Tell ya the truth, I ain’t a fan of the Indian subcontinent. Even as a kid, I tolerated Sabu movies on TV only coz I knew a movie about real Injuns like Tonto was sure to follow.
The first TV commercial I remember seeing (circa 1955) showed a kid in the third world holding a begging bowl while flies crawled all over its face. That commercial is, in effect, still running some 67 years later. That tells you all you need to know about the effectiveness of charity, foreign aid and missionary work.
Then as a child of the sixties, I suffered (and I do mean suffered) through my generation’s pretentious flirtation with the sitar, Tiger Balm, yoga, karma and lentil curry.
Third World slop. All of it.
Age has not mellowed me. I lived in London for decades where I had more than enough “up close and personal” contact with the denizens of Hindustan to solidify my low opinion of them. So I am not prejudiced but postjudiced. I know the breed!
While you’ve been watching the Southern border, our ruling class has accelerated your replacement through a back door. Here’s a post I did about this latest invasion of our world.
That sound you hear isn’t Alka Seltzer tablets hitting water with the promise of relief to come.
No, it is the sound of athletes, celebrities, politicians, newscasters and assorted other imbeciles who took the Covid jabs dropping dead. And they are doing so at a rate of knots with no end in sight.
Not a day goes by without a front page story about someone collapsing on a sports field or TV screen without warning and from no apparent cause. And most of these corpses were in the prime of life!
Meanwhile, the experts assure us that these deaths had nothing to do with the fact that the dearly departed had been vaxxed to the gills!
As I’ve said, the most important histories of this sorry episode in human history will be those that delve into the emotional, psychological and sociological aspects of it.
Hey, it ain’t called Covid Mania for nuthin’.
The vaxxed ain’t called Covidiots for nuthin’ either!
Here’s a post I did that took a swing at analyzing the part that group dynamics played in the spread of this pseudo-plague-hoax-scam-racket. It makes more sense now than ever!
Okay. Ready? Here’s the final installment in this mirth-killing series about Yuletide disasters.
When we last saw our hero, (That would be me.) he was slinking home to Brooklyn after debasing himself in a Times Square porn movie house on Christmas Eve! I have entitled this cautionary tale –
Christmas In Queens
Remember how mean old Scrooge wakes on Christmas morn a man transformed? Remember how nasty old Ebenezer dances a merrie jig and sends a boy to buy a turkey? Not on this Christmas morn. Not in Brooklyn. I awake to the single worst toothache since Cicero’s oration against Catiline. It drives a spike into my head with every beat of my heart.
Ever try to find a dentist on Christmas Day? Don’t bother. Even Jewish dentists don’t work on Christmas. They want Christians who have been dumped by their bitch girlfriends on Christmas Eve to suffer. Bastards. Desperate for pain-relief, I swallow every pill I find in the medicine cabinet, including the unlabeled ones.
Is this my cat’s de-worming pill? Aw, fuck it.
Then, it hits me.
Oh, Christ, I gotta go sing for Ralphie’s fuckin’ mother in fuckin’ Queens!
My friend Ralphie will pay me one hundred dollars in cash to go to his mother’s house on Christmas afternoon and sing her a surprise Christmas song. I would rather have South American fire ants shoved up my ass but I need that money. God, do I need that money! So, heartache or not, toothache or not, I have to haul my sorry ass out to the sorry-ass end of Queens. No one goes to Queens. Ever. Why would they? I’m not even sure it’s open on Christmas.
Then my damn actor’s integrity kicks in and I determine to give this old gal a rousing “plum pudding” carol sing. It’s not her fault that “Lana the Cunt” dumped me or that Jewish dentists are getting revenge on me for centuries of the Blood Libel. So, I practice my song with a tape-recorder and even pack my pitch pipe. I put on my best “Dickensian” garb – a stovepipe hat stolen from a Victorian play and a scarf wrapped around my neck just as I’d seen carolers do in every production of A Christmas Carol. Then, with my tooth throbbing to an excruciatingly painful Tito Puente beat, I head for Queens – wherever the fuck that is.
It is cold. It is very cold. Oh, I almost forgot to tell you, it is very, very, cold. The subway is running slowly. Very, very, very slowly. I just miss a train and wait on the unheated platform for one hour. (Throbbing tooth.) I just miss a bus and wait on the unheated street for another hour. (Throbbing tooth.) It begins to snow. It is getting dark. (Throbbing tooth.) It takes me four hours to reach my destination.
Why does Queens exist?
My frostbitten fingers ring the doorbell and a sweet old woman answers.
“Ho, ho, ho! Merry Christmas! I have a special song for you from Ralphie!” I tweet through chattering, throbbing teeth. My scarf is now wound around my head Victorian-toothache-style. Mom lets me step into the vestibule where I whip out my pitch pipe and sing I’ll Be Home or Christmas. But, why haven’t I seen this coming? I am teleported back to the California 7-11. By the miracle of bi-location, I am sobbing next to the Taco melted-cheese dispenser in Oxnard while sobbing in a vestibule in the ass-end of Queens before an embarrassed, confused and frightened old woman. I get through the song and wipe my nose while mentally evaluating my vibrato. (Once an actor…) Mom invites me in for cake and coffee.
“Oh, no, thank you. I have several other stops to make. I don’t want to be late and disappoint anyone. Ho, ho, ho! Merry Christmas!”
The return journey is colder, snowier, slower. It takes me five hours to get back home. I eat a can of tuna fish for Christmas dinner, carefully avoiding my throbbing tooth. That’s all the food in the house. A can of tuna. I then bounce off the walls until dawn with toothache and heartache my only companions.
To my long suffering readers –
I wish you a very Merry Christmas and an even better New Year!
You lucky people. I have decided to share with you a few juicy Christmas morsels from my murder-memoir – Boy Outa Brooklyn. They are simply too wonderfully depressing to keep to myself. After all, Christmas is a time for giving. So… put your feet up, pop open an egg-nog and enjoy!
Pages fly off the calendar until they reach Christmas 1981.
The place is Oxnard, California.
Your reporter is a struggling actor working as a minimum wage security guard at a hospital when… the screen goes fuzzy… fuzzy… fuzzy…
Then things got bad. My girlfriend back in New York dumped me. By phone. On Christmas Eve.
While working in the security-guard game, I was living in a mini-trailer – let’s be kind and call it a “trailerette.” This particular trailerette was in the Wagons West Trailer Park right off Route 1 in Oxnard, California. When I say, “right off,” I mean I could reach out the window and adjust the rear-view mirrors on passing cars. (It has been said that Oxnard is something that comes out of a bull’s nose. I don’t know if that’s true, but I can testify that Oxnard, California smells like something that comes out of a bull’s ass.)
Strawberry fields surrounded Oxnard to the horizon. The fruit was grown under long strips of black plastic sheeting, so the fields looked as if they had been wrapped in an enormous garbage-bag. But, in a certain light, those garbage bags were beautiful. They shimmered in the sun and radiated heat waves so that, at sunset, Oxnard was a mirage city afloat on a glistening, black-plastic lake.
Wagons West Trailer Park, an island in that lake, was infested with illegal immigrant Mexican families. Wetbacks. Like their Puerto Rican cousins in Brooklyn, they spent their days screaming the Mexican equivalent of “mira, mira,” blasting the Mexican equivalent of Tito Puente music and shoplifting. Wagons West had a swimming pool the size of a toilet bowl, so the Mexicans used it as such. All in all, this wasn’t shaping up to be one of the more festive Yuletide seasons of my life. Besides, Christmas and Southern California didn’t go together. It was just plain wrong.
To be a good scout, I volunteered to do a double shift at the hospital on Christmas Eve so that another security guard could have holiday time with his family. Never mind that he was a stuttering semi-retard who beat his wife. (“The b-b-b-bitch ja-ja-ja-just d-d-d-on’t li-li-li-lissen.”) For I was aglow with the spirit of Noël and decided, “God bless us everyone” even violent, stuttering semi-retards.
My girlfriend in New York called as I was suiting up for work. Let’s call her Monica since that was her name. It was Christmas Eve and the movie It’s a Wonderful Life was on TV. The trailerette was so cramped that to answer the phone, I had to sit with my head touching the TV screen. I turned down the sound – the better to hear the splat as Monica dumped me from a great height. As I listened, numb, I stared at Jimmy Stewart running silently through the streets of Bedford Falls desperate to find someone, anyone, who could save him. I melted into the screen. I melded with Jimmy. I was Jimmy. I mumbled to Monica that I understood and there were no hard feelings. (I lied.) I picked up the Santa Claus hat I was going to wear to work and fed it to the kitchen garbage disposal.
I stepped out of the trailerette into the humid inferno that was Christmas Eve in Oxnard, California. It wasn’t even dark yet, but the Wetback kids had already ripped open their shoplifted presents and broken all their toys. Bent bikes and headless dolls laid abandoned in the dust beside the flat wheels of the trailers. I heard beer bottles being smashed and Mexican curses being hurled. Feliz Navidad. I made for Happy Valley Hospital. MerryfuckingChristmas!
At 3 AM, I took my lunch-break. The hospital cafeteria was closed so I couldn’t even get hospital slop from the slutty, pink-haired punk who worked there. Instead, I fantasized about fucking her four-ways-from-next-Tuesday in my trailerette. She would be wearing my Santa hat and nothing else. “If the trailer is rockin’, don’t bother knockin.” But, Pinky was probably rockin’ that night with the hospital’s jailbird janitor. So, I walked to a 7-11 that was ablaze with light and found it full of Martians – the ancestors of today’s Walmartians. The nurses who had rejected me because I talked “funny” were correct to have identified me as an alien species. But, they had their morphological categories backward. I was the only Earthling in Oxnard and certainly the only Homo sapiens in that 7-11. The true aliens were the shapeless blobs of carbon-based life-forms buying Slurpees and Slim Jims at 3 AM on Christmas Eve.
What are they? Where did they come from? Why can’t they go back? How does any organism become this greasy, ugly, fat and stupid yet still live?
As I struggled to find something to eat related to any known food-group the Muzak played I’ll Be Home for Christmas. I lost it. Right by the Taco melted-cheese dispenser. I wept copious tears, perhaps aided by the chopped onion in the jalapeño bean dip. No Martians noticed. But I sucked it up and manfully determined to finish my double-shift. I wanted those ex-military tools who hired me to mourn losing their best man.
But I also had to face the facts that were as plain as the pus-filled pimples on the oily forehead of the 7-11 clerk – I hated California and California hated me. I had tried to be an exemplary employee but despite my efforts, I had somehow offended someone so grievously that the cunt-lapping, shit-eating, fuck-face went and trashed my Mercury Comet in the hospital parking lot while I was making my rounds.
Goddam, I loved that car. Fuck these California cretins.
Propelled by a sudden, baffling surge of nostalgia for being pissed on by drunken Negroes on the “A” train, I made for New York.
I HAD BEEN LIVING in London for three decades when a voice in my head began nagging me. “Yankee Go Home,” it said. I believe all ex-pats hear this voice no matter what their home country. It’s natural to want to be home especially as we age. And though I remain eternally grateful to Britain for giving me the use of the hall for so long, I had fallen out of love with the place and the feeling was mutual.
The London I moved to thirty years earlier had become unrecognizable. Believe it or not, back then, London was shut on Sundays and the idea of a Muslim mayor was laughable. (A Hindu Prime Minister? Impossible.) In fact, I was shocked in 1990 when I saw just one completely veiled Muslim woman on the street! For the first twenty years of my London adventure, crime – especially violent crime – was very low and there was a general orderliness and decency about the place. (At least compared to the New York City I had fled.) I miss London circa 1990 as I miss New York circa 1956. Sadly, both cities are gone forever.
By 2010, I was looking behind me on the streets and looking at anti-FGM billboards on the tubes. I also had to slalom through a feces-strewn tent city to get into my tube station. Then I had a fist fight with a pickpocket on a London bus (I won) and the police questioned me! Before my eyes, London had morphed into Detroit with a few Ye Olde touristy bits. It was time for this actor to exit and pronto.
Some readers may remember my earlier post “Fade to Black” which catalogued the deliberate discrimination against White performers. (The best-selling thriller author James Patterson says that White writers now face the same attack.) Well… since the BLM riots and media company capitulation to the Black mobs, that anti-White discrimination has increased exponentially. Anyone who watches film and TV now recognizes how much non-White faces have invaded our screens. So, I was facing a future as an old White actor in London who would be unemployable or offered roles in anti-White garbage that I would never accept. Then Covid hit and I was shocked and disappointed by how easily the Brits surrendered. Other nations did the same but somehow, I expected better of the British. So… in May of 2021 – feeling as though I was escaping East Berlin in the Cold War – I split for points West.
Strange to report, this Brooklyn boy didn’t end up back on the stoops of Brooklyn but rather in the Appalachian Mountains of Eastern Tennessee – Davy Crockett country! In 1955, like every other kid in the US, I lived in my Davy Crockett coonskin cap. Now, by some strange twist of fate, I was living a stone’s throw from Davy’s birthplace. And it’s as close to a Goldilocks spot as you could find. The waves of White urbanites fleeing here prove my point. The terrain is beautiful, the climate temperate, the demographics 95% White, and, prior to the Biden economy, it was remarkably affordable. Sadly, in my one year in this demi-paradise the price of gas has doubled with no ceiling in sight and food prices are skyrocketing, too.
More bad news is that the anti-White bias controls show business here, too. The casting notices for screen, stage, or voice work are all skewed toward non-Whites and people who clearly have more genders than sense. The producers and directors trumpet their preferred pronouns and expect me to do the same. (I don’t.) The Web pages of regional theaters are plastered with Black faces giving the impression that theater is an almost exclusively Negro invention and activity. And these theatres proclaim that their primary mission is not to put on good productions of plays that a paying audience might enjoy seeing, but rather to promote racial equality, social justice, diversity, and inclusion — especially for the LGBTQLMNOP+ community. When I phone the office of the Screen Actors Guild, I am given a list of options to dial if I have experienced racial or sexual abuse. It’s revealing that I am not given a phone option if I, as a worker, feel I have been monetarily abused. The once mighty SAG union has been effectively busted by the Jewish media moguls who claim to be all for social justice.
Tennessee is a solid red (Republican) state, and I am living in the reddest part of that state. This is Trump Country. I landed here only a few months after Biden took office, but the roads were already lined with Trump 2024 signs, and I regularly see hilariously filthy anti-Biden bumper stickers too vulgar to recount. The folk here are very, very pro-police and pro-military. Tennessee is known as the Volunteer State because it has always sent more men per capita to the military than any other.
Veterans are worshipped here. They get special sales, parking spots, and meal deals. I’m the only guy not wearing a t-shirt declaring “Proud Vietnam War Veteran” or “Proud Korean War Veteran.” Many wear hats that proclaim, “Proud Wounded Veteran” or, even better, “Proud Battle-Wounded Veteran.” The sad truth is that these brave men are knee-jerk super-patriots. They were cannon fodder but can’t admit it. As much as they despise Biden, if he sent them into battle, they would click their heels (even their prosthetic ones) and be off. As far as they are concerned, no American ever fought in an unjust war.
I believe this mindset is a legacy of the Civil War. Southern men, with their British blood, love to fight. But they also feel a need to prove they are loyal to the union. I’ve seen this same syndrome in Mormons who also had a long history of bloody opposition to the rest of America. That’s why they disproportionately serve in the FBI and CIA. This “rah-rah the flag” mentality makes discussing American foreign policy a minefield. I have used the Russia-Ukraine war to make some progress, but I first must counter the anti-Russia nonsense they’ve been fed by the media including Fox News.
I thought there were lots of churches in Rome until I moved to Eastern Tennessee. There are churches everywhere here, even in the middle of the forest. Baptist is by far the most common denomination, but there are more versions of Baptist than Heinz has beans. Then there are the other major Protestant groups along with Church of Christ, Church of God, and assorted micro-denominations. Catholics are rarer than rocking-horse shit. In fact, when I tell people I’m an ex-Catholic they look for my horns and hooves. I’m told that in one church very near me they handle snakes. But don’t get the impression I’m living in a hillbilly holler. This region has ballet companies and symphonies. Life is very similar in the Appalachian Mountains up and down the East Coast. Anyone familiar with the Pocono Mountains of Pennsylvania or the Adirondacks of New York would feel at home here.
Everyone I meet invites me to their church, so I’ve been to quite a few. The services are bland with decent contemporary Gospel singing and generic “Jesus loves you” sermons. The congregants are ancient and busily waiting for The Rapture. They are instinctively against all the right things like globohomo and open borders but are unaware that organized Jewry is pushing these poisons. Most have never even met a Jew in their lives. (The same is true in Mormon Utah.) Most churches are not explicitly Christian Zionist, but they have a Disneyfied picture of the Twelve Tribes. In their artwork, Moses looks like Charlton Heston and the ancient Jews look Bavarian. This makes it difficult to make them see the truth about modern Jews and the criminal state of Israel. After all, “That nice Charlton Heston wouldn’t do anything un-Christian to us.”
The naïveté of these Christians extends to homosexuality. They are vehemently against it but don’t really know how truly degenerate it is. It is beyond their comprehension and simply too distasteful to discuss. As a result, some queers are making headway in the local school system pushing those “Cindy Has Two Mommies” books. I raised the issue with several local politicians. They simply could not comprehend what I was talking about and didn’t want to know. So, ironically, the unspeakable nature of homosexuality is its best defense.
Against my better judgement, I attended a 100% White Republican Party luncheon and, as I feared, it was full of back-slapping Chamber of Commerce types and their former beauty queen wives. None of the candidates who addressed us said anything of substance or that couldn’t have been said by a Democrat. Not a peep about race or the Great Replacement Policy. In private conversation, I asked the candidates some tough questions about race, but they brushed them off as not relevant because we’re all God’s children. (Christianity is a big problem for White nationalism!) I later learned that most of these candidates run unopposed, so they have become complacent.
These politicians and their constituents are in for a shock and a fight. The forces of darkness have crept into these mountains while their backs were turned. There is now an Islamic Cultural Center here.
The regional airport will no doubt soon be forced to accept Biden’s secret nighttime flights filled with non-White invaders. One local church has just imported an Afghani family with their entire village soon to follow, along with their goats. And, as is always the case, the local university is a haven to Jewish professors and pink-haired, morbidly obese creatures of dubious sexuality. I doubt these psycho-sexual misfits can find common cause with the native conservative Christians. I predict conflict in the not-too-distant future. The locals better conjure the fighting spirit of their British pioneer ancestors, or they will go the way of the dodo.
I oppose violence and would never condone or encourage it. But as America faces social collapse and the inevitable chaos it brings; it is comforting to know that there are four million registered deer hunters in Pennsylvania alone. I doubt many of those are non-binary. Tennessee is even more gun-friendly. The media-hyped mass shootings in America just increase gun sales here. (By the way, the US ranks only 64th in the world in mass shootings!) In fact, in this state you don’t even need a license to own a gun and concealed carry licenses are easy to come by. The men I see in Walmart with shirts hanging over their belts are concealing more than their beer guts. That said, this is the most peaceful region I’ve ever lived in. Maybe it’s because so many people are armed. In my one year here, I have not seen one violent incident or even heard a raised voice.
In some ways, America is little changed in my thirty years away. The shape of daily life is about the same. Ubiquitous phones, social media, and technology are one definite change and one for the worse. But the rise of entitlement culture is the biggest change I’ve seen. The glorification of victimhood and vulnerability. The rampant narcissism. I believe a certain Austrian painter called it, “The tyranny of the unwell.”
Thanks to voter fraud, the Democrats avoided being wiped out in the recent mid-term elections. But the results proved this is a 50-50 country with no hopes of reconciliation. The left and right need a no-fault divorce. The Whites and non-Whites need racial separation. Barring those rational, compassionate solutions things will get very ugly.
Meanwhile, the race to replace Biden as the Democrat nominee in 2024 will be as heated as that to replace Johnson in 1968. I predict this period will be similarly riot-filled and blood-soaked. All the entitled minority factions will be off the chain. And I can’t think of anywhere I’d rather ride out the storm than smack dab in Davy Crockett country!
Your reporter recently got a cheery message courtesy of the lethally incompetent and lethally politicized National Health System of Great Britain.
Here it is –
Throughout the pandemic we’ve seen various mutations of COVID 19. The latest variant of concern originated in India.
This new variant is a reminder that the pandemic isn’t over. The world will need to continue taking measures to keep ourselves and our communities safe for some time to come.
For those of you whose knowledge of the Indian sub-continent consists of re-runs of Sabu movies allow me to explain that India was once the “Jewel in the Crown” of the British Empire. And, even though it won independence thanks to the efforts of that noted urine-drinker Mahatma Gandhi, it remains part of the British Commonwealth.
That’s why Indians can easily immigrate to Britain along with former colonials from Africa, Asia and the Caribbean.
This is a perfect example of that dire warning –
“If we go there, they come here.”
So, when this latest Covid variant reared its ugly head in the shit-caked sub-continent, half the population of Mumbai and Delhi packed up their begging bowls and high-tailed it to Britain.
Ever vigilant, Prime Minister Boris “I’m the laziest, dumbest douche in England” Johnson sprang into action and ordered flights from India blocked two weeks from next Tuesday.
The major airlines that brag about being concerned for passenger’s health and that they fully support BLM and LGBTQ+LMNOP and every other poison of our age, immediatelytried to add more flights from India to Britain.
To their credit (although they should have barred all flights from India immediately), all but one of the UK’s airports refused to add additional flights. The one exception was Birmingham Airport.
One look at the racial demographics of that city will explain why.
Hint: Birmingham is as British as a biryani.
If you think I am being a mean ol’ racist consider that allowing possibly infected Indians into Britain jeopardizes Indians already there. Duh.
Hey, ya want racist?
Take a gander at the Hindu Caste System. It is apartheid, segregation and eugenics on steroids. And Indians flying into the West bring the caste system with them as a carry-on.
Meanwhile… We in the West are constantly told that we must import massive numbers of “brilliant” Indian IT engineers and coders or we won’t be able screw in a lightbulb.
Anyone who has endured the sheer hell of phoning an Indian call-center or computer help-line knows how preposterous that claim is.
Lissen ta me.
These Indian “geniuses” (with massive families in tow) are brought into the West to squat in low-pay IT jobs and keep out more qualified Whites who will demand better wages from the “progressive” Robber Barons of Silicon Valley.
Lissen ta me.
Far from being a land of geniuses, India is a land of street-shitters.
Don’t believe me?
Find the TedTalks episode on youtube of the heavily disguised Indian academic who dares to tell the truth about the lack of basic hygiene in his homeland. He is heavily disguised lest those peaceable Indians cut him into pieces.
Hear him explain how Indians for all their brilliance have yet to figure out the care and feeding of an outhouse. So, excrement in its various forms – liquid, solid, steam and dust doth abound.
And that’s just the human excrement.
Don’t forget cows are sacred in India and they roam everywhere.
Ever wonder why India produces so many boys with nine legs and girls with seven arms?
Ever wonder why India is still plagued by leprosy, smallpox and well… plague?
Ya know… when your fingers, toes, arms and legs putrefy and fall off and you go blind?
I’ll tell ya why India is still home to these scourges.
Coz it’s a fuckin’ shithole.
And the denizens of this shithole are flooding into the West and the “progressive” airlines are doing everything they can to increase that flood.
India is teeming with holy men, gurus, seers and mystics. One of the current top shysters…er, I mean Sadhus is one Sadhguru. Think of him as a latter day Maharishi Mahesh Yogi – ya know, the holy snake oil salesman who entranced the Beatles, Beach Boys and half of Hollywood.
On youtube, see Sadhguru become indignant when a Westerner dares to question why India is so hygienically-challenged. He defends India’s status as an open-latrine as being glorious chaos that the Indians love.
If the Indians haven’t cleaned up their act since Buddah was a boy what makes ya think they ever will?
Hint: They won’t.
Outraged and offended Indians (and their apologists) can prove me wrong at a stroke. Forbid the Indian geniuses from leaving and put them to work solving India’s problems and healing the poor bastards afflicted with plague, smallpox and leprosy.
Seems practical and compassionate to me.
India is full of millionaires and Mensa members.
What’s stopping them?
Feel better now?
Whether Covid is real or as dangerous as claimed, as long as the West allows free movement to and from the Third World, it will be vulnerable to endless pandemics real, imagined or manufactured.
Unless our borders are closed, the entire world will become the Third World.
Or, is that the agenda?
So, how do we fix it?
The solution is simple.
I’ll let the incomparable Noel Coward have the last word.
First I made with the Covid Questions as to the how, why, who and wherefore of Covid craziness.
Now, I’ll make with the first of several answers.
Here’s one hint – it had nothing to do with medicine, science or reason. Mark my words, the telling histories of Covid 19 will be the psychological and behavioral studies. If they are ever allowed to be printed, that is.
“So, how did we get to this pretty pass?” I hear you cry.
All the third-rate minds who couldn’t cut it in the real world, work in academia, government and NGOs. One way or another we pay their exorbitant, undeserved salaries. Think of that Oxford numb-nut, Neil “We’re all gonna be dead by May 2020 but I’m too busy fucking my fat-pig married girlfriend while you’re all locked-down so I don’t give a shit” Ferguson.
And, don’t forget Whatshisname – that mentally, morally and ethically challenged Ethiopian douchebag who runs W.H.O.
They and their ilk are terrified they might lose their reputations or tenure if they admit error so they double-down on their debunked ideas and predictions.
Their minions are terrified they might lose their jobs and pensions if they stick their heads above the “official opinion parapet” so, they go along with the boss.
They become classic “Yes Men.”
Meanwhile, all the third-rate minds who put themselves forward as talking heads and pundits on TV and radio know that to get a book deal or that much coveted regular spot on CNN, MSNBC or the BBC, they must regurgitate the party line. And, most importantly, keep sheeple watching.
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.
In the first two exciting instalments of Covid Questions, I raised the vexing question of Covid test reliability and the hidden, ignored, deadly threat of tuberculosis. This time out I’d like to bring your attention to the problem of systemic government and corporate incompetence.
Okay, I admit it. I’m a curmudgeon. Correction. I’m a Covid curmudgeon. Anyone who isn’t hasn’t been paying attention.
Sure, we all make mistakes and have bad days at work. But the non-stop fuck-ups and chronic incoherence of those in charge of the Covid response frost my pumpkins.
Case in point:
Your reporter recently flew into Heathrow airport in London where the walls were covered with signs ordering arriving passengers to stay two meters apart – that’s more than six feet in old money. But, the crack, elite, Covid-security staff at Heathrow forced the arriving passengers into a line that snaked back on itself two, three and four times.
This twisted the passengers into a suffocating, huddled mass in which it was impossible to stay even two feet apart. Plus, it was impossible to breathe without inhaling another passenger’s fetid breath and exhaling my own back at them. And we were so locked for ninety excruciating minutes.
I guess the crack, elite, Covid-security staff at Heathrow didn’t get the memo about social distancing. Or, maybe they can’t read English. God knows most of them can barely speak it!
Heck, on my flights into and out of Heathrow, the airline used Covid as an excuse for not giving its customers even a bottle of water. But the airline wasn’t so worried about infection that it wouldn’t sell you one.
Meanwhile, we were packed into the flying metal tube for almost three hours breathing what we’d been warned could be recycled Covid-rich air only to have the airline make a big play of having us de-plane a few rows at a time so Covid couldn’t jump on our asses.
I guess the virus slept through the flight until the landing jolted it awake and into attack mode.
I assume the pilot who flew us into England has been flying that route weekly if not daily and should have known the Covid arrival drill.
Another missed memo?
I eventually managed to escape England feeling all the while like I was escaping East Berlin in the depths of the Cold War. Leading up to my flight day, I received numerous ominous emails and texts from the airline and US and UK governments reminding me of the danger of Covid and the necessity to stay home and not travel.
In order to fly, I had to pay for an expensive test to prove that I was Covid-free. Before check-in and at check in and even while airborne, I was presented with yet another form to fill in and declaration to sign. All told I had seven separate pagesthat I had to have on my phone and/or about my person for inspection by the airline and UK and US immigration officials.
Howzat for government and corporate competence and vigilance?
Here’s more Covid craziness –
Many live-in carers and spouses who are living in close proximity to infected patients and partners are not getting infected by this “super bug” that we are told can leap tall buildings in a single bound. Remember we had been warned that Covid is so infectious we had to quarantine our groceries in special rooms for days to kill the virulent pest.
Meanwhile… didja notice they don’t even talk about gloves anymore? Hmmmnnn…