As Muhammad Ali or Mark Twain or Toots Shore or some other great wit of yore observed, “It ain’t braggin’ if it’s true.” Never has that been more true than in the case of your reporter’s brilliant post made on perhaps the single biggest secret of the Covid hoax.
Damn, I’m good.
Hell, I flunked all my high school science classes but I am blessed with an unerring nose for bullshit thanks to my Brooklyn upbringing. And, being congenitally politically incorrect, I have the annoying habit of noticing things.
Things like bullshit.
Things like bureaucrats inadvertently spilling the beans.
So… I was listening to a London talk radio station one day when… better yet… read about my devastating medical detective work in this post I called –
In high school English class, whenever we were told to submit an essay of more than two words in length, we immediately resorted to padding our work with a big fat quotation from the dictionary. Good for fifty words at least. (Hehehe.)
Jack Antonio: Sophomore 2A
Subject: Literary themes
As we ponder the question of theme in James Fenimore Cooper’s immortal tome The Last of the Mohicans, it behoves us to reflect upon what Mister Merriam Webster had to say on the subject of literary themes.
Then followed as much of the dictionary material as I dared risk sneaking by my teacher.
Therefore, in tribute to my literary criticisms of yore, I now choose to begin this essay on the theme of masks with a quotation from my main-man Merriam.
a covering for all or part of the face, worn as a disguise, or to amuse or terrify other people.
I am sure we can all agree with Merriam that masks have their time and place and have been part of the human experience for eons.
But the time and place for these Covid masks is not here and not now. As the Brits say, “They are well past their sell-by date.”
Trust me, only pea brains wear masks while driving alone in a car or walking down the street or through a park or standing online at a shop or ATM or anythefuckwhere.
Worst of all are the designer masks and worst of those are the masks that try to be funny or clever.
“Hey, you in the mask, lissen ta me now. I’m your best friend coz I’ll tell you the truth. You look like a fuckin’ jerk in that thing and your humor is tame and trite.”
TAKE THE MASK OFF
It pains me every time I see a masked adult smiling at a child only to realize the kid can’t see that smile.
The human face is the most expressive single thing in the animal kingdom. It is inhumane to deny humans access to their glorious instrument of communication.
Forget the emotional and psychological damage caused by the mask-mania, how about the health damage?
So what does Tony “I’m not a real scientist but I play one on TV” Fauci suggest?
Wear two and even three masks!
Faithful readers of this blog will remember that over a year ago I reported that the Head Chemist (Pharmacist) at the UKs top drugstore chain warned that wearing masks was counter-productive and even dangerous.
They shut him up right quick! Last I heard, he was delivering prescriptions by row boat in the Outer Hebrides.
Sure, the all-knowing, all-powerful third-rate-minds at the CDC have announced a partial lifting of the mask mandate but that is subject to review and removal at any time.
Meanwhile, much of the world is still under full face lockdown.
Don’t believe me?
Look at how many halfwits have happily embraced the mask and made it into a virtue signalling billboard,
Then there are those money-grubbing scumbags who marketed ever more ridiculous variants of the muzzle.
Oh, how we laughed while watching the movie Naked Gun when Leslie Nielsen and Priscilla Presley donned full body condoms at the height of the AIDS hysteria.
And, Daddy-O you ain’t heard a tuba wail some blues until you’ve heard it from inside a resealable baggie.
Remember that according to Merriam Webster masks are:
Take that filthy, useless rag off your face and breathe the air of health, reason and freedom.
So, I was listening to an African lady doctor being interviewed on a major talk radio station.
For those of you who haven’t been paying attention, W.H.O. is the World Health Organisation of the United Nations. Along with being notoriously corrupt and inept, it’s the main purveyor of the pandemic hoax.
Anyway… this woman explained that Black African immigrants have higher rates of Covid infection and death than Whites due to “cultural factors.”
What she dared not say was those factors include all too many Blacks believing wacknoid conspiracy theories about Western medicine being part of a genocidal program perpetrated against them by evil Whitey. So, even those Blacks genuinely infected with Covid (or, anything) avoid effective health care.
Hell, Africans still consult witch doctors when plagued with pesky problems like kuru, scrofula and, uh, well… plague.
Hell, in Africa, witch doctors chop albinos into little pieces to make magic potions to cure impotence, dandruff and the heartbreak of psoriasis.
Hell, in Africa, men rape infants to cure AIDS.
If that isn’t happening then why are charities asking me to give money to stop it?
The African doctoress went on the say that many “people of color” including those of African descent work at “ground zero” of Covid – public transportation, care homes and hospitals. Then, she inadvertently spilled the beans –
“The sad truth is that the vast majority of non-White immigrants who come to the West carry latent TB.”
That was when your correspondent spat his Fruit Loops all over his radio.
When I was a kid in Brooklyn, we joked that TB stood for Twisted Balls. Now, let it be said that Twisted Balls is nothing to sneeze at. In fact, sneezing whilst afflicted with Twisted Balls must really, really smart. But that’s not the TB to which our Black lady clinician was referring. No, she meant Tuberculosis. Ya know, Tuberculosis? The world’s most infectious and deadly bronchial infection?
Now lemme think… wasn’t there something in the news recently about a super-infectious and potentially deadly bronchial infection making the rounds? Hmmmnnn… wait… it’ll come to me… oh, yeah – Covid -19.
If you have latent TB, the TB bacteria in your body are ‘asleep’. You are not ill and you cannot pass TB on to others.
However, the bacteria might ‘wake up’ many years later, making you ill with active TB.
Latent TB bacteria are more likely to wake up if you experience lifestyle stresses or other illnesses that weaken your immune system.
Uh… might working at “ground zero” of Covid count as a stressful lifestyle?
Uh… any chance Covid might weaken a person’s immune system?
But, enough about them. How ‘bout us?
If you were already battling a serious bronchial infection would you want to be driven, nursed or doctored by someone carrying the most infectious and deadly bronchial infection known to man?
Be honest now. Would ya? Huh?
Lest you think I am being a meanie to those poor folks from the Third World who are sadly afflicted with TB, I remind you that during the Great European Migration into America, White immigrants deemed physically or mentally unfit were shipped back whence they came.
Today, our governments literally invite the sick into our countries while airlines compete to see which can fly in more of the “wretched refuse.”
Hmmn… better make that “wretched andretching refuse.”
Here comes the $64,000 Covid Question
And , it’s a two-parter –
The same creeps who are pushing the official Covid narrative are those pushing for open borders and all the other outrages that will lead to The Great Replacement.
So… Hands on buzzers, contestants.
Do these creeps not know that TB is rampant in immigrants from the Third World? (In which case, they are criminally ignorant, medically incompetent and should not be allowed to dispense a single aspirin.)
Or, do they know and are eager to flood the West with millions of ticking TB time-bombs which could explode at any time causing financial ruin and widespread death?
It’s one or the other boys and girls.
Back in my misspent Brooklyn boyhood I heard this ditty –
TB or not TB?
That is the congestion.
Consumptive be done about it?
Of cough, of cough.
But not for a lung, lung time.
Funny how prescient kid’s can be.
Funny how Covid is being used to distract us from a genuine threat to our existence.
Thanks for visiting my blog. It is a sampler of my murder-memoir Boy Outa Brooklyn. The best way to enjoy it is to start at the first post and read chronologically. I hope you’ll find it both hilarious and horrifying.
I will also be posting about the best books, movies and songs about Brooklyn. And, sharing my practical and off-beat travel tips. If you enjoy my blog, please follow me. Hover your mouse in the lower right corner of the screen and a pop-up box will appear. Enter your email address and you’ll never miss one of my posts. Your address will not be sold or shared and you won’t be pestered with any sales cons.
So, I got an email from amazon claiming that some of my recent reviews had not followed its “community guidelines” and had caused offence i.e. some of my reviews had cost Jeff Bezos a few shekels. Trust me, I write honest reviews good and bad. I like nothing better than praising a well written book or recommending a product that’s worth its price. Sadly, I don’t get to write either of those very often. But when a book or widget is good, I am fulsome in my praise.
I got to thinkin’ about amazon’s “community guidelines” and what constitutes “offensive” material in the eyes of Jeff Bezos. So, I played a game. I entered every sexual kink and perversion I could think of (including ILLEGAL ones) into the amazon search engine and whatayaknow…
Don’t get me wrong. I’m no prude as my long-suffering readers can attest. My memoir Boy Outa Brooklyn is plenty dirty but it’s honest, clean dirt not juvenile jerk-off junk. Further, I believe that what consenting, adult Shih Tzus do in the privacy of their kennel is their business.
But I wanna know how come books celebrating sex with the family or the family dog do not offend and are not against amazon’s “community guidelines ” while books questioning any part of the official “holocaust narrative” of WW2 or any aspect of the Covid-hoax are immediately censored?
Don’t believe me? Play my game yourself.
Here are my favorite deviant-discoveries for sale on amazon with the much vaunted “Jeff Bezos Seal of Approval” –
This next title is too good to miss –
Housewife Lesbian Babysitter
Remember that you can’t sell or buy books on amazon that in any way question the official “holocaust narrative” of WW2. But that doesn’t mean Jeff won’t sell you some holocaust porn… er, I meant to say holocaust erotica – a genre very popular in… Israel.
This fräulein gives Ilsa, She Wolf of the SS a run for the money. Believe it or not, The Toymaker and the Nazi Sadomasochist was not short-listed for a Pulitzer.
If we’re supposed to be worried about Covid infection when someone gets within three feet of us or doesn’t wear a mask then we better be worried big-time about getting within a mile of anyone who dreams of or dabbles in the depravities depicted above. You better pray they’re using hand sanitizer!
The National Socialists are condemned for being book burners. But they didn’t burn classics. They burned unnatural and unhealthy trash like the books for sale on ever-so progressive and enlightened amazon.
Even before the hit song by the Village People, everyone knew what went on at the YMCA. But, after a day walking around the streets of Manhattan and a night running around the moors of Scotland, I was too whipped to care. Plus, the “Y” was only minutes from the theater and Jersey wasn’t. So, I risked it. But, getting a room at the “Y” was not easy. It was a popular place for young Christian men to fellowship, evangelize and sodomize. The line at the check-in desk looked like a casting call for The Boys in the Band.
So, I counted my blessings whenever I could get a four-dollar room with the all-important private shower. I felt like a real swell as I piled all the furniture against the door to dissuade unwanted visitors and watched Johnny Carson in glorious Black & White. For two bucks, I could get a private room but with a gang shower down the hall. One catch. There were nightly gangbangs in the gang shower. So, on two-buck nights, I’d wait until 4 AM when the orgy had finished then tiptoe down the hall and take a shower – fully clothed. For a buck, the “Y” supplied a bunk bed and a butt-plug.
The cast of Macbeth drank in an 8th avenue dive called the Chelsea Bar, not to be confused with the bar of the same name in the nearby Chelsea Hotel where celebrities went to OD on heroin. No, our Chelsea Bar was a beer & shot joint that catered to longshoremen and merchant seamen. We liked the Chelsea because the beer was cheap and the ambiance earthy – our very own Mermaid Tavern. The toothless, one-thumbed bartender liked us because we bought a lot of his beer and caused no trouble. He was not the only person in the Chelsea missing a body part – all the regulars were minus a finger, arm, ear or eye. They were the guys who didn’t pay attention when the industrial safety film was shown.
Every so often a fight would break out at the bar between two lugs and the bartender would bring out his sawn-off baseball bat to restore order. He’d slam it on the bar a few times then brandish it above his head. Silence. Then there’d be a final shouted curse from one of the combatants followed by a sudden flood of tears and a flight to the men’s room. Eventually, it hit us. These were lovers’ spats. We were in the butchest gay bar in the world. And, I am talkin’ butch. These guys looked like the wrestling tag-team of Skull Murphy and Brute Bernard.
The Chelsea Bar is long gone along with all those toothless, tattooed, hard-drinkin’, hard-lovin’ men. Were they buried at sea? In Potter’s Field? Did they spend their last days in the “Home for Sissy Stevedores?” Or, did these old salts care for each other in their dotage? Care for each other through the nightmare of AIDS that was gaining on them and perhaps already a stowaway in their bodies?
That’s why in 1974 New York and with hopeful hearts,my acting group dared to move into a rat’s nest flanked by porn shops. The customers of those shops received blowjobs for five bucks in the alley behind our theater. Those blowjobs were administered by Black trannies who resembled New York Giants linebackers dressed in hot pants and halter-tops. Our actresses had it extra-tough getting to and from our new home. They had to maneuver through pickpockets, pill-poppers and pimps while enduring wolf-whistles from Elvis Presley look-a-like diesel-dikes. If the actresses skirted the well-lit but obnoxious 42nd Street, they were easy prey on the dark and un-policed 41st and 43rd Streets.
When we compared travel-tips, we discovered that we had independently stumbled onto the same survival strategy. To avoid being maimed, mugged or murdered, we acted nuts. The primal animal in us instinctively knew that predators didn’t eat sick prey. So, we acted sick. We walked down 42ndstreet talking to ourselves and to Jesus. We laughed hysterically at everything and at nothing. We cried out to the Mayor and the Martians. We limped. We played retarded. Under serious threat, we had cerebral palsy.
Carrie was a year dead by the time we discovered this survival ruse. It might have saved her life.
One night, Ray and Preacher take me to a notorious gay bar way west in Greenwich Village –The Toilet. (I ain’t makin’ this up – The Toilet!) The dress-style ranges from crotchless black-leather pants to crotchless black-leather pants with metal studs. And, the metal studs are on the penis, not the pants. While who knows what is going on in the back room, we are entertained out front by the floorshow. This consists of an acrobat pulling his upside-down body up a thick iron chain, link by link, with his anal sphincter muscles. Yes, this intrepid aerialist climbs up the chain with his asshole!
Time passed, medicine advanced and we forgot. We forgot what a scourge AIDS was, especially in show business, especially in New York. By the late 1980s, I was the only actor still alive from several casts I’d been in during the 1970s.
At the height of the AIDS panic, I dated a public health official. She told me plans were in place to quarantine the entire city of New York, if necessary. The authorities foresaw streets piled with corpses collected by robot-controlled plague-carts. “Bring out your dead.” They were that ascared.
I first heard of AIDS in 1979 – the dawn of the epidemic. I had moved to a Brooklyn brownstone. Ray, my gay landlord said, “Have you heard that all the guys in the Village are getting sick? They’re calling it the gay cancer.” I still see Ray sitting there, still see the terror in his eyes, still feel the terror that shot through me. We both knew that what he was describing will kill him and maybe me. We were both ascared.