Spider Stratagems: An Il Ragno Reader, Volume 1

by Il Ragno

March 7, 2006

Recent discussions about boards crashing and the concomitant deletion of databases planted the seed—and Speakeasy’s return from the dead, archives intact, filled the hydroponics reservoir. Thus flowered a notion I’d had for a while, of harvesting my old posts in the inevitable event of another board wipeout. Okay, enough with the gardening metaphors.

About twenty minutes of retrieving and downloading-to-disk, however, made me realize through heavy heavy eyelids how time-consuming and boring this task actually was—how did Brandon Orr get the energy to do this night after night, and why?—and cobbled up this much-simpler Plan B you now cyberhold in your virtual hands. Which is to say a best-of sampler – a Frankenstein monster stitched together from the dead text of condemned posts: a one-liner here, a bitter rant there, a glop of occasional sentiment, parody bolts for the neck—all generously seasoned with paranoid scapegoating of the Usual Suspects, and split up over several consecutive posts. This is probably the best method for rehashing this old crap, and definitely the easiest.

I may eventually get around to doing likewise with the OD archives, although at this point even I’m sick of me. For now, however, submitted for your approval: this compendium of high dudgeon and low comedy, culled from the pre-dead-Niccolo Speakeasy files in the nick of time before that forum’s recent defection to Pure Evil and Interracial Slow-dancing.

Actual, Reality—Jewish And

Interesting double standard at work here: white man says it, he’s the Devil incarnate; nonwhite man says it, shhh!—let’s all pay attention to the wise man when he speaks. It’s all part of the good-intentions-gone-too-far syndrome where whites are conditioned to believe that wisdom, intelligence and morality are the exclusive province of The Other.

There is no question that the vector of this disease is the Jew, whose m.o. for piggybacking to power has always been divide the host and conquer. Like I said, it’s probably too late to reverse this course by simply identifying the source of the malady. The Earth does not spin backward on its axis, cancer is not a reversible condition, and—given that no multicultural society has ever done anything but collapse—there are no second acts in the fate of nations. You either rise or fall, riding irreversible momentum both ways.

I choose to “scapegoat” Jews not as a panacea, but as an atonement to posterity: let whoever follows us know who authored our demise sans any myopia or wishful thinking. At least give them a fighting chance to bar their doors to wolves dressed in sheep’s clothing.

Al-Mo, Tickle Me

All I want for Xmas is my limited edition Abu Ghraib Barbie and all the accessories: the Barbie Designer Dungeon, Barbie Rusty Catheter, Barbie Designer Dog Leashes, Barbie Press-on Lice—and of course Kruel Kamp Kommandant Ken (dueling scar and monocle optional)!

I always did wanna see a Barbie commercial where a little girl stuffs Barbie’s head down a dirty toilet and “flushes” while her friend screams “Now I’ll ask you again, bitch—where is Muhammad Ibn Al’Sayeed?” with the veins on her forehead throbbing in high relief.

Annoying, A Certain Chinese Dialect That Sounds Reaaallly

Unfortunately that’s the exact dialect 99% of all the Chinese in North America happen to speak.

I’m not one for phonetics, but to my occidental ears it sounds a little like this:

“YON YON YON YON YON YON YON YON YON YON YON YON WHAAAAAAAH!”

Anti-Racist, Agreeing With Today’s

Your motives are laudable, but you’re a flat tire in Niggertown short of a fuller understanding of the situation.

Anti-Racist, Anticipating Today’s

Whee! Here we go! Ready?

Tinfoil hat! Conspiracy nut! Seeing Jews in cloud formations! Uninformed alarmist! Paranoid schizophrenic! Hitler fetishist! Cryptofascist! Juke! Kallikak!

(Have I missed any?)

Anti-Racist, Properly Replying To Today’s

I, sir or madam, am no racist; and indeed draw succor from the many examples of healthy and successful multicultural societies which history tells us of. For only when one is guilty can all be free.

Ants, Hail

This is about the 300th craven message of abject surrender Weikel has proffered to slant-eyed conquerors who haven’t even initiated hostilities yet. He’s Speakeasy’s very own Tokyo Rosie! Or Kent Brockman, at the very least:

The spacecraft has apparently been taken over—‘conquered’ if you will—by a master race of giant space ants. It’s difficult to tell from this vantage point whether they will consume the captive Earthmen or merely enslave them. One thing is for certain: there is no stopping them; the ants will soon be here. And I, for one, welcome our new insect overlords. I’d like to remind them as a trusted TV personality, I can be helpful in rounding up others to toil in their underground sugar caves.

Change your avatar to a crudely hand-drawn HAIL ANTS sign now, Otto...while you still can! They might be looking in on us right now, determining which roundeyes will be useful to them...why take a chance they’ll somehow miss your Quisling tree for the forest of prostrate slaves?

Anymore!, “Nigger”: It’s Not Just For Brillos

It can apply to:

• the French (pastry niggers)

• the Greeks (feta niggers—sometimes known as Anus n Andys)

• the Inuit (frozen niggers)

• the Swiss (yo-yo-yodelers)

• Serbs (Euromexicans)

• queers (homeysexuals)

...and the black neurosurgeon who performs delicate and inordinately difficult brain surgery on you, saving your life (you fuckin’ nigger).

Baldness, Self-Administered

I’ve always viewed the shaved-head cult with alarm. Why would you want to look like a gay pirate setting sail for the discos of Berlin?

What’s even more alarming about 90% of self-imposed white baldies is they aren’t going for the Scary Skinhead look, but for the Blinged-out Nigger look. Weird.

Me, I don’t care if it’s grayin’—it’s stayin’.

Blankley, Tony

As far as Tony The Hutt is concerned, there comes a time when you simply become too fat to be on television. I keep expecting to see him explode one day like the head in SCANNERS.

Border, Sign Now Posted At Every Western

WELCOME, USELESS IMMIGRANTS—AND PLEASE TELL YOUR FRIENDS ABOUT OUR COUNTRY!

Brak, Father Knows

The greatest show ever shown on the show-shower!

Carrigan

When they seethe fuck you, mommy! fuck you, daddy! nonstop, to the point where steam escapes their eardrums, some sixth sense should be elbowing you in the ribs that “here’s a little number who’s going to redefine the concept of high maintenance”.

Casanova, The Appeal Of Fellini’s

The already inherent oddity of the dandified, powdered-wig period heightened wayyy past the point of “strange” and into “full-on grotesque”; sex scenes so insanely cartoonish it looks as if Tex Avery was the second-unit director; and of course, awesomely ugly people lovingly lingered over by the camera. Heath Ledger fucking LaWanda Page on roller skates wouldn’t be half as bizarre.

Depending on my mood, I think of it as either La Dolce Vita: Dungeon Siege, or Satyricon: The Reckoning.

Cash!, Trade In That Useless Grandparent For

If you’ll notice, no matter how many Tim Wise essays you read, nobody ever comes close to him in virtue and righteousness—he always ends these things as a man alone, outshouted and outnumbered by a hooting, drooling world of white yahoos. Only Tim knows the profound agony of what it means to be fully human.

Then he’ll use his own dying grandmother as a corkboard to throw darts at. (No, actually, Tim’s torpedoed both his grandparents. After letting us all have a look at the inside of Grandma’s shit-caked Depends, we then got Tim’s assurance that he was also there at Grandpa’s deathbed to help him fully realize what a purposeless joke his life truly was.)

So many of Wise’s “this is what happened to me today—no, seriously, this really happened!” anecdotes are clearly apocryphal it’s almost humorous. Mr “keepin’ it real with tha undaclass” seems always to be chillin’ in redneck bars, or at pricey lunchspots where somebody named Rodolfo stands over you with a pepper-grinder, or in the inevitable airport-lounge (crusading anti-racists are forever flying, flying, flying to wherever evil is present) and always in earshot of two racists talkin’ sports so often that we could make a case for Wise as the white Jayson Blair. The Great Society gave us the “poverty pimp”; now multiculturalism gives us the “flying polemicist”.

Tim Wise views himself as a modern-day Dr Stockmann from Ibsen’s Enemy Of The People...by God, he’s on a mission to save us all by upsetting our middle-class provincialism with The Awful Truth, no matter what onerous personal price he has to pay. Only, like many of his co-religionists, Wise has figured out how to cut out that onerous-price business from the equation and turn his life’s mission into a nice little career, shaking down corporate sponsors to pay him to yell at their employees. If dumbfuck Ibsen had only had such foresight—he might have been the Tony Robbins of Norway!

Cheese, Behold the Power of

In terms of hardcore broadaxe-and-loincloth buffoonery masquerading as rock music...well...besides Manowar, the recent European-metal scene is o’erflowing with these sorts of bands (most signed to the Limb Schnoor stable), but by far the most ludicrous standard-bearers are an Italian band called Rhapsody who are so hilariously cheesy that just their 30-second Real Audio samples can induce lactose-intolerance. Besides the generic muscleman-fighting-dragon type cover art, their CDs come complete with maps to the fantasy kingdoms the songs are set in, a la Tolkien; teeth-grittingly idiotic narration shoehorned between the “proper” songs; and speaking of those songs, the track titles alone are enough to scare off anyone with a mental age higher than 13: Steelgods of the Last Apocalypse; Power of the Dragonflame; Magic of the Wizard’s Dream; Triumph For My Magic Steel; and my own “favorite”, Trolls In the Dark (so watch you don’t trip over one!)...and many other “classics” with titles that sound like paperback originals with Boris Vallejo covers which you’d avoid like the plague at first sight.

I suppose I should have actually listened to these songs first before dismissing them, but c’mon—if you can’t tell what Steelgods of the Last Apocalypse is going to sound like just from the title, well...you just might be dumb enough to like it, I guess.)

Chloe, Raina Loves

You managed to have a very public “affair” with someone you never actually had physical sex with—possibly never even met. That’s a flag-raiser for sure. I mean, even Rock Hudson and Tiny Tim went on a honeymoon.

(Insert flustered don’t worry about me, I get plenty of pussy response here.)

Clinton, Impeachment of

Republicans blew it as usual by focusing on silly shit in their war against the Clintons: mistresses, patronage, expensive haircuts...the type of shit Repubs do all the time when they’re in power. That they massed all their firepower, dug in their heels and made their last stand on blowjobs and a cum-splattered dress shows you what a laughable dead end bourgeouis Christianity truly is.

There was plenty of dirt on Clinton to chase, but the GOP must’ve decided that the American people can’t handle graphs and timelines and money trails, so they went for the money shot instead, banking (correctly) that most Americans would rather peep through a keyhole while jerking off, and then vilify what they were watching as soon as they’re done Kleenexing their fist dry, than ever take a book out from the library or use their initiative to follow up on something.

Comedian, Il Ragno Is Essentially a

Where is it written that you can’t laugh at the truth? Shit, it’s never really funny unless it’s true.

Confessions, Taxicab

I got nothing pressing against the Eye-ranians; some of the funniest cab rides I’ve ever taken were with an Eye-ranian at the wheel.

1. Cab idled at a red light across the street from a KFC; dozens of boolies milling about in front of the place, either gettin’ they extra spicy on or about to. Eye-ranian cabbie starts giggling like a schoolgirl and I ask him what’s so funny. He points to the KFC and says, still giggling, “Look, my friend!; see how they love the chicken!”

2. Cab merges into highway traffic, nearly brushes a pimped-out Monte Carlo changing lanes. “Mothafucka, you touch dis car, I shoot you!” barks the moolie driving the Monte after rolling down the window. Eye-ranian goes CRAZY, leans his head out window, screams at the chimp, “You shoot me, you fucking nee-gur? I BLOW YOU HOUSE UP BOMB! You hear me, yes? I BLOW YOU HOUSE UP BOMB! ” Rolls up his window, calms down a moment, turns his head towards me, “Sir, I apologize, I am very sorry.” Then, shaking his head, still mad, mutters “Fucking feelthy nee-gur” about two dozen times over the remainder of the ride.

3. Ok, this guy was an Egyptian, but still...same difference. Me and a buddy grab a cab from work one night, we’re both a little high, and my friend is gently needling Farouuk while I chide him to let the guy alone in a classic good infidel—bad infidel maneuver. We’re crossing Houston St and pass the usual milling throng of baggy-trousered Victims of Oppression and my buddy starts in with the needle: “Hey look! Your people!”
   
   Cabbie, mystified: “What is it are you saying?”
   
   “Black people. You know, your people. They’re all Islamics named Muhammad too, just like you guys. They built the pyramids, didn’t they? All the pharoahs were black, weren’t they?”
   
   Cabbie, purple with rage, screeches cab to a halt: “What the fuck you say to me—Egyptian eez nee-gur? You tell me Egyptian eez like nee-gur to my FACE?!? FUCK YOU, SONOFABITCH! GET OUT! GET OUT OF MY CAB, FUCKING BASTICHES!”
   
   It was time for me to go into the Good Infidel act: “Hey, calm down, calm down, my friend’s just teasing you, he didn’t mean anything by it.”
   
   Decompressing, but still pissed. “You no say something like this, ever, to any Egyptian!”
   
   “Sure, I understand.”
   
   “You understand? Is worse insult you can give Egyptian!”
   
   “You’re right, you’re right...but you know, you turn on the TV and that’s all you hear these days...the ancient Egyptians were all niggers...they teach that to kids in school these days...” Wrong tack to take; Farouk slams on the brakes again.
   
   “Again you say Egyptian eez nee-gur? OUT! OUT OF MY FUCKING CAB! NOW!” Before he rode away, he added: “You get ride from nee-gur now, hah? Bastich!”

Hilarity, pure hilarity. But it taught me to respect the Arabs a bit: they might wipe their asses with their hands but they at least know who they are—and who they ain’t. It must kill these old-time Farouks and Alis to see their sons and grandsons dressing, talking and acting like nogs these days—they have my sympathies.

County, Overheard in Newton

“I won’t go in there to buy clothes.”

“Why not?”

“Well, hell—everything they got’s either XL or XXL—you gotta be Kate Moss to shop there!”

Cowards, Stool-Sitting Anonymous Internet-Typing

Nobody wants to be Job, let alone have Job status conferred upon them. So those of us sentient enough to rage against the dying of the light cling pseudonymously to the Internet and await the day they inevitably close even this avenue to us, while the rest of us sink ever deeper in debt and cheer for whatever distractions reassure us that it’s all just a TV show, Iraq included, and try not to think about what we never had a prayer of stopping in the first place.

Critics, Rock

Rock music is beyond criticism because it hits you so viscerally...it’s like a right to the body as opposed to a jab to the head, and most people—hyper-intellectual weenies included—make up their mind on a piece of music with their gut reaction, not their reasoned contemplations. Something in your stomach either indicates “yes” or “no” upon contact with the music, and everything else is just arranging the furniture after-the-fact.

Culture, Self-Consciousness Is The Death of

Comedy—even Jew toilet comedy—was a lot funnier before every sweaty, desperate, anything-for-applause comic on Earth began being publicly felched for hating cant and hypocrisy in all its forms.

What the fuck happened to this country, anyway? Must every five-and-dime entertainer be feted with this kind of sociological brown-nosing? Must we be told over and over again—with not just a straight face but the pursed lips and dour countenance of a Sunday-school teacher—that comic books and Westerns and ukelele solos and bubblegum cards are “authentic American art forms”? Why is it considered heresy and shallowness to simply enjoy undemanding pleasures as undemanding pleasures? Will no one point out in a loud voice that the self-appointed high priests who keep telling us these ridiculous things are simply con men who didn’t feel like taking a real major in school, and preferred to cram for their dissertations in movie theaters, comedy clubs and candy stores?

Daddy, Rice Paddy Mack

I can see myself as a chink-chaser. There’s something about thoroughly Westernized Asian girls that’s very hot. I mean, when a cute, sexy Asian girl opens her mouth and the sounds of either pure Valleyspeak, Brooklynese and/or popping gum emerge, all of my perv buttons get pushed simultaneously...

Defeat, The Agony of

Am I the only person depressed at seeing Desperate Housewives in bold print on the cover of a German magazine? Must our garbage-in, garbage-out pop culture be forced down the throats of everyone on Earth by the culture-destroyers? It hardly seems an equitable trade: Germany gives us Wim Wenders and Herzog movies that only a handful of Americans will pay to see, while we satellite-feed/carpet-bomb them with dreck they can’t avoid or hide from like Housewives and Who Vishes To Be Ein Millionaire?

Demons, Dwight Gooden Faces His

“How terrible is wisdom when it brings no profit to the wise, Doc.”

“I know what you’re doing. You’re trying to trick me. But I didn’t snort away my career...an’ I didn’t get fired from a do-nothing, free-money job in the Yankee front office for being a no-account drunken nigger...an’ I didn’t punch out my girlfriend...an’ I didn’t speed away from a DWI with the cop holding my license in his hand...”

“I’m afraid you did, Doc. All guided by my hand, of course.”

“My name’s not ‘Doc’!”

“That’s it, Doc...take a good look...no matter how cleverly you sneak up on a mirror, your reflection always looks you straight in the eye.”

“I know who I am...I know who I am...”

“But what gives human life its worth anyway, Doc? Because someone loves it?—hates it?...the flesh is weak, Doc; only the soul is immortal...and yours belongs to me.”

Dialogue, Interfaith

But when it comes to depictions of Judaism, Islam, Hinduism, etc. for a mass audience, we’re still back in the 40s and 50s. The practitioners of these religions are always depicted as good and devout adherents to traditions worth preserving; when a Jew, for instance, is presented as religious rather than secular, his “simplicity” isn’t the dangerous, hypocritical, brain-dead (read “Christian”) sort of simplicity—but the clear-eyed, unwaveringly moral, keeper of the flame sort of simplicity.

In other words, Christians are depicted as spittle-slavering headstone-defacers, while Jews/Moslems/Buddhists/Hindus are depicted as ascetic souls who inevitably wake up to find their sacred burial grounds have been horribly defaced during the night previous.

That’s an odd sort of anti-clericalism indeed. Particularly when you ask one of the true believers of these Better Religions just what it is they truly believe about the traditional lib-left holies like women’s equality and the inalienable right to bugger your fellow man.

Part of me wants nothing more than to see the silver-spoon left get their wish: to eradicate the only religion that introduced the concepts of mercy and tolerance to the nations of the earth, thereupon to fall into the tender hands of these Underdog Faiths they champion so fervently. But as enjoyable as it would be to watch Third World savages wearing Barbara Boxer’s scalp like a Davy Crockett hat, or to hear NPR broadcasting the ear-splitting screams of the Sierra Club infidels as they enjoyed Shintoist interrogation techniques, or to throw every teabagging faggot to the Chassidic wolves for some Old Testament “punishment”, I’m not quite ready for washing my hands of civilization just yet.

“Die”, How Dick Cheney Will

While attending James Baker’s 109th birthday party, Dick Cheney will suffer a fatal heart attack, his fifth. Halliburton’s stock price will fall 20% while he is rushed by medivac to the robotics division of Hewlett-Packard, but will rebound when he emerges alive again two weeks later, claiming a case of “severe dyspepsia”.

Diversity, Arguing With Eddy About

EDDY: I’m not for or against “diversity”. It just is, and I’m not going to pretend that things are awful here when they aren’t.

Therein lies the fatal flaw of your argument, Edana. “It just is” is phraseology one uses for unavoidable, organic natural processes. Oxidation “just is”; parthenogenesis “just is”.

Diversity—as currently practiced—isn’t a “just is” phenomenon. It is a social policy: strived towards, planned for and implemented by government and media forces who have all but seized total control of the culture and of the definition of terms. It is no longer possible to open a newspaper or turn on the idiot box and view a debate between globalist and nationalist points of view on neutral ground, on equal terms, and from an identical standing start. All racialist and/or nationalist viewpoints are now routinely characterized as extremist, xenophobic, psychologically defective or outright evil...before the debate even begins!...by the supposedly impartial, supposedly open-minded moderators who are supposedly representing the public being “served”.

Ask your Hindu girlfriend what would be so terrible about populating India with millions of Central Americans, Haitians, Hmong, etc, each and every year and at the expense of the everyday subcontinental Indian. Better yet, make it American blacks. And check back with us in a week or so when she finally stops giggling uncontrollably. Every person of color intuitively understands that Diversity Is Good only when being forced upon the white man: and a call to arms when aimed right back in their direction.

Don’t’s, Dating Do’s and

SINCLAIR: The reason I, as a “nice guy”, am not getting any, is that I’m a wuss. Plus, let’s face it, I’m eccentric in dress and mannerisms. If girls aren’t into that, to hell with them: I am who I am and I’m not gonna pretend to be somebody I’m not just to get laid. I don’t even find “getting laid” to be some sort of primary objective.

Right you are, Sinclair: getting blown is the objective. Everything else is window-dressing to shut her up with.

Who says this kid’s dumb?

Don’t’s II, Dating Do’s and

You’ll never attain the tenth-dan Whoremaster belt with sloppy preparation. So always assume they’re unquestioning products of the higher-education factories, i.e., liberal-left ninnies, and calibrate your approach to that. Learn to salt your conversation with such power-phrases as “people of color”, “400 years”, “Klan motherfuckers”, and pointlessly shouting “hater in the house!” for no earthly reason.

There is a time to lower your guard and let fly with “fuckin’ nigger”, and that’s ten seconds after you come.

Don’t’s III, Dating Do’s and

Don’t date women with kids, angry ex-husbands and ongoing custody battles. It’s like putting a bullseye on your own back. Who needs the phone ringing at 3 a.m....or the front door splintering at 4 a.m.?

Matter of fact just shorten that to “don’t date women with kids”. Always a sign of desperation-for-pussy in any man...unless she’s still married, and has no intention of leaving her marriage. Then it falls into the wayward-wife-on-the-prowl category, which is always the best sex known to man. But take the necessary precautions anyway; sometimes they’re being followed.

Dowd, Maureen

Maureen Dowd belongs in The Star or US Weekly. That she’s now the face of the New York Times is damning testimony to how steep the decline truly is—not just at the Gray Lady but among the chattering classes as a whole. She always seems thisclose to devoting a column to her favorite vibrator.

Her ascendance to the top of Times Mountain was a kind of death knell for that paper. Her trademark chatty, bitchy, self-obsessed “journalism” would be right at home in Cosmo or Vanity Fair—but for the Times, her faux-hip, looka-me, product-placement prose was a descent into the sort of pop-culture maelstrom that for better or worse the Times had scrupulously sidestepped for decades. I don’t care that Dowd is a high-maintenance ballbreaker who neither spits nor swallows but flat-out ducks when the money shot approaches like it was incoming enemy fire, but I do care that her columns—puff-pieces all, regardless of subject, and shot through with Leno-monologue one-liners and the kind of ninny-neuroses that gets qualified as “edgy” nowadays—were the opening salvo of the gradual “loosening-up” process that can only end with the Times adding Dan Savage’s sex-advice column, a daily horoscope and a Hip Hop Friday pullout section. Put it another way: the sort of idiot trends and ideas and buzzwords and catchphrases that get skewered on The Simpsons usually first appear in Dowd’s column with a perfectly straight face.

Like I said, her twaddle would be inoffensive if it appeared in Us or Cosmo, where you expect op-ed pieces on stem-cell research or Supreme Court appointments to include references to Harry Potter, Kevin Federline, Monica Lewinsky’s blue dress and how hard it is to find fresh organically-grown arugula in NYC. That she’s the ranking doyenne on The New York Times is fucking depressing, though...no matter how much you may have already disliked the paper.

Dramas, TV Crime

Cop/lawyer shows have taken an unusual arc anyway, going from unwatchable right-wing swill in the 60s/70s (Dragnet and TJ Hooker, for instance) to unwatchable left-wing swill in the 80s-and-up (pick any example you care to: Law and Order, Miami Vice, NYPD Blue, etc). I must say, however, that the Fuckability Factor of the female cops and ADAs—always inordinately high—has gone through the roof of late. (Should you be arrested and taken into the Interview Room, however, don’t be too disappointed when, instead of Kim Delaney in a tight tank top, you get the kind of bridge-troll-with-tits 99% of all she-cops actually resemble.)

I gotta say that, pound-for-pound, you’ll get far more entertainment while high out of a single Jack Webb Dragnet than any Emmy-winning Dick Wolf/Stephen Bochco “story arc”.

Drugs, Worse Things Out There Than

Real life can be every bit as as alienating as any of its “substitutes”, if not more so.

Dungy, James

Steelers-Colts was the best game I’ve seen in years. Cruel trivia note: it may not be nice, but all over America Steelers fans were howling some pretty harrowing dead-son abuse at sports-bar TV screens every time Tony Dungy’s face was shown. It’s just the way football fans are. “Hey Tony put your dead kid in—he can’t block any worse than Glenn!” or my own “Bluuue, 46!...ree-ed, 16!...dead nigger hut-hut-hut!”...that kind of thing.

Edumacation, Afrocentric

Before she begins each school day at Bojangles Delany Academy, LaShawna Jackson-Johnson, 9, recites a statement of affirmation.

It is an important part of the daily ritual for the 97 students at Bojangles Delany, “as important as Cheez Doodles, or the word motherfucker,” says Taki Dresser, the school’s principal.

With her hair in neat braids, her red sweater Crips-approved, and plaid skirt neatly pressed, Alexis joins her younger classmate, Falsetta Teeth, 8, in leading the combined classes of third- and fourth-graders.

“I love myself. I love my beautiful image and my bike-tire lips,” the two girls say with the 11 other students. As the oath continues, they build to a crescendo, then end with: “I am the perfect design of success. I invented the comb, the mop, and the high-temperature superconductor. I am just simply, magnificently fabulous. It all about the dead presidents, yo, and I’mma get me mines.” As the oath concludes, all the children pull out footballs and do an end-zone dance.

Bojangles Delany—with its daily affirmations, lessons in Swahili and emphasis on wholly-invented black history—is one of more than 200 Afrocentric schools that have opened since 1996. The idea behind them is that black children will have the confidence and power to succeed in the world if their schoolwork builds self-esteem, focuses on African-American heritage and is taught by people like them.

There are 13 Afrocentric schools in the Midwest, including two private and one public school in Milwaukee. Bojangles Delany and the Farrakhan Mothership Academy—which may lose its charter—are private; Martin Luther King Elementary School is part of Milwaukee Public Schools. All three smell like subway toilets.

It is particularly striking, as the country marks the 50th anniversary of the Supreme Court’s Brown vs. Board of Education decision to dismantle the futures of white children by seating them next to burr-headed savages in the nation’s public schools, that a network of schools for black children would exist that no one dares legally challenge for fear of being called “racist”.

But even educators and activists who still long for truly integrated schools seem to acknowledge three factors:

• If parents want something like what Bojangles Delany offers, it should be their choice.

• There is such a desperate need for good education that the question of how that education is delivered becomes secondary.

• You can put pants on a monkey, but you can’t teach it algebra.

Milwaukee Public Schools are now as segregated, if not more so, than they were in 1976, when the city’s schools were ordered desegregated. The difference is, in 1976 your tax dollars could get your kid a reasonably worthwhile public education; today, you’d better have an extra five or ten grand kicking around if you intend for Junior to get through the third grade learning something besides basic duck-and-cover procedure.

Nationally, The Civil Rights Project at Harvard University has found that 70% of black students and 76% of Hispanic students attend schools that would have more educational and aesthetic value as burned-out empty lots.

“Parents should continue to have the right to choose what’s best for they children,” says state Rep. Annette “Sugarfoots” Williams (D-Milwaukee). “And it don’t got to be integrated. The choices ought to be to educate, not playa-hate. If a parent wants a totally black education, there should be no stigma on that. Just on totally white education.”

Reinventifying Africa

Robert Fay, a writer and researcher for “Africana: The Encyclopedia of Fried Foods and Lotto Numbers,” attributes the term Afrocentric to Abdulla T’Shingaa Jones, a professor of African-American studies at Temple University in Philadelphia, one of many fake subjects we’re stuck with now that noticing naked emperors is a crime punishable by steep fines and prison.

“At its most moderate,” Fay wrote, “Afrocentrism means rediscovering African and African American achievement; restoring Africa’s rightful place in history; and establishing its importance on a par with European history, culture and accomplishment.” When told that all that sounds fine, but Africans are still sucking termites through straws out of dirt-piles and calling it “cuisine” 1000 years after whites began using utensils, and that nobody’s dragooning rock stars to stage benefits for starving Belgians, Fay bristles. “I suppose next, you gonna tell me we didn’t invent the refrigamator. Or that we ain’t built the Pyramids.”

The Afrocentric curriculum strives to give students a view of people as actors rather than objects in history and expands history to include lots of made-up stuff, Fay says.

It embraces “a multicultural idea about what this society is,” Asante says. “A white banker loans money to a Chinaman to open a fast-food restaurant, and a month later, a nigger bike messenger asks the chink for extra hot sauce on everything.”

At Bojangles, 2466 W. McKinley Ave., Dresser believes the discipline, self-esteem and performance of his students are higher than what is found in many public schools. Students abide by a code of silence while walking through the hallways, where “a lockdown posture,” crossed arms to avoid touching one another or African masks that adorn the hallways, is a standard. This helps prepare them for a future as convicts.

“I have a saying: that culture, history and orange soda inspires greatness,” Dresser says.

Inside a second-grade class at Bojangles, Shaliah Pate, a thin wisp of a child at 7 with deep dimples in her cheeks, says her favorite subject is art. But “I want to be a doctor,” she says, adding brightly, “a licensed rhymeologist”. Luckily, there are laws against graduates of African self-esteem medical schools practicing medicine in the United States. For now.

Shaliah, Dejon Weaver, 8, and others in Ebony Rogers’ second-grade classroom begin each day by counting to 10 in Swahili and to 20 in Spanish, and then by twos, fives and 10s in English. When asked why they learn to count higher in Spanish and English than in Swahili, Ebony grudgingly admits: “In Swahili, numbers only go up to ten. It’s a cultural thing. Very few African families can afford even ten chickens walking around the living room, after all.”

Each month, they’ve learned and memorized a poem by Langston Hughes. This month’s selection, Hughes’ poem on segregation, “I, Too, Sing America and Whatnot.”

“I, too, sing America,” the children recite in a sing-song verse. “I am the darker brother. They send me to eat in the kitchen. One day, I’mma kill massa and wear his skin like a Lakers jersey.”

Bojangles’s building is old and needs repairs. The school’s second-floor auditorium, where art classes take place, needs roof work. The stove burners are out of order in the crack lab. Sporadic rapes are always a concern. But despite the handicaps, Dresser believes his students can compete. He’s particularly proud of the second-, third- and fourth-grade classes, where the majority of students read at or above sea level.

“I maintain, professionally and culturally, that all-black schools that are culturally based are far superior to integrated schools,” Dresser says. “And the notion of integrating schools being better is a myth.” What about compared to all-white schools? “All-white schools?” he snaps, suddenly excited. “Where they at? I know my rights, they against the law!”

Employees Must Wash Hands

Those who care deeply about having an integrated school system say they’re not bothered by Bojangles Delany’s mission. What concerns them is the larger picture—the question of whether society should be satisfied with Post Office and DMV employees who can count to ten, but not eleven.

“We know that separate and equal is not real and will never work,” says Jerry Ann Hamilton, president of the Milwaukee National Association Of Free Money For Us. “But you can’t tell parents what to do, unless they white, and some black parents have had bitter experiences learning bonafide subjects. How you gonna teach self-esteem if the shit is hard? It seems to me the people have spoken. In rhyme, of course.”

And Dennis Conta, a former state lawmaker who sponsored legislation that created Chapter 220, said the movement toward resegregation in Milwaukee may be unavoidable in light of all the white people heading for high ground, but was still regrettable.

“I think there are some African-American parents who are perfectly content having their children inside a segregated system which is producing effective education,” Conta says. “I surely see nothing wrong with that. But there are also, surely, other parents who for a variety of moral, historical and constitutional reasons feel that it might be more advantageous if their children were taught actual subjects that prepared them to at least make correct change on a twenty-dollar purchase.”

John Givens, a former head of the Milwaukee NAACP who worked along with the late Lloyd Barbee on school integration in the 1960s, is among those who now support schools such as Bojangles Delany and Queen Latifah Fried Chicken Preparatory, a predominantly black school that adheres to a more traditional curriculum of freestyles and free throws.

He sees the main dilemma facing MPS as the system’s unwillingness to incorporate the Pledge of Fabulousness.

“It’s imperative that they work, and can produce a viable alternative to objective reality, which traditionally has hampered African-Americans,” Givens says. “If that means science courses that teach our kids nigger spacemen invented white folks eleventy million years ago, then so be it—as long as there exists a right for students to excel in the made-up curriculum of their choice.”

Dresser and former MPS Superintendent Howard Fuller believe a big flaw in the Brown decision was the implicit view that anything all black was by definition inferior. “We smart as them”, Fuller insists while gnawing on a chicken neck. “It juss racism keepin’ us down.”

“Even if you look at MPS, they not enough white people to even be discussing integration,” Fuller says. “We done chase them all off. All we axed was for the gummint to set aside every public sector job for us, and off they flew. If that ain’t racism, what is?”

This year, the students at Bojangles will take standardized tests for the first time, and Dresser says he’s sure the majority of his students will test at or above the state average. “And if they don’t, well—we know why, right?”, he said meaningfully.

And that, says Asante, goes to the crux of what was fought for in Brown in the 1950s.

“It’s not so much that we were fighting for being next to white people. Just they bitches,” Asante says. “What we were fighting for was the sense of autonomy, that two and two ain’t always four just cos devils say so. Sometimes it five. Sometimes it eight. You nome sane? If it meant that we had to sit next to white people, fine. But if we could just jack their lunch money and bus passes, and get the substance of our own culture somewhere else, then yo, that would be even greater.”

Ego, A/K/A Et In Arcadia

Why is it that every crazy person in the continental US has a computer? They’re crazy, right? So you’d assume a certain percentage of them would think that gremlins or superflu microbes or Satan is/are housed in the OS, and not only avoid computers but harangue and pillory anyone who owned one.

You’d assume that, but you would be wrong. Every bugfuck looneytoon on Earth is online right this minute.

Either, There’s No Santa Claus

My mother always told me that when six million persons die, one should not say anything bad about them. My mother was wrong.

Etiquette, Internet

Two “LOL”s and/or three smileys in the same post is a medically accepted sign of cretinism.

Existence, Riddles of

Exactly how it ever became cool to namedrop Abba will forever be one of the riddles of existence.

Findings, Jane Goodall’s

Shoot, you can learn that by walking into any Red Lobster.

Folk, Scapegoating City

I bow to no man in my hatred for New York City, and the people who live here. But Jesus Leaping Christ—I am sick and tired of the girly-man sensitivity of everybody south of the Masie-Dixie, and their ridiculous thin-skinned refusal to admit that there are as many worthless, lard-assed, Bush-votin, snake-handling, Walmart-shoppin’, fried-food-inhaling asswipes and mental midgets in the Red states as there are worthless, paranoid, trend-chasing, Jew-obeying, dollar-worshipping, media-vulture mental onanists in the Blue.

The whole country’s in the shitter, my friend. And I refuse to put a dimwit with twelve chins watching Springer religiously from a Tornado Alley double-wide on a fucking pedestal that I won’t allow an equally useless two-legged Yankee dungheap to mount either.

Fung, Willie

As long as Willie Fung’s countless movie appearances are not scissored out by the PC police, all niggers should shut up. Willie Fung, hands down, was the most degraded racial stereotype possible: the idiotically grinning chink with 3½ teeth in his head, all in front, who communicated his few coherent monkey-thoughts in singsong pidgin English. At least Stepin Fetchit and Butterfly McQueen were domestic servants, but still people: Fung usually played stooped-over beggars, jibber-jabbering scavengers, or the kind of guy you hire to empty out your coal-bin in exchange for five butane lighters and a shopping bag full of fish. “Social scientists” and professional Agitated Negroes who chew their cuticles because America can still watch Rochester saying “Mr. Benny” on UHF once every Leap Year should get a load of the redoubtable Mr Fung grinning, giggling, grunting and scarfing his trusty opium pipe in hundreds of old movies, and shut their melon-holes for good. You’d think the Chinese would complain, but then again they hold to this curious racist belief that it’s better to study medicine than breakdance at high noon on a sheet of cardboard in front of Sell-Rite Liquor.

Glasses, Why Pol Pot Killed Everyone Wearing

Intellectuals should never write about music. Or lowbrow pop culture in general. Because while they’re as susceptible to simple mindless pleasure as the rest of us, they are essentially incapable of simply saying so—everything has to be tarted up with meaning until it is finally worthy of them. Thus they have to show off their aesthetic superiority to the groundlings by offering up fatuous tripe in the name of hearing themselves sounding smart. Vide:

“I for one do not dance to dance music; disco for me is a lofty metaphysical mode that induces contemplation. Disco at its best is a neurological event, a shamanistic vehicle of space-time travel...”

“The music videos Madonna produced from the mid-’80s to the early ’90s were true objets d’art—in my judgment superior to anything coming from the fine arts in the same period. I would argue Chaka Khan’s phenomenal ‘Ain’t Nobody’—which is an art song that bears comparison to Schubert’s famous ‘Serenade’...”

“At a recent party in New York celebrating Salon’s 10th anniversary, the formidable Cintra Wilson said mordantly to me (I scribbled all this down on a cocktail napkin at the bar), ‘Madonna is the Robo-Celebrity, calcified with discipline—religiously saintly, physically superhuman, in all ways faultless. She represents the unspoken desires of America—to be good at everything!’ (This was clearly a party where the crashers were trying to get out.)”

“Few celebrities these days (aside from the smoldering Angelina Jolie) seem to have complex psychic lives...”

Fuck celebrities...where are our satirists, who would skewer this load of egghead pretentiousness with a forklift truck?

Go, Go Pat

At last we arrive at the real reason Pat Buchanan is a “unrepentant anti-Semite” and always will be. He won’t take the hint, no matter how many “friendly warnings” Yehuda sends him through a million op-eds and talk-show soundbites. He insists on following the breadcrumb trail to its source, linking causes to effects, and adding two plus two to arrive at the unpopular sum of “four”. If it weren’t for Hymie’s inability to say it without busting out laughing, they’d be charging him with “hating America” by now.

I find it endlessly fascinating how Jews grudgingly admitting what Buchanan has been careful to only hint at not only doesn’t vindicate him...it dabs a little Grecian Formula on his Hitler mustache!

Gracefully, Aging

At my age, there are no MILFs. Only GITAHOOs (Grandmas I’d Take A Handjob Off Of).

Grade, Hating Germany Will Be 40% Of Your Final

Jews are “willing” to “move forward”, all right, so long as schoolchildren in every nation on Earth replace either their morning prayers or national oaths with the simple daily recitation “What happened to the Jews in WW2 was the worst crime anybody ever perpetrated against anyone else in the history of everything, and the blood is on even my five-year-old hands. Amen.” And dammit, it had better not sound rehearsed!

Happy, Is Everybody

Among members of my generation, it was common for children to view their parents and grandparents as hopelessly hidebound: so constrained by their old-fashioned morality/worldview that they couldn’t even recognize how unfulfilling their lives had been and how unhappy they were. That they would lie on their deathbeds and go their graves insisting that they felt perfectly happy and fulfilled seemed only to underscore the “tragedy” of their lives and the double-standards they lived under and never questioned.

It never occurred to us to lend much credence to the notion that—to our parents and grandparents—we were the crazy, tragic ones: drifting from belief to belief, cause to cause, bed to bed, snorting coke and getting divorced and chasing instant gratification as though it were our generational birthright, internalizing credos like “he who dies with the most toys wins” in lieu of adhering to a fixed morality...congratulating ourselves on our depth of perception while trying with all our might to hang on to adolescence at all costs, into our fifties and sixties if possible. (You think I’m wrong? Consider that three out of every ten ads you’ll probably see in any given half-hour of television will be for fuggin’ hard-on pills, and another two will be the “hot grandma with the big tits” Bowflex ad.)

Repression and double-standards don’t seem like repression and double-standards when the prevailing culture reinforces them and countenances no doubts. We, however, live in the illusion of limitless freedom and choice and know nothing but doubt, sure of nothing. Entire generations crawled through the charnel-house horrors of World Wars 1 and 2 and a global Depression and still, by and large, lived their lives building towards a future they had great hope for...people actualy looked forward to the future after all they’d been through. We live with a nanny-state government and volunteer armies and previously-undreamed-of personal income and sexual freedom and leisure time, and we in the West live in almost unison dread of what horrors tomorrow will bring.

Forget “repression” and “double-standards” for a moment. Who do you think will cross the finish line “happier”...or “saner”: the ones who never had but never doubted, or the ones who died, bugeyed, clutching the most toys?

Hero, Working Class

I think Hugh Hefner is a genius. Years ago—and I mean 35, 40 years ago—he had developed Playboy to the extent that good-looking women the world over dreamed of one day, if they were lucky and really worked at it, flashing their quim in his magazine and maybe living a money-for-nothing life in his mansion, fucking him and his celebrity pals, eating caviar, drinking bubbly, snorting coke off silver trays and shopping...until the crowsfeet appeared and their tits sagged and it was time to be asked to leave. Mind you, this wasn’t typed up in some legal form they had to sign...the Playboy phenomenon was something reinforced in the larger culture such that this was understood already. To be an eye-candy sex-toy at the Playboy Mansion was almost a legitimate dream for young women to follow. It’s an oft-heard remark, “All my life I dreamed of being in Playboy.”

This is genius. The only reason Hitler and Stalin never attempted this is that conquering the entire planet by force seemed a far more plausible master-plan than convincing all the beautiful women in the world that posing naked for you and wearing a bunny costume and being offered to James Caan like you were an hors d’ouevre with tits is the highest honor they could ever hope to achieve. I’m closing my eyes and in my mind I can see Mao shaking his head and laughing: “Nevah in mirrion years dat coo’ happen.”

It’s doubly amazing when you consider that nobody except people who fork over cash to televangelists really considers Playboy to be porn, or Hefner to be a “pornographer”. If your daughter grows up to display her wares in Playboy and ends up as Hefner’s every-other-Thursday fuck at the Mansion...you’re proud of your little girl. She’s made something of herself. You don’t think, oh my dear God—Jim Brown fucked my baby girl in a hot tub, you think she’s got a big career now, and she’s meeting important people.

Love him or hate him, that man is a genius. Most men work all their lives like dogs and always in the primitive jelly of their brains is the real reason they do it: so that one day maybe I can be hugely successful and fuck 21-year-old steel-bellied airheads in my Olympic pool and then wander around my 99-room mansion in a bathrobe and generally rise above all the bullshit of wives, bills, bosses, in-laws, deadlines, and stress headaches—and just lie back and get blown while watching ESPN on an Imax screen. Hefner just cut out the part about “working like a dog all my life”!

Hindsight, On

The stuff I was wildly enthused about from ages 12 to 25—I look at most of it today and cringe in shame and horror. However, the stuff that knocked me out when I really and truly was a little kid, say between 5 and 12...nearly all of it holds up and often improves when viewed a generation later. Maybe it’s because you’re at your most naive and unsophisticated and freest as a little kid, and your strongest enthusiasms are instinctive, the auto-pilot impulses of your truest self (which you’ll soon begin to lose, in adolescence.)

Homeschooling

My niece was homeschooled until she was 14...ironically, by liberal parents (albeit not-so-liberal that they wanted to risk throwing their child into the public-school lion’s den—they live on the edge of the Bronx, and would’ve had to enroll her in a 80% minority school).

She’s in one of those boutique, small-enrollment schools for gifted children now...she aced all the entrance exams without breaking a sweat. Thanks entirely to her homeschooling, or should I say thanks to her circumventing the nightmare of gummint schooling—where kids get wanded with metal detectors on the way to and from remedial Holocaust Studies and Repamarations 101.

So “homeschooling” doesn’t necessarily mean “Sunday School with Mammy Yokum 7 days a week”. But even if it did, that’s still a slam-dunk no-brainer to the alternative of running a daily gauntlet of swaggering ten-year-old nigger lotharios demanding to know “bitch, when you gon’ lemme hit dat?”

Homos, Arguing With Eddy About Sports

You like watching men soul-kiss for whatever reason; we find it instinctively repulsive...and when I say “instinctively”, I mean coded into the DNA chain and hardwired to that part of your brain that is utterly resistant to logic, pleas, bribery or blackmail. The main reason homosexuals have reached the level of acceptance they have is that for the most part gays are presented to us as individuals, and we like them as people...that could not have ever happened if we had to be presented with watching what they do.

Never trust “virtual facts”...such as there are queer football players right now but they’re just afraid to come out...which is how the Screaming Left gets people to bypass “What Is” in favor of “What Statistically Already Probably Is If You Weren’t So Fucking Homophobic And Filled With Hate”.

Are there defensive tackles who suck cock, hum “It’s Raining Men” on the trainer’s table, and circle Judy Garland’s birthday on their calendars? Anything’s possible, even that which is highly unlikely. Can we use statistical probability to assume there are? No, because in areas like this, statistical formulas are themselves corrupted by partisan propositions (it’s good to be gay and nothing to be ashamed of), just as they’d be worthless if they were tainted by a prevailing supposition like “being gay is a disease that can be treated by prison, electroshock and/or wiener deprivation.”

Horoscope, My

Sneering and hateful, you’re always the first person in the room to suggest genocide as a solution to any problem. At ease in social settings, you flick your wrist at people and say “leave me now” when bored. Mundane tasks tend to drain you—let someone else scrub the toilet, you’ve got a world to conquer! You are quite original, with an impressive arsenal of colorful and alliterative racial and ethnic slurs to defame your enemies with. When people don’t “get” you, it bothers you a lot, and you immediately assign them a colorful and alliterative racial or ethnic slur.

Your strength: x-ray vision, can leap over buildings
Your weakness: yellow kryptonite, Lois Lane in a thong
Your power color: angry white
Your power symbol: the Burger King
Your power month: whenever “Juneteenth” is exactly

Hung, William

Nothing funnier than an Asian male named “Hung”.

Hymietown, Forget It Jake—It’s

I spent about a year or so in the most fucked-up work environment I’ve ever experienced, at a scam collectibles company. Compared to this place, selling porn to video chains was like wearing a Santa suit for the Salvation Army. And yet, I was dimly aware, even then, that this was an environment of such surreal human frailty and moral degradation that I should stick around awhile. Attracted and repelled at the same time, I spent the whole sum of my “career” there in rapt, horrified fascination. I know there’s a book and movie franchise in the endless stories—endless!—that hellhole generated in just the year I was there...but I keep stalling writing it because a simple recounting of the truth would be rejected by a typical Police Academy-sequel audience as too absurdly unrealistic to suspend disbelief for.

The owner of the place would be a trilogy by himself. Absolutely the most criminal Jew conceivable, whose only saving grace was he was so ineptly obvious and transparent he was practically a walking neon sign flashing “SWINDLER”. When I first met him he had just opened the office, having needed a month or two of R&R after his last jail sentence for securities fraud. Within a few months of my departure, he had begun his next, even longer stretch, aboard that floating Rikers anchored in the Hudson. Let’s call him “Mickey Colonic” (not his real name, but in the ballpark.)

Mickey’s set-up was a vacant brokerage office, and he converted the broker’s pit to house salesman, managers, clerical people, etc. Maybe 10 to 15 people at any given time. He also had a kind of associate—a haunted-looking guy we’ll call “Meyer” who worked in a separate office adjoining his. Meyer seemed to be in the exact same line of work as Mickey—hustling art and collectibles as “investments” to the unwary—yet clearly was also a separate, independent entity from him. It was obvious they were friends who Went Way Back somehow.

So I end up becoming very friendly with Meyer over time and learn that their “friendship” dated to when Mickey ran an oil-and-gas scam in Florida and Meyer was his office manager. Naturally, that place was raided/closed by the Feds and Mickey avoided jail time by cooperating—and giving them Meyer, who did three years. (And if you think it’s odd that the Feds would give an owner immunity while prosecuting employees, you don’t understand the RICO laws: a crooked owner who cooperates can give them a slam-dunk case: he has access to all the records and knows where the bodies and the second set of books are buried. Getting at the owner thru the employees is much harder. Anyway, it’s no stranger than doing fall-guy time and remaining friendly with the guy who sent you to prison.)

But I thought Mickey had just gotten out of jail himself when this story began? Yes, because three weeks after cutting his deal, he opened another oil and gas scam in DC, and ran it as hellbent for leather as the other one. Feds visit; conditions of plea arrangement violated; 30 months.

So anyway, when Mickey’s mother bankrolled his next venture upon his release, he ran into Meyer and talked him out of killing him by offering him a “franchise” in his new criminal empire: a separate office and phone-line and company name, all at “reduced” rent, payable to Mickey. The cost of the entire suite of offices that Mickey had rented was payable to the building management company, who Mickey never paid at all. He preferred stonewalling with Jew doubletalk and legalese for six months followed by backing up the truck at 2 a.m. the night before the marshals showed up with padlocks. He did, however, pocket Meyer’s “reduced rent”.

And Meyer hated Mickey...loathed him to the core of his being. But, he needed work, and ex-cons are not otherwise in demand in the white-collar labor force, and the collectibles hustle was earning him a living, so he put up with it. And here’s the kind of a guy Meyer was. He’d show up at work and a typical first exchange of the day would be: “Hey, Meyer, what’s up?” to which he’d pull me aside and respond, “Last night I dreamed I had him on the ground, right? And I’m pushing an ice pick into his ear. Just taking my time, no hurry, sliding it nice and slow into his brain. That was a good dream. Felt so good. You have no idea, seriously.” Suffice it to say that Meyer was a great source of Mickey in Florida stories—here’s one he told me that sums up Mickey Colonic to a tee.

They’re down in St. Pete running their scam office when the phone rings. It’s a lawyer for one of their “clients”, a wealthy widow who dropped over $100,000 in this particular “investment” who’d begun to suspect she’d been conned. Worse, the lawyer is a well-known, high-profile guy known to have strong ties to the state capitol. He’s very angry (because his initial, mild-mannered, questions were all clumsily laughed off or explained away with blatant lies by Mickey, instantly raising his Suspicion Antennae) and he and his client are flying in that afternoon to “discuss her account”. Meyer comes in late, is apprised of the situation, and looks at Mickey...really looks at him—a fat, pockmarked, ponytailed liar in jogging shorts with the physical appearance of a Turkish pimp, a fifth-grade education, and no hope in hell of tricking any lawyer, anywhere, into thinking he was any kind of legitimate businessman and financier—and tells him, “Let’s close the office. Call him back and stall, or leave a note on the door rescheduling for tomorrow. We’ll spruce up the office tonight, bring in some ringers to sit at the desks tomorrow, we’ll get haircuts and wear good suits—and for God’s sakes, let me do all the talking.”

Mickey sneers at him. “Meyer, I can’t believe what a pussy you are. You think I can’t handle some loudmouth lawyer and one irate client? My friend, if you’re gonna panic every time some lawyer sez ‘boo’, you don’t belong in this business. I will handle this. OK?” Of course, as Mickey’s also a degenerate drug addict, he’s filling a hash pipe as he’s saying this. Meyer tells him, “What are you doing? They’ll be here in an hour or two and you’re gonna smoke fucking hash in the office?” Mickey ponders this a moment and says, “You’re right. We’re out of Lysol. Besides, there’s something I read in High Times a long time ago that I always wanted to try.”

Meyer told me he watched in horrified disbelief as Mickey mushed all of his hash into a crudely formed ball, stood up, hiked back the ass of his shorts and shoved the hash up his ass. “My mouth was hanging open in shock, and this idiot is grinning at me and says, ‘Supposedly you get a lot higher doing it this way.’ Within five minutes, he’s slurring his words and staggering around the office like a wino. His eyes were beet red. I thought they were gonna start bleeding! He’s so stoned he can’t talk! I said, ‘I give up with you, you fucking degenerate, you’re completely hopeless’ and I left the office. I might have calmed the client down, but I wasn’t going to hold Colonic’s fucking coat while he killed us both. Long story short: six months later I’m playing shortstop on the prison softball team.”

He had the same idea I did: turning all of it into a book or a screenplay. He had three spiral notebooks FULL of Mickey The Crook Comically Fucks Up stories just from Florida alone...let alone the added NY material that piled up from the year I was there...but he had the same prolem I did, too. It’s too unbelievable. Guys like this, companies like this...they just can’t happen in the Real World. And he couldn’t figure out how to edit out enough of the madness to render it believable enough to sell without compromising the whole spirit of the thing.

A surreal anomaly? Don’t I wish. Stories like this happened each and every day in that office, and twice on payday.

Index, Presidential Celebrity

Maybe the worst thing about Bush is that his administration has recharged the batteries of America’s most embarrassing celebrities. Yes of course they’re right to tear him a second asshole, but that’s immaterial because a lot of regular everyday people knew all that already, and none of us ever asked to be represented by these gaseous has-beens.

If you judge a President by the celebrities who attain, or regain, prominence in his orbit—and I don’t see why not, as America can credibly be defined now as a nation of cubicle-dwelling DVD buyers who never let go of the remote, or wonder where the money comes from or why all the stuff these days is made in China—then Bush has already been judged by posterity as the worst President we’ve ever had by a country mile. Then again, you can say the same about the American people. If we’re the best we can do, then fuck me sideways—we’ve got the right man for the job in the White House. Or, at the very least, the one we deserve.

Infamy, Fame in an Age of

There’s no doubt in my mind: there’s no magic left in being a celebrity. The famous and lauded were much better off 50 and 100 years ago, when there was no TV, and the other media were too wedded to now-outdated notions of respectability and circumspect behavior to wallow shamelessly in the Cult of Personality 24/7. It allowed the noted some distance from notoriety—you could keep your dark side on the dark side—and it spared the rest of us the disillusionment of confronting, day in and day out, the utter banality of famousness as a way of life.

Islam, Nation of

There’s nothing funnier than watching these McNugget Muslims begin every utterance with sanctimonious horseshit like “Peace unto all as ordained by Allah, the Munificent” before partaking in the weekly Friday night knife-fight at a dice game.

Jim, He’s Dead

My favorite Star Trek ep—in fact the only one I knew the name of—used to be Gamesters of Triskelion, mainly because of Angelique Pettijohn’s amazing body, acting “talent”, and all-around whorishness. She certainly looked like she’d drill-thralled many a Vegas high-roller in her day. Plus she gets to ask Kirk the magic question, “Kiss? What is... ‘kiss’?”

But that’s all over with now. A few weeks ago I discovered my NEW favorite episode, Turnabout Intruder. It’s the one where Kirk’s body gets taken over by a jealous, scheming woman. If you thought Shatner was shameless already, you might not be prepared for the Perfect Storm of bad acting he unleashes here as a “typically hysterical and emotional” woman. Absolutely the best and most hilarious ST ever.

Jokes, Deconstructing Nigger

Race hate is funny. Because it’s always true. And because it makes us laugh at the one who’s different from us, and laughter is the best medicine, and medicine makes us healthy and strong.

Katrina, Aftermath of

Five hundred piranha in the tank, but only enough gummint cheese and jumbo rocks for fifty. This oughta be fun.

Man, forget the early Katrina coverage of the evacuations—we should be televising the stuff following their relocation, where the Katrina brilloes fight to the death with the local bongoes and illegals for precious social services, and call it Survivor: Astrodome.

Katrina, Hollywood Goes to

Morgan Freeman will of course provide the dignified voice-over narration. James Remar will play Looter Warlord. The Great Gazoo—a magical imp only Mayor Ray Nagin (Yaphet Kotto) can see and hear—will be played by an even-more-miniaturized-than-usual Billy Crystal.

Katrina, Lessons of

When Mother Nature digs a 200-foot ditch around your city and the power and water go out for everybody, trust me: There Will Be Bongoes.

Katrina, Looking Beyond

If the idea is to raze the black ghettoes and rebuild the tourist areas (the outlying suburbs were mostly untouched)...in effect disbursing New Orleans’ Negroes outward...that would be a good idea. Without the albatross of their Negro population living in their riskiest areas, that area can thrive.

I expect many white liberals will cringe at the idea of a New Orleans without mumble-mouth Negroes they can patronize and pretend are wonderful. But let’s face it: Louis Armstrong and Clifton Chenier are both a long time dead, and have been replaced by Master P—the sort of boolie that grows like crabgrass in all 50 states of the union these days.

Katrina, Media Analysis of

Telling people who were right all along that you’re going to force a happy ending on them by imposing a solution which they’ve fought, with good reason, for 150 years now...is not gonna fly. The wise men of the New York Times have never understood the South and, until Katrina, spent most of their time either demonizing or patronizing it. The idea that the people previously most victimized by New York Times-type do-gooder knowitallism should bend over and take it up the ass again from the same “experts” is laughable.

The ultimate handout, and a recipe for disaster. The Times spent the entire decade of the 80s snickering at trickle-down economics, yet they’re suddenly acolytes of trickle-down civilization. But what happened to the multicultural ideal they championed so strongly in the 90s...trickle-up civilization...in which we were counseled to welcome public Kwanzaa celebrations as a chance to appreciate the Gorgeous Mosaic, while learning to value rap lyrics as legitimate poetry? Now, one little hurricane, and suddenly The Task Before Us is now we have to engineer black people into becoming dark white folks?

Khan, Quote Falsely Attributed to Genghis

This is incorrect. What Genghis Khan actually said was:

“YON YON YON YON YON YON YON YON YON YON YON YON WHAAAAAAAH!”

Kill, A View to a

It was the most ludicrous Bond, and therefore the best. Moore was 60, Miss Moneypenny was around 70 (which made their double-entendre flirtations seem like watching your grandparents masturbate each other), the guy who played M had died and been replaced by an unconvincing lookalike...you know the movie’s something special when Q’s the youngest regular.

Know, The Dirt Celebrities Don’t Want You to

TV’s Benson, actor Robert Guillaume, owns the world’s largest collection of pornography on Super-8mm.

Ernest Borgnine is a practicing Satanist who has held many Black Masses in his lovely Newport Beach, CA home.

80s heartthrob Willie Aames’ recent low profile is because he has a small vestigial twin growing out of one shoulder blade.

Gruff, lovable Victor McLaglen would cut up on set by cracking walnuts with his ass cheeks.

Edgar Buchanan, Petticoat Junction’s beloved Uncle Joe, used his press connections to wangle Death Row passes, viewing every execution in California between 1948 and 1972, when the California Supreme Court outlawed the death penalty.

People often confuse Law & Order’s S. Epatha Merkerson and Cagney & Lacey’s Tyne Daly, so to set the record straight: S. Epatha is the post-operative transsexual, while Tyne’s the hermaphrodite.

Bob Hoskins has been trying to sell a screenplay for a three-hour musical called Andy Capp: The Adventure Begins for the past 22 years.

Pioneering African-American film actor Eddie “Rochester” Anderson had a curious habit of dropping to his knees to smell the chair of anyone who had just left the room.

Cesar Romero once dated J. Edgar Hoover, hoping to avoid being called to the HUAC hearings. Nothing came of it—Romero later haughtily noted that Hoover refused to go any farther than heavy petting, and had even worn faux pearls with his gown.

Legendary tough guy Lee Marvin was President-for-Life of Paraguay for one drunken weekend in 1960.

Delta Burke was once hospitalized after losing an eating contest with Kirstie Alley.

Best remembered today as TV’s “Hazel”, Shirley Booth had a lifelong fetish for midgets and dwarves, and in 1955 aborted Billy Barty’s child.

Charles Nelson Reilly was the third most-decorated Marine during WWII.

Kwanzaa, The Meaning of

That some brillo on a ripple bender made up this holiday in 1966 between swigs of Sweet Lucy, and that “the black community” embraced it as an overnight venerated ancient celebration is pretty funny, and par for the course for thse folks.

But that America—first her cultural elite, and then her institutions—officially recognized this cock-and-bull opium dream as a real seasonal holiday as valid and historic as Christmas...wow. That’s like Yellowstone Forest burning to the ground, and an aerial helicopter-shot of the burning trees spelling out the words “YOUR COUNTRY IS DOOMED”.

La Bruce, Who Is Bruce

Bruce LaBruce is a Canadian gay porn director who’s somehow managed to worm his way into the alt/hipster crowd.

Wrong answer.

Only possible correct answer: I don’t have the first fucking idea who “Bruce LaBruce” is.

Lewton, Val

The Lewton story is a good counter to those Jews and shabgoys who insist, to this day, that shmuels don’t dominate the American movie business in a vicious closed shop—they’re just, you know, “naturally” more creative and artistic than everyone else. When a sensitive, artistic Jew did come along, he wouldn’t be nurtured and encouraged, but flanked on either side by the dreariest and most vulgar sort of sweatshop-foreman kikes imaginable (Ostrow, Gross) and driven either out of the business or into an early grave.

I remember having a discussion about Orson Welles in which I argued that—rather than bemoan his shabby treatment at RKO’s hands—we’d be better off celebrating the fact that he retained as much control as he did over the 1½ movies he made there...given the fact that he made them at RKO, without doubt the most incompetently run of the major studios. RKO’s braintrust, such as it was, was so staggeringly inept that they managed to pull off what I consider an impossible feat—year after year they lost money despite owning what was, after Loew’s, the most choice chain of theaters in the country—one they could block-book their product into without fear of competition. They had so many heads of production going in and out the door, at a schizophrenic pace, one could reasonably assume there was no hand on the tiller. You can (and should) view the other moguls like Mayer, Warner and Cohn with contempt, but there’s something to be said for their staying power and consistency...if they were tyrannical, at least their edicts and proclamations didn’t change every other day. (And, for the record, I love vintage film, and greatly prefer it to the shit we get now.)

One of Lewton’s failings was that he was perhaps a bit too squeamish and understated. It’s well and good to suggest horror, but even that suggestiveness takes a special kind of sadistic glee and mastery of technique which—in hindsight—only Tourneur really possessed. Once he left the Lewton unit, the quality of their horror films dropped precipitously. While the others have their moments, that’s all they have—flashes of brilliance, weighed down by what were overall some very moribund and paceless productions. Had he had more time to develop Robert Wise exclusively, it might have been a different story...but Wise doubtless had even less enthusiasm for being typed as a horror specialist than Lewton did. The movies Mark Robson made for him are deadly: you’ll need smelling salts just to stay awake through Seventh Victim or Isle Of The Dead. There’s a significant difference between suggestiveness and nothing happening.

LAPD, Biggie’s Relatives Suing the

From the No Good Deed Goes Unpunished Dept...enjoy the richly insane irony of the following news item. And bear in mind that the “corrupt cops” who in all likelihood killed this chocolate carbo-load (since we already know they were freelancing as muscle/assassins for local drug cartels) were all nigger/beaner “minority hires” forced upon the LAPD and LA County Sheriff’s.

So the largely-white, largely-effective law enforcement establishment in Southern Cal is strongarmed into hiring skells; the skells pan out true to form and immediately put their badges and guns up for sale; the most notorious (pun unintentional) skell they hit—whose “survivors” hardly need the settlement to keep the wolf from the door—well, they sue not their fellow bongoes but the entire department and seem to be on the verge of cashing in to the tune of $50-plus million.

Now guess whose pockets that 50 mill will be coming from. Hint: it ain’t gonna be anyone of similar pigment to the actual killers, nor anyone hailing from anywhere near Crenshaw.

Now guess how the fallout from this story will play out. Hint: no one will bother noting it was nigger quota-hires, it will be “tha police” (read whitey), and another few million idiot college kids and feature-story scribes and Jew screenwriters will now have more “proven” white perfidy to point to as they pump fresh self-hatred into the minds of the next generation of white Americans.

Now guess who’ll be making the cash-registers sing a siren song of billable attorney hours as they try, and defend, and appeal, and analyze, and pitch book and movie projects from all of this. No hints this time.

And just think: this entire pointless and costly circle-jerk needed only one fulcrum to set all these gears in motion—the cowardly fear of being called “racist”. Because the rules now clearly state that the first white man to publicly notice race loses, this entire debacle was a fait accompli the minute LA decided it was easier to hand out badges like Crackerjack prizes to brown human flotsam than to hold them accountable to the same standards as whites.

And this, my friends—played out a hundred ways, a hundred times, in a hundred cities—is how Great Nations die.

Man, Dialogue Between a Priest and a Dying

KEYSTONE (?): Clean living, il ragno. When I’m 70 years old and enjoying the back-end benefits of a drug free life as I fly to Orlando with my grandchildren for some wholesome family fun at Disney World, you will beg God to let me visit Hell so you can wet your tongue with a drop of water from my finger.

Maybe. And maybe when you’re 71 a debilitating stroke will render you a wheelchair-bound, head-lolling Kirk Douglas impersonator who can only communicate by pressing a handbuzzer once for yes and twice for no, which will come in handy when you suffer total kidney failure besides. And as your granddaughter introduces you to her gangbanger boyfriend Flozell, you will silently scream to the sky, “Why, God? Why? I lived a clean and moral life! I read Scripture, I voted Republican, I mixed Colon Blow with my orange juice and power-walked to church every Sunday! Why did you plant a ticking claymore in my DNA that left me a virtual vegetable helpless to object to my grandchild’s Negro paramour? And incidentally, what’s with the kidney failure? What—I don’t have enough misery on my plate already, that I needed to flood my already-shit-filled adult Pampers with involuntary shoo-shoo five times a day on top of it? Eli eli abimalech already!”

And from the deepest recesses of the black and pitiless universe will come the herky-jerky sound of a computer-simulated female voice responding, “The number you dialed—‘GOD’—is no longer in service or has been disconnected...”

Media, If I Ran the

“This Week in Jew News”? No, I don’t think so. A dull, public-affairs-programming title like that would be the kiss of death. Who wants to be Kevin Strom when you can be “Dr.” Gene Scott?

Ideally I’d like to host something that’s a minority-unfriendly cross between Entertainment Tonight, The 700 Club and the Jerry Lewis Telethon. Something that provided the audience with lurid black-crime stories, unflattering profiles of sinister Jews past and present, funny regular-segment titles like “Niggers Say the Darndest Things” and “They’ll Jew You Down Every Time!”, a state-of-the-art TV-news anchor desk with co-anchor babe of my choosing, a wiseass cameraman who heckles me that I regularly trade comic banter with from prescripted routines, “prayer ministers” who remain on call even after we go off the air, and periodic tympani rolls.

I’m thinking Access Hymietown, or Minority Report, or Deface The Nation. But I’m not married to ’em.

And I can finally dust off my sitcom proposal of a few years ago. It’s called His Husband, Her Wife and it’s all about how love conquers fear, principle conquers politics, equality conquers injustice and cocks conquer assholes.

Media, Owning the

While Buchanan runs (or figureheads, at least) a small-circulation and mostly-shunned monthly whose readership is largely a presold commodity, Zuckerman publishes the US News & World Report and the New York Daily News, which should trip silent alarms not simply because they reach an audience that is fifty times larger—but because they are presented to that audience with the imprimatur of objective reporting denuded of any/all agendas attached, whereas TAC is obviously an organ of commentary (not that anything PJB has a stake in could ever be viewed as anything but).

Even if Zuckerman weren’t a zionist warmonger, he would bear scrutiny much more than a Pat Buchanan, because Buchanan is simply going to tell you what he thinks, whereas the Zuckermans of this world are going to “report” on what you will, hopefully in one swallow, “know”.

Metrosexuals

…are a timely reminder that, should we ever tire of brain-dead Jeezus hicks provoking fights with a billion Arabs to please their Jew masters, there are waiting in the wings an army of flawlessly color-coordinated girly men ready and eager to hand the keys to the store over to any nigger or fag who demands them.

Mine, Your Heinous Atrocities Are Far Worse Than

If kikes can “explain” Sabra and Shatila, and Americans can put My Lai into “context”, then Hitler and Mussolini get to hand in doctors’ notes to the teacher too.

Miscegenation, Arguing With Eddy Over

Therein lies the difference between us. You think an America where every ten-year-old looks like Heidi Klum’s baby looks right now won’t be a bad thing...just different. And exotic. And appealing. Whereas I think it will be the prelim to a New Dark Ages.

If you hybridize a human and a canine, will you eventually end up with loyal, dependable people with a keener sense of sight, sound and smell ...or with men and women who lick their own privates, bark at doorbells and passing cars, and hump in the middle of the street? In a fusion of lesser and greater, will the greater pull up the lesser—or the lesser drag down the greater? How you answer that is a telltale road-marker to what you believe about race and “racism”.

P.S. Is that really and truly Heidi Klum’s baby, or is this H.R. Giiger fooling around with PhotoShop? Because that thing looks like it’s going to grow up, change its name to “Caesar”, and lead the apes in revolt against human society.

Moon…, If They Can Put a Man On the

We desperately need a premarital pussy pest strip to test for prior Negro residue.

More, Less Is

I remember being told wistfully by an oldtimer “Back in those days (the 1940s), you’d jerk off for a knee.” Then he paused and repeated for emphasis. “For a knee!”

I know what he meant. The more rigorous the standards of dress and behavior, the more erotic possibilities arise from the slightest deviations in those codes.

It’s like when you’re a kid and you see your friend’s mom—who you’d always thought of as your friend’s mom and nothing more—in a pair of cut-off shorts for the first time, or dressed up for some event in a clinging evening gown and high heels for the first time.

Sproi-ing!

She’s still just your friend’s mom, but try telling your dick that.

Mudsharks

DeNiro is three-quarters mick and one-quarter Italian. And no I can’t explain his jig fetish either. Probably rooted in childhood, i.e., all the cute white girls he grew up with used to look through him like he was a pane of dirty glass. A lot of “forward-thinking racial progressives” got their start that way—banging nigger whores while nursing red-hot resentment toward their own who’ve rejected them. Four years of college later, their childish lust for revenge has acquired a couple of coats of paint and can now be passed off as a “philosophy”.

Mundi, Sic Transit Gloria

Geriatric fossil-rockers...who in their shirtless, Dionysian heyday would have laughed at the idea of playing a Super Bowl halftime...now not only line up to play them, but endure more choreographed rehearsals than Britney Spears’ backup dancers. And all to serve the false gods of Deep Corporate Pockets and their million-dollar-a-minute soda and junk-food commercials.

If rock’n’roll weren’t long dead already, it oughta be driven out to the nearest pier and shot twice in the head.

Murder, Is Abortion

Here’s a foolproof test you can conduct at home. Did you breathe a sigh of relief when your pregnant girlfriend had an abortion, because you “aren’t ready” (not willing to give up playing video games and carousing in titty-bars with your buds) and it would “ruin your future” (cost money which you would deeply resent having to spend/borrow)?

You did? Then it’s murder. But then it always is when somebody else’s premeditated death is key to your maintaining your current lifestyle.

Murders, The Myspace

“Her page was brightly colored with pink-lined black boxes listing her friends and hobbies, a rainbow striped white background and a picture of her in a pink top, smiling with lips closed to hide her braces. She listed her interests as soccer, talking on the phone, the beach and partying. ‘Books are gay,’ she wrote. She lied about her age, listing it as 17.”

See what I mean? Halfway through that I started fantasizing cutting her into strips and making twat jerky out of her. Imagine what an ex-con, desperate enough to meet women that he’d roll the dice on internet love, would do to her after he’d hit his shrill-idiot-babbling-incoherently stress point ten minutes after meeting her. I dunno, but I’d bet he’d have to hose down the walls afterwards.

I don’t mean to sound jaded, but if you’re going to hook up with a ditz like this (anytime they describe a girl as “bubbly”, they mean “dumb as a post, but you can talk her into giving you a hummer fairly quickly”)...and you don’t rape and murder her and then wrap her in a shower curtain to cube her like Kobe beef...you’re sort of wasting your time. She’s practically writing VICTIM in purple lipstick on her own forehead before logging on. She’s wandering through life with a KILL ME HARD sign stuck to her ass.

I’m not endorsing anti-social behavior here, mind you—this post intended for amusement purposes only, heh-heh. But c’mon, you read this story and in your mind you’re picking out the spot in the hills where you’d bury her.

Mussolini

It wasn’t the things he did; it was the ridiculous faces he made, and the foolish poses he struck. The guy was a cocky buffoon who resembled nothing so much as a henchman on a power trip in the boss’ absence; he always looked like a bridge troll convinced he was Fabio. When Hitler first laid eyes on Il Duce, he must’ve wanted to personally write a thank-you note to Central Casting.

Nation, Sociopath

Mark David Chapman may have been a contemptible slug but had he talked himself out of his murderous impulses, flown home to wherever and gone on to live his life without killing or hurting anyone, he’d’ve been less than a dust mote to the world around him. And of course, had he been murdered at random on the streets of NYC that night none of us would ever know his name.

Chapman understood, even if only unconsciously, how the “civilized world” works. You may think he’s human offal—but when you die, you’ll be nothing, and nobody but your friends and relatives will ever know you were here at all. And you’ll go whirling anonymously down the abyss knowing exactly who “Mark David Chapman” was—while MDC, like all famous people, won’t know anything about you except that, if there ever really was such a person as you, whoever you were, you knew all about him.

Now isn’t that a nice story for Christmas?

Near, China Is

WEIKEL: LOL China is going to clobber us and you stick to some Victorian views (generally a good thing but not in this case) of “Mongoloid” subhumanity.

Wrong again, buffalo breath! It’s not subhumanity, it’s telling the difference between butter and Parkay.

Telling one dog-eater from another may be Priority One in Asia, where a flush toilet always draws a crowd of awed villagers, but over here you’re all one amorphous umber-hued sea of slit-eyed aliens. Some gook getting indignant because you called him “Korean” when he’s actually “Vietnamese” is missing the point: ya both snuck in here clinging to the hull of a ship, so fuck yez equally!

It’s as insane for Asians to waste their time differentiating between roundeyes as it is for us to bow and curtsey and make sure we don’t refer to the Laotian guy as “Chinese” or “Hmong”. Life’s too damn short for such regimented politeness. If you can’t tell the damn difference, it shouldn’t matter because there shouldn’t be that many of them here to begin with to make knowing one slope from another a politically-correct priority.

Negro, The Southern

Most Northerners and Californians don’t have any idea of what the Southern Negro is actually like. You’re thinking of the black folks you know and work with and go to school with. Forget that nigga. If you’d ever met authentic Dixie darkies your jaw would drop and you’d wonder if the 20th century had ever arrived for these people. You ever see a Juvenile or Mystikal video? There’s your Deep South Negro!

Better yet—ever see an actual Stepin Fetchit movie? Most people know the name but have never actually seen him—he’s considered so “degrading” a caricature that his movies are rarely revived; sometimes they’re shown with his footage cut out. But if/when you see Fetchit, your first reaction is shock that they’d dare put him in movies, even in the Jim Crow thirties: he’s less a shiftless, drawling house-nigger than he is a mumbling, eye-rolling retard of some sort. Most white people get physically uncomfortable watching Fetchit for the first time; they feel almost complicit in a crime, because surely between takes the director was yelling, “Gaw-dammit, Stepin, I said make it more niggerish!” while Fetchit protested, “See here, C.B., I simply can’t put up with this sort of degrading dialogue much longer!” But that was all Fetchit you were seeing: that was his trademarked schtick that he’d brought to Hollywood straight from the chitlin circuit. No other black actor of the Jim Crow era even remotely approached his level of willing self-degradation, so it wasn’t like anyone was forcing him to mumble, shuffle and drool all the time.

Well, the five-odd years I lived in New Orleans I met hundreds of real-life Stepin Fetchits. I was thunderstruck, having known lots of blacks up North but never believing such utterly-incoherent, superstitious and bone-stupid plantation darkies had even survived into the 20th century. Half the time you could not understand a word they mumble-drawled. They were docile enough in white environments but deadly among themselves and you’d never wanna be the only white man in a sea of them.

Now I can understand being protective of such people in that I would not wish massive-scale harm to befall them indiscriminately...but it is difficult to think of a lot of these people as fully-human. I’m sorry, it just is.

Negroes, Consumer Spending Habits of

Niggers smoke menthol cigarettes because, to them, Kools are the only brand on the market that’s spelled correctly.

Negroes, Eugeneic Arguments Against

Negroes are genetic eggshells, potato peels and wet coffee grinds dumped into Steel-Sak Hefty bags and dragged out to Posterity’s curb for History’s sanitation trucks to cart off with all the other waste matter.

Negroes, Group Characteristics of

A characteristic of free-range nogs in their urban jungles is how these sudden, unprovoked acts of mob violence can emerge without warning or precursor on the most placid of days...and return to sleepy inactivity a moment later. There is no slow grinding buildup of tension in the air, no bloody climax followed by grim aftermath. Niggers setting upon prey of opportunity like a school of piranha field-stripping a guppy is a casual thing, less a violent disruption of order than the occasional rippling swell on a gently rolling tide.

Negroes, Nice Girls Don’t Date

Ah well. Lie down with chimps, get up with blowfly eggs hatching in your pubes.

Negroes, Physical Laws Governing

Being a nigger is a little like living in a comic book. No matter what the historical record says, or the laws of physics clearly state, none of it ever applies to the Earth-2 bizarro-world that boolies are allowed to continue pretending they live in.

I assume the reason they are “allowed” to is the same reason they’ve been conceded all public-sector jobs: because by this point, they’d simply riot and loot and burn and kill indiscriminately if you suddenly held them to the same standard everyone else is routinely judged by.

Negroes, Proper Disposal of

Vienna, Austria

California’s execution of Stanley Tookie Williams on Tuesday outraged many in Europe who regard the practice as barbaric, and politicians in Gov. Arnold Schwarzenegger’s native Austria called for his name to be removed from a sports stadium in his hometown.

At the Vatican, Pope Benedict XVI’s top official for justice matters denounced the death penalty for going against redemption and human dignity.

“We know da dett-a penalty, she no resolva nutteeng,” Cardinal Renato (Little Augie) Martino told AP Television News. “Even a criminal, she’s-a worthy of-a da respect because we are all Godsa bambini. The dett-a penalty, she’s-a da niggation—err, I mean she’s a coontradiction—ma vafanculo, how you say...a denial of-a da human dignity. To kill is-a da sin. At least, widdout-a da ok from the Commission first.”

Capital punishment is illegal throughout the European Union, where American Negroes are fetishized as noble savages and King Kong metaphors, thus many Europeans consider state-sponsored executions to be barbaric. Those feelings were amplified in the case of Williams, due to the apparent remorse they believe the Crips gang co-founder showed by writing children’s books about the dangers of gangs and violence, such as Snitches Get Stitches, Curious George Turns Out A Punk and Where the Wild Things At.

Leaders of Austria’s pacifist Green Party, who believe only men should marry, went as far as to call for Schwarzenegger to be publicly stripped of his Austrian citizenship—a demand that was quickly rejected by Chancellor Wolfgang Schuessel despite his government’s opposition to offending Jews by publicly sticking up for other Austrians.

“Whoever, out of political calculation, allows the death of a well-built black man with that whole delicious menace-to-society vibe he had about him has rejected the basic values of Austrian society, which are 1) gay rights, 2) January lederhosen sales, and 3) Adolf Who?” said gaunt, skeletal Peter Pilz, a Greens leader and AIDS activist, adding, “and anyone who does so should be herded up, tattooed with a number, shaved bald and gassed.”

In Schwarzenegger’s hometown of Graz, local Greens said they would file a petition to remove his name from the southern city’s sports stadium. A Christian political group went even further, suggesting it be renamed the “Reformed Negro Savage Stadium.”

“Mr. Williams had converted, and unlike Mr. Schwarzenegger who never murdered anyone, opposed every form of violence,” said Richard Schadauer, the chairman of the Association of Christian Twits and Teabaggers. Plans for a candlelight vigil were cancelled when recent waves of Arab violence made the area an unofficial no-glow zone for Austrian whites, and nobody but white people with too much free time would be foolish enough to protest a mass-murderer’s execution anyway.

Williams was executed early Tuesday at California’s San Quentin State Prison after Schwarzenegger denied Williams’ request for clemency. Schwarzenegger suggested that Williams’ supposed change of heart was not genuine because he had not shown any real remorse for the killings committed by the Crips. Holding up the spiral notebook that Williams, like all Negroes, keep on hand for jotting down dope-ass rhymes, Schwarzenegger told the California State Legislature “Zese are ze freestyles of a psychopath, not a playa. Zis shit is vack.”

Criticism came quickly from many quarters, including the Socialist Party in France, where the death penalty was abolished in 1981. “I am proud to be a Frenchman,” party spokesman Julien Dray, a Jewish émigré and treasurer-secretary of Stop Le Pen, a small grass-roots political club consisting of newspaper publishers, industrialists and ex-Prime Ministers, told RTL radio. “I am proud to live in France, in a country where we’re too busy extinguishing burning automobiles every night to punish anyone for anything except their opinions about World War 2.”

“Schwarzenegger has a lot of muscles, but apparently not much heart,” Dray said.

In Italy, the country’s chapter of Amnesty International called the execution “a cold-blooded murder.”

“His execution is a slap in the face to the universally-shared principles of sex money and murda, an inhumane and inclement act toward a person who, with his exemplary marksmanship and his colorful ‘Trigga Nigga 4 Life’ tattoo and lifestyle, had become an important figure and a symbol of hope for many youths—not just the ones called P-Nutt and Short Dogg, but ones named Farouk and Ali who are currently terrorizing our citizens,” the group said. “Wherever children don ski-masks to rob drunks at gunpoint and rape Special Ed females, Tookie’s shining spirit will live on.”

In Germany, Volker Beck, a leading member of the opposition Greens party, expressed disappointment. “Schwarzenegger’s decision is a cowardly decision,” Beck told the Netzeitung online newspaper. “Now you will please sign this petition, yes? It is to sponsor further immigration from Turkey.”

From London, Clive Stafford-Smith, a human rights attorney specializing in death penalty cases, called the execution “very sad”, about the sort of dead-fish animation and fiery passion you’d expect from an English ponce with two hyphenated last names.

Spokesmen for Angelina Jolie said California state officials purposely stalled her paperwork, preventing her from adopting the 230-pound murderer in time. Meanwhile, Bono will be issuing a statement through Michael Jackson...who will be seated on his lap and speaking while Bono drinks a glass of water.

Bianca Jagger’s calls were not returned by this reporter.

Rome’s Colosseum, once the arena for deadly gladiator combat and executions, has become both a symbol of Italy’s anti-death penalty stance and a free-range Arab petting zoo. Since 1999, the monument has been bathed in golden light every time a death sentence is commuted somewhere in the world or Cicciolina aces an AIDS test.

Rome Mayor Walter Veltroni said the city would keep Williams in its memory the next time it celebrates a victory against the death penalty somewhere in the world. “When she hoppen, we gonna turn on da bigga light for Tookie.”

News, Cable

Except for occasionally viewing something like the O’Reilly Factor or the daytime yentafest on MSNBC (with, respectively, horror and alarm), I mostly get my news via print sources or the Net or the meat-and-potatoes digest shows like Headline News...thus Katrina Week was really the first round-the-clock dose I’ve had of hardcore cable news “shows”.

Are Americans really this dumb—to insist on jazzed-up, looka-me news-o-tainment programs pushing empty-calorie “star” journalists, most of whom are in place to not-so-subtly push a company line?

“I’m Wolf Blitzer in THE SITUATION ROOM.”
“I’m Keith Olbermann and this is COUNTDOWN.”
“Caution - you’re entering a no-spin zone! I’m Bill O’Reilly and THE O’REILLY FACTOR is next.”
“I’m John Gibson and here’s THE BIG STORY.”
“I’m Britt Hume with the SPECIAL REPORT.”
“I’m Joe Scarborough, welcome to SCARBOROUGH COUNTRY.”
“I’m Paula Zahn. Now. PAULA ZAHN NOW, I mean...goddammit, I have got to get a cooler name for this show.”

But you haven’t contused your tailbone hitting bottom with an audible thud until you’ve viewed anal-retentive titty-boy Tucker Carlson...who was wearing fuggin’ jodhpurs on today’s show!...or gravel-voiced doxie Rita Cosby, whose vapidity not all the glamazon makeup and red lipstick in Christendom can obscure.

It’s a tossup as to whether Tucker or Rita has more kneepad-mileage on ’em, but frankly I am friggin’ amazed at how 95% of cable news shows are interchangable crap delivered by completely interchangable Hawt Babes and Stud Muffins, complete with the now-required Action Kyrons and watch-this-NOW! Spinning Graphics.

Most of the clowns I’ve been watching the past four days all look like they’d refuse to attend the company picnic until they have written assurances (on stationary with the network letterhead) that only they get to play QB in the two-hand touch game preceding the barbecue. And the women all look as though they’d taken a wrong turn on their way to pitch cosmetics on one shopping-channel or another and somehow wound up behind a desk, reading the names of Iraqi insurgent leaders off a teleprompter.

Newspeak

“Terror-supporting”? What is that, a FoxNews proprietary adjective? I’m surprised you passed up “freedom-hating”. It’s not too late to hit the EDIT key and add “puppy-strangling”, you know.

Machine, Rage Against and Then Become the

The other day I’m watching some ESPN talk show and the guest was Tom Morello. What the heck is he doing on this show, I wondered, and turned the sound up.

Turns out that—besides plugging Audioslave—he was on talking about his love for the Chicago Cubs. Specifically, how, two years ago, he forced the band to cancel a show in Bulgaria at the last minute so he could fly to Chi (in a private jet) so he could be the guest of some high muckety-mucks in the Cub hierarchy (in their corporate luxury box, natch) and cheer on the Cubs (who blew it again).

All I could think about was the angry anti-corporate poses Terrible Tommy has struck throughout his career (his RATM CDs were liberally festooned with Che posters and free-Mumia/anti-World-Bank sentiments). You mean that this Harvard-educated “revolutionary” is perfectly willing to nosh at the buffet tables of the moneyed corporate elites, as well as fuck his own fans over so he can root on millionaire ballplayers in a meaningless athletic contest? What’s next—the revelation that his shaved-head, wannabe-nigger look is just an affectation to placate the kids buying records?

Well, sure. All of that shit is a pose to begin with; 90% of the people out there with Che t-shirts who are all upset about Mumia are all in a 40% or higher tax bracket to begin with. If Morello was living paycheck-to-paycheck, you can bet he’d grow his hair out and be selling real estate or aluminum siding, and drumming his fingertips on the dashboard every time Limp Bizkit’s “Nookie” came on the car radio.

Order, Law &

Sometimes I think the point of a Dick Wolf cop show is to egg on coloreds to kill us and to condition us to figure we had it coming anyway.

Pah, Hoots

Oldest Jew trick in the book: claim you stand for unadorned honesty in all its raw, sometimes-ugly glory, and use that as both license and moral shield to indulge your every piggish whim, no matter how degraded and self-serving. You’ll never lack for an army of low-birth-weight morons to buy into your phony “principles”.

Somehow I doubt the alcoholic dwarves, stutterers, physical and mental defectives, and bubblebrained porn stars who slavishly feed off the ten-cent notoriety the Stern show offers them could spell civil libertarian, let alone know what it means. Of course, Lenny Bruce was the master of this: childishly wallowing in your own id while draping yourself in the robes of freedom-fighter. And once the public bought that bill of goods, their hands were tied forever for every other shameless Jew panderer that followed in his slime-trail.

It is the Jew’s genius to turn the disgust and abhorrence he naturally provokes in civilized humans into emblems of their uptight, clueless prudery.

Parade, Your Shit

Hit singles that sucked? The list is endless...endless...

• I’d Like To Teach The World To Sing—The New Seekers (this was actually a fucking soda commercial that got released as a single and went to #1! Go on, tell me how we’re not the Great Satan!)

• Candy Man—Sammy Davis, Jr. (and speaking of Satan...)

• Believe It or Not—Joey Scarbury (the suck-with-two-hands happy theme to “Greatest American Hero”; note artist never heard from again)

• Saturday Night—Bay City Rollers (Aussie twinkies who were “poised for stardom”, i.e., managed by Sy and Morrie who had enough yidpull to get them more attention than they ever deserved; possibly the first boy band)

• Mambo #5—Lou Bega (mating call of the Cuban shaved ape)

• Another One Bites the Dust—Queen (the cocks-up-assholes beat of this one made it a big hit wherever AIDS was incubating that year)

• Tonight, Tonight, Tonight—Genesis (Genesis comes full circle from a prog band too weird to get radio play to a soft-rock mystery-meat conglomerate too safe to avoid on any elevator you got on)

• Let Your Love Flow—Bellamy Brothers (like a lot of one-shit wonders of yesteryear, this is part country, part soft rock, and completely flavorless, if not odorless)

• Everybody Hurts—REM (part of the reason there are so few 90s songs on my list, although I presume there continue to be hit singles, is either I’m unaware of most of them or “hit singles” don’t saturate the landscape like they used to—but for some reason, you couldn’t get away from this bald-headed whimperfest; I heard it everywhere I fucking went)

• Pac-Man Fever—Buckner & Garcia (I blame my countrymen for making this brain dead pile of sub-pabulum a hit. Buckner & Garcia went on to the fine career they deserved)

• Relax—Frankie Goes To Hollywood (so gay it physically disturbs me, like having a dick thrust in my face with my arms and legs tightly restrained)

• Sometimes When We Touch—Dan Hill (all-time laughable sniveling singer-songwriter; people rightly use this song to make fun of the entire genre)

• We Built this City—Starship (I believe Homer Simpson said it all about this song by liking it a lot)

• Black Coffee in Bed—Squeeze (the only bad song they ever did, actually, but I can’t stand it)

• Song Sung Blue—Neil Diamond (the Hebe Gandalf to Barry Manilow’s Aragorn)

• All Out of Love—Air Supply (how lame were Air Supply? Junior high-school girls turned them off the radio...)

• How Do You Do?—Mouth & MacNeal (stupid repetitive and annoying novelty single which led to interesting obscene variations on “Mouth and McNeal” being made for weeks afterward, after which these Dutch clods were forgotten forever)

• Safety Dance—Men Without Hats (probably the single most irritating song of the entire 1980s)

• I’d Love You To Want Me—Lobo (more ball-less fake-cowboy schmaltz a la the Bellamy Brothers)

• Everybody Have Fun Tonight—Wang Chung (’member when the idiots at ABC made this the theme music for Monday Night Football? Oh, yeah...who says surrealism is dead? You haven’t lived till you’ve seen Al Michaels lip-synch “everybody Wang Chung tonight” while doing a half-hearted cha-cha move in the opening montage. What were they thinking?)

• Come Sail Away—Styx (the faggotzo, throat-full-of-vomit, puffy-pirate-shirted song stylings of Mr. Dennis deYoung belong somewhere on a list like this)

• Maniac—Michael Sembello (let’s make this easy and just ask the people who didn’t want to kill the minute this prefab disco-dreck began playing for the 10,000th time to raise their hands)

• Everything Is Beautiful—Ray Stevens (now here’s a motherfucker whose entire career has been aiming at a very select market: elevator management company artistic directors. He never wrote a song your grandmother didn’t know all the words to before you did)

• Take On Me—A-Ha (the very title of the song sounds like a foreigner trying to sound hip. Nuff said)

• Afternoon Delight—Starland Vocal Band (this song was made a huge hit by people who had no idea it was about fucking your secretary. People who were actually fucking their secretaries had better things to listen to)

• Wake Me Up Before You Go-Go—Wham! (what’s gayer: the hooray-for-Judy-and-Barbra song title, or the fleet’s-in exclamation point after the name of the “band”?)

• Still The One—Orleans (a song so blandly and inoffensively annoying, it is timeless. I’ve been switching the dial on this piece of cheerful shit for three decades now—as long as there are stupid white people this song will never go away)

• Jessie’s Girl—Rick Springfield (too blah to work up much venom over, but it’s by Rick Springfield, and Rick Springfield should always be singled out for punishment)

• Ghostbusters—Ray Parker Jr. (what I liked about this song is the way music-biz people started fronting en masse, pretending both that they’d ever heard of this guy before this song, and that there was once an equally “talented” Ray Parker Sr.)

• Ride Like the Wind—Christopher Cross (great moment from the 70s—the massed shock and synchronized drying-up pudendum of a million schoolgirls upon seeing some American Bandstand or Midnight Special and discovering that the tremulous croon they’d rubbed their petals to since the single came out belonged to a gravy-sweating, triple-chinned pantload)

• Don’ Worry Be Happy—Bobby McFerrin (that’s easy for you to say—you’re black)

• My Eyes Adored You—Frankie Valli (essentially the exact same song as Paul Anka’s “You’re Havin’ My Baby”—note for note, practically identical treacle by practically identical third-string hangers-on who played secondary rooms in casinos to liver-spotted “fans” years before it became de rigueur for all rock’n’roll bands)

...also, whatever fudgey malefactors are responsible for Whooomp There It Is, You’re Unbelievable, Everybody Dance Now and every other faceless inhuman club/house track of the last 20 years, and every note sung by every boy band and/or Pro Tools-enhanced nigger “diva” of the last 10.

PBS

A load of sociological hot air and window dressing employed to get you to Point B and the last stop on the line: send money, get tote-bag.

Pepsi?, Coke or

While I agree that one need not even apply for a career in the arts nowadays unless one is an anti-social reactionary whose knee jerks in approval towards anything “transgressive” or “subversive” that might, even in some tiny and insignificant manner, help further erode and hopefully destroy White (heterosexual) Civilization...

...somehow I despise even more the Debbie Schlussels of the world, whose screeds I find shrill, coarse and unreadable. The irony is that the Licensed Opposition to the status quo is also a closed union shop, with 99% of the high-visibility slots going to bow-tied church-dummies like Cal Thomas, or opportunistic Jews like Schlussel eyeing a golden stepladder—notoriety, a byline, maybe a book deal, nu?—in pretending to be Judeo-Christianically “outraged”.

I realize it’s kind of a cheat to wrap up with “a pox on both their houses”, but really what other choice do reasonable people have?

Pets

WEIKEL: Diffrence between a cat and a dog...You feed and shelter a dog he thinks you’re god...You do the same for a cat and it think its god.

Wait, Otto...let me say it.

Ahem. After the Red Chinese conquer us (hopefully very soon—my arm’s getting heavy waving this WELCOME GOOK SUPERMEN pennant) the difference will be that one tastes like chicken, and the other like pork.

NICCOLO: Pets are ghey and cats need to be slaughtered...

...and women belong in rape camps, and digging mass graves for your enemies is good exercise that builds character. But you’re not in the Balkans now, sonny.

Phora, The Old

Having been banned there once, I still say there was nothing wrong with the Phora except all the hacks and crashes and the subsequent loss of all archived posts.

Granted that’s a big minus, but it’s a minus that was imposed on the board from external sources. Sure, Fade went through his mercurial phases but overall he was about as egalitarian an MC as you could hope for, given that particular assembly of oil and vinegar types. You had LF, OD, VNN, MSF and Nordish Portal people all co-existing (more or less), which was not just somewhat amazing but more importantly...highly entertaining.

The obliteration of those archives, however, was a bitter pill. All those Lindstedt rants...all of Jaybird’s silliness...Erik D’s regular mental breakdowns...and let’s not forget those Serb/Croat love-ins! You can say that posting nauseating atrocity photos captioned “I am for jerk off into mouth of your dead mother, Albanian pig-whore!” was appalling in its subhumanity, and you’d be right, but ya gotta admit it was hilarious anyway.

Pimp, It’s Hard Out Here For a

If a rapper were to ever “dumb down” his content, assuming it could be done, he’d have to bring his tape recorder to the zoo and sample chimpanzee sounds.

Places, Trading

I wouldn’t mind a life like Fade’s: privilege, entitlement, darkies bringing you drinks with liddle umbrellas in them, and then you yell at the darkie and call him a damn fool nigra because your drink is tarter than you care for. And he takes it in stride because indoor jobs is hard to come by and lawdy don’t dat air conditioning feel good. Besides, you used to be a lot more abusive when you were making him iron your SS officer’s uniform two years ago, before somebody told you about FDR and you got born again.

So let’s see: keeping an eye peeled for the cops while your buddy is jimmying open vending machines—or—being handed the keys to a shiny new SUV at age 16 with a trust-fund disbursement schedule tucked away in the glove? Yeah, I’ll take Door Number 2, Monty.

Politics, Vermin

Maybe it’s just me, but I’d vote for anyone whose platform was let’s kill every nasty, sewer-crawling, disease-ridden fucking RAT on the face of the planet—that’s how bone-deep my utter loathing of the skittering little fuckers is.

And I’m hardly extreme on this topic. My ex used to freak at the mention of the word “rat”...let alone me whispering tenderly in her ear “could you picture a hungry snout-twitching RAT dropped down your shirt and crawling down your waist, relentlessly burrowing down to the warm spot?”, which would put her in a paralytic horror-coma not even Lt. Columbo coulda pinned on me.

Position, Rethinking One’s

If white nationalism is a fool’s pose, and you change your mind (and persona) later on, then who’s to say your next epiphany/incarnation/pose won’t be equally fatheaded? After all, by your own yardstick, you’ve already established a track record for yourself as a gullible boob—correct?

Profiling, Racial

Two Polacks walk into a post office and pause before a display of the FBI’s Ten Most Wanted criminals. Up at the top is a picture of the meanest ugliest gold-toofed black guy imaginable with the words WANTED FOR RAPE emblazoned beneath it. “You see what I’m saying, Stosh?” says the first Polack. “They get all the good jobs nowadays!”

The reason most media outlets won’t even address the describing-race-of-criminals issue: because every time they try, the stench of fear and mendacity is enough to make you hurl.

I note most editorial writers and columnists seldom have this problem in reverse when they’re pushing diversity down our throats. They freely and contemptuously use terms like “lily-white” to express their outrage at any remaining nooks and crannies within America not yet blessed with “hundreds of thousands of Hispanic women” and other human jetsam.

Punishment, Cruel and Unusual

The idea, for instance, that the surviving family members of the Carr Brothers’ victims must have their earnings and savings taxed to pay for the housing, feeding and maintenance of the animals who forced their sons to fellate each other, their daughters forced to look on as they were themselves raped, before executing them all in cold blood...is the only Cruel and Unusual Punishment worth abolishing.

Especially amusing is the double-standard employed: the same people who blanch at the notion of a bullet being the best “closure” of all will all pitch you the notion that life in a 6 x 9 cell without hope of parole is eminently crueler and thus more just. Well, if sadism towards convicted killers is okay then—and their suffering is something to be desired—then why should the state be the final arbiter of what constitutes just sadism and deserved suffering? Because they don’t believe the okeydoke they sell you and never have. It’s just a salable pose of sadism and suffering. And besides, dead niggers cost politicians votes.

Question, Essay

Merriam-Webster’s Words of the Year 2005 are:

1. integrity
2. refugee
3. contempt
4. filibuster
5. insipid
6. tsunami
7. pandemic
8. conclave
9. levee
10. inept

Use all these words in one coherent sentence.

As the usual insipid conclave of inept officials filibustered contemptible nonsense about FEMA’s “integrity”, the levees broke, a pandemic ensued, and hordes of black refugees became a bongo tsunami of crime and violence.

Quiz, Which Theologian Are You?

You scored as Karl Barth. The daddy of 20th Century theology. You perceive liberal theology to be a disaster and so you insist that the revelation of Christ, not human experience, should be the starting point for all theology.

I was hoping for “Tony Robbins”, or maybe “Robert Tilton”, but there was no multiple-choice for “The Devil hates the word thousand dollars” or “Unleash the Power Within is the ultimate physical metaphor for your newly emerging mastery to storm barefoot across a bed of glowing coals”. Pity.

Racist, Today’s

Main Entry: rac·ist
Pronunciation: 'rA-"si-z&t
Function: noun

1. one who believes that race is the primary determinant of human traits and capacities and that racial differences produce an inherent superiority of a particular race.

2. the vilest sort of human being possible; one who is much worse than a simple rapist or murderer; one beyond any hope of redemption; one who belongs dead or imprisoned or hounded into homelessness {in usage: “He may have decapitated the mother of his children with cold premeditation, but at least OJ Simpson is no racist. ”}.

Radek, Oberon Is Snuffy Is A.

I knew I recognized that stench of asshole from somewhere. By any name, the sort of Dullard With Attitude who, having bored and/or irritated everyone he meets into ignoring him, sadly arrives at the inescapable conclusion that everybody’s stupid but me.

Reality, PC

Whites objecting to third-world immigration is racist xenophobia...but as soon as blacks or browns exhibit antipathy toward immigration, well then...suddenly it becomes a complex topic worthy of serious attention that we should be looking at without the blinders of “racism” attached. It all boils down to the same thing...the repetition of socialization, over several decades, resulting in whites reflexively holding the coats of people who would just as soon see you dead as ever say “thank you”.

Who but a media-bamboozled bunny rabbit would instinctively equate opposition to mass immigration with “white nationalism”? Someone who eats what they’re fed, without question or complaint, while kidding themselves that they’re too fiercely independent to ever follow society’s “orders”.

Reality II, PC

Black brain surgeons and university presidents are scripted-TV reality; jungle monkeys are live-satellite-feed TV reality.

Reality III, PC

If you phrase it: “I don’t care about other people”, you’re a soulless conservative greedhead. If you phrase it: “I don’t care about other white people” and you’ve magically become one of those palefaces who actually gets it—shoot, you’re practically a role model for the Brave New World!

Reality IV, PC

You’ll go a lot farther in this world saying “whites should be killed to end racism” than you will not saying it. You rollin’ in the ’Kwa now, baby.

Reich, The Swingin’

Hmmm. You know, the idea of a Nazi swing combo suitably interpreting Tin Pan Alley standards for Axis audiences is, as they say, rife with possibilities.

• When You’re Heiling

• I’ve Got the World On a Leash

• Adolf in Paris

• Shuffle Off to Buchenwald

• Sedimental Journey

• You Make Me Feel So Jung

• I Could Burn a Book

• Stella By Torchlight

• Erasable Jew

• I’ll Be With You In Apple Strudel Time

• Smoke Gets In Your Clothes

• Goose Steppin’ Out With My Baby

• Love Marched In

• S’vundebar

• The Jew That Got Away

• Let’s Drag the Whole Race Off

• On the Aryan Side of the Street

• Bojangles of Stuttgart

• Let’s Face The Smokestacks and Dance

• I’ve Got Mein Kampf to Keep Me Warm

• These Nordish Things

• You’re Getting to Be Like Orders to Me

• Boulevard of Broken Glass

• I’ve Got a Light Bulb Under Your Skin

• Can’t Help Heilin’ Dat Man

• Let’s Make an Old Fashioned Volk

Remark, On Eddy Making A Racial

Welcome back to the Dark Side, kiddo...I scored you a courtside seat at Satan’s left hand.

Rounder, Open Letter to

Your doctrine of “fight the GD Jew” is kind of a letdown when one realizes you live full time in the boonies and need a satellite dish to even see a real-life Jew. Your anti-sheenyism is thus roughly the equivalent of me devoting my life to awakening America to the menace of the Irish Travellers.

But what I’ve never understood is this: the Order gives you a quarter-mill in cash, and you don’t take the money and run. What are they? The Mafia? The CIA? Some entity you can never hide from no matter what corner of the world you skedaddle to?

Fuck no! This was a laughable ragtag army of goobers playing at armed overthrow of the government without a hope in hell of ever getting out of the batter’s box, let alone first base! The kind of “outlaw army” you could rip off with total impunity and “hide” in plain fucking sight afterwards. What are they gonna do—call a cop? How are they gonna get to you—through their vast information network of looking up your name in one phone book after another? You coulda taken the cash and never bothered to turn them in or fink on em.

What a maroon. What a gulli-bull. What a ta-ra-ra-goon-dee-ay. “Send me some freakin’ money” indeed. And a working brain, if you’ve got one handy that you’re not presently using. If Lucky wasn’t locked down in a high-security lead-lined bunker beneath the earth’s crust, I’d pass the hat to bail him out for one more crack at you.

Scare, Peak Oil

Yeah...it sounds crazy to me too. I mean, eventually running out of a finite resource in the midst of sky-high demand...how ridiculous is that? Damn tree-huggers.

Serve, To Protect and

“We believe the incident may have been alcohol-related,” said the red-nosed Irish cop through a mouthful of Certs.

Show, The Hate Hate

Here are some notable hard right/racialist movies.

• Live and Let Die, 1973: Cherish this otherwise-crappy Roger Moore Bond flick, which plays like JAMES BOND VS ALL OF EAST ST LOUIS and has since the moment it opened in 1973. Every nog in this film is either a criminal, a traitor or a grinning chimp henchman, and Bond punches, kicks, shoots, blows up and throws out of speeding train windows every last one of them, glory to Gawd. As if all this weren’t enough, they write in a comical redneck sheriff who calls blacks “boy” (as a good-guy! He became a recurring character even!) for no reason except to make the niggers in the audience feel even worse. The best touch is that it’s not Connery or Dalton dispatching dozens of duskies, it’s Roger Moore...and you can hardly get more melanin-deficient than Lord Whitey Whiteman himself, Roger Fuckin’ Moore.

• A Clockwork Orange, 1971: I first saw this in 1974 in a theater and was as blown away by the totality of this movie the way you’d expect to be, seeing this at age 14 or so (it had been re-released as a “R” film by then). The conservative content of this film only really begins percolating in your head after viewing the movie, when you can mull it over, disassemble and reconstruct it, etc. Inculcated in me an innate distrust of anyone on TV with capped teeth and winner’s body language saying anything about “freedom”, “democracy” or “security”.

• Advise and Consent, 1963: My kind of popular depiction of homosexuality: as an aberrant lifestyle to be shunned, that can only lead good people to ruin, suicide, or worse yet, smoking a cigarette like a woman would in a piano bar full of men giving you meaningful looks while fingering the straw in their Mai-Tais. Brrr-rr.

• The Wild Bunch, 1969: Sometimes, when a man’s cards have all been dealt and his fate approaches, the only thing he can do is kill every last Mexican he sees. Amen.

• Birth of a Nation, 1915: I suppose. I’ve always thought all the WNs and Southrons who gush over this movie are in fact waxing lyrical over the idea of this movie, which is (frankly) tedious to sit through. It’s a 3-hour silent movie of bug-eyed people pointing at things. I love silent comedy, which is creative and funny and exhilarating, but for conventional narrative, I’m afraid I’m spoiled...I need actual talking. I respect BOAN’s place in history, but if I really need to see nogs negated, I’ll watch Live and Let Die twice...or I’ll dig up a copy of...

• Drum, 1978: This sequel to 1975’s miscegenation hit Mandingo was so sleazy and unintentionally hilarious that even Dino di Laurentiis disowned it. (Think of what that guy has deemed fit for release and that statement becomes doubly astounding.) I saw this theatrically as a second feature playing under an Italian jungle-cannibal movie, and all I can say is if you like to laugh, and to hear whites saying “nigger” constantly, this is your movie. First of all it stars Ken Norton, who makes Ice Cube seem like Nicol Williamson. Next, John Colicos plays a queer Cajun slave trader with a taste for chocobunny and a frog accent that could angle-cut drywall. His first line comes after he sees Ken Norton serving guests at a party: he licks his lips and says, “Zat neeg-air...sink ’ow glorious he would look stripped-donn an’ nah-kedd, eh, mon ami?” Warren Oates plays a rascally slave-massa who breeds the fudgy chattel (his stud-farm really is a stud-farm), and gets to say things like, “Consarn it, Drum, you ain’t talkin’ niggerish enough for my likin’” while peeing on a tree with his back to the camera. Every female cast member gets naked, including Pam Grier, Isela Vega, Fiona Lewis and Rainbeaux Smith. (That Rainbeaux Smith is even in this should tell you what to expect.) Must-see movie; now good luck finding an unedited copy anywhere.

• Friday the 13th, 1980: Teenagers far from parental eyes smoke dope and fuck and disparage Ronald Reagan; a shambling retard in a hockey mask arrives to gut them all with a machete. The one virgin lives. The retard keeps moaning “Mommy” throughout the flick and proved popular enough to return in ten sequels. If that isn’t Modern Conservatism in a paragraph, what is?

• The Trial, 1963: Ideology aside, all the movies with thought-provoking political content and connotations are all made outside America. Then again, we may choose between Coke and Pepsi and call it democracy, but it beats standing in line six hours in shoes that hurt your feet once a year for a warm six pack of one or the other with no say on which. Movies set in crumbling, decaying-from-the-inside socialist nightmare states always seem much more plausible (and indelible) when that state is “somewhere in Europe”. The Third Man and 1984 were the double-templates for most of these films. Here’s Orson Welles’ version of something you’d likelier expect from Godard or Resnais; by now he’d begun to adapt himself to the realities of shooting in Europe with international casts and crews, thus this is one of his best later films.

• The Fountainhead, 1948: Really and truly has to be seen to be disbelieved. Ayn Rand had complete creative control of the script and casting; blame her. This is a glossy, expensive egghead-Plan 9 From Outer Space...the only thing more catastrophically bad than these actors is the ridiculously phony dialogue they’re forced to read aloud. So bad it can’t be parodied. When people (like me) make the point that the Right just ain’t photogenic, people (like me) point to this pile of shit as Exhibit A (I think Ayn Rand was just another shtetl-harpy on the make, but a lot of folks on the Right take her seriously nonetheless).

• Jud Suss, 1940: Evil men plot; for once, good men don’t do nothing. The feel-good movie of 1940.

Snipes, Wesley

I was so glad Snipes let his agent talk him into playing a trannie in that Wong Foo shit; I can only pray he ends up doing either shot-in-Bulgaria buddy pictures with Seagal, or Brokeback Mountain 2: The Legend Of Stymie.

Sound, Refugee Camps With Dolby

The last few movies I attended were like waiting out a hurricane in the Superdome. Well...ok, they weren’t THAT bad, but I was surrounded by a UN’s worth of Foreign-Americans all jabbering to each other in variant dialects of Urdu...cellphones going off like nobody’s business...nonstop conversations in the theater (like Vasily in the 7th row responding to Mikhail’s wisecracks from the balcony)...and ushers who only come to life whenever you light a cigarette. I went to the lobby to light up like a law-abiding American and was promptly informed by two zit-scarred ushers that smoking was now allowed only in the bathrooms, or in the foyer of the theater. “Fellas, if I wanted to inhale the stink of shit with my Marlboro, I’d go back inside the theater to smoke it”, I cracked (I’d been watching Mel Gibson’s The Patriot), but my weisenheimery fell on deaf ears. I smoked it in the foyer, and made a mental note to order satellite-TV tout suite.

Spittle, Crazed Rant—Now Fortified With Flying

By the time you’re in the age range when serious illnesses tend to manifest themselves, a certain percentage of you will be denied treatment, and another percentage will receive substandard care—the literal “bandaid on cancer” that has become part of the lexicon. In both cases those percentages will be higher than your youthful optimism will allow you to contemplate right now.

Perhaps the cruelest blow will come when you cough blood into a handkerchief and wake up to find an eviction notice on your door while Puff Daddy and Paris Hilton and Oprah and the Gotti Hotties and the say-nothing editorial page writers in the Times will be fretted and anguished over and shoved to the front of the line for transplants, experimental drugs and clinical trials. You’ll be turned away by sullen umber-colored aliens at reception desks who look at you with curious contempt like the white-skinned anachronism you are, and driven home by a friend or relative—maybe; hopefully—while Usher and Jenna Bush will be flown to clinics 3,000, 5,000, 10,000 miles away to be worked on by teams of specialists that resemble an international summit meeting of medical personnel.

You’ll be told “there’s nothing left to be done” and be handed Tylenol with Codeine for pain so intense that you scream every time you’re touched while—if you weren’t in too much of a near-death fog to be beyond comprehension altogether—you might otherwise turn on whatever talk-shows have replaced Leno and Letterman by then to watch the idiot who plays “Joey” get a round of applause for “beating (fill-in-name-of-disease)” and give the audience a sermon on optimism and never giving in, and announcing his comeback project, a Lifetime Channel made-for-TV movie about the redemptive power of love. Or maybe—assuming you could—you’d flick the channel over to a paid infomercial where a woman in a tailored power-ensemble pretends to interview a holistic-healing charlatan assuring you that every disease has an easy all-natural cure that those fatcats in the FDA don’t want you to know about, but the good news is he’s got a book or a vitamin or a “regimen” that can fix you right up. (“Cyndee, are you aware that there is a village in Iceland where the words ‘rheumatoid arthritis’ have no definition?”)

And—if you’re unlucky, but luckier than most—perhaps you’ll be approached in the hospital or at your insurer’s office by someone—and who knows, by then it might be your doctor or insurer himself!—who offers you a cash payment for one of your still-working organs (pending a complete MRI and physical, natch) so that someone who does have the money or connections to buy a little more time might live the privileged life a little bit longer.

Steroids, Lance Armstrong On

It will never fly in Christian Zionist America. The idea that a guy who had Cancer Of The Everything could climb up off his deathbed to win the Tour seven straight times due to

1. God Hisself being a proud ’Murrican
2. the massed power of millions of plastic made-in-Malaysia mini-American flags waving in unison

will not only trump the likelihood that he took powerful performance-enhancing drugs, it will make more sense to them. Besides, people are sick of finding out their sports heroes are on the juice so it’s time for that to suddenly, magically, not matter anymore.

Svetlanas

Remember one thing about all recent female Russian emigres: no matter what they say they do for a living here (“I em norse”, “I em radiology tekneeshen”, “I vork een yoomen reezurces department ov beeg firm”, etc.) it’s always, always code for “I vass hoower een old country”.

Technology, Geezer Fear of

I’m about one falling Coke bottle away from being a cargo cultist; I admit it.

Theater, Dream

I can’t figure out why, but I’ve never warmed up to Dream Theater. On paper, they’re everything I like: chops from hell, long multi-part tracks, prog that’s not afraid to rock hard, tasteful keyboard interludes, and the twin towers of Petrucci and Portnoy (heck, Portnoy was 1/4 of Transatlantic, which alone should get him through the door)...and I like a lot of their stuff...and yet somehow I can’t worship them like I probably should. I think it might be the singer, who has a name you’d imagine for David St Hubbins’ second cousin (James LaBrie, for God’s sake—the man is named after cheese), and secondly is a complete catastrophe live (the one time I saw them, years ago, he was utterly dreadful). But I like Train of Thought, though: good CD.

Tiger, Lady or the

When you consider that the ones who don’t think like Pat Robertson are the ones who think like Petr is when you cross the Rubicon from be-afraid to be-very-afraid.

Time, Geezer

I miss vinyl records. I miss the size of vinyl...I miss gatefold covers and the sensory kick of holding a ten-inch record...music could never have become the cultural force it did 30—40 years ago without the physical reality of the LP. Then again, I miss black-light posters, “Makin Bacon” and “Keep On Truckin’” pants-patches, and Thai sticks. But sooner or later you have to move on.

Time, One Day at a

I remember that show. It was twenty-two weekly minutes of neutered, laugh-tracked nothing. Intolerable formula, high-school-play-level acting, anemic would-be “social relevance”...all-too-typical of the shoddy Hebe merchandize regularly cranked out of the Norman Lear factory. It lacked only two things: a crossover story arc with the cast of Alice, and one of those “very special episodes” where Schneider roofies little Valerie into a zombie state and finger-fucks her while he’s getting his tool belt off with his free hand.

The idea that anybody got rich, found later work or is fondly remembered for that show makes me want to park out under the Brooklyn Bridge and kill transients till the nausea passes.

Timidity, Conditioned

Something being taboo hardly makes it important.

This is true when referring to behavioral or societal taboos, which tend to be ingrained over generations and wholly or partly derived from religious dogma/customs: incest, necrophilia, miscegenation, homosexuality, etc.

The “Jew thing” is different.

For one thing, most of the traditional taboos erode over time, particularly in times of decadence and hedonism. Here is a taboo that has curiously gained force and strength in the midst of decadence and hedonism.

Refusing to defend oneself and one’s homeland and way of life because “only irrational lowlifes bash Jews” is neither principled nor courageous. Thanks to Israel and her amen corner at the highest levels of our social and governmental institutions America is now the most hated and feared nation in the world—even our “friends” now despise us once we’re out of earshot. And who can blame them? America cuts her finger and demands a universal moment of silence to commemorate the boo-boo; we rain death cavalierly on the Third World, and pat ourselves on the back for spreading “freedom” and “democracy” to the groundlings. That’s what they call chutzpah, I believe. And at home we “defend” our way of life by dismantling our way of life, piece by piece, in the name of “security”.

Wake the fuck up. When somebody carjacks you and drives you both off the cliff’s edge, the least you can do is punch them in the face on the way down.

Tirades, President Bush’s Obscene

While President George W. Bush travels around the country in a last-ditch effort to sell his Iraq war, and White House aides scramble frantically behind the scenes to hide the trail of airline bottles he routinely leaves in his wake, the increasingly angry leader of the Free World unleashes obscenity-filled outbursts at anyone who dares disagree with him.

“That taco-titted bag of shit? Fuuuuu-uuck that!,” Bush screamed at aides who suggested he meet again with Cindy Sheehan, the war-protesting mother whose son died in Iraq, adding “I wouldn’t fuck her with Barney Frank’s dick.” Pleased with his quip, he then shortened it to “Barney’s frank”, followed by one of the President’s now-frequent high-pitched giggling fits, which last so long that his senior advisors are now routinely trading alarmed glances and reaching for their Xanax.

Bush flashes the bird, something aides say he does often and has been doing since his days as governor of Texas. But lately he has added the “blowjob” gesture to his repertoire—gripping an invisible dick with two cupped hands while pushing his tongue against his cheek to simulate the head moving around in there—sometimes adding risque dialogue in a muffled, pardon-me-there’s-a-dick-in-my-mouth voice like “Um Tindy Teehan, ny tun tied nin Uhrok. Doo-hoo.”

Bush, administration aides confide, frequently explodes into tirades during all-night Grand Theft Auto sessions, calling those who protest the war “homos who suck big Death Row nigger cock.”

He reportedly was so upset over Veterans of Foreign Wars members who wore “bullshit protectors” over their ears during his speech to their annual convention that he told aides to “sic the IRS on those VFW assholes and audit their balls off. What the fuck does the VFW know about fighting a war, anyway?” When senior aides explained what the acronym stood for, Bush reportedly said “You’re shitting me, right?” and returned to his video game, muttering “Hello, I’m a fucking asshole veteran of a stupid foreign war, and I like pee-pees” in a sing-song voice as he worked the joystick.

White House insiders say Bush is growing increasingly bitter over mounting opposition to his war in Iraq. Polls show a vast majority of Americans now believe the war was a mistake and that Bush is easily the stupidest Chief Executive in history, surpassing even Gerald “I Faw Down Hurt My Head” Ford.

“Stupider like a fucking FOX!,” he screamed at a recent strategy meeting. “I’m the fucking President and I command you to suck my ass while I shit in your mouth!!” He paused a moment, still furious, and then blurted: “PWN3D! ” shocking his aides—mostly because he’d pronounced it “paw-threed.”

Bush, while setting up for a photo op for signing the recent CAFTA bill, made the “blowjob gesture” to reporters.

Aides say the President often “flips the bird” to show his displeasure and tells aides who disagree with him to “go to hell” or to “bring me your dead mother so I can skull-fuck her.”

His habit of giving people the finger goes back to his days as the stupidest governor in the history of Texas, the stupidest pilot in the Air National Guard and even dates back to when he was merely a remarkably slow-witted child who kept wrapping his Big Wheel around trees and lampposts in his suburban neighborhood.

A recently surfaced video showing him shooting the finger to reporters while walking may partially exonerate him, however, as Ford would’ve almost certainly fallen down as well.

Bush’s behavior, according to prominent Washington psychiatrist, Dr. Justin Frank, author of “Inside the Mind of the President: There’s No There There,” is all too typical of an alcohol-abusing bully who is ruled by fear. To see that fear emerge, Dr. Frank says, all one has to do is ask the President to spell or even pronounce a word with ten or more letters in it. “To actually directly confront him in a clear way, to bring him out, so you would really see the bully, and you would also see the fear,” he says.

Dr. Frank, in his book, speculates that Bush, an alcoholic who brags that he completely gave up booze by sticking to beer and Jell-o shots instead of mixed drinks, may be drinking again.

“Two questions that the press seems particularly determined to ignore have hung silently in the air since before Bush took office,” Dr. Frank says. “Is he still drinking? And if not, what the hell is he squinting at all the time? Both questions need to be addressed in any serious assessment of his psychological state.”

Last year, Capitol Hill Blue learned the White House physician prescribed anti-depressant drugs for the President to control what aides called “mood swings and sporadic torture of small animals.”

As Dr. Frank also notes: “In writing about Bush’s halting appearance in a press conference just before the start of the Iraq War, Washington Post political analyst George Will speculated that ‘the high-pitched giggling that followed the bizarre blowjob gesture he directed towards Helen Thomas may have been off-putting, but his squint-eyed reference to ‘Operation Enduring Freedom’ right after that smoothed everything over. The main thing is that Saddam Hussein is a madman we must remove from power for the sake of global security.’”

Dr. Frank explains Bush’s behavior as all-too-typical of an alcoholic who sees things when he adds an eightball on top of the Scotch.

“The pattern of suddenly bursting into tears without warning, or involuntarily shitting in his pants, which recovering alcoholics try not to continue, or even think about, Bush seems to actually look forward to; two drinks and he’s loudly counting down to pinching a loaf. He sometimes makes a game out of it,” he says. “The habit of throwing his arms around total strangers and announcing, “This guy here—I love this fucking guy”, and then forgetting that bathrooms exist, or what toilets are for, is so prevalent in George W. Bush’s personal history that it is apparently even triggered by the sight of a Glenlivet bottle.”

Today, There’s No Place Like America

This is now less a nation than a vassal state run by and for media oligarchs; when millions of people worldwide took to the streets to protest the upcoming AIPAC War on Terror, the sheriffs reporting to those oligarchs took their cues from the White House press releases that said those millions of people were never there, and their protests merely illusions, and that’s how it was reported. The people on TV and in the press who can matter-of-factly note that this “war goes conveniently unnoticed by most Americans” only recognize other people on TV and in the press as real to begin with. As for the rest of us, living increasingly in a nose-diving economy—under siege by illegal aliens, under siege by PC speech, thought and behavior codes, under siege by a mindless youth culture that puts the crosshairs on you the moment you turn 40, under siege by a federal government rendering us more vulnerable and powerless by the second, under siege by a media merging with government into a Leviathan now serving the function of isolation and containment of the American people into multi-racial powder kegs too fixated on daily survival to know or care about any Big Picture—we’re mostly too busy sweating out house notes and car payments, scared to death of the other shoe dropping that’ll put us and our families out on the street, one now teeming with grunting foreign trash imported by design by our feudal lords; more and more we’re terrifyingly aware that we’re one raised voice, one intemperate opinion away from being certified non-persons...no longer a majority on even the streets where we live, let alone in our own homeland.

Travers, Rolling Stone Film Critic Peter

Just the cumulative effect of reading his breathless quotes in countless movie ads is enough to feel a hairy-knuckled hand squeezing your knee in the dark.

Trends, Disturbing

Only 48 Holocaust-themed films and TV programs appeared, marking a notable 11% reduction that prompted ADL spokesman Abe Foxman to remark, “Anti-Semitism continues to thrive in the world, even at this late date. The world must never ever forget. What were we talking about again?” Among this year’s offerings were Legally Blonde or Else, I Know Why the Caged Berg Sings, Klezmer After Midnight, and a children’s cartoon series, Hy-Man and the Masters of the Universe.

Truth, Ain’t It the

The most profound feeling of freedom in the world is being 14 or 15, playing the left side of the infield, and going deep in the hole to snatch a one-hop bullet, pivot on a dime and throw a bee-bee to first in time to get the runner. In a very real way, life is all downhill from there.

Union, XXX: State of the

I know it’s white racism to say this, but Ice Cube is fat. Unless “XXX” now refers to a clothing size, casting him as a rip-roaring action hero is like replacing Pierce Brosnan as Bond with a Samoan in a white tux.

Upset, Words and Concepts That Make Me Get

• Our Judeo-Christian heritage

• Extended service warranty

• Homoeroticism

• Shining city on a hill (in usage, not theory)

• “Lily-white” anything

• Meeting the challenges of tomorrow

• Our first priority is always officer safety

• Diversity makes us stronger/is our greatest strength

• Faith-based initiative

• We regret any inconvenience this may cause

• Own it Tuesday!

Verite, Cinema

I forget which Herschel Gordon Lewis flick it was (it had synchronized sound, though, which narrows the field down considerably) but there’s a brief dialogue exchange between a cop and a bartender which ends with the bartender asking, “Watch the bar a minute, willya? I gotta take a shit”, that deserves some kind of a Special Oscar for Documentary Filmmaking. For as often as that common everyday phrase is used in the real world—which I estimate at 175 million times per day by rich and poor, king and commoner alike—you never hear it used in a movie. I don’t care how “realistic”, or “neo-realistic”, or “cinema verite” the picture purports to be—nobody in the movies ever says this. Even in teenage grossout sex comedies seemingly obsessed with farts, bodily functions, waste matter, etc.—where people fling or land in or inadvertently eat doo-doo—none of the characters ever utters that simple declarative sentence which, let’s face it, you’d be in serious medical doo-doo if you’d never felt the need to utter. Even when a character asks to use the bathroom, it’s never for any remotely realistic reason: they’re either climbing out the loo window to escape assassins, or adjusting the FBI wire they’re secretly wearing, or keeping a prearranged rendezvous with another character, etc. They’re never in there to take a dump. So kudos to Herschel Gordon Lewis, albeit left-handed.

And think of how different film history would be today if moviemakers hadn’t been so squeamish on this vital aspect of everyday life.

Casablanca (1942)

BOGART: We both know you belong with Victor. You’re part of his work, the thing that keeps him going. If that plane leaves the ground and you’re not with him, you’ll regret it. Maybe not today. Maybe not tomorrow, but soon and for the rest of...Ilsa, what’s wrong?

BERGMAN: Nothing. I have to take a shit, that’s all. Go on, Rick.

Patton (1970)

KARL MALDEN: There’s one big difference between you and me, George. I do this job because I’ve been trained to do it. You do it because you love it.

GEORGE C. SCOTT: Watch the war a minute, willya, Brad? I’ve gotta take a shit.

The Sixth Sense (1999)

HALEY JOEL OSMENT: (walking past subway men’s room) I smell dead people.

Visas, Neocons With

If there’s anything more irritating than Jewish editorial writers lecturing Christians on what Christianity is supposed to be all about, it’s a WSJ token Hindu-on-a-visa neokahn who keeps shoehorning phrases like “very American”, “particularly American”, “quintessentially American”, etc, into everything that comes out of his Vishnu-hole. Let’s see you wolf down a steak first, Tunku, before you remind us of what it truly means to be “American”.

Watterson, Bill

To anyone who loves and appreciates comic strips—the sort that appear in the newspapers (which have been hard to love and appreciate for many years now)—Bill Waterson is a hero. Simple as that.

He turned down the merchandising money. It boggles the mind, I know, but he chose to earn his keep from the strip, both in syndicated and republished form, and walked away from tens of millions of dollars.

Quite a few people who huff and puff about American cynicism and media whores and “where has the integrity gone?” are, for some strange reason, annoyed at Watterson for his “naivete”. After all, this isn’t some third-rate junk like “Luann” or “Cathy”—this was a daily strip that people who never look at daily strips, ever, went out of their way to read every day. We’re talking a Peanuts-scale windfall of cash waiting for him on the day he buckled and gave in.

I think the folks who find his behavior puzzling could never themselves stave off such temptation, and resent him for it. The idea that a creator could care enough about his creations to resist the urge to sell them out to t-shirt printers, coffee-mug manufacturers, insurance companies and the million and one other ready conduits eager to trade on Calvin & Hobbes—the idea that this could be heroic—never dawns on them. It’s not that those cartoonists who do cash in are deserving of contempt—the sugar-plums of licensing and merchandising are two of the driving forces to even enter cartooning these days—it’s that someone who earned very good money at a popular creative venture in late 20th-century America actually said “no” to ten times more money. And discontinued the strip before he ran out of gas and slid into mediocrity. (I’m sure having to watch Peanuts creatively decline as Schulz got ever-wealthier farming out Snoopy as a corporate pitchman had a lot to do with it, too.)

Apparently, his example is rubbing off on a few folks, though. I could be mistaken, but I haven’t seen any merchandising blitz for Pat McDonnell’s Mutts—which now has replaced Calvin as the best daily strip in America.

Weikel

Can I have my tinfoil hat back now? You’re stretching the band all out of shape.

Wonder, Robin the Goy

Hey!...hands off Sainte-Marthe. She’s the hip-to-Hymie yin to Eddy’s increasingly tie-died yang.

World, Brave New

Sure, all this rapid change and constant technological tweaking of society is chaos for the sake of white noise that essentially atomizes humanity into smaller and more meaningless labelled cubicles...but they come in your choice of designer colors!

Yo, Fight Tha Power

Public Enemy—like most rap bands who get lauded by the critics—made their bones as fearless truth tellers unafraid to—ehh, this phrase nauseates me, but it fits—“tell it like it is”.

And yet, every time they get called on the carpet for alluding to J00z, they either issue apologetic press releases, or arrange for a fall guy to walk the plank to appease Hymie. Rememba “Professer Griff”, yo?

But a funny thing. When Chuck D sang “Elvis was a racist simple and plain/motherfuck him and John Wayne” the VERY SAME people who demanded an explanation for Swindler’s Lust raised a toast to ’em!

It’s not as if they don’t know who runs things; it’s not as if they haven’t tried to say it (in code, anyway). It’s that after riding a wave of PR as the don’t give a fuck truth-tellers of pop culture, unafraid to fight the power, they always blink...always back down...always remember who signs the checks.

What they get in compensation for blinking is carte blanche and encouragement to shit on all the goyish whites they please. That’s why any rapper who wants to keep his major label deal and his white punnanni and his pimped-out ride had best restrict himself to “kill whitey” and “fuck tha Klan” (as if the Ku Klux Klan has anything to do with anything in the past 50 years)—to know where the line’s drawn, and never to cross it.

The only time this apple-cart was upset was when public outrage forced Jew Gerald Levin to deep-six Ice T after “Cop Killer”...and look at how that shook out. Ice T gets to be a TV star and all is forgiven, and it’s now a-ok for critics to reappraise “Cop Killer” as a misunderstood protest anthem.

Now you find me someone in the music press...anyone...who’ll come out and say that Ice Cube or PE’s flirtations with anti-Semitism were misunderstood, or brave acts of defiance against Tha Man.

I’ll save you some Googling. Never happened; never will happen. Not unless that writer wants to find himself pink-slipped into oblivion. But “motherfuck whitey” will get you a guaranteed standing O from every phony who postures about “fighting the power” while taking care to leave Hymie out of it.

Those ruff’n’tuff nigger gangbangers...they’ll beat their gorilla chests and cuss up a storm, but they can’t quite bring themselves to say The Terrible Three-Letter Word.

Throw ya guns in tha air like ya juss don’t care!

Hey! Fellas, keep it down in there.

Uhhh...yassuh, Missa Weidelbaum.

You?, Would

Mariah Carey, eh? Granted she’s a closely-shaved chimp, and that talk-like-a-ten-year-old/dress-like-a-whore gimmick of hers is getting old, but I suppose I’d dick her down given the opportunity.

See, that’s the key: “given the opportunity”. It’s fine to say under NO circumstances would I even countenance the idea, which is repugnant to me—but the fact is few if any Hollywood sex kittens feel compelled to throw the nappy at anonymous net cranks.

Me, I figure if a hard dick has no conscience, then it probably doesn’t have much race-consciousness either. Or, put another way...if it’s good enough for Glenn Miller...

But, Spidey, if you would have sex with a gorgeous nonwhite, wouldn’t you be a complete hypocrite to put your pants back on and resume your regular diet of race-hate?

Yeah. But, hey, I’m cool with it.

Young, Youth Is Wasted on the

Me and a buddy of mine used to take those TRULY TASTELESS JOKES books, black out the last sentences with Magic Marker, and write in ones that may not have been such great punch lines but were far, far more offensive.

“Here’s one!” I chirped to him. “Why did it take the Polish prisoners six months to break out of jail?” (I think the real answer was “they tunneled out with a plastic spoon” or some weary variation on that theme.)

“GIMME THAT BOOK!” he shouted, and after blacking out the answer he read his new “punch line” aloud as he scribbled it down: “For the LAST time—because they’re so incredibly fucking STUPID!”