Mudppies and Hottentots: An Il Ragno Reader, Volume 3

by Il Ragno

November 25, 2010

Not so much a “new” addition as a Swiffer-mopping of various odds and sods that never made it into the first two. The usual bill of fare: knuckle-dragging hate, served with a cheeky grin—so for God’s sake don’t expect any surprises.

Advertising, Racial Truth in

The Retard may be on to something: combining ethnically-identified items with truth-in-advertising laws, and modifying them accordingly. Hmm...

• Judeo-Christian: Judeo
• NYC cabs: Osama wagons
• German measles: Schindler’s zits
• Roman candle: Mafia flashlight
• California dreamin’: sidewalk siesta
• Irish whiskey: unemployment insurance
• falafel: Semite sandwich
• moo shoo pork: Peking puppy chow
• Arizona Iced Tea: Minuteman orange juice
• Canadian bacon: thinly sliced weenie
• Vienna sausage: Hitler links
• Big Mac and fries: moolie cuisine
• veal Milanese: stolen cutlet
• bagels: shyster rolls
• Mexican standoff: stuck at the fence
• lederhosen: Fuhrer socks
• burka: Talibunny wrap
• yarmulkes: swindler’s lids
• hangover: Irish dawn
• Kaposi’s Sarcoma: homo hickeys
• Hanukkah: fake Christmas
• Kwanzaa: nigger Christmas
• Ramadan: terrorist Christmas
• Montezuma’s revenge: Asstzlan
• pubic hair: beard of the prophet
• kudzu: Klan krabgrass
• Swedish massage: Viking rub
• jambalaya: evacuee rice
• mint julep: massa punch
• jar full of urine: Mexican restroom
• monster truck rally: goober convention
• Finnish humor: drying paint
• soccer hooligans: Briggers
• “Made in Detroit”: “untouched by human hands”
• croissant: surrender pie
• Philly cheese steak: surrender to niggers pie
• Greek restaurant: Dukakis shrine
• Dutch treat: miser’s largesse
• Cinco de Mayo, Puerto Rican Day Parade: stab-wound Olympics
• pushy New Yorker: fucking Jew bastard

All, Apparently Aids Does Discriminate After

In the decade since effective drug treatments for AIDS have slashed death rates across the country, black New Yorkers continue to lose weight, turn blue, cough up green shit and die at startling rates, according to new data from the city health department.

In NYC today, one in five black men in New York City between 40 and 49 has HIV or AIDS. But wait, there’s more! Black women, meanwhile, account for 34 percent of new AIDS cases, up from 12 percent 20 years ago. Best of all, black men die at a rate six times that of white men, and black women die at a rate nine times that of white women.

While there is a disparity in infection rates between whites and others across a spectrum of diseases, health officials are particularly struck by those among AIDS patients in New York. Although blacks make up only 25 percent of the city’s population, they account for 50 percent of all AIDS fatalities. This is where that “disparity in infection rates” comes into play, since boolies with bruised botties make up 80 percent of those AIDS patients in the first place.

Further, heterosexual sex has now replaced drug use as the most common means of transmission of the virus to women—Lafonzo’s wee-wee has now replaced his works—creating a more difficult terrain for health care workers. Of course, when we say “women”, we mean black women; and when we say “heterosexual sex”, we mean penetration at knifepoint in the stairwell of a gray and soulless housing-project building.

Health officials who have been tracking the disproportionate AIDS death rates among minorities over the last several years say those rates stem from factors including a failure to identify the sick and get them into treatment, as well as the strong stigma that AIDS, medical science, written instructions and rational thought all carry in many minority neighborhoods.

There are few financial barriers to getting care for HIV and AIDS, however. Thanks to the shrill chicken-littling of activists, and the sub rosa hemstitching of their many lavender confreres in the media, help is available via an elaborate network of programs financed by the city, the state and the federal government, and drug treatments for even the poorest patients are fully subsidized. Which is great if you’re a museum assistant-curator paying the price in lesions for too many first prizes for Freestyle Teabagging at the bathhouse, but if you’re some nobody breeder with breast cancer or Hodgkins? Well you’re shit out of luck—no fully-subsidized elaborate network of programs financed by the city, the state and the federal government for your pissant disease. Because let’s face it—cancer and leukemia aren’t decimating the ranks and threatening the very future of American choreography; AIDS is. So get to the back of the bus, Mary.

Black women have been particularly hard hit: Heterosexual sex accounts for an increasing rate of new AIDS cases. The increase in HIV infection among young women is even more alarming. In New York, girls and women now account for 48 percent of new infections among teenagers 13 to 19, according to a December report by the New York State AIDS Advisory Council. The rate of AIDS among black women is 27 times the rate among white women.

You would think that nigga bitches’ rate of giving motorists $35 blowjobs under turnpikes also being 27 times the rate of white women would come into play. But, no, the report merely rounded up the usual suspects, including the ever-popular cultural and gender issues—polite-society code for the wacky, buffoonish, always-violent and usually-criminal way that niggas just are. “Black women are expected to accept, or at least not to question, the lifestyles of their male partners,” the report stated, stepping around that “lifestyles” as daintily as Franklin Pangborn avoiding doggy-doo. And let’s not think at all about the tens of thousands of closed-fist punches to the face that would teach an entire race’s women “not to question”, shall we?

There’s all kinds of read-between-the-lines racial gold here. “The threat of violence also deters women from trying to negotiate safer sex or resisting unprotected sex”, the report said, which if you think about it, pretty much admits that niggers are wild jungle beasts as a given. Secrecy and denial about high-risk activity—we’re talking ass-ramming here—prostitution and infidelity pervade many ethnic groups, particularly blacks and Latinos, who wallow in all three from birth.

Last week, Dr. Thomas R. Frieden, the city’s health commissioner, said that changing this grim portrait of AIDS would require a radical rethinking of how to combat the disease, including changes in state law to allow health workers to test people for HIV more aggressively and permit health department workers to use the information the city already collects to reach out directly to patients and their doctors to help in treatment. Already, Bruckheimer is casting the pilot for CSI: HIV. Strong, brainy woman with swimsuit-model body, black computer nerd, and rugged Hindu types wanted.

Dr. Frieden would also like to see a new citywide advertising campaign promoting interracial coupling—large, arty images of a discreetly-posed nude black-n-blonde couple embracing over a variety of catchy slogans, such as “Prove You’re Not A Racist”, “If You Ain’t Hit It, You Ain’t Wit It”, and “White Girls: It What For Dinner, Dawg!”

“Let’s face it, Negroes traditionally do not respond to public-health alerts, awareness initiatives, hurricane warnings, even shouts of fire! We’re never going to educate these knuckleheads to get out of harm’s way...so, unless we want to eventually get hit with a monster Johnny Cochran race-discrimination lawsuit, we’ve got to try to get more whites out there infected, to preserve some balance.”

The city has struggled for years to find ways to provide AIDS information to certain groups, like married men who secretly also have sex with other men, and Jewish “bachelor” mayors who date glamorous beards for black-tie events, but can only really be themselves with a swollen shaft sliding up their shitters.

Some health care experts say, however, that the city has been too slow to act.

“The city has buried its head in the sand on this as far as I am concerned,” said Dr. Karen Brudney, director of the infectious diseases clinics at New York Presbyterian/Columbia Hospital, “which is technically safer than burying your head anywhere on or in a homosexual, but is still an outrage.”

“For 10 years I have seen rising rates and rising caseloads,” she said. While strongly supporting Dr. Frieden’s efforts, she said the city needed to focus on problems that prevent patients from getting basic care, like frequent changes in residence, the inability to speak or think coherently, and the fact that they always start running away at top speed when you call out their name. “I’m a doctor, dammit, not a marathon runner”, she bristles, before adding a moment later, “well, I do run in the marathon every year, but it’s not the same thing.”

But the latest statistics from the Health Department show that many people who most need care fail to get it. When AIDS largely affected gay white men, those men tended to take charge of their own care, health officials said. That has not happened among black and Latino men and women, who on average spend more time deciding on which street-name to call themselves, or which numbers they’ve dreamed about to play in the lottery, than to what the hell that wack-ass brown sore on they back they just noticed last week might be.

Many patients would rather die than risk having family or friends find out they are sick. The attitude of too many African-Americans in this country is, “Betta a dead soljah than a live sissy-ass mothafucka wit tubes up they nose, you nome sane?” Well, no, C-Money, we don’t; we don’t know what you’re saying. And we haven’t known what the hell it is you’ve been saying for a long time now.

America, Britney’z

I find the most disturbing aspect of all Spears-related stories is the mindset that goes She’s a million-dollar talent, but her ten-cent brain is going to cost her her fabulous career!

She was always a no-talent piece of shit. Put aside for a moment that her entire career has been nothing but pandering from the start, and that even her initial success was based on playing to old men’s sex fantasies about innocent schoolgirls. From the beginning, this “singer” has serenaded the masses with a breathy, Betty Boop-y, porno-doll variant of a prepubescent little-girl voice. The first time I heard Baby One More Time I rolled my eyes at the utter smarminess of that voice, the 21st-century equivalent of what you’d expect Ginger Grant from Gilligan’s Island to sound like. (It sounds like her larynx has plastic tits, too.) Her huge album and tour sales are damning evidence that people are as crass and stupid as they ever were, if not more so.

She was never anything other than a sourly cynical marketing gimmick by Sy and Morrie; unfortunately for America and the West, she not only had unexpected staying power, she became an even-more unexpected role model for little girls. I say “unexpected” because who in their right mind would’ve imagined that those little girls’ parents would be perfectly ok with that?

But that’s what America is nowadays—behind all the self-serving flag/God/country/Chevy-truck family-values hoohah people make sure to pretend to believe in whenever anyone’s looking, the vaunted American Heartland is mostly a busted-valise backwater populated by sluts, chumps, meth heads, jock sniffers, real-estate hustlers, military recruiters, dope dealers, strip malls, Rite-Aids, nail salons, franchise theme-bars, and a zillion convenience stores owned and run by add-water-and-mix Instant Americans. To them, getting a chance to meet Britney Spears in the flesh must seem like the second most wonderful thing in the world that could ever happen to a person, next to Joe Millionaire walking in to their Walgreen’s to buy a carton of Larks.

Apologizes, Mississippi

“The sovereign state of Mississippi wishes to deeply, and sincerely, apologize for her ignominious heritage of Negro slavery. I mean, what were we thinking? Were we high? We must’ve been. How else can you explain paying to have niggers shipped in? Incredible. For a couple of years’ worth of bigger cotton crops, we helped loose a plague of jungle-animal savagery on this country...you may say, but didn’t you comprehend that sooner or later you’d have to free them? Wellsir...no, we sure didn’t.

“Maybe it was the heat and humidity, or the way white-trash day laborers tend to die on you after a few weeks of 16-hour days. Maybe it was just the attire—Lord knows a Colonel Sanders suit can play hob with a man’s mind. The point is we want to apologize...yes, apologize to the North for first bringing these tribbles aboard the Enterprise. For truly, the bonobos who plague you today were once our darkies; until they began migrating north, eager for new opportunity, and to see what a working flush toilet actually looked like.

“So when you hear the grumbling from below the Masie-Dixie...when the battle-cry of damn Yankees sounds from trailer-park and snake-handling church alike...please remember that’s just our way of saying “Thank you for not nuking us”, which let’s face it is precisely what we deserve for the bright idea of letting Jamaal do the heavy lifting while we sipped juleps and practiced our quick draws in the mirror. And when Barack Obama, America’s first voodoo President, sacrifices a Kwanzaa chicken on the White House lawn, remember: it couldn’t have happened without us.

“Once again, then—please accept our heartfelt apology. And don’t forget to help yourself to some deep-fried hog jowls, compliments of the great state of Mississippi!”

Aztlan!, Go

Sure, life will be cheap, and worth less than a comfortable pair of shoes. On the other hand, you’ll no longer require a full tank of gas and a roadmap to watch a donkey fuck a woman, and you can light up right at the bar afterward.

Bitch, African Bees All Up in This

Unlike European bees who serve and protect their queen, African bees, or “motherbuzzers”, routinely abandon they larvamama for the first distraction that catches their attention, such as spilled orange soda or a crap game; perhaps a chickenfight.

They are notorious for their aggressive antisocial behavior—including, but not limited to, hivejacking, swarm-bys and pollen trafficking—and their appearance in any new, already-colonized area usually leads to the European bees, or “bee otches”, taking flight to suburban hives, usually in Volvos.

They also score abysmally on standardized math and reading tests.

Bond, Eon Contemplating A Black

The mind reels at the possibilities.

Jaimz Bond will report to N rather than M, fight CASPER instead of SPECTRE, and as for Q, he’ll be replaced by none other than Yacub, the Big Headed Scientiss. The role of “Felix Leiter” will be downsized as Bond now will rely on a street informant named “Huggy Bear”, and as for Bond’s traditional nemesis, he will now be referred to as “Ernst Stavro Fuhrman” and played by Michael Richards. Of course, certain traditional Bond elements will remain undisturbed, such as Bond’s flirtatious banter with the ever-horny Miz Moneypenny (“Yo Money, when you gonna let me hit dat shit?”—“When you remember to make a child support payment, Jaimz.”) who will naturally remain a white woman.

As for the episode titles, it’s like I said...the mind reels.

• Secret Service on Her Majesty
• The Spy Who Raped Me
• Thunderballer
• Diamonds Be Forever
• Cheese Royale
• The Man With the Stolen Gun
• Goldentoof
• Quantum of Olde English

Card, Internet Forum Report

I suppose we’re expected to go board-by-board here, careful to cautiously criticize the ones we personally post on while shitting orange diarrhea on the others...well, fuck that—I’m gonna say terrible, libelous things about all of them, so here goes:

Free Republic: A mandatory site to visit any time you get optimistic enough to believe America can be restored and deserves to survive. We can’t, and we don’t.

Stormfront: The Walmart of Hate. You can’t say “nigger”, parking is a nightmare, Prussian Blue point-of-purchase displays everywhere you look, and octogenarian Klansmen greet you at the entrances. Pass.

Liberty Forum: Former and current home of Simon Le Bon Bon, noted champion of Racial Diversity and Catholic Niceness in general. Still wanted for questioning by Serbian authorities. Threatened to kick their heads in anyway.

Original Dissent: A package store adjacent to US 177 outside of Madill, OK. It’s right next to Last Gas For 50 Miles.

VNN: All-star geek pit. Traitor Glenn, Bitch Tits, Ammo Face, the guy who fucked Paris Hilton: all the biggies are here. The only WN board in which every member, sooner or later, will be accused of being a Secret Jew.

Speakeasy: Now-defunct site run by Blinko the Racist (not to be confused with his identical twin brother, Stinko the Egalitarian.) They both read The Guardian, still listen to their Echo and the Bunnymen records, and really, really hope minoxidil eventually works, so it’s not like they’re complete opposites.

The Phora: Memo to WF Hermans: you lose, boy. Your pedo-freakout suckered Richie Rich into making the biggest miscalculation of his Internet-warrior career (by the way, that’s his corpse that just got carried out on that shield). But now it’s time to wave the white flag and call it a psychosis at long last: the Phora is today stronger, freer and more committed to kikopedophilia than ever. Thanks 100% to you. None of it would’ve been possible without you, Hermans.

Stumble Inn: Like a bar where nutzis come to relax and badmouth Hitler after a hard day of documenting nigger crime and praising Wotan with a straight face on other boards. All the heavy-breathing horndog content they disapprove of elsewhere—babes threads, wouldja? threads, etc.—are pretty much mandatory here. Also, SI’s other-forum-bashing section is second to none.

Mootstormfront: When it’s hoppin’—which is never—it’s like being trapped in a stop-smoking public-service commercial playing on an endless loop. Otherwise, like being trapped in an oil painting of a stop-smoking public-service commercial playing on an endless loop.

Stirpes, Skadi, Nordish Portal: death metal and porn-star mustaches nicely sum these type places up, where even the umlauts have umlauts.

Niggermania: Sitting on a whoopee cushion is funny, too. The first time.

The Lyceum: Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha! So much for Tacky’s Top Drawer.

The answer, therefore, is staring you in the face: wherever I’m posting at that exact moment is the best board there ever was, or could ever hope to be.

Census, Realm of the

Question #9 on the this year’s census asks about your race. Respondents are directed to check a box, or boxes, variously labelled “porch monkey”, “beaner”, “Christ killer”, “blasted ching-chong”, “other kind of gook”, “macaroni tosser”, “strudel biter”, “curry slurper”, “vodka nigger”, “hairy-backed Slav”, “red-nosed mick”, “volcano-god boolie”, “fagatoni”, “Balkanoid”, “squarehead/Yonny Fuggin’ Yonson”, “Lord Cecil Rottentooth”, “Chief Boozing Eagle”, “Gunga Dingleberry”, and “a person of the Polish persuasion (snicker)”.

Outraged community leaders howled that not only were they deeply offended, they were also somewhat confused, as most of the slurs don’t even designate race but nationality, and that fagatoni’s not even that, unless you’re counting England. A census representative, reached by phone late yesterday afternoon, explained “It’s part of a broad anti-racism initiative. By encouraging people to laugh at crude and insulting caricatures of others, we’re exposing the essential ludicrousness of racism itself. Sorta.” However, when asked his name, and his position at the Census Bureau, he proved evasive, unless maybe he’s named “Click” and employed there as a dial tone.

Dangerously, Living

Nothing tells the world no fear like buying canned food already rejected by the Guatemalan Board of Health.

Doody, A Redolence of Limburger and Ammonia and Sick Men’s

So I’m chatting with a bud and the topic of old doctor shows comes up—long before ER, doctor shows used to be a mainstay of crappy TV, and probably the one that started the craze was Dr. Kildare back in 1960. Teevee being what it is, though, within nanoseconds of Kildare’s pilot airing, a rival network scheduled a copycat show, Ben Casey, starring a muscle bound and unibrowed actor named Vince Edwards. And they both pretty much sucked in that early-60s dramatic-TV way.

Like Kildare, Ben Casey Truly Cared Dammit, had an old man mentor at the hospital identical to Kildare’s, washed-up celebrities playing the disease-of-the-week patients like Kildare had, and a nurse who secretly loved him like Kildare’s did. What Ben Casey also had, though, that Kildare didn’t, was a layer of Deep Philosophical Meaning and Significance in its episode titles—titles so hilariously pretentious that no teevee show has ever come close to duplicating them. Well, Rod Serling’s Twilight Zone sort of came close (especially those ponderous “moral lesson” episodes Serling himself wrote), but nobody hit Ben Casey’s heights of hilarity week after week after week.

“I don’t really remember any pretentious episode titles” my friend said, but she’s younger than I am, and was mostly spared this era of self-important twaddle, a direct offshoot of all those Powerful Socially-Relevant Live Dramas of the 50s like “Playhouse 90”. This sort of insufferable pretentiousness was like an early warning shot of American liberalism, as dozens of real-life Barton Finks scuttled out from beneath tenement floorboards to inundate a captive audience with Noble Purpose, High Mindedness and Utter Claptrap. God knows how people took it with a straight face. I directed her to go look up those episode-titles on IMDb, after which her response was: “Oh my God. They’re Shatneresque!” And indeed they were. Let me give you an example.

Dr. Kildare would open with austere music and credits, and the week’s program would begin behind the following sort of episode titles: “Second Chance”; “One for the Road”; “Tightrope Into Nowhere”; “Winter Harvest”; and so on. Nothing too fancy, in other words.

Ben Casey, however, would begin with a montage of abstract images fading in and out as a stentorian voice intoned “Man—woman—birth—death—infinity.” The last image would be that of a dim light growing brighter before turning into the POV of a patient on a gurney looking up at the overhead lights as he or she is being slammed through hospital doors towards emergency surgery. Then the episode would begin with the following cockamamie episode titles:

• But Linda Only Smiled
• Saturday, Surgery and Stanley Shultz
• Of All Save Pain Bereft
• So Oft It Chances in Particular Men
• The White Ones Are Dolphins
• My Enemy is a Bright Green Sparrow
• Money, a Horse, and a Knowledge of Latin
• Will Everyone Who Believes in Terry Dunne Please Applaud?
• He Thought He Saw an Albatross
• When I am Grown to Man’s Estate
• A Disease of the Heart Called Love
• I Remember a Lemon Tree
• Give My Hands an Epitaph
• When Givers Prove Unkind
• Then I, and You, and All of Us Fall Down
• A Nightingale Named Nathan
• In Case of Emergency, Cry Havoc
• Victory Wears a Cruel Smile
• Imagine a Long, Bright Corridor
• Among Others a Girl Named Abilene
• And Eve Wore a Veil of Tears
• In the Name of Love, a Small Corruption
• For I Will Plait Thy Hair with Gold
• This Wild, Wild, Wild Waltzing World
• A Rambling Discourse on Egyptian Water Clocks
• Hang No Hats on Dreams
• For This Relief, Much Thanks
• Dispel the Black Cyclone That Shakes the Throne
• The Last Splintered Spoke on the Old Burlesque Wheel
• The Light that Loses, the Night that Wins
• I’ll Get on My Ice Floe and Wave Goodbye
• It Is Getting Dark...and We Are Lost
• There Was Once a Man in the Land of Uz
• Goodbye to Blue Elephants and Such
• Did Your Mother Come From Ireland, Ben Casey?
• Run For Your Lives, Dr. Galanos Practices Here
• What to Her is Plato?
• No More, Cried the Rooster—There Will Be Truth
• Meantime, We Shall Express our Darker Purpose
• Smile, Baby, Smile, It’s Only Twenty Dols of Pain
• Weave Nets To Catch The Wind
• Twenty-Six Ways to Spell Heartbreak: A, B, C, D...
• Pull the Wool Over Your Eyes, Here Comes the Cold Wind of Truth
• Dress My Doll Pretty
• Onions and Mustard Seed Will Make Her Weep
• Heap Logs and Let the Blaze Laugh Out
• Because of the Needle, the Haystack was Lost
• A Horse Named Stravinsky
• A Thousand Words are Mute
• For San Diego, You Need a Different Bus

Unbelievable, innit? After a couple of seasons of this insufferable nonsense, even Kildare’s staff tried jumping into the pool—suddenly “Winter Harvest” and “One for the Road” turned momentarily into “Speak Not in Angry Whispers” and “Onions, Garlic and Flowers that Bloom in the Spring”...but nobody dished out the high-fructose treacle like the Casey staff. Not everyone can churn out deathless prose like “Behold! They Walk an Ancient Road” or “A Rambling Discourse on Egyptian Water Clocks” week after week, after all.

Down!, Mudshark

On that Saturday night when I first went with friends to hear the Africa Band, I thought the pub—Harlem!—welcomed me. Striding into St. Nicks on a balmy August night, working my embroidered denim Halle Bob skirt with the deep front slit, I felt Harlem gently finger-fucking my coal-chute. Nelson, the bar manager, smiled at me and brought folding chairs up from the basement to arrange seating for us because, he said, “I want you sitting here where I can keep these sistas f’um marking you up wif a straight razor crost da face. Dass all I need, Mista Charley padlockin’ my bar. Hell, my likka license jess a barber-college diploma.”

---

Mykul, my assailant, is a thug; and I was naive to have ignored that.

I discovered during chatty conversation at the pub that Mykul—pronounced “Prince Akeem Dontonio”—was a hairdresser who initially learned his craft while in prison, where everyone is bald. Liberal white woman that I am—was?—I believed in rehabilitation, and besides he looked like he had a one-eyed bratwurst in his drawers, so I made an appointment with him at the Kill Whitey Wig Emporium on the corner of Winnie Mandela and Master P. And I even returned a second time.

I’m sure he stole my wallet on that second hair appointment, though he blamed a gypsy cab driver for its loss and graciously offered to sell me back my driver’s license and library card. I wasn’t going to make a third appointment. Then the shakedowns for more money began. He called asking me to pay more “because I ain’t cut yo froat lass time.” When I told him nobody pays twice for the same haircut, particularly as the entire “haircut” consisted of my sucking his dick while he watched a bukkake video and fingered my neck wattles, he grew furious.

---

I had noticed that the pub was deteriorating in the year before my fall. It was always a place where cash disappears from unwatched handbags, a jacket or cashmere shawl tossed casually on the back of a bar stool may be sold to another patron while you were still seated, and chickens not only walked freely about but enjoyed right-of-way over white patrons. Between the casual theft and the men who asked, “Will you buy me a drink? Lend me some money? Tessify at my rape trial?”—yes, his rape trial!—I had stopped carrying more cash than I would spend on two drinks and a cab home. Oregano and confectioners’ sugar, of course, were available for purchase in the backyard which, oddly enough, smelled strongly of zoo-animal shit.

The undercurrent of anger that I’d seen as an occasional flash in a black woman’s eye turned into hurled shot glasses and threats of “I gon cutchoo!” The African-American girl bartenders, especially on Sunday nights, brazenly overcharged white customers and called it a “mudshark tax”. Black women routinely made loud negative comments about white women who showed leg, such as “hang a pess-strip on dat pussy, girl!” and “I gon cutchoo!” One of the regulars, an educated, successful black man known as “Seventh Grade Sam”, lectured me repeatedly: “America must apologize for the original sin of slavery and offer reparations.” “The prisons are full of young black men caught with nickel and dime bags.” “Bitch, I gon cutchoo!”

---

“Nobody knows you,” the cops said. “Nobody saw anything,” they said.

“It’s always like that in there. Someone gets stabbed in the backyard and nobody saw nothing, nobody knows nothing. It’s a matter of time until someone is killed here, and we can shut the place down. What’s a woman like you doing in a dive like this?”

“I love the jizz,” I said, handing them copies of my article “A White Woman Explains Why She Prefers Black Men.”

They looked at me like I was crazy. Then they robbed me at gunpoint.

Fahey, Orr vs.

One eats shit; the other self-publishes it.

Fisticuffs, Ecclesiastical

...and there’s the bell for Round 6. Petr, the Lord’s champion, is ahead on points so far, but lapsed-Cat’lick challenger Sulla the Dictator has opened up a nasty cut over the Helsinki Flash’s left eye...and they circle each other warily...there’s a jab from Petr...another...natural tendency of the races to self-segregate...Sulla the Dictator, head-bobbing to deflect the impact...and a Gospel/Epistle combination misses...two battle-tested veterans here, ladies and gentleman, neither wanting to make the first ecclesiastical mistake...Sulla crouching low, covering up with both mitts, AS A FLURRY OF OLD TESTAMENT PUNCHES FROM PETR BACKS HIM INTO THE CORNER!...but, no; Sulla’s got him in an all-men-are-brothers clinch, and the referee breaks it up...forty seconds remaining in this round...now Sulla, the challenger, connects with a jab from Jeremiah! PETR SEEMS WOOZY...SULLA GOES BACK TO WORK ON THE MOTE IN THAT LEFT EYE...A WILD ATHEISTIC UPPERCUT MISSES...AND THERE’S THE BELL!

Gasse, Tin Pan

Some of the great old tunes that really got us through WW2. At least until the Russian tanks rolled in.

I Can’t Give You Anything But Gas
—by Dieter Bedwetter (translated by Colonel Burkhalter)

I can’t give you anything but gas, Abie
You’re not fooling me attending Mass, Abie
Mingle some, swindle some, change your last name
Piles of cash, shiksa gash, all if it gone up in flames now
Gee, I like to see you wearing stripes, Abie
Numbers on your arm denoting “kike”, Abie
Bet Madagascar’s lookin’ pretty nice, Abie
But I can’t give you anything but gas

These Aryan Things
—by Herbert Rudolf von Hapsburg-Potsdorf & Johnny Mandel (translated by General Hofstaeder)

Fresh cigarette burns on my private places
There to remind me who the master race is
A set of Ernst Rohm’s cock-rings
These Aryan things remind me of you

A Jew’s loud screaming as he’s cruelly battered
That Fips cartoon I liked you framed and matted
A valkyrie’s breastplate and wings
These Aryan things remind me of you

You came, you saw, you conquered me
In your tight leather trousers
What could I say but jawohl, and yowsah!

Two lower-loge stubs from a torchlight rally
The way Benito would call Adolf “pally”
Mengele’s scrapbook of twins
These Aryan things remind me of you

There’s No-a Business Like Shoah Business
—by Hermann Haltertopf (translated by General Hofstaeder)

There’s no-a business like Shoah business, like no business I know
Everyone’s responsible and owes us, every goy forced to apologize
Every hooknosed Solly, Max and Moses can come up roses, long as he cries

There’s no-a people like Shoah people, they keep finding new lows
Even with an “eyewitness” you know will fold
Your class action suit’s out in the cold
Still you’ll find a way to turn it into gold, let’s go on with the show!

The soldier, the sailor, the crucifix-wearer
Are losers, summer winter spring and fall
The soldier, the sailor, the crucifix-wearer
Got killed in WW2, but all they got was some wall.
They’d gladly kiss their God goodbye
For numbers on their arm, and why?

There’s no-a business like Shoah business and I tell you it’s so
Holocaust museums are so thrilling, a crazy sort of magic just occurs
Smiling as you watch the gift shop filling, for striped pajamas in his-and-hers

There’s no-a people like Shoah people, they keep finding new lows
Tour the Anne Frank House like it’s a funhouse ride
All you need’s the cash in hand to come inside
Step right up for simulated genocide—Let’s go on with the show!

There’s no-a business like Shoah business, like no business I know
Here’s the cattle-car my people rode on, merely for the crime of being Jews
Here’s the yellow stars they made us sew on, and now we go on to view the Pile of Shoes

There’s no-a people like Shoah people, they keep finding new lows
Yesterday they showered us in Zyklon-B
Now the worstest crime in human history’s
In living color every night on your TV—let’s go on with the show!

The Twins Song
—by Reinhold Hauptmann & Sammy Cahn (translated by Colonel Burkhalter)

Way down among Brazilians
Mixed-race orcs breed by the billions
And though you’d think it just incredi-bill
There’s lotsa hot-ass Aryan twins down in Brazil

They all look just like Vendela
Good thinking, Dr Mengele
Your war-crimes/research really filled the bill
They’ve got some smokin’ Aryan twins down in Brazil

No spooks, and no Portugese
No Aztec hoes with faces like frommunda cheese
Even Paraguayans are all sayin’ “no no no”

Cos there ain’t a sight more fetchin’
Than blonde twins both named Gretchen
In matching thong bikinis sure to thrill
Why they taught pussy how to goose-step in Brazil

Date a girl and once you’ve banged her
Learn she’s got a doppelganger
And they both speak fluent Triumph of the Will
They got hot Aryan twins to spare down in Brazil

No jigs, no mestizo slags
No harelipped mamacitas you gotta double-bag
All the Chileans keep on sayin’ “no no no”

So Dr. M, we humbly thank ya
Though the Jews still wanna spank ya
But with any omelet, eggs will break and spill
Who cares, cos now there’s hot-ass twins
Blonde and blue-eyed quim
They got some Ilsa-lookin’ bitches in Brazil!

Greystoke, Race Relations In Re: Lord

Remember: Tarzan took one look at these people, and preferred to take his chances being raised by apes.

Guide, Holocaust Rainy-Day Activity

You know what’s really cool? Comparing whoever the head Jew of Israel happens to be to Hitler (and/or Likud to the Nazi Party, the IDF to the Gestapo, etc.). It always prompts some outraged Shecky into making a grandstanding speech in which he sets himself up nicely for you to shoehorn in “Holocaust? What Holocaust? Never happened”...then you get to see them turn purple with rage. It’s not actually likely they’ll die of a brain aneurysm on the spot, but still...they might. Even if they don’t, it’s a lot of fun.

On the other hand, I also recommend taking the other route—of being so profligate with Hitler comparisons that you’re accusing two or three people a day of “being just like Hitler” for the most trivial and inconsequential of reasons. Mailman delivers you a utility bill? Tell him that’s exactly how Hitler started out. Called for jury duty? Explain during voir dire that you can’t be impartial because you’re pretty sure the defendant is planning to invade Poland. If you’re getting any major dental work done, shriek “Don’t gas me, bro!”, and then refer to the hygienist as “Ilsa Koch”. The possibilities are endless.

Hat?, Am That a Susquehanna

COSTELLO: Look Abbott, if you’re the coach, you must know all the players.

ABBOTT: I certainly do.

COSTELLO: Well you know I’ve never met the guys. So you’ll have to tell me their names, and then I’ll know who’s playing on the team.

ABBOTT: Oh, I’ll tell you their names, but you know it seems to me they give these ball players nowadays very peculiar names.

COSTELLO: You mean funny names?

ABBOTT: Strange names...Well, let’s see, we have Davonta’s on first, Devonte’s on second, Durraymus is on third...

COSTELLO: That’s what I want to find out.

ABBOTT: I say Davonta’s on first, Devonte’s on second, Durraymus is on third.

COSTELLO: Are you the manager?

ABBOTT: Yes.

COSTELLO: And you don’t know the fellows’ names?

ABBOTT: Well I should.

COSTELLO: Okay, then who’s on first?

ABBOTT: Davonta.

COSTELLO: Wait a minute. Is this whole team niggers?

ABBOTT: Pretty much.

COSTELLO: Well then forget the whole thing—let’s do 13 x 7 = 28 instead.

Headlines, Decoding the

“African American students performed dismally compared with their counterparts of other races.”

Oh baby! Roll that around your palate for a bit, and let the sharp and pungent tang of reality soak in.

If only I had the power to rephrase that header and run the story in every paper in America.

Blacks Stupidest Race By Wide Margin, Study Shows:
Lag far behind Latinos, Asians, volcano-god islanders

Or maybe:

Shitskins Without Sheepskins: Crisis In Our Schools
Rhyming Regents exams seen as possible solution

But I’d probably opt for:

Why Jamaal And T’shingaa Can’t Read
Who gives a shit? They can’t read this, either!

Hill, Up On Megiddo’s

I don’t give a shit who’s oppressing whose rights in some sand pit I’m never going to live in. As a matter of fact, like many Americans (who won’t admit it), I’m kinda glad that somebody somewhere is still oppressing minorities—I kinda forgot what that’s like, and frankly I dig the contact high.

I’m much, much more concerned with the fact that the Ponzi-scheme bubbles our “robust economy” were balanced upon are now all in the process of bursting and that the dollar is in freefall with no end in sight. Our money has lost half its value in the past six years—and why that isn’t THE story in every newspaper in America both mystifies and frightens me. That huge shapeless lump under the nap of the carpet is Imminent Reality, after being swept under the rug by every shit-talker running for office trying to out-Vision-Thing the other shit talkers. And nations are like eggs—there’s no such thing as un-dropping them on the floor.

Being an American right now is a little like being a cancer patient covered from head to toe in Band-Aids. You cough up more blood and new sores are suppurating on your back, and the chief surgeon, after examining the MRI, writes you a script for bigger Band-Aids.

Memories, Tropical Fantasy

Fuck man, I loved their Wild Blue Cherry!

One hot summer day I was downing a bottle of it when this black woman I know said, “No, don’t drink that! Didn’t you hear? You can’t have babies if you drink that stuff!”

I smiled, having heard the Urban Legend that Tropical Fantasy sodas were bioengineered by racist cola-ologists to render black people sterile after drinking it, and reminded her, “That’s just you people. I can shoot live ammo all night long”. And she actually said, “Oh, damn—thass right.”

Negroes are your best entertainment value. Why not gather the family, hop in the car and watch some Negroes cavort through powerful binoculars tonight?

Missus, The New Massa’s

Michelle’s father was a city worker, her grandfather a handyman. “They were bright, articulate, well-read men,” she says. “If they’d been white, they would have been the heads of banks.”

Oh boy oh boy oboyoboyoboy. She’s gonna take to Supreme Power like it was catnip. She reminds me of those deluxe AA hires—the one they bring in to supervise your department, whose first order of business is to soak Corporate but good redecorating her office, whose idea of delegating authority is getting you to perform her tasks for her and explain what the paperwork means besides, and whose Emergency Plan, if found out, is Break Glass, Then Cry Race-iss.

Numbers, Fudging the

Every brillo should get down on his or her knees and thank God for computers. Since they’ve been installed at every gummint office to do all of the actual work, Negroes’ complete lack of productivity has become easier to disguise. At least now, after the she-gorilla at the DMV makes you wait ten minutes on purpose while she goldbricks drawling to Rolonda on the phone because, well, you white, and nigger honor demands she diss yo ass in as offhanded a manner as possible, at least she can no longer follow it up by fucking up your paperwork with her general I don’ know nuffin bout birfin’ no babies! ineptitude. She can hit the ENTER key and someone far more capable—Mista Compac—will do it for her (and do it right the first time).

Hitting the ENTER key has increased overall Negro efficiency and productivity by 40 to 50%. Of course, you could a train a seal to hit it even better, but we’re trying to focus on the positives here.

Others, One of These Gods Is Not Like the

Whose Religion is STUPIDEST?

• Catholic pope-a-dopes 6.38%
• Evangelical snake handlers 12.77%
• White-bread Prots (Presbys, Methos, Episcos) 6.38%
• Money-mad Jews 6.38%
• Muslim, sand nigger 6.38%
• Muslim, Farrakhan nigger 27.66%
• Filthy, fawning Hindus 2.13%
• Buddhist dog eaters 0%
• Scheming Quaker devils 4.26%
• Wiccan bubblebrains 25.53%
• Grunting savages (Volcano God, Great Spirit, etc) 2.13%

Rape?, Can Retards

When two police officers came to interview Jamie Bauld, a polite, friendly Down’s syndrome boy with a mental age of about five, he welcomed them with a big smile, no pants, and a toilet plunger affixed to his head. As the officers read him his rights and charged him with assault and racial abuse, he made an assortment of gurning faces and kept repeating the phrase “I’m into nuggets, y’all” until one of the officers barked at him to shut his bloody gob.

Yesterday Jamie’s parents told The Times that they had been through a seven-month ordeal with the tartan’d Judaism of the Scottish legal system over what they described as a minor fracas between two youngsters with learning difficulties. Two mindless, hulking, behemoth youngsters. God only knows what kind of rampaging Frankenstein monsters they’d become if they ever got angry; I wouldn’t even wanna confuse one by accident. I mean, shit, ask any cop what it’s like to subdue a raging ‘tard. You empty the goddam clip and they’re still coming.

Oh yeah—so anyway, Jamie, 18, cannot tie his shoelaces or leave home on his own, nor can he understand simple visual concepts, such as what the chair with the big hole in the middle full of water is for. But his parents said that he was charged with attacking a fellow student, a mushbrained Malay she-gork who also had special needs. Such as lessons on how to eat with a fork, as well as someone to pull forks out of various parts of her head.

Jamie’s parents described as “utterly ridiculous” the actions of the authorities in bringing adult charges against their son, who they said was not only innocent, but would often sit quietly in a corner, playing chess for hours on end against a roll of electrical tape or a Matchbox car, occasionally winning a match.

(Alright—I’m already ashamed for taking this one even this far...)

Republicans, Last of the Cloth-Coat

When Peggy Noonan was stridently backing the Chimp, her copy was full of that mushy-mystical treacle that put clear-thinking people ill at ease, and diabetics in actual danger. Now that even Stevie Wonder can read the writing on the wall, she’s scurrying off the gangplank and over the side, still trying to maintain her ladylike decorum and pretend no one could possibly have ever seen this debacle coming. Mind you, she waits until now—when the ship’s hit every iceberg in the straits, the lifeboats are all on fire, and The Worst President Who Ever Got Born is screaming “charrrrge!” while wearing a Napoleon hat—to suspect that something might be amiss.

As a syndicated political columnist, Peggy bakes a helluva tollhouse cookie.

Revue, The New Joo

It’s a list of “the world’s most powerful people,” 100 of the bankers and media moguls, publishers and image makers, pornographers and war profiteers who shape the lives of billions. It’s an exclusive, insular club, one that switches to a private language when YOU walk into the room to take their drink orders, whose influence stretches around the globe and whose greasy tentacles squeeze the Earth dry of its resources daily.

More than half its members, at least by one count, are Jewish by birth; the others are Jewish by osmosis.

It’s a list, in other words, that would have made earlier generations of Jews reach for their emergency crucifixes and last-chance St. Christopher medallions, calling attention, as it does, to their marionette strings attached to your politicians, judges and journalists, moving their arms and legs in amazingly lifelike synchronized movements. Making matters worse, in the eyes of many, would no doubt be the identity of the group behind the list—not a pack of fringe anti-Semites relentlessly driven out into society’s Forbidden Zones, but one of the most mainstream, glamorous publications on the newsstands, smart enough to know better than to kill the golden goose by connecting the dotz for a bunch of blue-collar louts hardly likely to be on the subscriber list in the first place.

Yet the list doesn’t appear to have generated concern so far, instead drawing a satisfied baby-blood belch from the lone Jewish commentator who’s responded in writing.

Published between lesbian-chic ads for Chanel and Prada, and the usual teenage boys in briefs associated with Dior and Yves Saint Laurent, it’s the 2007 version of “The Vanity Fair 100,” the glossy American magazine’s annual October ranking of the planet’s most important people: us, naturally. Populated by a hideous Cohen, a hand-rubbing Rothschild, a ratlike Bloomberg and a six-snouted Perelman, the list would seem to conform to all the traditional stereotypes about areas of Jewish overrepresentation that we routinely sentence you to European prisons for daring to notice. You leave objective reality to us and keep clicking the channel-changer there, “Sean”, or “Roy”, or whatever your trayf name is.

Joseph Aaron, the editor of The Chicago Jewish News, thinks it’s a list his readers should “feel very, very good about. We’re alllllmost there.”

“Talk about us being accepted into this society, talk about us having power in this society,” Aaron wrote this week, in apparent reference to Jewish life in the United States. “Talk about anti-Semitism being a thing of the past, talk about Jews no longer needing to be afraid to be visible and influential. We’re about another five million Mexicans and a few dozen nooses away from wrapping up the whole megilla.”

Printed over 15 pages before an interview with Nicole Kidman, a SHILF if ever there was, the rankings, described on the magazine’s cover as the membership of “The New Establishment”—a previous working title, “Beware! They Fucking OWN You!” was rejected at the last minute when the associate editor originally in charge was arrested on child-pornography charges—the list is accompanied by a paragraph-long introduction that neither defines power nor describes the methodology behind the list, but instead burbles a lot of utopian nonsense about “freedom”, “the future” and “people power”. Our people.

Topping the rankings for the second year in a row is gentile media mogul Rupert Murdoch, whose Jewish mother you don’t need to know about right now, followed in second place by Steve Jobs, the non-Jewish co-founder of Apple and Pixar who we hold so much debt paper on, he might as well be spinning dredels on Christmas morning.

Highest among the Jewish entries are Google co-founders Sergey Brin and Larry Page, co-listed at #3, down one from 2006. The article reported that the 34-year-old Brin and his wife “wore swimsuits as they danced on a rooftop in New Jersey on 9/11.” (Page, whose mother is Jewish, was described in the spring 2006 edition of B’nai B’rith Magazine as “raised more in the mold of his father...whose hooves are cloven.”)

With Americans making up the vast majority of the list, the Vanity Fair 100 is also notable for some absences. Just nine of those included are women, and only two—TV host Oprah Winfrey and rapper Jay-Z—are of African ancestry. We no longer need the schvartzers, thank G-d, but it’s always a good idea to keep a few in cold storage.

It’s the magazine’s readers and a couple of troublesome gnats on the Internet, not Vanity Fair itself, who are keeping track of New Establishment members’ gender, race and ethnicity. Though the writers often include telling details about their subjects—such as that the original first name of #89, comedian Jon Stewart, was Meshulem—it’s up to amateur demographers to keep track of our ever-morphing multiple passports. Good luck, Adolf—the average kike is now three name-changes ahead of you.

The approach hasn’t attracted much attention this year, but set off a Hollywood firestorm in 1994 when a reporter for England’s Spectator used that year’s New Establishment as inspiration for his own completely-unauthorized article, in which critics accused him of perpetrating harmful stereotypes about Jewish control of the movie industry, such as the blood-libel that Jews control the movie industry. (The writer, William Cash, subsequently stuttered out a nervous explanation that the piece was partly meant to call attention to the contrast between the traditional, white Protestant “establishment,” and the disproportionally Jewish new version. You know—William Cash? William Cash, the writer? You’ve never heard of him? Yeah: how about that.) Considerations of background don’t figure in the Vanity Fair “Establishment,” but neither, it seems, do traditional definitions of “power” as political. It’s all about the gelt, tattalah, the gelt.

Besides New York Mayor Michael Bloomberg at #9, up 25 places from a year ago, just two elected officials—former US president Bill Clinton and former vice president Al Gore—appear on the list. Ranked at #6 and #19, respectively, the latter two are cited for Services Rendered—see Rich comma Marc—more than the political power we let them appear to exert.

The magazine’s limited definition of power, then, constitutes areas in which Jews have long excelled, often by necessity, says Ruth Wisse, a professor of Yiddish and comparative literature at Harvard University, in which literature is compared to Yiddish and usually found wanting.

In her most recent book, Jewish Jews Jewing Jewily, Wisse accounts “for the achievement of Jews through the centuries,” describing it, she says, “as a consequence of our ethical and intellectual superiority, our commitment to a higher morality, our innate ability to think outside the box, and your needing to borrow money for liquor and gambling every Monday morning like fucking clockwork.”

But while they’ve excelled disproportionately in areas such as business and medicine, they’ve often also limited themselves to fields not connected to the public exercise of power. “Only a schmuck wants 100 percent of something when they could be skimming ten percent of everything”, Wisse notes while knotting a series of nooses. She grins sheepishly, explaining, “They’re for the NAACP”.

With the Vanity Fair rankings’ focus on leaders outside the public sphere, they may coincidentally mirror traditional Jewish patterns of achievement—and a traditional Jewish aversion to political power. “The Big Machers, they get voted out, deposed, even shot”, she explains as though speaking to an autistic child. “But nobody bothers to shoot the yid whispering in the Big Macher’s ear.”

For Aaron, the list shows how “vital” Jews have become in American life. The Vanity Fair rankings, he writes, “[tell] you so much about the place of Jews in this country, about the amazing people Jews are. Yes sir,” he beams, “not since Weimar Germany have we had everything falling into place for us like this.”

Rope, The Best Hyperbole Is a Length of

“First, let’s kill all the lawyers. Ha-ha! No, seriously, folks, we need to rein in these rogues via public opprobrium and new and meaningful legislation.” No, dumbass, you need to kill all the lawyers! See, because if angry mobs only managed to lynch a few dozen of them...? The others would all get the message tout fucking suite.

Shit, Pomes An’

I Be Cincinnati —By Nikki Giovanni

I be Cincinnati I ran from the whips and the dogs...across the frozen pond
I made my home in the West End...near where Social Services be at
When The Civil War came I dug the trenches
Showing the South: Free men Live Here, who all work for Motor Vehicles now
Huh? White German settlers? Bitch, nobody wanna hear bout no devils
It all about mines
Today, I keep the city safe
From order and prosperity

I be the 7 Hills
I be neighborhoods, shopping malls, Section 8 housing, crack hovels, Popeye’s
I be the Bengals, the Reds, the incomparable Pete Rose calling in a 3-team teaser
I be Schottzie

I be Findlay Street Market
I be the best three-way chili in the world
I be Montgomery ribs, size 52 pants, and heart disease at 45
I be the University of Cincinnati
I be Xavier
I be some Pell Grant niggas majorin’ in Home Ec and Mothaship Studies on Whitey’s dime

I be Eden Park and the Conservatory of Music
I be Symphony Hall and the oldest Opera company at one of the world’s greatest teaching zoos
What an opera company doing in the middle of a got-damn zoo I’ll never know
I be Spring Grove Cemetery—my dead rest in peace and beauty
Shot while standing outside liquor stores from the passenger windows of moving cars

I be Marion Spencer
I have watched segregation reign and have built a bridge between my people and they prey
I have watched policemen shoot young black men in the back over some triflin’ felony-murder bullshit
A people who once saved this city will not willingly allow prejudice a purchase
But seriously, though: these bloodsuckin’ chinks and Hindus—they takin’ over

I be the Winold Reiss Murals of the Cincinnati Union Terminal though I now domicile in another state
I be the Cincinnati Western and Southern Tennis Championships though I be played in Mason
I can Kentucky you in at the Cincinnati International Airport in Erlanger
Got-damn!
Whitey movin’ all the good shit far away
From a people who once saved this city
From order and prosperity

I ain’t no son-of-a-bitch like 88mm Flak
I will not mow the lawns of my Oppressors
I do not use the color of my skin to cover the Cheez Doodles and Kool cigarettes on my breath
I am not no political whore—jumping from bed to bed to see who will stoke my need
I just shill for the Left in the middle of a televised eulogy
And use 32 dead children like the black cards on a three-card monte table

I be Cincinnati
I shoot craps and chug forties
And chickens still walk on sawdust in my living rooms
I be the biggest October Fest outside Munich, Germany
Not that I like devils, understand
But a nigga got to get they swerve on
Nome sane?
Plus them summer sossitches is easy to boost

Though the next riot always a hot summer day away
I am not shirking my responsibilities to the next generation
Got my Lotto tickets right next to my food stamps
And through the power of rhymes
I be finding a way to be great again

I be the Lady in the Fountain
Let my waters cleanse and refresh you—metaphorically of course
Since niggers piss in me daily

Together
We still can save this City
From order and prosperity

Shoah, On With the

Dead Jews On A Treadmill: The Holocaust Films Keep Coming
—by Tom Turgid, August 17, 2009

At least once a year over the last quarter century, a respected critic will cut his own throat and state—hoping against hope—that films about the Holocaust and the Nazi era have reached a saturation point and that movie and television audiences are suffering from a terminal case of behavioral conditioning.

Ignoring such earnest arguments, Jews-with-viewfinders regularly roll out new slates of films on these topics. “We’ll decide what the public is sick of”, said one off the record, while attending a pro-choice fundraiser.

This summer is no exception.

Hollywood kicks things off Aug. 21 with the opening of Quentin Tarantino’s “Inglourious Basterds,” featuring Brad Pitt, a fantasy in which Jews volunteer for combat duty in a US infantry unit. Of course, it’s not just any infantry unit—it’s a Jewish Revenge squad. (So if you encounter a set of dog-tags marked “RABINOWITZ”, no need to try to locate their owner—they’re only movie props.) At least another five more Holocaust-related films from around the world are set to see wider distribution in the coming months.

A similar list, and perhaps even more impressive, could be compiled for almost any other recent year. Going back less than 12 months, Hollywood alone released “Read For Me A Book, Boychik,” “Gas Pains,” “The Lampshade That Wept” and “The Goy in the Striped Pajamas.”

So why the continuing flow, and public acceptance, of films about the gruesome events of more than 60 years ago?

Filmmakers, distributors and scholarly experts agree on some reasons and to a lesser degree on others. Then you leave the room and hear angry voices barking Yiddish at each other through the closed door. Believe me, though—far better for you and me they’re yelling and not laughing.

“There are six million stories in the Naked Holocaust. And we’re going to tell you every single one, and you’re going to sit there eating your fercockta popcorn and watch”, smirks Meyer Gottlieb, president and chief operating officer of Samuel Goldwyn Films and a child survivor of the Holocaust. “It is only the media that think the public is tired of the subject, and every one knows the media is controlled by Shi’ite Muslims and Presbyterians.”

Rabbi Marvin Hier, founding dean of the Simon Wiesenthal Center and also a child survivor of the Holocaust, insists that films and books about the Final Solution will never be out of vogue.

“Why sit through something about the invasion of aliens from outer space when the reality was so much more incredible and frightening?” he asked. When told that a single space-alien flick will routinely gross more than any ten Holocaust movies put together, he peered at my name-tag and made a show of angrily writing it down in what he called his “Gibson book”.

Howard Suber, a UCLA professor considered among the top film teachers and likewise a child survivor of the Holocaust, believes that all Holocaust films are variations on “the world’s greatest storyline: A character is trapped in a certain situation—will he have what it takes to get out? And who does he sue afterwards?”

He adds that “the moment a Nazi storm trooper or a swastika appear on the screen, don’t be fooled by the cheers and applause—the audience knows a survival story is coming.”

“That story always works, from baby Moses floating down the Nile, and Joseph and his brothers, to Jesus betrayed and crucified,” said Suber, author of “The Power of Film,” before blurting hysterically, “by the Romans! Crucified by the Romans!”

Considerably more touchy is the thesis that the prominence of Jewish studio heads, producers and directors in Hollywood and European movie centers—some would call it a “stranglehold”, others opt for “complete and utter domination”—tilts their professional judgment toward films on the extermination of six million fellow Jews.

According to this theory, the question is: If the founders of Hollywood and their modern-day descendants had not been Jews, but instead had come from Rwanda, Armenia, Bosnia or Darfur, would we be watching films about genocides in their countries? The answer is if the founders of Hollywood had come from Rwanda, Armenia, Bosnia or Darfur, we wouldn’t be watching any films at all—we’d be scratching the word HELP in the dirt with a pointed stick.

Sharon Rivo, executive director of the National Center for Jewish Film at Brandeis University and—like every other Jew in the movie business these days—a child survivor of the Holocaust, is convinced that personal ties and family experiences strongly influence later professional decisions.

“At least once a week I get a pitch by someone who feels that he or she must make a film about parents or grandparents who survived the Holocaust,” Rivo said. But didn’t anybody actually die in this Holocaust? “What do you mean?”, the Hebraic harpy snaps. “Everybody died in the Holocaust. Some people died several times. My own great-aunt Rikvah was hung, gassed, shot and then turned into upholstery. Even on her deathbed last year, all she could talk about was the horror of being made into seat covers by the Nazis.”

“I believe there have been only two feature films about the Armenian genocide, neither one with much impact,” she said, adding, “Tough titty. Part of the problem is we’ve spent so much time and energy training schoolchildren to equate white Christian with unrepentant monster, by now you could never convince someone that the Russian kulaks, say, didn’t have it coming. Now it’s true we would love to see top dramatic films about the suffering of gypsies or Rwandans...they have that certain not-whiteness going on that’s incredibly compelling...but they need to be familiar with the levers of production in this business.” Like for instance cutting in a Jew for 50% ownership and an executive-producer credit while they do all the actual work? That lever of production? She smiled like a cat with a mouth full of parakeet: “A journey of 1,000 miles always begins with paying us for a Thousand Mile Journey permit.”

Even as consummate a professional as Steven Spielberg, himself a child survivor of the Holocaust, believes that personal background counts. Well before the release of “Schindler’s List,” he told JTA that he learned to count numbers by adding the figures on the monthly checks from Germany sent to various false survivor-identities created by his parents.

Suber holds a strongly divergent view, asserting that ethnic or other kinds of sentiments play no role in the tough, bottom line-obsessed entertainment business. Forty years ago, tackling the subject in a study on the interaction between Jewish culture and film culture, he concluded there was none. (The paper was overlooked at the time in favor of another study in which a council of foxes found claims of systematic ritual murder of henhouse chickens to be largely spurious.)

The Eastern European immigrants who founded the film industry went out of their way to downplay their Jewishness, he recalled. Even today, Suber maintained, “Hollywood Jews are secular Jews, they are American businessmen who don’t put their race or religion first. What’s that? Passion of the Christ, you say? Guaranteed half-billion in box office? And all he wants is 20 mill for the distribution rights?...hmm. No. Nope, not interested.”

Whatever the reason, a new wave of Holocaust films is hitting theaters in the coming months:

• In “Inglourious Basterds,” Pitt is the hillbilly leader of the ferocious band of American Jewish GIs, who don’t take prisoners but slowly scalp the German soldiers or crack their skulls with baseball bats. Tarantino’s film may mark a new sub-genre in which the Jews, now in complete control of the Western world, no longer bother pretending they’re anything but what they are: swindlers, tricksters and pitiless murderers. Besides, now that every wog, nigger and pathan has been granted holy status by the Sierra Club, it’s pretty clear that whites are the only folks you can kill indiscriminately in a movie and win awards for doing it.

• A slyer and less bloody satirical fantasy about turning the tables comes from Germany in Dani Levy’s “My Fuhrer: The Truly Truest Truth About Adolf Hitler.” (Though the title is bound to confuse gentiles, Jews will nod sagely at the Talmudic idea of truth being graded like meat—choice, good, prime, etc. Let’s just say...uhhh...don’t bet the ranch on Jewish “eyewitness testimony”.) With the Third Reich crumbling, Hitler’s henchmen figure that only a fiery speech by the Fuhrer on New Year’s Day 1945 can rouse the German masses and turn the tide. But Hitler is in a funk, locked in his room, and only the great acting coach Paul Robeson, currently in a concentration camp, can restore the dictator to his old form—and in the process extract hisself some loose shoes, tight pussy and a warm place to shit. The German buddy-comedy ends somewhere in rural Paraguay, with Robeson riding a burro-drawn cart into the horizon line and dueting on “Old Man River” with a brain in a fish tank. Fahrvergnugen, baby!

• Due in the fall is “Four Seasons Lodge,” a feature documentary about a community of Holocaust survivors who come together in New York’s Catskill Mountains every summer to celebrate their lives by cheating incessantly at cards, turning tales of human suffering into a perverse game of one-upsmanship, and mainly making sure the “schwartzers” employed as menials don’t share their cutlery or swim in the same pool.

• In “Tickling the Friedmans” three generations of a Jewish family, with roots in Hungary, branches in New York, and tentacles in Israel, try to connect its members to each other. The key to their reconciliation involves the still controversial “Rudolph Kastner Affair” (in which a Jewish leader bargained with Adolf Eichmann for the lives of 1,000 community leaders) and a whole mess of sexually-molested ten-year-old piano students. Good times!

• “Being Jewish in France”—a rather doctrinaire title, changed from the original “What Part of Get the Fuck Out Of My Country Don’t You Understand?”—details the love-hate relationship between the French and their Jewish parasites from the anti-Semitic Dreyfus Affair of the 1890s to the present. The three-hour documentary is a little weak on describing the hate-hate relationship between the Jews and their French host organism, however. Excellent archival footage strengthens the focus on the World War II era, when the Vichy government and the French police did much of the dirty work for the German occupiers. Shit out of luck on burning-car footage from the last five years, though, when the Jewish dream of encouraging mass orc immigration everywhere but Israel began paying its usual dividends.

• Denmark, which saved nearly all of its 7,500 Jews, contributes “Flame and Citron,” based on the true story of two legendary Danish resistance fighters who sabotaged the Nazi occupiers and assassinated their local collaborators. To coincide with the film’s premiere, the Danish government authorized the production of 7,500 promotional I’M WITH STUPID t-shirts.

Shyster, Naked Came the

Top Holocaust-porn rentals in Tel Aviv, week ending 10/21/07:

• Treblinka Pink

• The Last Temptation of Weiss

• Faster, Mrs Katz! Kill! Kill!

• Ilsa, He/She Wolf of the SS

• Piles of Red Shoes Diaries

• Indiana Mengele and the Temple of Twins

• Oy Story

• The Commandant, the Untermensch, His Wife and Her Lover

• Schindler’s Fist

• Gas Who’s Coming to Dinner

• Looking For Mr. Goodboots

• I Am Curious Yellow Star

• An Officer and a Masochist

• The Bitch on the River Kwai

• Strangers On a Cattle Car

• I Know Why the Caged Berg Sings

• Shaving Private Rhine

• Bob Und Karol Und Ted Und Shulamith

• Arbeit Macht Sexy

(source: The Hollywitz Reporter)

Supermarkets, A People Who Shall Dwell Without

National chains stay away from Detroit

DETROIT—Chlamydia Washington isn’t looking forward to crossing the street to shop for even a few groceries.

The store, Uncle Salty’s Snacks ‘n’ Shit, is convenient, just steps away from the beauty shop where she plays the daily number on Livernois in Detroit. But what troubles her is its higher prices, lack of variety and the bulletproof glass in front of the deli counter—and she misses the impromptu day-care center the Farmer Jack store near her home turned into whenever her five children by six fathers accompanied her during her food-shopping.

“Sure, they’s other grocery stores, but try eatin’ shit out the box without payin’ for it in them,” said the 34-year-old water buff- errr, skin care specialist. “My chillin used to throwin’ produce and runnin’ up and down tha aisles screamin’ at the top of they lungs”, she notes with a sigh, adding wistfully, “they can’t even get a running start in these here little-ass stores they got left.”

The lack of human shoppers has long been a quality-of-life problem in Detroit and one reason among hundreds some families don’t want to live in the city. Now, however, the situation is getting worse as the last two Farmer Jack stores in the city prepare to close by Saturday. Area muggers plan a candlelight vigil in the parking lot, but ironically must first drive to Ypsilanti to rob the candles.

With the physical locations already earmarked for conversion to burned-out empty lots by city planners, Detroit will be left without a single national chain supermarket, much less an Ikea, lending library or light-opera company.

Analysts say no other major city in America is such a supermarket desert. (In fact, even the Gobi desert has a Winn-Dixie.) And the situation is not likely to change anytime soon.

The situation has left regular shoppers at the Farmer Jack stores—one on East Jefferson and the other on Livernois at Seven Mile—with two choices: dance around the cannibal cookpot like their forebears did—difficult in a post-apocalyptic hellhole few white missionaries venture into—or buy groceries at smaller stores near their homes.

“Why should we have to go elsewhere to find a trustworthy store to sleep in front of?” asked Joe Lanier, a longtime shopper of the Livernois Farmer Jack who owns a nearby three-card monte table. “My money as good as Whitey’s. Twice a month, anyhow.”

Within its 139 square miles, Detroit has 155 grocery stores, defined as various-size food markets with meat and produce. The city also has 1,000 convenience stores—including gas stations and party stores—that sell some type of food. Unfortunately the only statistic that matters is the 800,000 Negroes residing in those 139 square miles, many in a prone position.

Over the years, national chains have located in Detroit, only to pull up stakes and flee. There are a multitude of reasons, according to retail analysts, and all of them are code for “niggers”.

“Sometimes even the people that live in the neighborhood don’t feel safe shopping in the store,” said David J. Livingston, a supermarket expert from Wisconsin. “They’ll drive right past that Detroit store to go to a suburban store where they feel more comfortable. Nahhh, I’m kidding, I’m kidding—they don’t own cars. Mostly, they eat pork rinds and blame the white man. And their farts could strip paint off a battleship.”

While crime is a concern, Matt Allen, press secretary for Detroit Mayor Kwame (Big Pimpin’) Kilpatrick, said the issue should not be used as an excuse by the big chains to avoid Detroit.

“Being shot in the spine is a small price to pay to show the world you is not a race-iss,” Allen said.

But, he added, businesses can take measures to prevent theft.

“[Businesses] have added lighting, changed the heights of the counters, put the registers in certain places—security by environmental design. It all helps,” he said. But critics maintain that shoppers resent having to pass money through a hole cut in a sheetrock wall, and placing streetlamps indoors poses a fire hazard.

Detroit also suffers from a lack of strip malls with tenants to serve everyday needs. “Large supermarket chains don’t like to open stand-alone stores in minority-intensive localities”, said Ken Dalto, a expert in figuring out safe ways to say niggertown.

“Larger supermarkets have a better chance of surviving if they are located in strip malls where predicate felons are offered a choice of targets,” Dalto said. “If you don’t have these anchor spots at strip malls, you aren’t going to make it back to your car alive after dark.”

A number of the city’s major developers and economic growth officials said efforts to draw a national grocer to the city have met tepid responses often masked as raucous laughter, and sudden clicks followed by dial-tone noises.

Midtown Development President Robert Slattery said he showed a plan for a 12,000-square-foot store, with 65 parking spaces and enough urine-absorbent cardboard flats to accommodate 25 winos, to specialty grocer Trader Joe’s; but the company didn’t bite, citing death threats from shareholders among other concerns.

Most independent food stores in Detroit are owned and operated by Rhymeco, some of whom have been in business for 40 or more years. A few are owned by African-Americans, but the majority feature glass rather than wooden windows, and are open for business on a daily basis as opposed to “whenever, motherfucker”.

Martin Manna, executive director of the Chamber of Commerce in Southfield, said Rhymeco has stepped in as A&P, Farmer Jack and Kroger have abandoned the city. Actually, he may have said “stepped in it”—the audio recording is a bit muddy.

“There usually is a market within walking distance of nearly every area of Detroit,” Manna said. “It might not be a supermarket. It might be a crackhouse with a couple of spinner racks of Cheez Doodles and Li’l Debbie cakes. That might be why there are so many people eating potato chips rather than wholesome foods in Detroit. But nobody told ‘em not to go to school.”

Although shoppers may complain prices are higher at independent stores, independent grocers said they strive to be competitive, although most simply furrowed their brows and unleashed a stream of high-pitched Lebanese invective at this reporter.

While there are clean, well-run stores scattered throughout the city—I mean, there must be, just according to the law of averages—many don’t offer the variety and selection of a Farmer Jack.

Many residents rely on convenience stores for bread, milk, eggs and snacks. Well, okay: snacks. Small stores that do offer meat and produce often sell food past its expiration date, shoppers said, although technically the city is powerless to act, as the spoiled food is usually consumed in-store by customers, i.e., “stolen”.

Pat Hollins, an activist with the Black Organizations Outraged at Larvae Infested Entrees, told of stopping in a small neighborhood grocer several weeks ago and immediately finding two expired packages of breakfast sausage. Although she bought them both when offered a free Magic Lottery Numbers pamphlet with her purchase, she feels she’s due compensation for her subsequent botulism.

BOOLIE has been picketing stores it contends have been selling expired meats and unhealthy foods, although the tendency of picketers to put down their placards to buy and consume the tainted food whenever they get “hon-gree” has muted the protests’ effectiveness.

“We havin’ problems with meat and produce being expired,” Hollins said. “We ain’t got no security in the parking lots, no restrooms in the stores and a poor selection of food products. When you cross Eight Mile, these problems all disappear. White folk don’t be needin’ parking-lot security, and they use the bathrooms in they homes before they go shopping. In other words—black people being took advantage of.”

Without chain grocers in her neighborhood, shoppers like Lakweesha Culpepper-Butts, who lives just blocks from the Farmer Jack on East Jefferson, will have to travel much farther for low-priced sundries, and even farther than that to understand what “sundries” are.

“I sho gonna miss this sto’,” Culpepper-Butts said. “I got evvything I need here othawise, just evvything. Orange soda in the Coke machine, human-hair wigs, scratch-off tickets at the 24-hour likka sto’. Evvything! Now all we need be a good supamockit wit’ a busted sto’ camera right here on Jefferson.”

She said she’ll probably end up shopping at a Kroger in Grosse Pointe. “It either Kroger or the little local sto’,” she said. “And they don’t always have them hog anuses I likes.”

Gordon Alexander, 52, who lives on the city’s east side, said suburbanites have it good compared to Detroiters.

“They only one store in the city I’ll pick up some stuff at, but my kids jokingly call it the ‘ghetto store’ because everything be subpar,” he said. “Well, that, plus it’s in the middle of a nigga neighborhood surrounded by burned out empty lots on three sides. Some of these stores make the argument that they catering to black clientele, so they have to frisk you for a gun going in, and whatever shit you just boosted coming out, but that’s just an excuse for race-iss behavior.

“Here we is, trying to revitalize the waterfront with meaningless slogans and festive paint-jobs on rockhouses, but people who live here can’t even find something decent to eat. Where the justice in that?...Oh, man, you throwin’ out that cigarette? Shit, you ain’t took but two puffs on it—give it here, Jim, I smoke the rest of it!”

Here are some reasons cited by national retail experts on why brand supermarket chains avoid Detroit:

• Net profits at supermarkets run 1 – 5% percent of revenue. If shoplifting by customers and employees runs 7 – 8% percent, the store is doomed to lose money. If all customers and employees are shoplifters, store is in the red on the day it opens.

• High cost of maintaining security for the stores, something First World supermarket locations don’t need. Shopping carts often disappear, at a cost of $300 per cart. Shoppers often disappear as well, but that hardly makes up for the loss of the carts.

• Personal safety for employees, with robberies, thefts and assaults both inside and outside the stores. Onsite rape counselors don’t come cheap either. Also, dozens of spent shells make parking a pain in the ass.

• Difficulty finding qualified managers willing to run stores. Most prefer biting cyanide capsules to working in Detroit.

• Problems seeking qualified workers for the stores. It can be a major undertaking to find employees who can pass reading, writing and math tests along with credit, criminal background and drug tests. Not that these people aren’t the moral, ethical, and intellectual equal of whites, mind you. “It’s a human resource nightmare,” said David J. Livingston, a supermarket expert from Wisconsin, adding “in Detroit, there are no human resources.”

• Declining population. No national chain wants to move into an area being scouted as a location for a Mad Max sequel.

• Less demand for products and services. Crackheads don’t get hungry as often as normal people.

• Racism and discrimination accusations. If the store raises its prices or returns fire at assailants, some enterprising Negro will be sure to hang a noose on the door and speed-dial Sharpton.

• A well-publicized violent crime or armed robbery can cost the store 10% of its business. Three such crimes, experts say, and the store may as well close its doors. Luckily, in Detroit three violent crimes earn you a citation from McGruff the Crime Dog, but that ain’t bringin’ back the A&P anytime soon.

There, Don’t Do Anything—Just Stand

What America needed desperately these past 25 years has been caretaker presidents. God save us from any more “activist” leaders and their, uhh, “activisms”. The greatest legacy any President can claim is paved roads and a sound dollar.

Proof of the pudding is the uniform and unanimous mocking contempt Jews hold for caretaker Presidents, all of whom were wise enough to understand their actual function in the grand design, even if boobs, boozehound editorialists and tikkun-olam’ers keep shouting different.

Variations, The Man-From-Nantucket

Limerick Contest
Submissions need to respect the 99559 metrum in order to be considered as potential winners.
The first line: “There once was a giant chihuahua”
Have fun ladies and gentlemen.

There once was a giant chihuahua
Whose yipping made Rottweilers cower
Shephards and Schnauzers
He’d boot in the trousers
Sharpeis, he’d merely devour

There once was a giant chihuahua
Who swam a great body of agua
Welcomed in on condition
That he take your position
For ten cents on the dollar, per hour

There once was a giant chihuahua
Whose size allowed him to seize power
Soon mutts who chased cars
All wore yellow stars
And poodles were gassed in the shower

There once was a giant chihuahua,
But, grilled, after rolling in flour,
Was now “moo shoo beef”
To the jig with gold teef
Who consumed it and then barked “Umgowa!”

War, Banned Comedies Of The Second World

It’s a little-known detail of film history, but the major studios, wary in the event the Nazis won World War 2, cast their top comedians in a series of Reich-friendly slapstick farces and kept them warehoused under lock and key—very hush-hush—for safekeeping. If the Allies won the war, the negatives were to be burned; if the Axis proved victorious, Hollywood wanted ready product to exploit a new NS marketplace which would be hungry for product.

Long a rumor thought to be apocryphal, collectors nonetheless have quietly traded prized and closely-guarded bootlegs of these Swastikomedies, as they’ve since been dubbed: Hitler-heiling hilarity starring all of Tinseltown’s top comics, including Laurel & Hardy (March of The Waffen Soldiers, 1942); W.C. Fields (Never Give a Zucker an Even Break, 1943); The Three Stooges (Wannsee a Trick?, 1943; The Shoah Must Go on, Three Krazy Kapos, both 1944), and many others. Selected highlights from a few of these politically-troubling, but uproarious, comedy classics follow.

You wouldn’t expect the Marx Bros to have accepted an assignment of this nature, but Chico’s relentless gambling addiction, and the losses he incurred indulging it, found him talking Groucho and Harpo into appearing in A Day at the Master Races (1944), in which they recycled many of their classic routines with a National Socialist twist, like this one:

GROUCHO: (pointing to map) Now over here is Von Cocoanut Manor, and over here is the viaduct.

CHICO: OK. Why a duck?

GROUCHO: This isn’t 20 Questions—I said, here is Von Cocoanut Manor, and over here is the viaduct.

CHICO: OK—why a duck? Why-a no Jew?

GROUCHO: I’ll tell you why-a no Jew, because they’re all dead. They were all gassed. Gassed. You understand?

CHICO: Sure I unnastan’. My uncle, he was gassed of honor at his-a retirement party.

GROUCHO: Say, I’d give you up to the Gestapo if I wasn’t certain they’d give you right back.

Bud Abbott and Lou Costello routinely found themselves cast in exotic locales and/or teamed with infamous monsters, such as Abbott and Costello Meet Dr. Mengele (1943), or this classic segment from When in Rohm (1941), set in the early days of the Thousand Year Reich:

SS OFFICER: Who ist ge-playing dot verdammt radio?

COSTELLO: I was. It’s a free country, ain’t it?

SS OFFICER: Ja, ja. Und you turn on dot radio vun more time, I giff you a free arm tattoo und a free train ride also! (stalks off)

ABBOTT: (once the coast is clear) Go ahead and play that radio.

COSTELLO: Abbott—you wanna get me killed? You heard that storm trooper!

ABBOTT: Don’t tell me you’re afraid of that guy! (derisive) Big man! Pushing around kids! Guys like that are all talk. Play that radio.

COSTELLO: But, Abbott...

ABBOTT: But nothin’! You’re a Party member, aren’t you?

COSTELLO: Yeah, but...

ABBOTT: You heil Hitler like anybody else, don’t you?

COSTELLO: (less timid now) Yeah! Yes, I do! I can heil—I learned how in Hitler Youth, Troop 527! (comically gives Hitler salute, trips over his feet clicking his heels together; rises, timid again) I never did get my merit badge in saluting.

ABBOTT: Now you listen to me Costello—that guy works for you!

COSTELLO: He does?

ABBOTT: Certainly! He’s a soldier of the Reich, ain’t he?

COSTELLO: He sure is.

ABBOTT: Well aren’t you a citizen of the Reich?

COSTELLO: (emboldened) That’s right—I am!

ABBOTT: Well, who is he to tell you you can’t play a radio if you feel like it?

COSTELLO: You know something, Abbott? I think you’re right!

ABBOTT: You’re darn tootin’ I’m right! Play that radio, nice and loud!

(Costello turns radio back on. SS man returns and begins thrashing Costello in a rage)

SS OFFICER: Donnerwetter! Did I not tell you vot I vould do if you play again dot radio? Dumkopf! Vhy iss you not obedient like your friend over here?

ABBOTT: (totally nonchalant, smoking a cigarette) I try to talk sense to him, but...(shrugs) He’s always picking fights like this, officer.

SS OFFICER: (still thrashing Costello, angrier than ever) I sink I kill dis vun mitt mein bare hands!

ABBOTT: Check his pecker when you’re done, I thought I heard him talking Hebrew before.

Though Jews themselves, The Three Stooges—whose humor was built on abuse and physical pain—could adapt to any political regime, particularly the Third Reich, as seen in this bit from “Rebbe or Not” (1943), where Moe and Curly attempt to drive one of the infamous “death vans” from the concentration camp to a waiting mass grave in the woods:

(Moe sits in the cab of the death van. Presently, Curly joins him.)

MOE: Well, didja divert the exhaust hose back into the truck like I tol’ ya?

CURLY: Jawohl! Piece of strudel! Nyuk nyuk nyuk.

MOE: Strudel, hah? Turnover! (Curly turns around; Moe kicks him in the ass.)

CURLY: Owww! Whadja do that for? I dint do nothin’!

MOE: That’s in case ya do and I ain’t around. Start the truck, panzerbreath!

(They begin driving and, naturally, start to get very sleepy as fumes seep into the cab.)

CURLY: Boy, I bet we get the Iron Cross for—yaaaawn—killin’ these Jews, huh Moe?

MOE: Wake me up again and I’ll give ya a right cross instead. (yawns) Brother, I’m exhausted. (suddenly alert) Exhau... EXHAUST! Stop the truck, muttonhead, we’re being poisoned! Why you—(chokes Curly)—I’ll holocaust ya!

CURLY: But Moe, I can’t holla- caust yer chokin’ me! Nyuk, nyuk, nyuk!

Hope and Crosby were famous for their “Road” movies, which combined hijinx and merriment with catchy musical interludes, such as the hummable title tune from The Road to Treblinka (1943):

We’re off on the Road to Treblink-a
The Fuehrer reserved us a train
Where we’re going, why we’re going, well don’t look at me
Delivery trucks are bringin’ cannisters of Zyklon-B
We’re soon gonna weigh 50 pow-ow-ounds
Like Morris and Edna Goldblatt, we’re Treblinka-bound

We’re off on the Road to Treblink-a
Those smokestacks don’t bode well at all, (oy gevalt, Junior) (ixnay on the Iddishyay, Dad)
Even though our prospects for a ticket home are slim
We might be partners, but at least thank God we aren’t twins
We’re diggin’ big holes in the grou-ow-ound
Like the bearded fellow who spits every time he passes a church, we’re Treblinka-bound
Or, like the human-skin lampshade the commandant’s wife feels significantly reduces the glare of a 40-watt-bulb
We’re Trebliiiin-kaaaa bouuuund!

Westerns, Best

Well, at least there’s no disagreement over which are the Worst Westerns Ever Made: Liebowitz Rides Alone, Brokeback 2: He Wore Her Yellow Ribbon, The New Jerseyan, Stand Perfectly Still—Sartana Wishes to Shoot You, Rio Pervo and that awful remake of The Shootist with Peter North.

World, Goin’ To Didney

Disney’s The Princess and the Frog may be a children’s movie, but there were a lot of excited moms and grandmothers at Downtown Disney Saturday. No dads, of course, but that helped hold the post-screening casualties to manageable single digits.

Many outside the theater were in princess costumes or at least wearing a tiara, a sizable percentage of whom were there to see the movie. But it was members of the older generation who realized the significance of the Delta Red Carpet event hosted by the Alumnae Chapter of Delta Sigma Wassup Sorority Inc.

The movie’s lead character is Princess Shenaynay, Disney’s first African-American princess.

“All my Cindamellas and all my princesses bin people who didn’t smell like me,” said Urethra Polk, who would admit only to an IQ “over 50.”

She was there with her 5-year-old grandson Doritos Fillmore and the child’s 3-year-old sister Velveeta, and said she found the event particularly significant because the two children are the first members of her extended family to actually share the same last name.

Falsetta Teeth, a spokeswoman for the sorority, said the group reserved 350 of the more than 500 tickets available for the film. Other Delta Sigma Wassup chapters across the nation hosted similar events this weekend, she said, adding, “This history in the making.” Asked how much such sizable group-sales ticket reservations were costing the sorority, she did that turkey-neck thing those people do when they’re about to act out in public. “Costin’? Oh my Lawd! Shee-it—honey, we ain’t makin’ that much history! Lawd, Lawd...city payin’ for it.”

Neutrogena Roosevelt, 13, said she had looked forward to seeing the movie since she first heard about it.

So had her mom, Camay Taft-Hartley. “It will help me to show my kids everything can happen; change can happen,” said the 25-year-old Orlando woman. When asked if her husband was in attendance, her eyes narrowed into menacing slits. “A’ight, nigga—almost anything can happen.”

Kukla Washington, Koko Jefferson and Kunta Quincy Adams, 4-year-olds who have been friends for almost all their young lives, were all dressed as princesses, precise in every detail—tiaras, jeweled cameos, white gowns, silver shoes, orange sodas. They may have been a little young to understand the meaning of the moment, but their parents promise to tell them about it over and over again as they age. They plan to call it “The Day We Done Took You to the Movies”.

“I never thought I’d live to see the motherfuckin’ day,” said Olestra Henry Harrison, a member of the sorority who was volunteering at the event, but brought along 9-year-old Viagra B. Hayes, whom she has been mentoring for about two years though she herself is unable to wake up by nine, hold down a job or conjugate the English language. “I try to give back to the community”, she said. Then she pulled out a small silver-foil package from her purse, explaining with a bashful grin, “I like to sniff a li’l coke evvy now and then—you know, to get through the day. But I never do it in front of the chile, less she already standin’ there.”

It wasn’t all girls who showed up for the event.

Di Giorno Cleveland, 11, has been studying diversity at Colin Ferguson Elementary School—apparently that’s a subject now—and wanted to see the movie. His 8-year-old brother Hotpockets would rather have been home cooking up rocks with his mother’s boyfriend, but came along anyway, passing the time by continually asking this reporter precisely “when you gon’ let me hit dat?”

“It not just a black and white world,” said their grandmother, Clorox Coolidge, 36. “It mean that Didney have changed they thinkin’. They shouldn’t just be white princesses. We trying to teach them black girls can be princesses, too.” Now if they could just get the memo to Tiger Woods.

But what about the frog? Would any of these girls kiss a frog?

Certainly not 5-year-old Minolta McKinley. She didn’t even want to hold one. But her 14-year-old cousin, Nivea Eisenhower, sporting five warts from four different toads, admitted she might be talked into it “if he be havin’ some loot.”

Worth, What’s Words

You ever wonder when exactly “orange soda” became officially identified with blacks? And it is identified with blacks. Probably “orange soda” is code for niggers by now. Department-store security guards are probably even now saying “Orange soda, two cans, boosting Gameboys in Consumer Electronics” into walkie-talkies all across America.