in bed with a young educated white suffragette.
    Of course, these complexities of the Douglass legacy need not become a problem. Unless, that is, black women in 2021 America have a tendency to be vocally and perhaps slightly irrationally opposed to anything that might even remotely be construed as disrespect.
    So, yes, these complexities of the Douglass legacy will become a problem. It might be a good strategic move for the D.C. statehood people to have a few backup names at the ready.
    If it matters, the Hall & Oates guy—who, it should be noted, is black—could really use the publicity.
    And what better anthem for the nation’s capital—the home of the Democrat and Republican machines, the stomping ground of calcified legacy media reporters and chronically inaccurate pollsters, the assisted-living facility of Joe Biden—than “Out of Touch”?
    It’s hard to decide which is a more frightening scenario: that the CIA is an all-knowing, all-seeing conspiratorial hidden hand directing human destiny via the puppet mastery of a staff of high-skilled, high-IQ, cold, unemotional superspies who can influence the course of world events and bend wills to theirs as easily as one might flick a light switch…or that the CIA is made up of incompetent mouthbreathers who coast purely on their agency’s false reputation and the meritocracy-free job security of deep-state employment.
    Conspiracy theorists desperately want to believe the former; indeed, their entire worldview depends on it. But the evidence is not always on their side. After all, this is the “intelligence agency” that botched the Bay of Pigs invasion, failed to foresee or plan for the Cuban Missile Crisis, ignored evidence of the Soviet ICBM buildup of 1965, dismissed reports of a VC offensive during Tet, missed every sign leading up to the Yom Kippur War, declared in August 1978 that “Iran is not in a revolutionary or even a pre-revolutionary situation,” assured President Carter that the Soviets would never invade Afghanistan lest they get bogged down in an unwinnable war, was taken by surprise by the breakup of the Soviet Union, was blindsided by the 1998 Indian nuclear test, and—most famously—was caught sleeping by 9/11.
    This is the same “fearsome” agency that tried to kill Fidel Castro with exploding cigars, a contaminated diving suit, an exploding seashell, and a poison pen…failing miserably each time.
    CIA? More like I Am Sam.

    Rather than defend its competence, as often as not the CIA tries to explain its failures by stressing its lack of integrity and independence. When called out for its wildly inaccurate report on Saddam Hussein’s “WMDs,” the best explanation the CIA could muster was “Durr, we just writed whut Bush done tolded us to.”
    Considering that history, both in terms of gross incompetence and susceptibility to prevailing political winds, it’s surprising that conservatives have reacted with such shock and outrage at the CIA’s latest “diversity” recruitment campaign, in which various “identity group” agents are trotted out to show off the agency’s wokeness. One PSA features a blind agent (holding high-pressure water hose: “Am I near the board? Am I aiming at his mouth? How close am I?”). Another features an agent who describes herself as an “intersectional woman of color Latina cisgender millennial who has been diagnosed with generalized anxiety disorder.”
    A CIA agent with anxiety disorder…
    “Agent X self-terminated. She bit down on her cyanide capsule.”
    “Was she captured by the enemy?”
    “No. She was getting her morning paper and a neighbor said ‘Hi.’”
    The most common response to this new “diversity” campaign from rightist commentators and pundits has been to point out that publicizing our most delicate, unstable, handicapped, affirmative-action spies is not the best way to strike fear into the hearts of the Chinese and Russians. But that criticism is only valid if one assumes that those nations had any fear of the CIA prior to this new woke campaign. Both nations—the Chinese especially—have been spying with impunity on Americans on American soil for decades. Neither foe acts as if it’s terribly fearful of our intelligence machinery.

    When estimation is already at rock bottom, it can’t go any lower. It’s unlikely that anyone in Beijing greeted this new CIA campaign with anything other than a “what else is new?” look of bemusement (to whatever extent those inscrutable automatons are capable of facial expression).
    And to be fair on two points: First, the CIA woke recruitment campaign began under Trump, who probably thought it would be a great way for him to win 100% of the mentally ill woman of color Latina single mom millennial vote (“Mexico doesn’t send its best, so we put ’em on Buspirone and make ’em spies”). And second, damn near forty years ago, in September 1983, it was Ronald Reagan’s Interior Secretary James Watt who bragged about the diversity of his coal-leasing review committee by announcing at a Chamber of Commerce breakfast, “We have every kind of mix you can have. I have a black, I have a woman, two Jews, and a cripple. And we have talent.”
    No, the Chinese have lost neither respect for us nor fear of us due to the CIA’s latest misadventure. Because the Chinese have been paying attention for a long time.
    America is only beginning to come to terms with the destructive effects on a generation of children deprived of a year of schooling due to Covid. Learning lost, socialization lost; millions of kids literally an entire grade behind. Yet arguably the most tragic victims of the school lockdowns are the racist graffiti hoaxers. How can a black or Latinx student scrawl swastikas or “KKK” or “WHITE POWER” or “GO BACK TO MEXICO! MAGA!” on bathroom walls and stalls and mirrors when classes are remote?
    Sure, young BLM terrorists-in-training have been practicing at home, but it’s just not the same when you have no whites to pin it on. Plus, moms don’t like havin’ to clean up that mess (the Windex 1-800-number 24-hour cleaning helpline has noted a 110% increase in questions like “How do I get ‘******* must die!’ written in Sharpie off my bathroom mirror?”).
    But if BLM younglings are good at anything, it’s innovating new ways to sow racial hatred (and that’s about it).
    Last month, black students at White Bear Lake High School in Minnesota were targeted with racist graffiti remotely, via social media messages. Funny enough, though, the messages weren’t anonymous. They appeared to have been sent by a young, white, conservative student named Avery Severson. Who for some reason put her name on the threats she sent.
    “Leave my school ******! You must leave White Bear” read one message. Others were in a similar vein: “That’s why George Floyd died and can’t wait for everyone of your color to leave like this.”
    “You should be hanged. You are a filthy African girl. Nobody wants you here. Go to a black school, This is WHITE bear lake.”
    One of the recipients of the hateful messages was a student named Precious Boahen (can you guess her race?), who responded by leading a schoolwide walkout of “students of color.”
    “Someone really took the time to threaten me and my beautiful friends with death just because we’re a little bit darker than the rest of you,” Precious told the local news.
    The simple wisdom of a child. Don’t hate someone just because they’re “a little bit darker than you.” A quote for the ages, a statement of such power Frederick Douglass himself looked down from the heavens and said, “Now, that young sista I’d marry.”
    And then it turned out that the entire racist messages thing was a hoax. They were sent by a student of color in order to, in the words of the FBI officials who briefly stopped pursuing Jan. 6 protesters to rush to St. Paul to investigate the matter, “raise awareness of social and racial injustice.” Oh, and to frame a white conservative student.
    Because the true culprit is a minor, neither the FBI nor the school would release his or her name. But one wonders if it rhymes with Brecious Poahen.

    Barack Obama is said to have operated under the guiding principle of, “Never let a good crisis go to waste.” But today’s young blacks have taken that one step further: “Never let a fake crisis go to waste.” Even though the emails were a hoax, black students at White Bear nevertheless demanded increased “diversity” brainwashing and “equity” propaganda in the classrooms and among the faculty. The students also slammed the district superintendent, Wayne Kazmierczak, for using the word “hoax” when describing the incident’s resolution.

    “Really, wake up Mr. Superintendent and the entire administrative staff, all staff. Racism is Not, I repeat; IS NOT A HOAX. This district has problems and it is now TIME to do something about it! Learn for yourselves first and teach, accept, acknowledge and be accountable,” read one comment on a local TV news station’s Facebook page.
    In response, Kazmierczak apologized and released a statement in which he agreed that the entire event is a “teachable moment” to “raise awareness” of racism against black students.
    In other words, the hoaxer got his/her way. Mission accomplished.
    And Avery Severson got no apology from the school.

    Such fine stewards of America’s educational institutions. With lessons like “Racist hoaxes show us the real racism that exists except it doesn’t which is why it had to be faked but the fakery was necessary in order to expose the real racism that doesn’t exist,” perhaps America’s kids were helped more than we realize by a year’s absence from these tard farms.
    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

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  5. #153
    Pfizer Macht Frei!

    Openly Straight Man, Danke, Awarded Top Rated Influencer. Community Standards Enforcer.

    Quiz: Test Your "Income" Tax IQ!

    Short Income Tax Video

    The Income Tax Is An Excise, And Excise Taxes Are Privilege Taxes

    The Federalist Papers, No. 15:

    Except as to the rule of appointment, the United States have an indefinite discretion to make requisitions for men and money; but they have no authority to raise either by regulations extending to the individual citizens of America.

  6. #154

    The Week’s Most Idyllic, Sibyllic, and Nyctophilic Headlines
    It’s getting harder and harder to keep up with all the black-themed “holidays” each year. Already we’ve had MLK Day (Jan. 18), Black History Month (February), Rosa Parks Day (Feb. 4), Black Love Day (Feb. 13), Frederick Douglass Day (Feb. 14), Harriet Tubman Day (March 10), Emancipation Day (April 16), Duke Ellington Day (April 29), Malt Liquor Day (May 5), The Guy Who Does the Jittery Shaky Dance in the “Beat It” Video Day (May 14), and Violent Rage Over Something Trivial Day (ongoing).
    And the year’s not even half over!
    Next month, the nation will observe “Juneteenth,” a formerly little-known unofficial holiday made widely known and very official last year following weeks of BLM violence during what could be referred to as Black Fistory Month. For those who may not know, Juneteenth is a day of observance that marks the moment on June 19, 1865, when news of the Emancipation Proclamation, which had been signed three years earlier, finally reached the slaves of Texas. For some odd reason, white Texans had not yet informed their slaves that they were free (what could possibly have been the motivation for that?). Upon hearing the news, black Texans declared a day of celebration: Juneteenth, a portmanteau of June and nineteenth. It soon became a day marked by blacks in all states.
    Whites in Texas declared their own day of mourning, called Junedamfoudout, a portmanteau of June and “Damn, they found out.”

    Now that Juneteenth is an actual official holiday, whites are struggling to find the best way to join in the celebration. Traditionally, the proper manner of expressing “Happy Juneteenth” to a black person is to give him three-year-old news that he didn’t already know.
    White Guy: “You ever heard of Lowrell Simon?”
    Black Guy: “Nope.”
    White Guy: “He was a soul singer. Founded the Vondells.”
    Black Guy: “Oh, cool.”
    White Guy: “Well he died on June 19, 2018.”

    Black Guy: “Damn, I didn’t know that.”
    White Guy: “Happy Juneteenth, jackass.”
    If that’s the right way to celebrate Juneteenth, what Old Navy tried to do last week was most assuredly the wrong way. The geniuses who run the clothing giant decided that the best strategy for making some coin off this whole “woke” thing would be to sell a line of Juneteenth T-shirts in their stores and online all throughout May and June. It was either that or commemorative George Floyd shirts (100% cotton for breathability; comes with a complimentary choker).
    The same rocket scientists who thought BLM would react positively to a non-black-owned mega-corp selling Juneteenth merch also decided that the best way to hawk these exciting woke items would be through the dynamic youthful world of social media “influencers.” So, acting through a talent agency that represents these Instagram wastes of plasma, Old Navy reached out to “black Instagram” to persuade its biggest stars to promote the Juneteenth shirts.
    Now, Old Navy CEO Sonia Syngal is an India-born Canadian, so it’s understood that she might not know much about black Americans. She’s also in her 50s, which makes it understandable that she might not know much about influencer culture, either. But it’s astounding that no one down the line picked up on one very key similarity between blacks and influencers: They like free stuff. Old Navy told those black influencers that they’d have to buy their own Juneteenth shirts…in order to shill them so that Old Navy could make the profit.

    Most influencers actually charge a fee to do that kind of thing, but even if they don’t, free merch is the rule not the exception.
    Well, black Instagram certainly “influenced,” just not in the way Old Navy wanted. The reaction to Old Navy’s “buy yo’ own shirts” policy was so overwhelmingly negative, last week the company scrapped the entire plan. And for Syngal, who’s overseen a dramatic decline in Old Navy sales due to a number of poor business decisions, the Juneteenth debacle was yet another bud-bud-bad move.
    So this Juneteenth, celebrants are going to have to find something else to wear…although most will likely just don whatever they can grab from the store they’re looting.
    “Negro poet” and drunken wife-beater Paul Lawrence Dunbar’s 1895 poem “We Wear the Mask” is considered a classic of the genre:
    We wear the mask that grins and lies,
    It hides our cheeks and shades our eyes,
    This debt we pay to human guile;
    With torn and bleeding hearts we smile.
    And when we burglarize your place,
    The mask we wear upon our face,
    Looks a lot like Harry Potter…
    Man, why you pullin’ me over? I wasn’t even doin’ nuthin’.
    Rockim Prowell is a 33-year-old black man from Inglewood with a simple dream: rob the living hell out of them rich whiteys in Beverly Hills. Rockim Prowell is also a guy who’s apparently seen the Mission: Impossible films a few times too many. He hatched a brilliant plan for his burglary spree: He’d disguise himself as a white boy! He bought one of those lifelike human masks, complete with wavy, messy brown Harry Potter hair and glasses. And off he went, to cast a vanishing spell on the possessions of the mugglesteins of Beverly Hills.
    And here’s where BLM and other so-called black “representatives” failed one of their community’s finest. By constantly repeating the falsehood that black men are being targeted by cops, that a black man can’t even walk down a street without getting arrested for doin’ nuthin’, these “black leaders” convinced Prowell that if he just committed his burglaries as a whitey, he’d be left alone.
    In fact, just the opposite is true. Prowell should’ve been reading VDARE, not Salon. Because then he would’ve learned that in fact it’s only white wanted criminals who get their pictures and full descriptions included in media crime reports. Yep, Rockim Sockim Robot screwed up royally. Every newspaper and local TV station broadcast and tweeted security camera pics and descriptions of the “Harry Potter bandit,” including info about the car he drove.
    Had the burglar been understood to be black, it’s likely the media would’ve ignored the story. But by being white—by giving the L.A. press the chance to highlight a non-black criminal—Prowell brought so much heat down on himself, it was only a matter of time before someone spotted his vehicle.
    Poor bastard…you can wear Harry Potter’s face, but that doesn’t mean you’ll absorb his wisdom.
    And indeed, last week the Beverly Hills PD pulled Prowell over. And any initial confusion the officers had regarding the race of the driver vs. the race of the suspect was soon cleared up when they found the white-boy mask and burglary booty in the guy’s backseat.

    Also, the car itself was stolen.

    Prowell was booked on multiple counts of burglary, grand theft, and vandalism. And the ignominies didn’t end there; Beverly Hills cops forced him to put the mask back on so that a shaggy stoner, a bespectacled fat girl, a pretty skinny girl, and a tall blond guy and their Great Dane could pull it off. He was then forced to say, “And I’d have gotten away with it too if it weren’t for you meddling kids.”
    A spokesman for the BHPD said, “We couldn’t help ourselves; when’s an opportunity like that ever gonna come around again?”
    L.A. County’s Soros-backed DA George Gascon is currently deciding whether Prowell will be prosecuted as a white man, in which case the DA’s office would seek the maximum penalty, or a black man, in which case he’d be freed with an apology and a gift basket.
    And California governor Gavin Newsom has declared Prowell one of the “heroes of Covid” for his dedication to wearing a mask, even when alone.
    “I just wish it hadn’t been a Harry Potter mask,” Newsom told The Sacramento Bee. “That J.K. Rowling is so transphobic.”
    Patrick Soon-Shiong is a man on a mission. The billionaire businessman, surgeon, and bioscientist wants to prove to the world that even the highest-IQ Chinaman can be dumb as a hammer and not nearly as useful.
    Soon-Shiong owns the Los Angeles Times, which he purchased for $500,000,000 in cash in 2018. Analysts have suggested that Soon-Shiong was overcharged for the property by roughly $499,999,995.75.
    The L.A. Times makes the post-iceberg Titanic look buoyant. In two decades the rag has gone from subscription numbers in the multiple millions to numbers in the multiple hundred thousands. There’s been a bankruptcy, mass staff layoffs, and a revolving door of incompetent editors. Even digitally, the Times manages to be the village idiot in a village of idiots. The New York Times boasts 6.9 million online subscribers. The Wall Street Journal, 2.2 million. The Washington Post, 1.7 million. The L.A. Times? 240,000 (and that’s due to a “pandemic lockdown bump.” Prior to Covid, it was only 170,000).
    Soon-Shiong’s money would have been better spent being committed to fire in a Buddhist temple as an offering to his ancestors.
    Last August, Times staffers told The Wrap that the paper was engaging in deceptive practices in order to attract new subscribers. Now, why would a newspaper have to trick people into reading it? And why would the only major paper in a city the size of L.A. not have readers?
    Baffling! Or…not. Over 50% of Times readers are over 50 years of age (almost 35% are over 60). And although the Times doesn’t release reader breakdowns by race, the stats likely mirror those of The New York Times—71% white. So, you have a paper with an older, white base of likely readers, and an editorial bent that can be summed up as “Screw you, whitey.”
    A small sampling of recent headlines:
    “The burden of ending racism sits squarely on white people” (5/29/20)
    “I sat and watched ‘Black Panther’ and thought about what smug hypocrites white people can be” (6/1/20)
    “White women still can’t stop calling police on black people” (6/3/20)
    “White people are, at long last, seeing the light: they’re racist!” (6/11/20)
    “In the midst of a racial reckoning, what does whiteness mean” (6/15/20)
    “Aunt Jemima and Uncle Ben aren’t just racist symbols, they flatten culture for white consumption” (6/17/20)
    “How white people used police to make L.A. one of the most segregated cities in America” (8/11/20)
    “White people will contort themselves to justify the police killing of Black people” (9/2/20)
    “How white people gentrified Black Lives Matter” (9/8/20)
    “White scholars try to pass as Black” (10/8/20)
    “The Capitol marauders proved how dangerous white anger, and white privilege, is to democracy” (1/19/21)
    “The white privilege that’s undermining vaccine equity” (2/3/21)
    “This year, Black History Month has been overtaken by white history made on Jan. 6” (2/19/21)
    “If you’re a white person, you’re not going to face racism” (4/16/21)
    And that’s just from the past year.
    And there’s poor Patrick Soon-Shiong, sitting at home, out a half-billion bucks, drowning his sorrows in baijiu and screaming, “I no understand! Why you no reedy my paper?”
    But Soon-Shiong isn’t some ordinary dummy. No, he’s an extraordinary one. He hatched a brilliant plan to dig himself out of the Nanking mass grave in which he now sits. Does that plan involve shifting the paper’s obsessive editorial focus so that readers aren’t told on a daily basis, “You’re evil racist devils and the city would be better off without you”?
    Nope! He’s asking Joe Biden to bail him out. Having already received a $10 million pandemic assistance loan, Soon-Shiong wants more government green. “I’m not asking the government to do anything drastic, but they have to step in and find a way to support the viability of this whole industry,” he told Bloomberg last week.
    Fitting how a person brought up using a byzantine and impenetrable “alphabet” finds it so hard to recognize the simple, linear solution to a problem. The Times is not “viable” because readers don’t want to read day after day about how vile they are. Tucker Carlson could break wind live on air and it would be seen by more people than read the L.A. Times in an entire week.
    It would be more informative than the Times, too.
    The White House has not yet responded to Soon-Shiong’s request for a bailout. Sources say that President Biden used to read the Times for Marmaduke, but he stopped when the strip became too complicated for him to understand.
    It was like one of those movies with interlocking story lines, where the audience follows parallel plots with no idea how they’ll converge at the end. Like Paul Thomas Anderson’s noble failure Magnolia or Paul Haggis’ lamentable success Crash.
    Story line No. 1: Times Square, New York, May 8 A black street thug named Farrakhan Muhammad is selling CDs on the street. And of course he’s a thug. His name is Farrakhan Muhammad; his destiny was cast the moment his momma named him. You name a baby “Farrakhan Muhammad,” it doesn’t get a social security number; it gets a parole officer.
    For some reason, while busking his CDs, Farrakhan decided to start spraying the area with gunfire. The reason is unclear. Some news reports suggest he was in a dispute with another vendor who may have been his brother. Perhaps the dispute was over something weighty, a matter worthy of Cain and Abel. On the other hand, maybe it was over borrowed sneakers or an errant text from a stripper named Tyqwando.
    In the end, does it matter? Of course not, as Farrakhan’s aim was as poor as his life choices. He missed his target but hit two female tourists and a 4-year-old girl. Thankfully, none of the injuries were fatal, as Farrakhan proved to be a failure even as an accidental murderer.
    Now on the lam, Farrakhan Muhammad took off in his car, yelling out the window, “I still say The Bell Curve makes a flawed and inaccurate case for racial IQ differences.”
    Story line No. 2: Somewhere in Russia, May 7 In bold defiance of their inborn predilections, members of a Russian criminal hacker gang overcome their inherently combative and uncooperative nature and stay sober and collegial enough to successfully cripple a major U.S. oil pipeline, effectively cutting off gasoline supplies to the entire Southeast. At the same time, the tech nerd who told Colonial Pipeline Co., “Let’s switch this business from relying on burly men turning giant valves to sickly dweebs pushing buttons on a Mac,” realizes that his vision of one day getting laid has moved forever beyond his reach as gas stations throughout the Gulf States run dry and people start to wonder why an oil pipeline can now freeze like Windows 10.
    Story line No. 1: May 11 Farrakhan Muhammad races south in his gas-guzzling SUV. He’s made it all the way from New York to Florida, but his dedication to rap music has kept his radio tuned to 95.9 BUTT-FM, a station that plays nothing but songs about large rear ends. His love of hardcore rhymes about generous posteriors has prevented him from sampling the news channels. He is unaware of the gasoline shortage.
    Story line No. 2: May 12 The Russian hackers get drunk and murder each other for no other reason than that they’re Russian. And Russians never need a reason to be violently contentious.
    Story line No. 1: May 12 Farrakhan Muhammad runs out of gas in Starke, Fla.—population three meth-heads, a gator with cataracts, and two senile elderly Jews who aren’t sure if they survived the Holocaust or sat through a really bad Eddie Cantor concert in 1943. Baffled by the lack of open gas stations, Muhammad pulls his sputtering vehicle into a McDonald’s parking lot and buys some food.
    Recognized by a patron (one of the cataract gators), the police are called. Farrakhan Muhammad is taken into custody. He gives an interview to a local TV station, in which he claims that he’s the victim of a racist white man with a Confederate flag who frightened him and for some reason that’s why he was framed for the Times Square shooting. That’s literally the best excuse he can come up with.
    He then has a great revelation that The Bell Curve was right after all. He sits in his holding cell, staring blankly at a wall, his worldview shattered.
    Epilogue: New York mayor and anthropomorphic stoma bag Bill de Blasio, stung by the international attention the Times Square shooting brought to his city’s violent crime surge, reverses himself on his “defund the police” fanaticism and pledges to increase the NYPD budget by $105 million.
    Russian hackers, a black CD busker, shuttered Florida gas stations, and a fraudulent mayor named Wilhelm…and at the end of the day, the characters converge to create a happy ending. No innocents killed, a thug in jail, and the people of NYC slightly safer.
    Grading on a curve by the standards of these troublesome days, that’s about the best outcome anyone could expect.
    It was a time of fear…it was a time of panic. It was the Day of the Driver’s License!

    Michelle Obama has a tale of horror to tell. A real sp-sp-spooky campfire story. So gather round the burning Rite Aid, and prepare to get the shivers!
    “Former first lady Michelle Obama has revealed she is terrified that even her two daughters will be racially profiled when they’re in the car alone,” reported the New York Post.
    Every time they get in a car by themselves, I worry about what assumption is being made by somebody who doesn’t know everything about them. The fact that they are good students and polite girls, but maybe they’re playing their music a little loud, maybe somebody sees the back of their head and makes an assumption. I, like so many parents of black kids…the innocent act of getting a license puts fear in our hearts. Many of us [blacks] still live in fear as we go to the grocery store, walking our dogs. I think we have to talk about it more. And we have to ask our fellow citizens to listen a bit more, and to believe us, and to know we don’t wanna be out there marching.
    That would make sense if Michelle’s black activist buddies actually were “marching.” But instead they’re assaulting and looting, which probably is something they “wanna be” doing.
    Michelle’s scare-tastical tale of terror, obviously intended to portray young blacks as shrinking violets quaking in fear of cars because someone might see “the back of their head” and “make assumptions,” doesn’t exactly jibe with real-life events. Indeed, reality dictates that the risk to young black wannabe drivers who are seen from behind is nothing compared with the risk to whites who have the misfortune of seeing young black wannabe drivers from the front.

    The very day that ’chelle was spinning her yarn, two black kids in San Leandro, Calif. (adjacent to the anal fissure known as Oakland), mugged and beat an 80-year-old Asian man—giggling as the old guy cried out in pain—and then robbed a Hispanic man, and then carjacked someone else, before finally getting caught. The thug who was caught driving the carjacked vehicle? 11 years old. His accomplice was 17. But the 11-year-old was the driver.
    Apparently, Michelle Obama’s story frightened him so much, he didn’t want to risk getting his license. Fortunately, none of the 11-year-old’s victims made any “assumptions” based on “the back of his head.”
    The previous week, also in San Leandro, two other black kids tried to carjack an adult white male in broad daylight (as their two accomplices waited in a getaway car, also stolen). This time, the victim fought back, body-slamming one of the youths and making him squeal like a fragile little girl. When cops caught up with the kids, they found that they were ages 11 to 14.
    More black kids scared to death of getting their driver’s licenses, lest the people they mug, beat, and carjack make “assumptions” about them based on “the back of their head.”
    Michelle Obama’s shocking tale of suspense might strike fear into the hearts of her fellow eternally griping “professional” black victims, but for people in San Leandro, and in cities all over the nation, it’s a bit hard to fear for those kids when there are so many legitimate reasons to have fear of them.
    And that fear isn’t based on “assumptions,” but statistics and probability.
    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

  7. #155
    The Week That Perished

    Taki Mag May 23, 2021

    The Week’s Most Sagacious, Temptatious, and Vexatious Headlines


    It’s a fine Saturday afternoon in Los Angeles’ historic Olvera Street shopping district. Your craving for Mexican food has brought you to the Downtown location, because—following L.A.’s Food Service Anti-Cultural Appropriation Racial Purity Act of 2019 (a.k.a. the Nuremburrito Laws), which mandated that “nonwhite” food can only be sold by establishments owned by nonwhites—Olvera Street has become one of the few remaining areas where one can obtain restaurant-quality tamales.

    As eateries are still only allowed 50% capacity, you sit outside, savoring the mild May weather, awaiting your table. You are approached by a small Mexican child.

    “Señor, I am Pablo. Mi familia has suffered greatly from the Covid. I no beggar boy, but for only one dollar, Pablo will tell you a story of hope and inspiration in these terrible times.”

    You think to yourself, why not? A little pre-dinner entertainment would be pleasant.

    Pablo begins his tale…

    Richard Montañez was a janitor…a lowly Mexican-American janitor sweeping floors at a Frito-Lay manufacturing plant in Rancho Cucamonga, Calif. One day, while cleaning a toilet in the building’s dreaded “nachos wing,” Montañez had a flash of brilliance: Why not market Cheetos covered in spicy chili powder, a “flaming hot” snack food that would revolutionize the staid, boring world of crunchy comestibles? So certain, so confident was Montañez in his vision, he mustered the temerity to personally call the Frito-Lay CEO, who rewarded the janitero valiente with a pitch meeting, where the entire corporate staff was blown away by the idea. And voilà, in 1989, Flamin’ Hot Cheetos hit the stands, becoming the company’s defining—and best-selling—product.

    And Montañez became a superstar. As a motivational speaker, he commanded fees as high as $50,000 to tell his rags-to-riches tale at high schools, universities (including Harvard and USC), and corporate diversity seminars for Walmart and Target.

    He penned a memoir. He was the subject of a book, 2012’s Taco USA: How Mexican Food Conquered America. And last year his story was scooped up by Disney’s Searchlight for a feature film titled Flamin’ Hot, to be directed by the mystifyingly successful TV señora Eva Longoria.

    The film was supposed to begin production last year, but was delayed due to Covid.

    For once, Covid did something right. Because it turns out Richard Montañez “invented” only two things: jack and squat. His entire story was a lie, complete make-believe.

    Flamin’ Hots had been created by a young female junior exec named Lynne Greenfeld at Frito-Lay’s Plano, Tex., HQ. For decades, Frito-Lay bigwigs tolerated Montañez’s tall tales, not wanting to appear “racist” toward a Mexican janitor. But when news of the Longoria film made the papers, Greenfeld finally had enough, demanding that the company set the record straight.

    After all, Montañez had stolen the accomplishment of a woman. Frito-Lay was in a bind: They’d be offending a victim group whether they remained silent or told the truth.

    Miraculously, they decided on the latter. The company released the following statement last week:

    None of our records show that Richard was involved in any capacity in the Flamin’ Hot test market. We have interviewed multiple personnel who were involved in the test market, and all of them indicate that Richard was not involved in any capacity.

    The writer of the Longoria film, Lewis Colick, a “faith-based” filmmaker responsible for such hits as “God’s Not Dead but Kirk Cameron’s Career Is” and “Left Behind IV: Kevin Sorbo’s Friends Go to Sundance Without Him,” told Variety that the film will go on, because “enough of the story is true” (by “enough,” Colick clarified, he meant “absolutely not one word”).

    Richard Montañez, who traded on his ethnicity like it was a precious metal, profited greatly from his lies, and he will continue to profit, because in the end, lying is fine if you do it for “inspirational” reasons.

    “You like Pablo’s tale, señor?” the boy asks.

    “No, not at all! It’s a terrible story. The bad guy made millions, and nobody learned anything. Still, I promised you a dollar, so…hey, where’s my wallet?”

    “Apology, señor, but as Pablo was distracting you, mi hermano Miguel picked your pocket. Have a nice day!”

    As you watch the child run off into the distance, you realize that there’s a new Richard Montañez born every minute…along with a sucker to enable him.


    2020 was a year built upon the firm foundation of several unyielding truths:

    (1) Pandemics are best handled via repressive lockdowns and the quarantining of the healthy. States that follow those rules will handily avoid large casualties, while those that don’t will become massive graveyards.

    Wait…okay, that “unyielding truth” ended up yielding.

    (2) Voter fraud simply never happens. No one has ever dared to exploit weaknesses in voting regs to advantage the candidate or party of their choice.

    Oh, damn, More yielding.

    (3) Okay, then, there’s this one: Making it easy for the poor and “urban” to collect government pandemic welfare cannot go wrong. Poor urbanites are the most trustworthy people on earth; their race and class make them noble! Just hand out money on the honor system, and not a dime will be misspent.

    Turns out this “truth” yielded most of all.

    Last spring, the U.S. Congress and President Trump opened up the coffers to hand out billions in Covid unemployment assistance payments to all who applied. The process by which an American could collect those payments was grueling and rigorous…to the comatose. But for any able-bodied halfwit, it was about as easy as getting an extra ketchup packet at McDonald’s. You just had to go online and provide a name, date of birth, Social Security number, and confirmation that you were unemployed (“confirmation” meaning you had to say “I’m unemployed”).

    And there you go! All the money you need, courtesy of Uncle Sam.

    Last June, in Brooklyn (home to many people who, we are told, are incapable of obtaining IDs for voting), eight young urban contemporaries—ages 18 to 25—hatched a plan: They’d get they’selves some Social Security numbers from the borough’s many fine homeless winos (“Yo, you want dis Thunderbird? Hand over dem digits, you smelly-ass Uncle Remus-lookin’ mofo”). These eight young budding rap moguls were surprised to find out that the pandemic relief database did not cross-reference addresses, meaning that once you had enough Social Security numbers, you could actually have an unlimited number of Covid welfare debit cards sent to the same address, and no red flags would go up.

    Your tax dollars at work! But a necessary security lapse, as surely monitoring the number of assistance payments sent to one address would be discriminatory against the nation’s illegal dreamers, fond as they are of living 400 people per apartment.

    Soon enough, the eight hip-hop Brooklynites had amassed an almost unbelievable two million dollars in fraudulent Covid payments. And they would’ve gotten away with it, too, if it weren’t for their meddling low IQs. The def cozeners made one fatal mistake: They simply couldn’t resist the imperative to pose on social media flashing their ill-gotten gub’mint cash while bragging of their criminal exploits. These “entrepreneurs” uploaded photo after photo of themselves sitting in newly purchased sports cars wearing designer clothes holding giant loads of cash while boasting of gamin’ da game.

    Last week, as President Biden was in the White House Rose Garden chasing down that squirrel who’s been badmouthing him to the sparrows, and as Shadow President Harris was deciding if sleeping with the president’s doctor could possibly facilitate an “accidental” fatal mix-up regarding the old man’s medication, federal law enforcement agents actually did some law enforcing, and the Brooklyn Buffoonalo Soldiers were arrested. Each suspect was caught in possession of dozens of fraudulently obtained Covid assistance debit cards; several were apprehended as they were making ATM withdrawals.

    At their arraignment, the defendants cried out in unison, “Maaaaaaaan,” which is an officially accepted plea in New York City courts.

    The Biden Administration reassured the American people that just because eight uneducated young lowlifes could so successfully game the system, it doesn’t mean that vote-by-mail with no signature verification could ever be similarly abused. Indeed, Jen Psaki assured the press that any claims to the contrary are nothing more than lies told by that damn backbiting squirrel, whose word should never be taken under any circumstances.


    It’s said that as Thomas Paine was agonizing over how best to advance the cause of independence from Great Britain, he had two potential concepts in mind. The first was a pamphlet that would lay out the case for American independence in a manner so impassioned, so intelligently argued, so firm of conviction, that the assent of the reader would be swiftly commanded.

    The second was to draw King George as a giant stinky poo.

    Did Paine make the right decision? Not according to a group of Trump supporters in Calvert County, Md. They recently erected a billboard overlooking Route 4 and Bowie Shop Road in Huntingtown that portrays Biden and Harris as two lumps of dog poop sitting on a patch of grass, complete with buzzing flies (because subtlety). “Don’t Blame Trump,” the billboard reads, “You are stuck with these two $#@!heads.”

    Additional lumps of poo adorn the text, because subtlety.

    The local Democrat Central Committee has tried to get the billboard removed on vulgarity grounds, but county commissioners have pointed to a 2015 SCOTUS ruling that in effect stated that billboard language cannot be regulated for things like four-letter words.

    Jeanette Flaim, chairwoman of the Calvert County Democrat Central Committee, told a local news affiliate, “It’s just vulgar. Kids are going to school, and they’re going by it every day, and parents are driving their kids. We just don’t think kids should have to see that or parents should have to explain that.”

    Flaim was then reminded that she represents the same party that openly advocates:

    (1) Child drag queens
    (2) “Drag queen storybook hour” for children at local libraries
    (3) Sexually explicit material as required reading in grade schools
    (4) Children as young as 8 being allowed to lop off their genitals because an Instagram “influencer” told them they were “assigned the wrong gender” at birth
    (5) Abortion on demand for minors with no parental consent
    (6) “Transgender” education starting in kindergarten
    (7) The abolition of the nuclear family because mommies and daddies are “oppressive”

    After hearing the list, Flaim laughed like Woody Woodpecker and jumped out a window.

    To be sure, the Biden BM image is crude. But it’s funny to hear Democrats talk about “protecting kids from vulgarity.” Just last week, Tucker Carlson ran a segment about a revolt by parents in the Loudoun County, Va., school district over the obscene and sexually explicit “literature” assigned to their kids. Several parents used a school board meeting to read excerpts from the “educational” literature—excerpts so laden with filthy language and bizarre sexual imagery that every other word had to be bleeped for TV. The school board members—Democrats—ignored the parents’ concerns.

    But a glorified Mad magazine depiction of Biden and Harris as doggie dookie must be removed because kids may see it.

    Bizarre but typically leftist logic.

    Worse still, unconfirmed reports from Calvert County suggest that members of the area’s Hindu community have misunderstood the billboard to be an endorsement of public outdoor defecation. “Kamala is embracing her Indian roots! She’s telling us it’s okay to be who we are,” one local Punjabi crowed to a reporter. “Pooing outside is part of our identity, and not only does Kamala endorse it, she even persuaded her stuttering elderly manservant to join her. I’ve never been prouder to be an Indian.”


    Africans have a bizarre relationship with light skin. On the one hand, African albinos are being hunted to extinction faster than the mountain gorilla. Sub-Saharan albinos are very much sought after…unfortunately not for their company or conversation skills (which are apparently not that great anyway; how many times can you hear “my mama so white” jokes before they become tiresome?). No, African albinos are in demand for their body parts, which are believed by witch doctors and honors students to contain magical properties.

    In nations like Malawi, Tanzania, and Zambia, mass graves have been discovered containing albino corpses missing hearts, legs, arms, ears, eyes, and genitals. As reported by the International Red Cross in 2009, “a complete set of albino body parts in Dar es Salaam—including all four limbs, genitals, ears, tongue and nose—was fetching the equivalent of $75,000 US dollars.” What is not ingested is worn as a good-luck charm.

    “Look,” a spokesman for the Chinese herbalist community recently told National Geographic, “when I eat tiger kidneys to supersize my pecker, that’s science. But eating an albino’s nose to gain good luck? That’s just kooky.”

    Yet just as Africans chow down on the “too white,” they really love making themselves more white. Just not, you know, white enough so that the neighbors try to eat their testicles. Skin lightening creams are all the rage in Africa, and have been since precolonial times. Skin whitening solutions, both over-the-counter and homemade, are big sellers in South Africa, where government attempts dating back to the apartheid days to ban the sale of “bleaching” creams have failed to stem either the supply or the demand.

    Traditionally, African bleaching creams have contained mercury, which, as described in a 2020 Quartz piece, “inhibits the formation of melanin by rendering the enzyme tyrosinase inactive; and it exfoliates the tanned, outer layers of the skin through the production of hydrochloric acid.”

    It also kills you, a small fact that has never seemed to hurt sales of the products.

    Last year, Somali activists, aided by the Sierra Club, persuaded Amazon to no longer carry skin lightening products that contain mercury. The fact that Amazon was actually allowing the deadly products in the first place, even as it was banning any and all books that the ADL considers “anti-Semitic,” says a lot about Jeff Bezos’ priorities. Poison Africans all you like; just don’t suggest that less than 6 million Jews died in the Holocaust.

    Having won that battle against Amazon, anti-bleaching activists are now facing an even greater fight, against even more formidable foes: Prince Harry and Meghan Markle. Recently, Meghan let Harry out of his S&M gimp box long enough for the couple to sign a multimillion-dollar multiyear “global partnership” contract with Procter & Gamble.

    P&G, it turns out, is one of the world’s largest suppliers of melanin-inhibiting bleaching creams in Africa (and also in Malaysia, Singapore, and India).

    Ironically, 28 years ago, when she was 11 years old, Meghan took time out from mercilessly teasing her darker-skinned black peers to lead a boycott campaign against P&G for a “sexist” dish soap TV commercial that depicted mothers washing dishes. The light-skinned mixed-race tyke was even interviewed on local TV stations about her anti-P&G activism.

    So now, activists are turning the tables, wondering why Meghan can possibly be willing to make a profitable business deal with P&G as that company sells skin bleaching products that kill Africans. How, these activists wonder, can this woman, who openly weeps about racist oppression every time her chauffeured luxury car is forced to park in a white zone at LAX, not be concerned with what P&G is doing in Africa?

    To be clear, nobody’s holding Harry responsible for the business decision, because that would imply he has some small amount of say in the relationship (the sad fact is, about ten years ago the Prince was mistaken for an albino in Mwanza and his balls were taken).

    But Meghan. How can that whiny racial-identity-driven self-obsessed perpetually “feeling sorry for herself” narcissistic social climber be okay with partnering with P&G?

    Activists asking that question should take a trip to Route 4 and Bowie Shop Road in Calvert County, Md. Biden and Harris are not the only lumps of anthropomorphic feces on the world stage; that billboard could just as easily be Meghan and Harry.

    Although at least dung serves an important role in ecology, so really, a “Meghan and Harry as poo” billboard would be more of an insult to poo…and that’s just unfair.


    “How did the war affect you, Grampa?”

    “Guadalcanal was hell. A living hell. Dodging shells, dodging bullets. When the food ran out, we ate insects. Not that I could keep anything down…dysentery was eatin’ me to the bone. But we kept goin’…crawlin’ through mud, mosquitoes turnin’ our skin raw like sandpaper. Four days in, my buddy Hank, he gets the top of his head blown off by a sniper…no more than two feet away from me. My gun jammed, so I grab his bayonet, and I see three Japs comin’ right at me. So I char…”

    “No, no, Grampa, I don’t care about that. I mean your self-esteem. And your gender identity. Did the war make you question if you’re nonbinary? Was there tolerance in your unit when a soldier would come out as trans? Were you genderqueeer positive?”

    “Christ…looks like I fought for the wrong side.”

    A new U.S. Army recruitment video profiles a young woman who recalls her life before enlistment. “Emma” recounts her childhood (via animated flashback) with her two lesbian mommies, one of whom looks like a woman, the other like Clark Kent if portrayed by an endomorph with dropsy. As “Emma” sails through a privileged, social-justice-immersed life filled with joy and stability—after all, LGBT dogma demands that the daughter of two mommies cannot possibly develop any emotional problems—she ends up at a prestigious college in a sorority filled with “strong women.”

    But after graduation, “Emma” realizes that her multicultural sorority sisters are all having their own “adventures.” One is “studying abroad in Italy.” The other is “climbing Everest.”

    “I needed my own adventures,” Emma declares.

    So, after meeting with a recruiter, she joins the U.S. Army as “a way to prove my inner strength…and maybe shatter some stereotypes along the way.”

    “I answered my calling,” Emma dramatically states at the end of the commercial, as her animated avatar dissolves into her real-life visage.

    Funny enough, throughout the entire two-minute-and-twenty-second video, amid all the talk of lesbians, strong women, LGBTs, “equity,” and self-esteem, there’s one word that never pops up, not even once: “America.” You know, the nation that the Army supposedly protects.

    A promotional spot for the armed forces of a nation that never once mentions the name of that nation. It’s almost as if those who produced the spot are ashamed that the Army actually does anything other than give the children of scissor sisters the opportunity to outshine that sorority friend who climbed a mountain.

    “Like, errmahgerd! Destina climbed Everest. I’ll show her—I’ll climb an obstacle course wearing fugly green fatigues.”

    Social media pundits have had a field day contrasting the “Emma” promotional spot to army recruitment videos from China and Russia…videos in which not only is the name of the nation uttered, but the recruits are shown not dreamily reminiscing about their two mommies but blowing the living crap out of enemy targets in defense of their homeland.

    China: “We will dominate you with superior firepower and a willingness to die and sacrifice our loved ones if necessary rather than submit to the decadent desires of the dog-faced demons.”

    Russia: “The ice water that runs through our veins will exit our bladders as freezing urination that will serve as a glacial sarcophagus to envelope and suffocate the weak Western limp-wrists who’ve known neither strife nor struggle yet in their arrogance believe themselves superior to those who have.”

    America: “My two mommies kissy kissy at night and Everest is too cold for my postgrad adventure so I’ll join the Army so that I can help men become women and ERRMAHGERD get that nasty gun away from me it’s a tool of right-wing racist oppression!”

    Khrushchev slams his shoe on the podium: “We will bury you!”

    Emma rolls her eyes: “Like, no way, Tibor Transphobe. We’ll bury ourselves, thank you very much.”
    Last edited by Anti Federalist; 05-23-2021 at 09:38 AM.
    Where they have burned books, they will end in burning human beings. - Heinrich Heine 1823

  8. #156
    The Week That Perished


    May 29, 2021

    The Week’s Most Malicious, Flagitious, and Unpropitious Headlines


    There have been many theories bandied about in recent months to explain the current explosion in violent crime hitting America’s big cities. Some pundits have pointed to the defunding and demoralization of police due to BLM-mania and George Soros-inspired “progressive” crime-enabling policies. Other commentators, specifically those who possess underdeveloped frontal lobes, have pointed to the Covid pandemic as the cause, because it…somehow…made black Americans egregiously murderous.

    But there might be a third theory. Perhaps the eruption of unrest in largely black urban centers isn’t so much about the pandemic per se but the restaurant closures. After all, pre-Covid, a favorite black pastime was suing restaurants for poor dining experiences. Denied a reservation? Racial discrimination! Pay up, suckas! Dress code? Jim Crow on supersteroids! A restaurant closed for the evening that won’t open back up because one black man is hungry? Worse than a lynching.

    How many media-hyped stories have there been over the past ten years of black waitresses being left racist notes on receipts by white customers? Sure, it always ends up that the waitress wrote the note herself, but that usually only comes out after the aggrieved waitress has cleaned up on GoFundMe.

    In Beverly Hills, Korean-American-owned eatery Crustacean was sanctioned by the EEOC because black people claimed they weren’t being seated close enough to the window so that passersby could see black people dining. “Look, honey—a black man ingesting food. They’re just like us after all! I’m going to renounce my KKK membership.”

    Given all that, the 2020 shuttering of indoor dining was a major blow to the black American psyche. Takeout only? No reservations, dress code, “check please,” or window seating? Well, no wonder there were riots; the usual outlets for easy reparations cash were closed. What was left except to sack Walgreens?

    But now, thankfully, with life returning to normal post-pandemic, black “leaders” have restaurants to kick around again.

    Black “comic” Byron Allen (of the late-’70s hit TV show Real People) doesn’t just tell jokes, he is a joke. Other comedians literally use this failed funster as the butt of their own humor. Yet as bad as Byron Allen is at comedy, he’s proven a very shrewd businessman, producing highly successful daytime-TV courtroom shows like “Judge Yomamasoblack” and “Jiveturkey Court.”

    Last week, “media mogul” Allen decided to “mogul” a few billion bucks from McDonald’s by suing the company for not advertising on his “digital TV networks” Pets.TV and Cars.TV (not to mention PetsCars.TV, which consists of nonstop videos of dogs impatiently honking horns as their owners run into minimarts for sundries).

    Allen claims he’s not trying to enrich himself by suing McDonald’s for ten billion bucks. Rather, he’s merely pressuring McDonald’s into spending at least 5% of its advertising budget on his networks, which for reasons unexplained will benefit all blacks.

    Ironically, that’s the only funny thing the guy’s ever said in his life.

    Still, don’t be so quick to laugh. McDonald’s is actually taking the lawsuit seriously. The fast-food giant told the WSJ last week that it would indeed commit 5% of its advertising budget to “black-owned” media entities, although the company stopped short of agreeing to pay for ads on Allen’s WatchingPaintDry.TV, which is billed as “replicating the experience of watching a Byron Allen stand-up set.”

    Of course, Allen’s campaign to force McDonald’s to spend more advertising bucks on black consumers comes on the heels of several government and nonprofit reports slamming McDonald’s for being racist for targeting black consumers with too much advertising, thus causing obesity and nutritional deficiencies that led to greater numbers of Covid deaths in black communities.

    Damned if you do, damned if you don’t. But most of all, damned if you’re ever going to hear Byron Allen say anything intentionally funny.

    Unintentionally, though…the guy’s a real (BLM) riot.


    Sticking with the theme of racial scam artists, let’s take a trip to farm country. Ah, America’s rich, hearty farm belt, with its streets of concrete, basketball courts, bums sleeping in alleys, 24-hour check-cashing liquor joints, and crack dens.

    Wait, that’s not what you think of when you think of “farm country”?


    And speaking of “racists,” in March 2020 the ultimate evil racist, Donald Trump, signed the CARES Act, the unprecedentedly large stimulus bill that, in theory, was intended to provide Americans financial relief during the Covid crisis. In reality, it proved itself a gold mine for inner-city hustlers who found ways to bilk the big-money giveaway for all it was worth.

    And now it’s been revealed that the part of CARES that was supposed to offer protection to “family farms” was badly, and rather amusingly, abused by those same hucksters.

    Weird how so many people of color benefited from handout programs signed into law by a supposed white supremacist.

    A core problem with the CARES handouts to “farmers” was that the program made it profitable for “alternative lenders” (sometimes referred to as “fintechs”) to make questionable loans, as those companies were offered a generous government-backed 5% fee on every loan under $350,000. One of those fintechs, “Kabbage,” which later spun off into “K Servicing,” was run by a black angus bossy named Laquisha Milner, and the entire loan program was overseen by the Small Business Administration and its agents, including Eastern Region Special Agent-in-Charge Amaleka McCall-Brathwaite, and SBA inspector general spokesperson Farrah Saint-Surin, who brought all the integrity to her job that one would expect of someone from her native Haiti, a nation known for its clockwork government and lack of graft and corruption (“Haiti: where the rape trains always run on time”).

    Anyway, you might be getting an idea of how things went south with CARES’ farm relief bailouts. Last week, a report by ProPublica uncovered millions of dollars in loans to fake farms that were processed, mostly through Laquisha’s Kabbage/K Servicing (which produced a Michael Jackson-themed video to lure black employees and borrowers), and doled out to nonexistent “farms” with names like “Deely Nuts,” “Tomato Cramber,” and “Beefy King.”

    One beneficiary of these loans was a Floridian named Latoya Clark, a self-described “African-American woman of Jamaican descent” who received, via Kabbage, over one million dollars for her “farms” named “Squeeze It” (oranges, most likely) and “Tastetunup” (no effing clue). When Clark’s bank, JPMorgan Chase, froze her funds after an internal investigation revealed that the businesses were likely fake, Clark sued Chase for depriving her of her stimmi bucks. Her lawsuit claims that Chase only froze the funds due to “institutional racism” and “racial profiling.”

    In its response to the complaint, Chase provided ample documentation to prove that “Squeeze It” and “Tastunup” were shell entities created after the CARES Act was passed as a way of cashing in on the law’s “make it rain” philosophy toward anyone who could fill out a form and hold up a begging bowl.

    The Chase vs. Clark case has yet to go to trial, but one hopes that the proceedings will put Ms. Latoya on the spot about what in the living hell “Tastunup” is actually supposed to be.

    Not to be outdone by his predecessor, Joe Biden has actually expanded government programs giving money to “black farms,” and as for any loans to fake black farms that were made under CARES during the Trump presidency, Biden’s got that well-covered. On March 17 he appointed as the new head of the Small Business Administration one Isabella Casillas Guzman, who describes herself as (no joke) a “Mexican Chinese Jew.”

    Well, surely she’ll clean house! At least the Mexican part of her will.

    By the way, what do you get when you cross a Jew with a Chinaman and a Mexican? Someone who cooks their own takeout and pays themselves 50 cents an hour to wash the dishes.

    Oh, you can do better? It’s funnier than anything you’ll hear at a Byron Allen show.


    In the classic season 4 Simpsons episode “Mr. Plow,” Homer is driving home from Moe’s Tavern in a blizzard. Drunk, and with his ability to see the road ahead impeded by snow, he recklessly weaves through his neighborhood’s streets. With terrible suddenness, he crashes violently into another vehicle. Exiting his car, he sees that both vehicles have sustained heavy damage from the collision.

    “Well, I got him as good as he got me!” Homer proudly declares, content that whatever his repair costs from the crash, the “other guy” will have to pay as much or more.

    Then the snow lets up enough for Homer to see that he’s actually crashed into the Simpson family’s parked station wagon in his own driveway. The “other guy” was himself.


    That’s kinda been Jews the past year regarding the disruption of outdoor dining by BLM. Encouraged by Jewish journalists, academics, and political moneymen, BLM in 2020 made a cottage industry out of screaming at, threatening, and outright assaulting whites who were dining outside in cities where outdoor dining was the only option due to Covid restrictions. This campaign of harassment produced clip after clip after clip of white diners (often elderly) being harangued, cornered, insulted, and in some cases even losing their food to hungry black reparationists who helped themselves because when Sam Jackson ate that doomed white guy’s tasty burger and washed it down with Sprite, it was, like, the coolest thing ever, right?

    Sure, one or two Jews might have been among the besieged diners—after all, the average BLM simpleton can’t tell one whitey from another—but at least leftist Jews could take solace in the fact that for every Finklestein, Schmeckelberg, or Spielenschitz whose dinner was disturbed, ten times as many Andersens, Van Dykes, and O’Houlihans suffered the same fate.

    “Well, I got him as good as he got me!”

    At least that was the sentiment until a week ago, when a couple of Jews enjoying an outdoor dinner at a pricey West Hollywood restaurant were attacked by a bunch of pro-Palestinian rioters who disrupted their dining experience with insults, threats, and hurled projectiles.

    And you know the classic poem…

    First they came for the elderly gentiles enjoying the early-bird special at Denny’s, and I did not speak out—
    because I am neither old, a gentile, nor a fan of crappy food.

    Then they came for the country-club gentiles enjoying fried calamari at a gastropub, and I did not speak out—
    because I’m not a country-club gentile, and that calamari isn’t glatt and such tiny portions they give you anyway.

    Then they came for me, and—
    what the hell? It’s the end of the world! Speak out for me already, why don’t you!


    Yes, after voicing unwavering support for BLM as it attacked outdoor diners over and over again, the ADL declared a state of emergency over this one outdoor dining attack by akbars against Jews.

    “Interrupting a Jew as he eats dinner? It’s an abomination! A Holocaust! A Chowschwitz! A Beef Stewchenwald! A Burger-Belsen!”

    (Oy' gevalt - I laughed so hard at that I broke out in tears... - AF)

    The ADL, aided by its parrots in the press, demanded action! And the LAPD obliged, quickly rounding up the two dining-disruptors—Samer Jayylusi of Anaheim and Xavier Pabon of Riverside. “How fiendish of these men to have traveled so far just to target Jews on L.A.’s Westside,” the ADL croaked, while deleting all the emails it sent a year ago praising BLM activists from South L.A. for coming to the Westside to target whites and Jews with looting and riots.

    Because in the end, it’s not about the targetees, but the targeters. The shifty-eyed racial demagogues who run the ADL had no problem with noble blacks attacking Jews, because whites were targeted too. But filthy Ay-rabs attacking only Jews?

    That cannot stand!

    Indeed, Jason Isaacson, chief policy and political affairs officer with the American Jewish Committee, told The Hill last week that he’s troubled that Palestinian attackers are echoing the “racial justice” rhetoric that groups like his employed in defense of BLM.

    How dare they!

    Fortunately, with police across the country showing a willingness to arrest the anti-Semitic meal-breakers, hopefully soon enough, with summer on the horizon, the nation’s outdoor dining areas will once again be reserved for disruptions from the right kind of terrorists.

    Bomb appétit!


    It’s the late 1970s again, if you haven’t noticed. The Carter years are back and they’re worser than ever. Rampant inflation, gas prices through the roof, out-of-control government spending. A formidable, adversarial communist nation (about to host the Olympics) allowed to romp free by executive-branch cowards and appeasers who take the position “just be nice to them and they’ll be our friends.” Biden seems so intent on being the new Carter, he’s probably planning a river rafting trip just in the hope that he’ll be able to beat the snot out of a drowning rabbit.

    It’s everything bad from that era, and none of the good (like the music, and ABC’s glorious T&A prime-time TV lineup).

    But by far the worst aspect of the Carter years that Americans are having to relive at present is the soft-on-crime, screw-the-victim, “violent criminals are cuddly lil’ babies who need love ’n’ compassion” school of thought regarding criminal justice. For people who spent the 1970s in cities like New York, Chicago, and L.A., nothing defined the era more than scumbag repeat offenders being released with a slap on the wrist, as innocent citizens were slammed for being “intolerant” if they didn’t want the “Bronx Babyeater” rooming next door to them in a taxpayer-funded halfway house.

    One of the most appalling 1970s criminal injustices that was reversed throughout the Reagan years was the idea that violent criminals should have their past crimes shielded from public view, that it’s “discriminatory” to force serial pedophiles, rapists, and murderers to have to live with a record of their previous acts. Clean slates are human rights! After all, “today is the first day of the rest of your life” (and, in the case of inveterate criminals, the last day of the life of their next victim).

    Consider the example of Dominique Dunne, the young actress who hit the big time costarring in the 1982 blockbuster Poltergeist. The 22-year-old Dunne had started dating a hot young Hollywood chef named John Thomas Sweeney, unaware—because in 1982 there really was no way to be aware—that he had a history of strangling his girlfriends. So of course he strangled her to death.

    At Sweeney’s trial, Judge Burton “Streicher Stereotype” Katz ruled that it was vital that Sweeney’s past strangulations not be mentioned to the jury. Just because a guy has strangled one, two, three women, doesn’t mean the fourth represents some kind of pattern or anything. And since all facts regarding Sweeney’s previous crimes were ruled inadmissible by Judge Thisiswhypeoplehateus, the jury rendered a verdict of involuntary manslaughter, and Chef Chokey McChickenstock was freed to strangle again.

    But Dunne’s death was not in vain. Her father, a noted author and journalist, lobbied tirelessly to make it easier for people—jurors, potential employers, love interests—to learn of a person’s history of violent crime.

    Thankfully for career criminals, the Democrats—with the help of big-money donors like George NoTHISiswhypeoplehateus Soros—are rolling back all of those Reagan-era reforms. In New York State, the “Clean Slate Act,” which would “remove publicly available criminal records for most felonies and misdemeanor crimes after people have completed the terms of their punishment,” is all set to pass, with backing from labor unions, big business, and big tech. Advocates for the bill aren’t even trying to disguise it as something that would only help “teens who have a record because they smoked a joint.” No, New York already has a law to expunge those records. This new one is targeted at erasing the records of violent felons, including murderers, kidnappers, arsonists, and domestic abusers.

    Worse still, the law would require the “expungement” of “biometric information” like DNA databases (you can’t be a serial rapist if the DNA evidence of your previous rape has been sent to the incinerator!). For some wacky reason, feminist orgs are okay with this.

    Amazingly, some state Republicans are on board with it too, more evidence that the RNC’s initiation rite of making new members eat lead paint chips has proven to be less than helpful in the long run.

    And that’s the big difference between the Carter years and today. Back then, Republicans were not afflicted with mild-to-severe retardation. Indeed, back then, even some Democrats had integrity and morals. The nation’s come a long way, and the next Dominique Dunne who gets murdered in New York by a guy who should’ve been locked away three strangulations ago will surely use her final breath to curse today’s gutless politicos for ushering in a new, worse Carter era filled with all the murderousness but none of the ELO.


    It was bound to happen. Climate-change apocalyptics have talked themselves into a corner. From “no more cow farts” AOC to Al “every time I said the world would end I was wrong except this time” Gore to Greta “HOW DARE YOU!” Thunberg to Bill “the earth is on fire!” Nye the Pseudoscience Guy, the screaming-meemie alarmists have made it clear: If we don’t abandon fossil fuels and start driving electric cars, the world will burn…or freeze…or explode…or implode…or suffocate…or something.

    The details are sketchy, but pesky specifics aside, just know that we’re all gonna die! It’s electric cars or the end of the human race. The dinosaurs died out because they didn’t switch to electrics (that and the fact that they never engineered a steering wheel that could be reached by the tiny arms of a T-Rex…so many unnecessary road fatalities).

    But what if the cost of saving the planet is black lives? We’ve been told that nothing in the world—hell, nothing in the universe—is as precious as a black life.

    But there might be one exception to that rule…one thing that is more important than even a Chicago Southside crackhead.


    With no cobalt, there are no rechargeable lithium batteries. No lithium batteries, no electric cars. No electric cars? No earth!

    So where does cobalt come from? Is it conjured by transgender wizards using grrrrl-power magic? Is it a by-product of the good feelings one gets from buying a cup of fair-trade cruelty-free eco-friendly coffee from a Seattle Starbucks where one dime of every purchase goes to burning down an ICE facility? Is it pooped out by Gwyneth Paltrow after she ingests too many organic figs?

    No, unfortunately. It’s mined in places like the Congo. And apparently, those mines are taking out black children like Wayne Williams on Viagra.

    “Our children are dying like dogs,” one mournful Congolese mother told the press last week, as she and a bunch of other perturbed Congolese parents pressed ahead with a lawsuit aimed at getting companies like Apple, Google, Dell, Microsoft, and Tesla to stop killing their kids for their earth-saving batteries.

    “Hundreds, if not thousands, of children have been maimed or killed to produce the cobalt needed for the world’s modern tech gadgets produced by the defendants and other companies,” the lawsuit states.

    In response to the suit, Apple declared that it has established a “hotline” where children being worked to death in the mines can call to complain. Sadly, as the grieving mothers pointed out, there are several problems with this strategy. First, the child miners don’t have phones. Second, they can’t read. And third, the complaint line is relayed to a call center in Bangalore where nobody speaks English and every operator tries to redirect the conversation to the malware in the caller’s Windows 10.

    Not everyone on the receiving end of the lawsuit is unsympathetic, though. Elon Musk told the AP that he’d be more than happy to look into the complaints of the child laborers if they’d convert their investment portfolios to Dogecoin. After being informed that the children have no portfolios, Musk shrugged and said, “Well, then, call me if they get trapped in a flooded cave.”

    For his part, Bill Gates released a statement assuring his investors that “in all my visits to Jeffrey Epstein’s island, I never once abused a black boy. They’re not my type.”

    Funny enough, so far not a single young leftist Hollywood celebrity or social media “influencer” has volunteered to go to the Congo to relieve a child miner of his duties, if only for a week. After all, seeing how their beloved electric-car batteries are created might just ruin the smug pleasure of driving a Tesla with a BLM bumper sticker and NPR on autoplay on the radio.

    Hollywood can’t afford to be sentimental here; if it takes a few thousand dead black kids to save Mother Earth, so be it.

    Perhaps if the advocates of the carbon-friendly Keystone Pipeline could guarantee that the tunnels would be dug by African child slaves, the Democrats would reverse their opposition to the project.

    It’s certainly worth a shot.
    Where they have burned books, they will end in burning human beings. - Heinrich Heine 1823

  9. #157
    The Week That Perished


    June 05, 2021

    The Week’s Most Soniferous, Maliferous, and Pestiferous Headlines


    Only suckas, rubes, and racists observed Memorial Day last weekend. Thanks to President Biden, the evil reign of that right-wing militarist “holiday” has finally ended, supplanted by a new “memorial day” weekend commemorating the Tulsa Race Massacre, which occurred on May 31 and June 1, 1921 (initially, Memorial Day was going to be replaced by “Enjoy the Long Weekend Day,” in which Americans would be forced to gawk at photos of the cackling harpy who serves as vice president. But cooler heads realized that being forced to view photos of massacre victims is less traumatizing).

    The Tulsa Race Massacre started when something that no one can describe for certain happened between two people in an elevator in a city generally not known for elevators at the time (“I don’t trust no dang magic liftin’ box to take mah feet off the ground, hang-dern it”). Either a black man tripped and fell on a white female elevator operator, or he groped her, or the two were having a tryst (both cats skipped town once the rifles and pitchforks came out, so it’ll likely never be known for sure). The notion of a black man touching a white woman in a devil sky box riled the local whites, who demanded the black guy’s lynching. The cops and some local National Guardsmen kept order admirably, and the whole thing would’ve very likely blown over, except apparently (some conjecture here) a time traveler appeared before Tulsa’s black community leaders. The mysterious stranger said, “If the Jews had only had guns, they could’ve defeated Hitler and avoided the Holocaust.” The Tulsa blacks told the time traveler, “Dem woids don’ mean’ nuttin’ ta us, but is you sayin’ dat if we gits our guns, we kin fight da lynch mob, even tho we’z only 10% of da population?”

    And the time traveler said, “Yep—and your example will live on forever, proving that yes, armed with guns, a small oppressed population can fully defeat the might of an oppressive regime, no matter how large.”

    So the blacks did as instructed, arming up and marching on the white part of town. And they got their asses royally kicked, as the white majority and the formerly sympathetic police and Guardsmen used heavy armaments, superior numbers, and even airplanes to round up the town’s blacks and burn their neighborhood to the ground, leaving most of Tulsa’s black population homeless and destitute.

    Little-known fact: That time traveler was Wayne LaPierre, who—his psyche shattered from seeing his thesis put into action only for it to spectacularly fail—returned to the present to devote his life to recklessly misspending the NRA’s money on drunken debauchery.

    And although “black Tulsa,” including the vaunted “Black Wall Street,” was indeed violently demolished, in terms of human casualties, official figures at the time listed only 36 deaths (26 black and 10 white), and a 2001 estimate raised it to 39 (26 black and 13 white).

    Not exactly a one-sided “massacre,” if a “massacre” at all. In 2021, we call 26 dead black people “a Saturday night in Chicago.”

    Still, President Biden visited Tulsa, where he gave a speech to inaugurate the new Tulsa Massacre Memorial Day by declaring the event “the Holocaust on steroids,” before falling asleep at the podium and dreaming that he himself was back in 1921 fistfighting Rudolph Valentino over Clara Bow’s hand in marriage. “C’mon, man, she’s mine, fat!” the president mumbled before his people turned the hose on him.

    The press did its part to help usher in Tulsa Massacre Day, running breathless stories with inflated casualty figures (“300 black dead! No, 3,000! Wait, make that 30,000!”), always being careful to avoid mentioning the white dead or the fact that the authorities pretty much had the situation under control until the armed black mob showed up (most historians agree that it was a black who fired the first shot).

    And although airplanes were indeed used in the course of the riot for observation of crowds and fires, the press added—unchallenged—lurid and questionable accounts of planes dropping bombs on blacks, blitzkrieg-style (in fact, the only offensive use of a plane during the riots was when a white pilot flew over the black part of town dragging a banner depicting a massively overweight white woman, hoping it would make the blacks look up and stare long enough to be disarmed).

    Of course, the good news—trumpeted by Biden during his speech—is that black Tulsa was rebuilt, and today the community is stronger than ever at almost 16% of the city.

    Not mentioned by the president was that the city also has one of the worst crime rates in the U.S., hitting a three-decade high in 2020, a year in which far more Tulsa blacks died due to homicide than in 1921 due to the riot.

    But don’t worry; no one will call that a “massacre.”


    Let’s not leave Tulsa just yet. After all, the place always looks so nice this time of year, decked out as it is in Massacre Day decorations (not to mention the nightly Massacre Day parade).

    Barack Obama was president on the 90th anniversary of the 1921 unrest, and frankly that really should’ve been the time to begin mining the damn thing for political gain, as there were a lot more survivors to exploit. As it fell to good ol’ Joe to be the first president to elevate the riot to “sacred pivotal national moment of racial reckoning” status, it fell to his staffers to find out if any black “survivors” of the event were still alive. And wouldn’t you know it, three oldies are still breathing! They are Viola Fletcher, 107, her brother Hughes Van Ellis, 100, and Lessie Benningfield Randle, 106.

    What a racist country this is where black people can live that long (average life span in Central Africa: 51 years).

    The crowning moment of Biden’s Tulsa trip was supposed to occur Monday night the 31st at ONEOK Field baseball stadium. John Legend was going to give a concert, followed by Stacey Abrams doing her beloved medley of “Baby Got Back,” “Fat Bottomed Girls,” and “Da Butt.” Then, for the climax, Biden was to take the stage along with the three massacre survivors for a rendition of “The Old Gray Mare” backed by the Lying Dog-Faced Pony Soldiers Jug Band.

    The event was to be called “Remember & Rise” (i.e., two things that Biden and the centenarians can no longer do without assistance).

    Each “survivor” charged the event organizers $100,000 for their presence, and the event chairman, black Democratic Oklahoma State Senator Kevin Matthews, agreed. After all, these fine old people had been through so much in their youth, surely a small honorarium would…

    Wait, a MILLION DOLLARS? Yes, after the organizers agreed to the hundred thou, the survivors decided to up their demands to one million bucks per person, and fifty million extra for a “reparations fund.”

    To which Representative Matthews responded, “Git yo’ wrinkly old Miss Jane Pittman-lookin’ asses outta my office before I cut the brakes on your Jazzy Power Chairs.”

    The event was called off and nobody got nuthin’.

    It was the worst “massacre” ever.

    Still, the weekend wasn’t entirely a wash. The owners of local Tulsa sneaker store Silhouette felt so bad for 107-year-old Viola Fletcher, they gave her a free pair of Air Jordans and boasted about it on Twitter.

    Fletcher is wheelchair-bound and unable to walk. So…maybe not the greatest gift. Worse still, Michael Jordan himself showed up and took Fletcher for five months’ worth of social security checks pitching quarters.

    On top of all that, Fletcher had to go back home and explain to her relatives that she turned down a $100,000 check. After all, when you’re 107 and you get $100,000, your closest relations are obviously gonna think of that money as theirs.

    Dad: “Great-grandma’s bringin’ home the dough this week! I’m gonna get me a new car!”

    Mom: “I’m gonna get that weave I had my eyes on.”

    Son: “I’m gonna be able to go to a good college!”

    [Everyone laughs hysterically.]

    Son: “I know, I know, just kiddin’. It’s a PS5 for me!”

    [Grandma Fletcher wheels through the door.]

    Fletcher: “I turned down the money, but I got me these big-ass Frankenstein shoes that killed my circulation. I hope Medicare covers amputations, ’cause otherwise y’all gonna have to pay.”

    And for the second time in her life, Viola Fletcher finds herself homeless and destitute.


    It was the crime of the decade, or at least that’s how it would appear, judging by the media coverage. The year was 2010, the month was March. The 14th of March, to be exact. And Americans who had fooled themselves into thinking that their beloved country was not a racist hellhole of genocidal slavers and KKK madmen were about to receive a mighty wake-up call…amplified by a public address loudspeaker.

    On that March day in Washington Township, N.J., a teenager grabbed the PA microphone at a Walmart and announced, “Attention, Walmart customers: All black people leave the store now,” before running out the front door giggling like an idiot.

    It was the single worst racist atrocity in U.S. history. Manzanar? Bah! Those Japs don’t know what suffering is. In fact, survivors of the Tulsa Race Massacre donated reparations money to the blacks who were in the Walmart that day, saying, “What happened to us was a walk in the park in comparison.”

    The Walmart PA incident was given front-page coverage in The New York Times, The Washington Post, and every other major paper in the U.S. It was a leadoff story on every network news show that night. Police spared no expense identifying and arresting the 16-year-old culprit, who was charged with “harassment and bias intimidation,” and Gloucester County Prosecutor Sean Dalton, who held daily press briefings about the matter, assured the media and all of America’s black citizens that justice would be swift and merciless.

    Oddly, the boy’s race was never revealed to the public because, according to Dalton, “it did not factor into the investigation” (take from that what you will).

    Sadly, not everyone in the media was on board with declaring the teen prank worse than slavery. Cole Johnson at Mic condemned Donnell Battie, a black man who was in the store at the time of the prank, for suing Walmart for $1 million because the PA announcement left him with “severe and disabling emotional and psychological harm, resulting in depression, anxiety, anger, loss of sleep, loss of appetite, paranoia, anti-social tendencies and loss of enjoyment in life activities.”

    Wow, that’s some mighty fragility there! (Batty Battie’s case was dismissed in 2013.)

    And The Christian Science Monitor went further, warning that the hideously disproportionate and outsize amount of media attention given to a stupid prank could lead to years of copycat hoaxes by attention-seekers looking to stir the racial cauldron.

    Perhaps people should’ve listened. But, as noble as The CS Monitor’s attempt to warn against impending disaster might have been, it was like telling retarded children to stop running with scissors.

    Some calamities in life cannot be prevented by good advice.

    In the eleven years since the New Jersey Chainstore Massacre, not a week has gone by without breathless coverage of some new race hoax. Sites like Mic have long given up trying to talk sense into black folks who claim to have suffered debilitating injuries by seeing a rope on the ground or a white sheet on a bed or the swastika they drew themselves on their own dorm-room door or the hate messages from nonexistent Klansmen they emailed to themselves.

    And whites are always expected to recite the same pre-written under-duress hostage statement every time one of those hoaxes occurs: “Whether this particular incident was genuine or not is irrelevant; the fact that it happened and that blacks were emotionally hurt by it proves how racist this nation is and how far we still have to go to become a truly equitable society.”

    Last week, two pranksters drove up to a St. Louis Popeyes and glued a note to the drive-through menu stating: “Effective 6-1-21 … This restaurant is under new management and will reserve the right to refuse service to white people. We apologize for any inconvenience. Signed, general manager, Mason.”

    The manager (who is not “Mason”) explained to local media that the note was a hoax by two random strangers unconnected to the store or anyone who works there. He removed the placard, much to the chagrin of white customers who were taking photos posing next to it for fun. The media reported the story with no outrage, there were no “lessons” that needed to be learned, and no whiteys sued or claimed debilitating injuries from having seen the note (indeed, it was laughed off by whites who were interviewed on the local news).

    By the next day, the entire incident was forgotten.

    Meanwhile, a bunch of black students at Central Connecticut State University had to be given emergency medical and psychological treatment after seeing a nearby crane with a steel cable loop being used in the construction of a parking lot, because the loop reminded them of a noose.

    Robin DiAngelo, the author of White Fragility, was unavailable for comment.


    One of the more blatant but often ignored differences between far-left and far-right protesters is fashion. In fact, the question of attire is a defining one on the ideological spectrum. Leftists, like those lovable murderous terrorists of Antifa, were wearing masks long before it was cool (and mandated). Groups like Antifa function, by their own admission, as a bloc, a single unthinking entity, dressed alike in black, the members indistinguishable from each other. This is in part a matter of simple practicality: If everyone at a riot looks the same, it’s almost impossible for authorities to make ex post facto arrests, due to the difficulty of identifying culprits via security cam video. So on that level, the “black bloc” thing is smart (as much as one hates to cede that leftists can be smart).

    But also, the “mob of cookie-cutter clones” theme reflects leftism itself, which subsumes the individual into the communal, where the individual matters only to the extent that he serves the group.

    Ah, but rightists…when it comes to demonstrations, marches, and protests, they become Mexican teenage girls heading to Quinceañera. Everyone wants to dress up and show off their finest dogmatic duds, hoping that they dun gets thar pitcher taken by the commie devil media. So they wear their favorite “message” shirt, or wacky hat, or somethin’ loud and patriotic. Or somethin’ puckish and ironic. Or something flat-out stupid.

    Yeah, most of the time it’s flat-out stupid.

    Like 56-year-old Robert Keith Packer, the “eccentric” and “oddball” Virginian who attended the Jan. 6 Capitol riot wearing a shirt reading “Camp Auschwitz: Work Brings Freedom.”

    Oh, what an impish little satyr! And he certainly got his wish, getting his picture in the paper more times in one week than Meghan Markle gets in a month (and that’s saying a lot). Because what’s more effective when trying to convey a serious political message than ironic Nazi and Holocaust references?

    Well, everything. Literally everything on earth is more effective. Stapling a copy of the Bill of Rights to your testicles would be a more subtle and less destructive manner of communication, and far less likely to negatively affect those with the misfortune of being your comrades in arms.

    Thanks to Mr. Irony Shirt Cretin, an indelible image of 1/6 was created that will long outlive most of the dolts who stormed the building.

    Now, you’d think that with Packer in jail and his shirt becoming lesson No. 1 in what not to wear if you’re a rightist looking to make a serious political statement, similar activists wouldn’t be falling all over themselves to repeat his error.

    You’d be wrong.

    Gigi Gaskins, the owner of a Nashville hat store called hatWRKS, decided to make a statement about what she views as the undue pressure being put on Americans to get vaccinated against Covid. And indeed, it’s a wholly legitimate issue, with politicians and business leaders talking about “special privileges” for the vaxxed—“permission” to travel, “permission” to enter stores maskless, “permission” to no longer socially distance.

    So what’s a guaranteed way to take a wholly legitimate issue and flush all chances of constructive dialogue or consensus-building down the toilet?

    Ask Gigi Gaskins, whose store is selling yellow Star of David patches—the kind the Nazis forced Jews to wear in Germany—with the words “NOT VACCINATED” in the center.


    On Instagram, Gaskins claims to be fighting “tyranny,” as if that’s a free pass for embarking on an idiotic crusade that will alienate more people than it attracts.

    Edmund Burke is often (falsely) quoted as having said, “The only thing necessary for the triumph of evil is for good men to do nothing.” Proper attribution aside, perhaps a more timely, 21st-century iteration is, “The only thing necessary for the triumph of evil is for good men to respond like dumbasses.”

    Although it might be naive to expect sensitivity to the horrors of the Holocaust from someone named GASkins.

    As expected, everyone from The New York Times to the GOP to the U.S. Holocaust Memorial Museum has condemned the mad hatter harridan for her mischievous little stunt, and the Stetson company has banned its hats from sale in her store, a meaningless gesture for a hat store in L.A., but for one in Nashville, potentially fatal.

    Oh well. Perhaps Gaskins is hard at work on a protest hat, a Stetson embroidered with “Arbeit Macht Fedora.”


    Students at Cambridge University are often referred to as “tabs,” sometimes derisively, sometimes affectionately (the term comes from Cantabrigia, a medieval term for Cambridge). And these days, the “tabs” are being encouraged to keep tabs on their teachers, via a new supersecret anonymous “snitch line” that allows students to report teachers and administrators for “racist microaggressions.”

    This “snitch line” is not some kind of off-campus guerrilla endeavor launched by the university’s most radical nipple-pierced bone-through-the-nose Marxist transgender transhumanist androgynous angry black-lesbo-feminist-queeer cranially malformed pinhead students. No, it’s an official snitch line launched by the university itself for radical nipple-pierced bone-through-the-nose Marxist transgender transhumanist androgynous angry black-lesbo-feminist-queeer cranially malformed pinhead students to destroy the lives of their professors.

    As reported in The Sunday Times, the university, which has christened the service “Report + Support,” has even provided a short list of things for which teachers should be reported, including “backhanded compliments” directed at students of color, and this gem: “raising eyebrows when a black member of staff or student is speaking.”

    Of course, squinting when a person of color is speaking is also forbidden. As are blank stares. So eyebrows can’t go up, or down, or remain steady and fixed.

    Cambridge has essentially banned white people from having faces.

    Who knew that the faceless Pale Man monster from Pan’s Labyrinth would end up being the template for “the only employable white at Cambridge.”

    Of course, he’d still get fired for boasting about being pale.

    The Report + Support tool is being championed by a ghoulish extra from The Walking Dead named Dr. Priyamvada Gopal, who achieved some measure of fame last year after she tweeted “White lives don’t matter” and “Abolish whiteness.” Dr. BudBud Bhopal is a professor of “postcolonial studies” at Cambridge (apparently that’s a thing). And when she’s not propagandizing her students or tweeting out racial hatred, she serves as the poster girl for the U.K. Coffee Distributors Association, where her ghastly visage appears on billboards under this caption aimed at Britons: “Your single-minded historical obsession with tea brought this into your Empire; drink more coffee!”

    Dr. GoPro has been the leading advocate for the snitch tool, which she claims (in a recent op-ed) will upset “white boys,” so therefore it must be good.

    Funny enough, opposing Primavera Goulash are Cambridge professors with names like Sir Partha Dasgupta, Arif Ahmed, and David Abulafia. England has essentially become a living embodiment of the Alien vs. Predator franchise, in which monstrous aliens battle each other as the indigenous inhabitants cower in a dark corner hoping that the less genocidal species wins.

    “Bloody ’ell, I sure ’ope the winner is the one who’ll dominate us with a sense of honor an’ not the one who’ll murder us on sight!”

    And for the moment it looks like the “right” aliens have prevailed. Turns out in British suicide poker a Dasgupta, Ahmed, and Abulafia beats a Gopal. Last week Cambridge announced that the Report + Support site is being taken down for “retooling,” although the vice-chancellor promised it’ll return in a less Orwellian form…perhaps one in which there’s a “three strikes” policy on eyebrow-raising before a white teacher can be fired.

    Cambridge 2021: where Wynken, Blynken, and Nod isn’t a children’s poem but a list of boxes to check on a white professor’s termination papers.
    Where they have burned books, they will end in burning human beings. - Heinrich Heine 1823

  10. #158
    The Week That Perished


    June 13, 2021

    The Week’s Most Pedantic, Bacchantic, and Sycophantic Headlines


    Two months ago The Week That Perished featured the madcap tale of Lindani Myeni, a Zulu prince from the Kwazulu-Natal province in South Africa whose Coming to America story ended in bloodshed and death yet still managed to be funnier than the recently released Amazon Prime Eddie Murphy sequel.

    Prince Lindani and his white American wife Lindsay were living in Hawaii, where one night in April the restless regnant decided to break into the house of a married couple who were complete strangers to him. He removed his shoes and made himself at home (he is a prince, after all), and when the frightened couple called 911, the sovereign squatter assaulted the cops, inflicting serious injuries on them before being royally riddled with lead.

    Good night, sweet prince.

    Last week, the AP posted an article penned by two of its “journalists,” Hawaii-based Jennifer Kelleher and South Africa-based Mogomotsi Magome (which sounds like how a straight-D student in an inner-city classroom might try to say “memento mori”), that condemned the state of Hawaii for not rioting over Prince Partycrasher’s death. “No mass protests after Honolulu police shoot, kill Black man,” the headline read. “The muted reaction from residents is a reminder that Hawaii isn’t the racially harmonious paradise it’s held up to be.”

    Funny, but one might think that the lack of rioting is actually very good proof of a “harmonious paradise.”

    While there have been some local gatherings and small protests decrying Myeni’s death, it hasn’t inspired the passionate outrage seen elsewhere in the aftermath of the death of George Floyd, and other killings by police. Myeni’s death “would have generated mass protests in any other American city,” said Kenneth Lawson, a Black professor at University of Hawaii’s law school.

    Kelleher, Magome, and the prince’s widow put the blame for the wacky Wakandan’s death squarely where it belongs: Asians! Lindsay Myeni explains that the couple moved away from Denver because there were “too many white people,” but in Hawaii they encountered “Asians” who proved just as hostile. Indeed, Myeni reserves most of her scorn for the Hawaiian couple who were the victims of the break-in, describing the wife as “that Asian woman who called 911” (fact check: Hawaiians are American).

    “White people don’t come from Hawaii, stereotypically. Black people don’t come from Hawaii, stereotypically,” the widow told the reporters, complaining that to the “Asians,” she and her husband were dismissed as “haoles” (foreigners).

    To back up the claim that Hawaiian Asians are inveterate racists, Kelleher and Magome offer this one killer piece of insurmountable proof: “Businesses in Waikiki boarded up their windows ahead of a peaceful Black Lives Matter march last summer.”

    How racist that Hawaiians, having seen the BLM riots and looting on the continent, took basic precautions ahead of a march in their city.

    Racist Asians like that deserve to be taught a lesson. And while Kelleher and Magome stop short of suggesting random street beatings, continental blacks seem to have gotten that message on their own…and not a moment too soon!


    Woke is for the birds. Literally. The racial justice revolution has come for not just the bird-watchers, but the birds themselves. Black ornithologists—both of ’em—have decided that too many birds have racist names. And according to a breathless front-page Washington Post story, these trailblazing young bird-watchers of color are aiming to rename those racist birds because, it turns out, all of the problems plaguing black America can be traced to offensive bird names.

    Who knew?

    To be fair, certain bird species do have names that might make a black birder uncomfortable. There’s the KKKockatoo, the Lynching Treepie, the Bull Connor Cormorant, the House Nigga Nightingale, the Strange Fruit Dove, the James Earl Rayadito, the Middle Passager Pigeon, and of course the Woody Wilson Woodpecker.

    But the new generation of black bird-watchers is not content hitting such easy targets. According to the WaPo, as many as 150 bird names are on the chopping block. They include the Townsend’s Warbler and Townsend’s Solitaire, named after John Kirk Townsend, an 1800s ornithologist who dared to scientifically examine the sacred bones of dead Indians (science has no place in the new woke ornithology!), and the Wallace’s Owlet, named for British naturalist, explorer, and anthropologist Alfred Russel Wallace, who once used the N-word in the 1850s (that’s literally the only beef against him).

    “Conservation has been driven by white patriarchy,” said J. Drew Lanham, a Black ornithologist and professor at Clemson University in South Carolina, “this whole idea of calling something a wilderness after you move people off it or exterminate them and that you get to take ownership.”

    Now, who wouldn’t want to spend an afternoon bird-watching with an affable, good-humored fella like J. Drew Lanham?

    Many of these social justice twitchers favor a return to Native American names for North American birds. Examples given by the WaPo include awâ’hili for eagles, kâgû for crows, uwes’ la’ oski for hawks, and sïkïlïlï for chickadees.

    Funding for the project is being provided by the National Institute for Making Simple Pleasures Unnecessarily Complex and Cumbersome.

    Jeff Gordon, president of the American Birding Association, told the WaPo that he agrees with the mass renaming proposal, because he believes it will give young inner-city blacks an increased interest in bird-watching and conservation. When asked exactly how renaming the chickadee “sïkïlïlï” will attract people who often have difficulty with basic remedial reading skills, Gordon explained that some of the new names will be created with an eye toward this new prospective demographic.

    “Just wait for the LaQuisha Lark, the Daquan Duck, and the George Floystercatcher,” Gordon said, before flapping his wings wildly and jumping out a window screaming “ha-ha-ha-HAH-ha!”


    In 2019, a man named John Walsh passed away. No, not the fugitive-catching America’s Most Wanted guy, but a man who, in his own way, was probably more influential, even if he never became a household name. John Walsh fought a lifetime battle to force people onto buses. First in NYC and then, for the remainder of his life, in L.A., he tirelessly led campaigns to cripple light rail and subway service and block new highways and toll roads.

    According to Walsh (who dressed like a hobo and rarely bathed, and he was proud of that fact), bus travel is the only true egalitarian mode of transport, the most effective way to end “privilege” by forcing “elitists” to sit ass-to-ass with stinky bums like himself. Only by being forced out of cars, off of trains, and into crowded, fetid, noisy, air-polluting buses can we finally all be “equal”—the fat mamacita with her ten babies sitting next to the hopped-up gangbanger sitting next to the white commodities broker sitting next to the tubercular transient.

    That’ll teach that broker to think he’s “superior”!

    Laugh as you may, Walsh was credited with being the man who ended light rail in L.A. The L.A. press dubbed him “The Freak Who Stopped the Subway” in 1998. His tireless advocacy led to the establishment of “bus rider unions” in big cities across the country.

    Then a few years later he proclaimed at an MTA meeting that light rail was part of a “Jewish conspiracy” to stay separate from “the gentiles,” and suddenly, for some inexplicable reason, he fell out of favor.

    Hence why the death of this formerly lauded “gadfly” passed unnoticed.

    Walsh would probably love to be back in NYC these days, because the city’s buses have somehow managed to become even worse than usual. For whatever reason—as if certain kinds of people need a reason to wreak havoc—assaulting bus drivers has become the new “punching Asians” for a certain type of hip-hop urbanite.

    Last month, a Brooklyn bus driver was pulverized by an impatient motorist who ran her over when she exited her bus, and a Bronx bus driver was beaten senseless by a passenger who must’ve had a pathological hatred of Ralph Kramden (sometimes you just gotta punch a Kramden).

    This month, a Brooklyn bus driver was pummeled by a teen who took the driver’s request to wear a mask as a racist insult, and a Bronx bus driver was stomped by a young passenger who took the driver’s request to turn down his boom box as a genocidal outrage.

    To add insult to massive injury, last week an Asian bus driver who was assaulted by a gentle giant who was in the process of assaulting an elderly Asian couple (the driver tried to stop that assault only to become the honor student’s next target) was told by the New York MTA that he would not be receiving workers’ comp because he was technically on break when the assault occurred. The MTA told the driver, Tommy Lau, that he had a Chinaman’s chance in hell of being compensated, to which Lau replied, “I’m a New York City bus driver; this Chinaman’s already in hell.”

    Pity poor John Walsh, who didn’t live long enough to see his dream of buses as brutal communist reeducation camps where kulak faces get stamped by proletarian enforcers come to full fruition.


    Kamala Harris has the over-the-top face-scrunching mouth-contorting loud obnoxious cackle of a woman practiced in laughing just a little too hard at the bad jokes of influential men she’s trying to bed.

    “And then the Scotsman said, ‘Those ain’t bagpipes, but please don’t stop blowing.’”

    “Ha-ha-ha-HAAAAAAAAH gackle gackle gackle hork hork haaaaaah! Oh assemblyman, you’re TOO funny!”

    Unfortunately, false laughter only works on horny men and insecure, desperate stand-up comedians (i.e., all stand-up comedians). For everyone else, it comes off as unbearably annoying. Yet as irritating as Harris’ cackling is, it’s not even the most annoying thing about her. Arguably, that award goes to her complete lack of self-awareness regarding how she looks to anyone not hoping to have a quickie before the wife gets home.

    Kamala’s worst qualities were on full display during her less-than-stellar first trip abroad as Joe Biden’s eventual plug-puller. Indeed, her performance during the trip was so cringeworthy, Democrats started rethinking the wisdom of being saddled with this chortling chuckle-head once Biden gets Klaus von Bülowed into retirement.

    Harris’ trip began on a laughable note: On the anniversary of D-Day—typically a day when normal, decent Americans reflect on the sacrifices and bravery of men who placed their nation above themselves—Kamala Harris handed out Kamala Harris cookies to the press on Air Force Two, an act that even the usually fawning San Francisco Chronicle described as “slightly strange and possibly narcissistic.”

    “Possibly narcissistic”? If feeding your flock a Eucharist in your own likeness is only “possibly” narcissistic, it’s hard to imagine what could be “definitely” narcissistic.

    In Guatemala, Harris told migrants “do not come” with all the sincerity of every man who ever told her “I’ll call ya, babe” as they were zipping up their trousers. AOC, who is at least sincere in her vacuity, thrashed Harris for daring to tell border stormers not to storm the border.

    And The Hill was forced to admit that Harris “flubbed a response” after NBC’s Lester Holt asked her why she hadn’t visited the border. “And I haven’t been to Europe,” Harris replied, adding, “I haven’t seen London, I haven’t seen France, I have seen Willie Brown’s underpants.”

    “She is going to be haunted by this trip and this issue for as long as she is in politics,” a Democratic strategist told The Hill.

    Frankly, it’s more likely that Kamala Harris will continue to be the one “haunting” U.S. politics, regardless of her missteps. Dems may have backed the wrong horse(face) as VP, but they’re gonna have to live with their choice—a cackling apparition roaming the moors like Cathy from Wuthering Heights, appearing at Heathcliff’s window, telling him she’s good for a boff if he can get her that plum committee assignment.


    No matter how much of a mess U.S. elections have become, things can always get worse. And they will, as Democrats and Chamber of Commerce Republicans continue to import Mexico to America.

    During the infamous Florida recount that followed the 2000 presidential election, volunteers were forced to confront thousands of “hanging chads.” That was a walk in the park compared with what election workers in Tijuana had to deal with last week—namely, hanging nads (and other assorted body parts).

    Yes, Tijuana—TJ—that mecca for American frat boys looking to score some fentanyl, or test their immune system against a hooker who hasn’t washed since Cantinflas was alive, or who just enjoy the thrill of being kidnapped and mailed back to their parents in pieces, didn’t exactly have the smoothest time as Mexicans went to the polls to choose between the corrupt leftist party that wants to foist all of its problems on the U.S. and the corrupt slightly less leftist party that wants to foist all of its problems on the U.S.

    Polling stations all over TJ were plagued by troublemakers who scattered human body parts in voting booths. At one station, a human head in a wooden box was left on a pile of ballots. Initially, local officials wrote off the incident as a clumsy attempt to cast a write-in vote for Señor Wences. But soon enough, additional reports surfaced of body parts being left in booths at other polling stations. Arms, legs, hands, feet, internal organs, and genitals.

    A confused President Biden, upon hearing reports of the election-day carnage, asked his handlers, “But didn’t I end the ‘remains in Mexico’ policy?”

    For some candidates, their cleaved cojones were the only parts of them to get near a ballot that day. Over 89 candidates were killed prior to the election, although the reasons for the murders were varied (politicians who opposed drug cartels, politicians who possibly opposed drug cartels, politicians who didn’t support drug cartels strongly enough, and politicians who expressed a dislike for Australian actor George Spartels and it was incorrectly overheard as “cartels”).

    Sidney Powell blamed the deaths on sentient Dominion voting machines that developed a taste for human flesh after being fed adrenochrome.

    Still, even with the human body parts and 89 candidate murders, Vice described the election as “largely peaceful.”

    To which BLM cofounder Patrisse Cullors replied, “Okay, that’s nutty even by my standards.”

    Left-leaning President Andrés Manuel López Obrador, who ran on a platform of “my name isn’t long enough,” suffered huge losses in Mexico City, normally a haven for the far left. Obrador’s party was crushed by the opposition, 46% to 20%.

    Fortunately for the distraught presidente, Kamala Harris showed up with a fleet of C-130 Hercules aircraft to airlift the disaffected voters to Boise and Kalispell, where they’ll be given stimulus checks, unemployment insurance, and a bag of Kamala Kookies (reganadas flavor).
    Where they have burned books, they will end in burning human beings. - Heinrich Heine 1823

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