The Week’s Most Bacon Foresworn, Trans Nazi Scorn, and Minister of Porn Headlines
A MODEL CITIZEN
They say attack is the best form of defense; but in today’s Islamized Germany, defense now just gets you attacked. John Rudat is—or was—a 21-year-old male model from Albany, N.Y., who bravely intervened to save two women from being harassed by Syrians on a Dresden tram. For his efforts, Rudat was given a free nose job with a knife by, he says, a known immigrant thug and drug dealer.
The apprehended Syrian suspect was released from police custody within mere hours following arrest, however, as there “was no evidence” he was the one who had carried out the stabbing. After all, it could have been any one of around approximately one million others scattered across Germany these days, all of whom appear to look and act exactly the same.
Such individuals are habitually described as “vulnerable refugees” by the media and authorities, which is all part of our current trend of egregiously mislabeling victims as criminals and criminals as victims; perhaps the real reason the Syrian was released was because he claimed Mr. Rudat had callously attacked his knife with his nose.
LYING DUTCHMEN
Also this week, a 17-year-old Dutch girl named only as “Lisa” cruelly but fatally assaulted the blade of an innocent 22-year-old asylum seeker and alleged semiprofessional rapist with her neck, an offense technically known as a “reverse guillotine.” The killing sparked mass protests from Holland’s feminists, who marched through the streets bearing placards blaming simply “men” for the crime. Which men, though? “Not all men, but always men.” Was Amsterdam’s Anne Frank once killed only by “men” too, then? Don’t be silly, the Nazis were white men, so they can safely be named!
Catholic churches across Holland declared a minute’s silence in Lisa’s memory—not only for her, but also for any and all “other victims” who had been “threatened or attacked because of appearance, race, sexuality [or] religion.” In other words, for her murderer, too, then.
As news of the femicide spread, sales of an innovative new anti-rape product, “X-Marker,” have shot through the roof: It emits a special dye onto attackers’ bodies, temporarily turning their skin blue for the next three days straight. Expect the Dutch Catholic Church to announce a special vigil deploring the consequent racist smearing of the Netherlands’ totally innocent, valued, and diverse immigrant Smurf community as being habitual sex offenders themselves any day now.
DEFENSIVE LANGUAGE
Donald Trump is a man who has long known that attack is the best form of defense, particularly when it comes to Iranian nuclear facilities. He’s also a very plain speaker, possibly because he has the vocabulary of a 2-year-old.
So, it should come as no surprise that Donald has now floated the idea of renaming the Department of Defense by its old, and way more accurate, pre-1950s name of the Department of War.
Back in the good old days when it was still called the DoW, Trump observed that this had “a stronger sound,” one so intimidating it automatically meant “we won the World War I” and even its acclaimed and much higher-budget sequel. Yet America has since lost winnable fight after winnable fight in petty little theaters of conflict like Vietnam and Iraq, a phenomenon that could only possibly be attributed to the department’s poorly chosen post-WWII name.
“‘Defense’ is too defensive,” Trump complained, thus implying he should have retitled it the Department of Offense instead, as “We want to be offensive, too, if we have to be.” If he really wanted to be offensive, he should have renamed it the Department of Wog-Bombing.
Or, if he really wanted to be honest, simply the Israeli Foreign Ministry.
PEPPA-SPRAY PIG
Somewhere offensive language is definitely not allowed these days is the nation formerly known as Great Britain, but recently updated for the purposes of accuracy to become Al-Britannia, due to all the Smurfs living there right now. Al-Britannia’s population presently labors under a dictatorial form of unjust, two-tier neo-apartheid racial government, in which the oppressed white natives are policed in one way, and their new privileged non-white Muslim Smurflords are policed in another.
Matters reached a particular nadir this week when a headline appeared in broadsheet newspaper The Daily Telegraph alleging that, in Al-Britannia 2025, “Shoplifters can steal sausages with impunity. But mention bacon to a Muslim and the police come running.”
This referred to the strange case of a 23-year-old man arrested by British cops for the alleged “crime” of standing outside a mosque in the Lake District and singing the words “We love bacon” in a silly voice. These words, said the constable, might “be perceived to be racially abusive” under the terms of Section 5 of the Public Order Act 1986. But the mosque itself is still under construction, so presumably will not actually have contained any Middle Eastern bacon-shunners at all yet. So who was really supposed to even be present to have their ears offended here? As a demonstrable pig, maybe it was the officer himself who felt he was being abused?
Meanwhile, The Daily Telegraph angrily pointed out that while a good, honest white Englishman was instantly handcuffed just for mentioning meat near hypothetical Muhammadans, scummy shoplifters can “get away with pilfering up to £200 worth of pork products with very little risk indeed of finding themselves in a police cell,” due to prosecutors generally not bothering to indict miscreants for the theft of goods worth up to that specific sum from commercial premises.
This, argued the newspaper, was yet further proof of two-tier justice for whites and Muslims in the nation these days. But do Telegraph journalists really think that Muslims were the most probable suspects to have been stealing sausages in the first place? Small slabs of pork are more likely to be stapled to other products as makeshift anti-shoplifting security tags in certain Islam-filled cities of the U.K. like Birmingham—a city whose very name is already increasingly beginning to look like a potential hate crime waiting to happen. If Donald Trump was Britain’s caliph, he would already have renamed the place Birminghalal.
SVEN OR SVENJA?
Also hyper-concerned with the correct use of language is male German neo-Nazi Sven Liebich, a man with absolutely no need to ever shoplift a sauerkraut himself. Clever Sven has supposedly suddenly just morphed into a female German neo-Nazi named Marla-Svenja Liebich, in an attempt to serve an upcoming jail sentence in a women’s prison after being found guilty of “hate crimes.”
A campaigner against 2020’s Covid lockdown, Liebich had said Anne Frank would have been on his side, because “she knew what it meant to be locked up” in her attic (by “men,” we will recall), and had suggested elderly members of a pro-migrant pensioner pressure group called Grannies Against the Right visit refugee centers and offer their collective sexual services up to the incomers “so there will be fewer rapes in Germany.” In other words, it now appears to be illegal to make non-left-wing jokes in Al-Germania as well as in Al-Britannia, too.
Formerly a member of what was thought to have been a fascist cabal called “Blood and Honor,” it turns out Liebich’s club was in fact just a self-support group for self-identified “people who menstruate,” hence the name. Yet Liebich is known to have made what were termed “queerphobic statements” in the past, warning of something called “transfascism,” a phenomenon you may have thought a neo-Nazi would have rather liked.
Threatening to sue anyone who calls him male for 10,000 euros, Liebich nonetheless seems to go out of sein/ihr way to make it clear he is actually male, by walking around dressed in tight leopard skin, a floppy female hat, and big earrings, while at the same time growing a completely contradictory huge droopy mustache (less Hitler, more Kaiser Wilhelm). As such, many have suspected the whole thing may be a cynical dodge intended either to ensure himself a cushy prison posting or to satirize stupidly lenient German gender self-ID laws, which allow a person to legally register as a member of the opposite sex just by filling in a short form.
As well as choosing to self-ID as a woman, Liebich has also now chosen to self-ID as being Jewish, too, threatening to file official legal complaints against anybody he feels to be “defaming my kosher diet.” Stand outside his cell singing “We love bacon” and you’ll get yourself arrested over in Germany, too, these days, then.
Most Germans will only believe Sven is really a woman the day he ends up being sexually assaulted on a tram by some Syrians.
TRANS-NATIONAL RELATIONS
If he wishes to inhabit a truly trans-safe nation, Sven/Svenja should scarper down south toward Colombia, where the nation’s Communist President, Gustavo Petro, has just appointed a “transgender woman,” Charlotte Schneijder Callejas, as a Vice Minister—or as plain-speaker Trump may more accurately put it, a Minister for Vice.
Callejas graduated from the Faculty of Biology at the University of Havana in Cuba, where the curriculum strangely did not appear to actually involve any biology at all; thankfully, “she” later claimed asylum in Bogota before graduating from a far more informative “Feminist and Gender Studies” course at the National University of Colombia, which set “her” straight on the inarguable knowledge that a penis was of course a classic item of female genitalia. And Callejas’ specific new role in Colombia’s Commie government? Vice Minister for Women.
Callejas previously worked in Bogota’s Department for Social Prosperity, where, upon appointment, “she” was acclaimed as being the perfect appointee to the role, which involved responsibility for various transport-related matters, as “she” had extensive prior personal experience of what was termed “active mobility,” which later transpired to mean “cycling, walking, etc.”
Turns out this fool actually meant “menstrual cycling”; upon appointment, Callejas boasted of hoping to enjoy a long period in government. It would be a surprise if “she” could even have one at all.
COLOMBIA PICTURES
Callejas’ new boss at the Ministry of Equality and Equity is Juan Carlos Florián, who is also a gay porn star in France; he once created a left-wing porn actors’ union in Paris. As Juan also has HIV, he will naturally possess intimate familiarity with Colombia’s national hospital system, so should also really be appointed as Minister for Public Health; then Donald Trump could accurately retitle it the Department of Juan Care.
In the possibly badly translated actor bio he uses for his French porn flicks, with titles like BravoFucker and Florian, or the Fantasies of the Uniform, Juan describes himself as being “well-mounted and bogoss,” with “a suburban lascar style” that “turns heads in his neighborhood and far beyond,” with his “little macho side” and “little-strike head” making “all the taci passives drool,” whatever the hell any of that means. Apparently, “Juan has everything you need to kiffer with donf.”
In Juan’s own highly HIV-positive words:
I come from the streets, from the struggle, from real activism. I was a sex worker, I made adult content, I am HIV positive, and I was a migrant. But I am also a political scientist, I have been a builder of public policies, a public manager, a human rights defender, a vice minister and, above all, a son of the people who does not forget where he comes from.
Once you see his films, you won’t be able to forget where he comes from either.
Isn’t it a bit inappropriate for a porn star to be working in government? Not according to the suburban lascar himself, who says his past experiences simply qualify him as having been a man of many parts:
Just as I was a sex worker, I was also a housekeeper, I was looking after the elderly, I was looking at children [hopefully he means looking AFTER children], I was working in food also, because I was in a precarious situation [financially]…. I don’t think that making pornographic scenes is going to affect my ability as a Minister of Diversity.
To be fair, maybe not. If the rumors about the Epstein Tapes are true, many other world statesmen are porn stars themselves too. It’s just that, unlike Juan Carlos Florián, they don’t yet know it.
The most famous line in Elizabeth Barrett Browning’s whole large oeuvre is the opening of her Sonnet 43 from the Portuguese:
How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.
Having no poetic faculty, I am, like much of humanity, more inclined to ask: What in life irritates me? Let me count the ways.
I woke up this morning rather earlier than I wanted and still tired, but could not get back to sleep. I knew that this presaged a day when my brain would never be as clear as possible, and throughout which I would drag myself, exhausted.
Then I came across an article on my phone about a women’s rugby championship. It is unseemly for women to play rugby, and they will never be any good at it. It is a game made for men and increasingly for monsters. In the days when it was still a genuinely amateur sport, those who played it were of ordinary dimensions and often young men who went on to sensible careers in medicine, law, business, and the like.
Now, however, the sport is professional and played by men who seem to be eight feet wide and run straight into one another, very fast and often headfirst. Not surprisingly, a significant proportion of them suffer from traumatic dementia very early in their lives, and some, understandably though I do not think justifiably, try in the early stages of their sad condition to obtain financial compensation. The sport has become so violent that even people who are not unduly sensitive to violence shrink from observing it close-up.
Freud might have taken these women’s desire to participate in a sport that is so radically unsuited to them as an instance of what, in one of his absurd speculations about the psychology of women, he called penis envy. I think, rather, it is a sign of the masculinization of at least some women, who are responding to the overvaluation in our culture of the exercise of power as the supreme end in life. The exercise of all power is fleeting, sporting prowess being among its most fleeting forms; but the illusion dies hard.
Then I had difficulty in removing from its packaging a pill I wanted to take to relieve the discomfort of the arthritis in my hands. It seemed that the pharmaceutical company had designed its packaging specifically to cause the maximum pain for such as I, when it would have been perfectly feasible to manufacture packaging from which it was easy to remove the pill, as indeed is the case with the other pills I take.
Then I couldn’t find a rubber with which I wanted to erase the price of something that had been written on it in pencil. I fell prey to the illusion that if I looked hard enough, my determination would in itself eventually produce a rubber, irrespective of whether or not one actually existed where I was looking for it. In this strange way, we infuse the world with moral meaning: Existence itself yields to virtue (if persistence is a virtue). How many hours of my life have I wasted because of this foolish illusion, growing angrier and bitterer as the searched-for item maliciously refuses to turn up!
Then a guest staying in our house received a telephone call informing him that, in his absence, his home had been broken into by burglars, who had turned it over, creating a terrible mess that would take hours of miserable labor to clear—as well as taking valuables, of course.
Although the burglary was not of my house, the news plunged me into a further state of irritation. It was highly likely that the burglars were young drug-takers in search of the wherewithal to pay for their debased and stupid pleasures. I thought of all those middle-class intellectuals who would excuse the little tykes because they were drug-takers and therefore in the grip of a supposed illness, addiction, such that they could not help themselves from breaking into people’s houses, having first observed them to check that they were unoccupied. (Our guest, incidentally, had guns in the house, a hunting rifle and a pistol.)
The police wouldn’t do anything to catch the burglars, always having something more urgent or important to do than attend to whatever you complain to them about—other than attending to it bureaucratically, of course, for there is always time for form-filling. And if by some miracle they caught the culprits, the courts would almost certainly set them free with hardly a slap on the wrist. Some lawyer or other would present a picture of unfortunate young men with bad family backgrounds, now by happy coincidence sincere penitents, and the judge would pretend to believe it because there are not enough prison places to imprison them anyway.
We took our guest to the station so that he could return home, 400 miles away. His ticket was expensive, his holiday ruined. On the way back from the station, we stopped off in a small town, not very prosperous, for lunch. The weather was fine; we sat outside. The restaurant was in a narrow street, and next to us sat a couple of middle-aged degenerates with missing front teeth. She was overweight and blowsy, with a large butterfly tattooed on her breast, the tattoo’s ink now spreading through her skin in a blue mist; for some reason, such people always squeeze themselves into tight-fitting clothes to make the worst of themselves. He, by contrast, was cigarette-thin, with the kind of thinness that results from heavy smoking; he had a tattoo on his forearm in the form of italic writing, but I could not read it. They started with a large glass of white wine and progressed to a carafe of red. They were, so to speak, an epidemiologist’s nightmare.
Unaware of my derogatory thoughts, they were extremely friendly toward us. They seemed to be enjoying themselves in a completely innocent and unselfconscious way. They were not uninteresting and provided us with much local information, for example about the trout farm not far away where you could fish and take away your catch. The man had lived all his life in the town and had no regrets about knowing nowhere else. Lucky man! She was of Polish and Hungarian descent, her grandparents who immigrated to France deciding henceforth to speak nothing but French. No multiculturalism for them!
The restaurant was very small, run by a husband and wife, he the front man eager to please, she the cook in the tiny, cramped kitchen behind. The fare was simple but good, not expensive, all freshly cooked from fresh ingredients. The couple were not short of customers—had as many as they could manage, in fact—and were working flat out. I saw in this the heroism of small business, where no fortune but an honest living, of value to others, would be made.
We waved them all goodbye, my irritation with life completely dissipated.
Theodore Dalrymple’s latest book is On the Ivory Stages (Mirabeau Press).
The new method of journalism is to wake up, scratch yourself, announce this is what I think and then find someone who agrees with you to cite as an “expert.” This honorific is generally given either to slobbering simpletons, like John Brennan, or anonymous nobodies on the left. If you see “expert,” you should assume the person is not an expert, and probably not even a person.
Here’s how to do a story on “water isn’t wet” in less than 40 minutes:
Get a college professor on the phone.
Hello. I’m from The New York Times and I’m looking to quote an expert saying water’s not wet.
That is correct, water is not wet.
Why?
Because it isn’t.
Is this something you’ve studied?
Oh my gosh — I’m a world-renowned expert.
To your editor: I’ve got an expert saying water isn’t wet.
Do you have more than one?
Throw a rock out the window, hit someone. Hey! Sorry about the rock. I’ve got a question for you. Is water wet? Yes? Ask the guy next to you. Got it, perfect.
Headline: “Water Not Wet, Experts Say.”
Nowhere is the explosion of phony experts more annoying than in the bloated ranks of foreign policy hacks. It’s as if the world decided to solve the problem of “elite overproduction” by creating a full employment program for them as government bureaucrats and quotation providers.
Thus, a recent Times article accused Donald Trump of “Flying Blind” by stripping the government of high-quality intelligence experts, horrifyingly, just as he’s trying to end the Russia-Ukraine war. Instead of relying on experts, as other (obviously better) presidents have, Trump, the Times reports, “has taken a different approach …: He’s fired them.”
Meaning he will not be deferring to people whose sole objective in life is being quoted in the Times. Without losing accuracy, the cited authorities could all be identified as professors of Trump-Hating.
To prove what a nightmare Trump’s housecleaning is, the Times quotes the very sort of experts he’s sidelining. Evelyn N. Farkas at the McCain Institute in Washington, D.C. (very confidence-inspiring) said of the expert-less administration: “They’re flying blind without the expertise.” Amazingly, that’s just what the Times thought.
Because only true “expertise” could get us to spend $2.313 trillion over two decades to turn Afghanistan into the exact same country it was when we invaded — except with an extra $7.1 billion in U.S.-made weapons — or, in a mere three years, cost us $180 billion and tens of thousands of dead Ukrainians in order to give Vladimir Putin an even stronger hand than when he first invaded. (Hey, maybe we’re getting better at this!)
New definition of “expert” updated by me 10 seconds ago: “Someone who agrees with us, preferably who’s been repeatedly proved egregiously wrong.”
Farkas says the Trump rejects “have seen all the intelligence relating to Vladimir Putin’s intentions. They have spies on the ground. They know all kinds of information that’s gained through technical means.” OK, but eventually we’re going to need an example of something these guys caught that won’t be caught now. Otherwise, it’s more like: “Titanic shareholders strip their back-office of iceberg experts.”
The Times is especially alarmed that Trump has “purged experts” from the National Security Council. Yes, the same NSC that is so chockablock with experts that Joe Biden added a special envoy on climate. Please God, tell me Trump didn’t fire that guy. Because whenever I worry about keeping America safe from deranged autocrats, my first thought is, “How’s the weather?”
As if Trump is nursing some ancient grudge, like the Greeks and the Turks, the Times describes the pink-slipped NSC experts as those who worked on the “nearly decade-old investigation into Russian interference in the 2016 election.”
Of course, the reason it’s a decade old is that these nincompoops have been noodling almost nothing else for the past decade, rather than, say, wondering if Hamas had anything up its sleeve. It took these experts 10 years to prove that the Russians did not steal the 2016 election. It only took me about 20 minutes.
We all should hold a grudge against those guys.
Where did the Russian interference yarn come from, anyway? It was cooked up by Barack Obama’s director of national intelligence and admitted perjurer James Clapper to distract from the cache of DNC emails released by Wikileaks — no connection to Russia — that were extremely embarrassing to Hillary Clinton. That’s what highly trained expertise gets you.
The Times’ final water-is-not-wet expert is Marc Polymeropoulos, a former CIA officer, meaning he knows less about what’s going on in the world than anyone who was not a CIA agent. Polymeropoulos, according to the Times, said “Mr. Trump did not want to hear intelligence reports about Russia’s bad acts” and blamed Laura Loomer for the expert bloodbath.
Amazingly, that was just what the Times thought! Has The New York Times ever attributed expertise to anyone it disagrees with?
Put aside the fact that Polymeropoulos was a “long-time Middle East specialist” — and there hasn’t been a ruffled feather over there since then. Also put aside his claim that after living all over the world, when he finally went to Russia in December 2017, he “experienced panic and helplessness for the first time.” Sounds very stable and reassuring.
This guy claims he has “Havana Syndrome,” a well-known psychosomatic hysteria. It’s the male version of long-haul COVID.
How is Trump going to function without high-level experts like these?
Oh, to be in England, especially if you’re a Muslim, an African, or any minority. There’s freedom of speech in this here rainy place, the kind of free speech that gets you thrown in jail back home but not here. Britain is now the only place in the Western world where whites are careful what they say, shout, or put online. It’s called two-tier justice, with local whites judged harshly by woke white judges, and with heavy prison sentences doled out to those who dare insult illegal migrants who are of many colors but not white.
I never thought I’d see this in Europe, especially in a country like Britain, which day in, day out advertises the fact that Brits are free and proud citizens. Free to express their opinions they are not, and there are too many examples of how chained down they are to list in my brief message. Suffice to say that if a group is carrying British flags and mouthing slogans such as “Britain for the British,” rest assured the fuzz will break them up and arrest anyone who dares resist. On the other hand, any group carrying pictures of Muhammad is not only allowed to say and yell anything, but they are not arrested even if they damage statues or cause chaos to those trying to go to work. The Palestinians, ironically enough, are treated as whites, with “Palestine Action” deemed a terror group and anyone belonging to it a terrorist. It’s called British fair play, although the Netanyahu way would be more to the point.
More than 10,000 arrests every year for online comments take place in perfidious Albion, more than in Russia, and I hate to think how many other countries we don’t consider democratic. Free speech is now considered incitement to violence—when it suits the state, that is. If this is freedom, I’m that great intellectual Paris Hilton.
In fact it got so bad, the peerless JD Vance openly brought it up, but a hell of a lot of good it did. British journalists are so anti-American and anti–The Donald, they actually booed JD for saying it. Such are the joys of journalists the world over. What lefty hacks do not understand is that free speech means standing up for speech with which you disagree. Incitement should be defined narrowly. It means deliberately setting out to encourage violence. If, for example, some rapper says that the only good Republican is a dead one, will his listeners start killing people who voted for The Donald? Of course not. On the other hand, during the BLM riots five years ago, the Brit fuzz ignored the troublemakers, just as the American cops did, but exemplary punishment was reserved for right-wing demonstrators.
Again, if this is British and American justice, I’m a ripe banana. Mind you, The Donald has straightened things out in the six months he’s been top banana, but in rainy old England things are looking very gloomy indeed. The leftists in power are taxing those who create wealth in a manner not seen before in Britain. Council taxes, stamp duties, and now an annual wealth tax is threatened, this one not even contemplated by Lenin back in 1917. (Well, I really don’t mean that. The bald monster took everything outright and shot those who had it.) Yet if the annual wealth tax goes through, it will mean the abolition of private property. How? By turning property rights into lease-holding ones, as diabolical as it gets.
Just think about it: You slave away and buy a house for you and your future families and some politician decides you have to pay for it each and every year despite the fact that you own the bloody thing. The Brit left thinks it fair, but then the American left thought it fair that 20 million migrants were allowed into the States by Biden in order to cook the books as far as the census was concerned. The census decides lots of things, like increased representation in Congress and in the electoral college, as well as federal funding. If this is fair, I’m Pheidippides, the Greek runner who was sent to Sparta from Athens to seek help against the invading Persians and ran 150 kilometers, avoiding lions on the way. He then got credit for running to Athens from Marathon after the Athenians had won the battle against the Persians, and he warned the Athenians not to burn down the city as they were prepared to do in case of a Persian win. But generals do not run after a victory. A fat hoplite who had not done much fighting—that was done by aristocrats fighting in the front line—was dispatched and died after announcing victory. He was out of shape.
Now back to socialism and lack of free speech by the dastardly Brits and Democrat Americans. An unelected European bureaucrat, Thierry Breton, attempted to use his influence to censor American political speech by warning Elon Musk before Elon’s first interview with The Donald. It will offend Europeans and establish a dangerous precedent, said Breton. Elon ignored him, but he should have slugged him. Free speech is as American as apple pie, but the bums in the E.U. and in Britain want to limit it. We should do to them what the Greeks did to the invading Persians.
Way back in the 1970s, I was fascinated by cosmology, the study of the origin of the universe.
It had been discovered by Edwin Hubble in the 1920s at the Mt. Wilson observatory, which I can see from the end of my block, that the universe consists of uncounted numbers of separate galaxies, like our Milky Way. Next, Hubble found that the galaxies were flying farther apart.
In the late 1920s, a brilliant Belgian priest and physicist named Father Georges Lemaître propounded the “hypothesis of the primeval atom,” or what we now call the Big Bang: The universe as we know it had been created a finite amount of time ago.
Lemaître’s theory, which was highly reminiscent of St. Thomas Aquinas’ “Prime Mover” proof for the existence of God—everything moving in the universe must have been set into motion by an Unmoved Mover, namely God—elicited suspicion among scientists that it was all just a Catholic plot to win believers in a Creator.
So, physicist and science fiction author Fred Hoyle, among others, proposed an alternative Steady State model in which the universe is infinitely old yet, while expanding, is otherwise stable. The empty space left behind by the receding galaxies hatches new matter through some process that is currently unimagined but is definitely natural, not supernatural.
The Big Bang and the Steady State were comparably plausible alternatives until the mid-1960s when two Bell Labs radio astronomers, Arno Penzias and Robert W. Wilson, discovered microwave background radiation coming equally from all points in the sky. They asked some Princeton theoretical physicists to explain this and were excitedly told that their finding proved we must still be within the primordial Big Bang.
I had the good fortune to have dinner with Wilson in 1978 at his alma mater of Rice U., the only Nobel laureate I’ve ever met. So I’ve always been sensitive to Princeton’s allegations that their theoreticians deserved the Nobel, not the Bell Labs knob twiddlers. (Only three Nobelists per year are allowed per field, so it was impossible to honor all the Bell Labs and Princeton scientists simultaneously).
But when I mentioned my concerns to a U. of California professor of astronomy, he laughed: “Is it a coincidence that Wilson, the finest radio astronomy experimentationist of his generation, found what nobody else did, the key discovery of the age?”
Once the Big Bang had overcome the Steady State model, the next question then became whether there had been only one Big Bang…or perhaps there had been an infinite number of them endlessly repeating (thus allowing the universe to be uncreated and dispensing with the Big Bang’s apparent need for a Creator).
Possibly the galaxies would fly apart after being launched by each successive Big Bang, but then their expansion would slow down due to gravity, eventually grinding to a stop, and then the galaxies would plummet back to each other in an unstoppable Big Crunch?
And that would, somehow, lead to yet another Big Bang?
Nobelist Steven Weinberg complained in 1977 that an infinitely old universe must be improbably perfect in its mechanism. Even the slightest flaw would mean it would break down irreparably over the eons.
But that seemed overly theoretical, rather Borgesian.
So, astronomers set off to measure the amount of matter in the observable universe. Was it dense enough to reverse the Big Bang and cause a Big Crunch?
Frustratingly, they kept coming up with contradictory results. Whatever the answer was, it was irritatingly close to the borderline.
Well…of course it is, responded physicist Freeman Dyson in his 1979 book Disturbing the Universe. It’s got to be right around the tipping point. If it were clear-cut that the universe is denser than the break-even point, then the Big Crunch would have already happened by now. If the universe were much sparser, then we’d already be well into the Big Chill.
Hence, the universe must be very near the cutoff.
Dyson, a somewhat theistic optimist, propounded his “principle of maximum diversity,” which “says that the laws of nature and the initial conditions are such as to make the universe as interesting as possible.”
Perhaps, implied Dyson, the universe was designed to be puzzling to researchers?
(In case you are wondering, the English physicist Freeman Dyson, who died in 2020 at age 96, does not appear to be closely related to the billionaire inventor Sir James Dyson.)
Eventually, cosmology got too interesting for me. In 1998, two sets of astronomers discovered that the expansion of the universe was not slowing down, as the elegant model of the 1970s had assumed, but was instead speeding up, presumably due to mysterious “dark energy.”
Huh?
At that point, I gave up following new developments in cosmology.
But Dyson’s insight that things are most interesting when they are a hard-to-predict fifty-fifty proposition germinated within me.
Consider sports gambling. The NFL has worked to make predicting at the beginning of the season who will win the Super Bowl at the end as hard as possible. And if that’s not good enough, bookies will offer you no end of clever bets to make your outcomes as random as possible.
Not surprisingly, Americans find the NFL really interesting.
That’s because the things we tend to argue about the most are those that are most arguable.
For example, in a 2009 Taki’s column, I wrote about the then-current debate over who was the greatest NFL quarterback, Peyton Manning or Tom Brady. Manning had just beaten Brady 35–34 in a game as close as the score. I quoted Steven Pinker on why the Brady vs. Manning argument was so interesting: “Mental effort seems to be engaged most with the knife edge at which one finds extreme and radically different consequences with each outcome, but the considerations militating towards each one are close to equal.”
Personally, back then I leaned toward Manning over Brady.
Today we know better, so, fortunately for me, we don’t argue over that as much.
Similarly, when it comes to the endless controversy over the causes of the racial gaps in intelligence, I endorse the anti-extremist position that most likely both nature and nurture matter.
The scientific evidence is utterly undeniable that racial differences in average intelligence exist. What remains debatable is whether these gaps are due to nature or nurture.
The moderate, sane view is that both likely matter.
Truly, how plausible could be the extremist view that the only possible cause is 100 percent nurture?
Frankly, that seems crazy to espouse.
Far more reasonable is that both nature and nurture matter.
I don’t actually have much of an opinion whether the actual distribution of causality of race and IQ is 80 percent nurture and 20 percent nature or 80 percent nature and 20 percent nurture. So, therefore, my basic assumption is that the cause is a Dysonian fifty-fifty split between nature and nurture.
That could well be wrong, but it reduces the chance of my being really off. I don’t like being badly wrong.
You might argue that twin studies suggest 80 percent nature and only 20 percent nurture. But be aware that twin studies don’t adjust for changes in era. All twins were born within a few minutes of each other rather than a generation apart.
So, I’m okay with assuming a Dysonian fifty-fifty split.
And yet, I’m much denounced for my moderation, when respectable opinion is fanatically extremist: 100 percent nurture…or nothing!
Nobody can explain why such a crank view is more sensible than that IQ is influenced by both genes and environment.
But what I suspect is that purveyors of the conventional wisdom assume that because they, of course, are lying about what they actually believe, because they would have their careers canceled if they told the truth, therefore I must be lying as well.
But what if I’m not?
Perhaps I’m instead addicted to the truth?
Ed West writes, in response to Pinker’s upcoming book on preference falsification:
One unspoken effect of preference falsification is that it causes commentators on the left to become more suspicious of conservatives, because they suspect that their views on this subject are actually more right-wing than they profess, and they are dissembling. The social pressure to have the correct outward opinions leads to a sort of Spanish Inquisition-style paranoia among the country’s moral guardians about people’s true beliefs. Tell us your real opinions, so we can get you sacked!
But, I ask, when would I have the time to mislead? Over the past few decades, I’ve posted many millions of words articulating exactly what I believe. Unlike my haters, I haven’t had the leisure to espouse any fake beliefs.
I’m constantly being accused of being a horrific hater by people who seem to assume that if I dare say X out loud, I must really believe X-squared because they only say in public the square root of what they really believe.
They can’t believe I just tell the truth as I see it.
And yet I do.
But that is inconceivable to them because it would suggest that I’m morally better than them.
Perhaps, though, Occam’s razor suggests I am?
I am addicted!
To my phone.
I check an email and before I realize it, I’m watching TikTok videos: lions fight hyenas, military dads reunite with kids, athletes do amazing things …
I look up, and an hour has passed.
I’ve wasted time, ignored my family and friends, and accomplished nothing.
But who cares? I’m old. I’ve already achieved what I’m likely to achieve.
Still, what about kids?
“Attention spans are declining,” says psychologist Jonathan Haidt. “Levels of anxiety, depression, self-harm were pretty stable … all of a sudden, the rates go way up, especially for girls.”
His bestselling book (on bestseller lists for more than a year!) blames smartphones.
“Once they get a smartphone … time with friends plunges. One of the best things you can do as a kid is hang out with friends, joke around, have adventures. If your kids went through puberty on a smartphone with social media, they came out different than human beings before that.”
My son, Max, once worked for social media companies. Now he makes his living speaking to students about how phones hook them. He compares smartphones to casino slot machines.
“All the things we love about social media, those are the reward in the slot machine … we get that ‘hit’ once in a while … That’s there to keep us scrolling for hours.”
Haidt agrees, calling smartphones a “gambling machine.”
They say some apps are worse than others.
“Instagram, Facebook, Snapchat, TikTok. Those really shatter attention spans. In terms of exposure to things that are really dangerous, Snap is the worst,” says Haidt. “In terms of destroying your ability to pay attention, TikTok is the worst. In terms of destroying a teenage girl’s sense of confidence, self-esteem, body image, Instagram is the worst.”
He says social media affects boys and girls differently.
“Check in on the kids at age 14, girls are doing worse. They’re more depressed and anxious, more messed up.”
But a few years later, he says, “Girls are more likely to have gone to college, gotten a job and moved out of their parents’ home. Boys are more likely to still be in their parents’ basement playing video games. They never grew up. Real life is incredibly boring compared to a video game or porn.”
Teachers say phone addiction makes it harder to teach.
“When you and I were in school,” says Haidt, “Suppose they let you take your TV into class. You couldn’t possibly learn.”
These are big problems, but I’m a skeptic. Do phones really wreck kids’ lives?
We don’t know that, say researchers like psychologist Chris Ferguson. “Correlation does not equal causation.”
“But teen depression is skyrocketing,” I push back, “up 145% for girls since 2010!”
“Teen suicide was actually very high in the early 1990s,” he replies, “then it decreased … way before social media. … Dr. Haidt has cherry-picked a lot of data and presented only the data that support his narrative.”
“I am not cherry-picking!” Haidt replies. “I’m the only one in this debate who has picked all of the cherries and laid them out on a blanket.”
He does lay out alternative possibilities, like teen marijuana use and the decline of marriage.
“My theory is the only plausible one out there,” he says. “No one’s even proposed one that will work across so many countries. When you ask people to get off of social media for more than a week, their levels of depression, anxiety, go down.”
His book suggests that parents ban phones until high school.
I push back. Kids will complain, “All my friends have one!”
“But what if it was only (most of your friends?” he replies. “Then it’s much easier.”
He wants schools to ban phones, and many have.
I ask Ferguson, “What’s the cost of banning it in schools?”
“Unintended negative consequences,” he replies. “Are we suspending kids for cellphone use? A lot of schools are, and that can cause real harm to the kids.”
Haidt insists, “When schools ban phones, the results are overwhelmingly positive. … Kids know that life would be better if they didn’t spend five or six hours a day on social media. They know that, but they can’t help it.”
In England, a popular saying has always gone, “If you want to know the time, ask a policeman.” The aphorism has today been extended to further read, “Because a policeman is the only one safe from getting his watch stolen in the country right now.”
Shian Johnson is a 26-year-old negroid. He has just been found guilty, together with a gang of other reprobates (of all colors and ethnicities), of stabbing a Greek tourist to death to snatch his £1,300 Versace watch in London. As the jury returned their verdict, Johnson screamed what he thought of them, in the rough manner of Ali G:
“Fucking racist people! I didn’t do nothing. How have you found me guilty, is it because I am black? You are all white people!”
At this point, in the words of the London Times, “A black woman juror burst into tears and was comforted by the Asian woman juror sitting next to her.” London is now full of feral black criminals so pumped up on left-wing “anti-racist” victimhood dogma that they literally see anyone who dares do anything against their direct wishes as being an evil racist white Nazi, even when they are demonstrably black and brown themselves. Told they can do no wrong since the day of their regrettable birth, a disturbingly large number grow up to really believe it.
How did the country ever manage to fall into such a sad state? One answer may lie with a single ship: a single ship that did far more damage on its own than the entire Spanish Armada ever managed. And yet, it is a ship we are all today expected to worship: Farewell HMS Victory, hello HMS Total Defeat.
Don’t Rock the Boat
Over in America, you have your own nautical national founding myth of the Mayflower, the boat on which the Pilgrim Fathers set sail from England in 1620 to build America.
But did you know that England itself was also founded by a boatload of foreign immigrants, and as recently as 1948? That makes the country precisely the same age as Israel. Must be why it’s now so full of occupied territories.
I refer, of course, to the so-called “Windrush Generation,” the very first wave of black West Indian immigrants who swam across the Atlantic naked, dodging sharks and unsurrendered U-boats, during the postwar 1940s–’60s to save our NHS and rebuild all our bomb-damaged orphanages single-handedly—or so we are continually told. The first ship carrying these ebony gods in human form, the Empire Windrush, docked in the south-coast port of Tilbury in 1948, helping change the nation forever, in innumerable ways, every last one of them positive…apart from all the negative ones.
Without the initial Windrush Generation settling down here and spawning subsequent Post-Windrush Generations, that poor Greek tourist would still have his expensive watch. And, rather more important, his life.
Wankers Aweigh!
Every summer, we are now lucky enough to have an annual Windrush Day, a completely fake new holiday intended to serve as a U.K. equivalent of America’s own Mayflower Day and Columbus Day, a celebration of our proud multicultural nation’s very establishment by its Jamaican Founding Fathers.
To commemorate this year’s Windrush Day, Prime Minister Keir Starmer posted celebratory footage of himself manually pleasuring an elderly West Indian in the middle of Downing Street as a mark of Britannia’s perpetual appreciation (look at what he does with his lower hand right at the start of the clip), before going on to claim that the Windrushers had “laid the foundations for modern Britain,” to the surprising extent that black people had been “the first nurses, the first midwives” in the country. News to Florence Nightingale.
Year after year, we are treated to the degrading spectacle of our (mainly white) political leaders falsely presenting the incomers as if each and every last one of them and their descendants was a fine and upstanding individual, an absolute paragon of non-white virtue, in fact. Yet the truth is rather more mixed.
Ryland Headley is a very elderly black Jamaican who had posed as a “nice old fella” like Bill Cosby to his neighbors for decades, having first butterfly-stroked himself into England in 1956. However, not unlike Uncle Bill, it later turned out Headley had a rather checkered sexual past, having pleaded guilty to breaking and entering into the homes of two defenseless old white women aged 79 and 84 before brutally raping them during the 1970s.
In late June this year, high achiever Headley acquired another impressive old-lady-abusing conviction to his name, with new DNA technology finally allowing him to be convicted of the hitherto-unsolved rape and murder of a 75-year-old widow, Louisa Dunne, in 1967. At 92 years old, this made Headley the oldest known convicted murderer in all of U.K. history—yet another record broken in the name of British Blaxcellence!
I do hope future knowledge of Mr. Headley will be promoted to our increasingly mixed-race children and grandchildren via the National Curriculum in our schools.
De-Generation Game
Of course, presenting all members of the Windrush Generation as being rabid gerontophile rapists like Ryland Headley would be just as disingenuous as presenting them all as being total saints. But politicians stand there and do try to present them all as being total saints, and expect the rest of us to automatically believe them, even when their worthless great-grandchildren have just stabbed us to death for our timepieces.
Sure, some of them will have been decent enough individuals who came over and did decent enough things, like wipe bedridden white people’s bums clean. But realistically, if you look at the original model Windrushers of the 1940s–’60s, they were useful but ultimately fairly mundane and easily substitutable figures like nurses, bus conductors, cannabis dealers, and cleaning staff, not astrophysicists, heart surgeons, or spaceship pilots. Although not wholly pointless at the time, to be honest, the country could still have functioned perfectly well without them.
And it could certainly have functioned much, much better without their thoroughly dysgenic post-Caribbean descendants, who data demonstrates are more criminal, more stabby, more unemployed, and even more loony than Britain’s original white native stock are—and that’s to say nothing of certain other prominent second-generation Windrushers like Diane Abbott and Lenny Henry, whose own crimes against humanity are on a whole other level.
This week sees the annual Notting Hill Carnival take place, a yearly festival of bonobo-like stabbing, drug-taking, and open-air shagging held on behalf of the entire London “Black Community” (uppercase letters are compulsory) in the slum area first settled by the initial Caribbean Windrushers in the 1940s: a very expensive celebration, due to the necessarily high policing costs, funded from the ever-open wallet of the white British taxpayer whether they want to fund it or not.
Stagger bleeding and watchless around similarly ghettoized black areas of inner-city London today and, being continually reminded of the usual “The Windrush Generation Built This Country” fable by the always-on loud-hailers screwed onto every lamppost, one’s only rational response must be, “Can’t we ask them to knock it all back down again?”
Verse of a Nurse
The usual rejoinder of outraged Windrushers and their progeny to people pointing out awkward facts like the above is, “Well, if you didn’t want us here, you shouldn’t have asked us to come, should you?”
There’s a “poem” (well, some dismal prose during which the author has randomly pressed the “Return” key to split it into separate lines) titled “You Called…and We Came” that is continually recited nowadays at propaganda events to ram home the above rebuke. Penned by high-ranking black NHS nurse Professor Laura Serrant in 2017, it contains distinctly un-Parnassian verses like these:
You called…and we came.
A new millennium—new hopes spread across this land.
New populations, engaging and reflecting
the varied, diverse and vibrant nature of these shores.
Challenging and reflecting on leadership for health.
Moves to melt the “snow” at the peaks of our profession.
Recognising the richness of our kaleidoscope nation.
Where compassion, courage and diversity are reflected
In our presence and our contribution:
Not only the hopes and dreams of our ancestors.
—Human values needed to truly lead change…and add value.
Remember…you called.
Remember…you called
YOU. Called.
Remember, it was us, who came.
“Moves to melt the ‘snow’ at the peaks of our profession,” eh? Or, in other words, to replace white people in their jobs and take over their whole society. Imagine an NHS employee writing a poem about “Moves to drain the ‘mud’ from the septic tank of our shithole creole nation.” I don’t think he’d be getting any public hand relief from the prime minister in the middle of Westminster. More like a kick in the balls.
False Citizen-Ship
Did white Brits even call them all in, anyway? Contemporary records show the 1940s U.K. government did its best to discourage Jamaicans from boarding ships like the Windrush but didn’t feel they could do this openly without souring diplomatic relations with colonial nations London knew would soon be splitting away from a Mother Country completely bankrupted by WWII. MPs (left-wing Labour Party MPs, at that!) wrote desperate notes to Downing Street recommending such vessels be torpedoed immediately at sea, otherwise:
This country may become an open reception center for immigrants not selected in respect to health, education, training, character, customs and above all, whether assimilation is possible or not. The British people fortunately enjoy a profound unity without uniformity in their way of life, and are blest by the absence of a color racial problem. An influx of colored people domiciled here is likely to impair the harmony, strength and cohesion of our public and social life and to cause discord and unhappiness among all concerned.
100 percent accurate, very good guess.
Few people “asked” the Windrush invaders to come here at all. Really, politicians wanted cheap white refugee labor from Eastern Europe to help rebuild all the postwar bomb sites. But polite considerations of “diplomacy,” “public appearances,” and “international law” meant we got self-invited economic migrant labor from the West Indies instead.
Big mistake. In the long-term, the seaborne “rebuilders” did way more damage than the original bombs ever did. If the Luftwaffe had only blitzed London with Grenadians instead of grenades, Hitler might have won.
The Week’s Most Barbie-Is-Unclean, Robo-Womb-Machine, and Baby-in-a-Bean Headlines
TWILIGHT JONES
America’s most daring teller of (literally) unbelievable truths, Alex Jones, has been handed a harsh new Texan court ruling forcing him to sell the assets of his $1B Infowars conspiracy-theory empire.
The cash is intended to pay off parents angered by his false claims that their children had never really been gunned down by a maniac during the 2012 Sandy Hook Elementary School massacre; he thought they were all just child actors. If so, they were very good indeed at playing dead.
This all reopens the opportunity for satirical website The Onion to resurrect its long-held plans to buy Infowars and relaunch it as an absurdist lampoon of Jones-type conspiracy theories; but what would be the point? As we shall see, the real conspiracy theories out there today are already far beyond all possible parody anyway…
FALSE FAG EVENTS
First up, the idea that Barbie is part of a secret plot to turn you and your kids gay—every bit as gay as those stupid mincing “male cheerleaders” the Minnesota Vikings NFL franchise tried to push on their fans this week. Alex Jones claims to have discovered further secret rainbow plans to rebrand the San Francisco 49ers as the San Francisco 69ers, but that’s nothing compared with the queer pop-culture conspiracy unmasked in France last week.
An open-air showing of the very pink indeed 2023 Hollywood Barbie movie in Noisy-le-Sec, “a suburb of Paris with a large North African community,” has just been canceled, following violent threats from a mysteriously unidentified “extreme minority of thugs,” armed with what the authorities called “fallacious arguments reflecting obscurantism”—arguments like “This film is gay and if you try to show it we will smash up your projectors and kill you all in the name of Allah.”
Strangely, most mainstream French media have been utterly unable to guess which specific demographic these particular ideological obscurantists belonged to. Might it be possible to deduce the answer here? Let us, like typical careful Infowars users, examine the evidence.
Could they have been radical Jews? No, Jews like Barbie; they even have Barbie-Mitzvahs. What about neo-Nazis? No, Nazis like Barbie too: Klaus Barbie. That only leaves the Muslims, doesn’t it? Tellingly, dolls are said by many Islamic scholars to be forbidden in the faith as sinful graven images, although there is an exemption if the doll is headless. No problem there for the average Islamist.
Even more suspiciously, various Muslim nations, from Kuwait to Algeria, had already banned the Barbie movie for promoting “homosexuality and sexual transformation” among children. Likewise, Barbie dolls had been long prohibited in Iran, where, due to their alleged homo-producing properties, they were described as being “more harmful than an American missile.” Send planeloads of those to Ukraine instead, then, it’d be cheaper.
Surprisingly, alongside headless dolls, blow-up dolls are also considered religiously acceptable by some radical Islamic clerics—but only so long as they blow up inside a synagogue or on board an airliner. Or in the middle of an open-air showing of Barbie in the Greater Paris region, one may expect.
THE PARENT TRAP
Is Alex Jones secretly a Muslim too? When it comes to queer matters, he certainly seems to think like one, theorizing that “The reason there’s so many gay people now” is not only because of Barbie, but “because it’s a chemical warfare operation, and I have the government documents where they said they’re going to encourage homosexuality with chemicals so that people don’t have children.” Which chemicals in particular? Amyl nitrate?
In fact, the true method the depopulation fiends of the New World Order are going to abuse to ensure people “don’t have children” is to immediately arrest all adults foolish enough to do so. The first phase of this all-encompassing anti-natal NWO plan to criminalize fertility itself has just been implemented in New Jersey, where the Gauleiters of Gloucester Township Council have unveiled plans to fine the parents of any misbehaving child $2,000, or else imprison them for ninety days, following a mass teen brawl that took place there last year.
As actionable offenses under this new regime of Illuminati terror include such crimes as “drunkenness,” “begging,” and “indecent exposure,” it’s a good job Joe and Hunter Biden don’t live in Gloucester: Joe would be bankrupt already and serving a life sentence.
However, as other adolescent misbehavior that can get their elders imprisoned also includes such highly generic and ill-defined pseudo-offenses as “Being a disorderly person,” “Immorality,” and “Incorrigibility,” this gives absurdly near-infinite leeway to the N.J.-NWO Stasi to arrest absolutely any random parent they so desire.
Another new no-no for children, for example, is “Knowingly associating with thieves or vicious or immoral people.” But what if their own parents are themselves “thieves or vicious or immoral people”? Simply by going to visit his own dad, Hunter Biden would risk immediately condemning him to yet further cruel and unusual punishment.
BEANIE BABIES
An even more unethical child-related conspiracy took place in 2004, when British-Indian artist Anish Kapoor stole a newborn baby and sealed it away inside his Chicago-based sculpture Cloud Gate, popularly known as “The Bean,” a big leguminous blob of polished, mercury-like silvery metal resembling a kidney stone ejected by a vast Terminator, to see what would happen.
The imprisoned baby is now a 21-year-old man, whose sad, lonely existence has been exposed by a new conspiracy theory pressure group, “Man in Bean Coalition,” who gather around The Bean dressed in funereal black to hold protests demanding his release; they had considered campaigning to get Hamas to release all their Jewish hostages instead but ultimately considered this would be a bit more realistic.
The baby’s doom may sound an unlikely fate, but in 2021, the dead body of a man was discovered trapped inside the leg of a large dinosaur statue near Barcelona, so there is some precedent, and the Coalition are adamant their campaign is definitely not a joke.
If so, who might the man inside The Bean be? Odds on, it’s actually just a common-or-garden illegal immigrant, not a grown infant kidnap victim at all. Such indigents probably inhabit the hollow insides of spacious, Kapoor-style, abstract Modernist public statuary all across the United States these days, as a conveniently surreptitious form of free housing. Beans within beans: It’s like Russian dolls. Or maybe Russia is the wrong enemy state to mention…?
CHINESE WOMB ARGUMENT
In Alex Jones’ Bean-spilling thinking, the whole thing could be part of a wider plot on behalf of the Chinese Communist Party. Previously confidential foreign intel reports disclose that completely sane Chinese scientist Dr. Zhang Qifeng has invented a new type of robot equipped with an artificial womb, termed a “pregnancy bot.”
For a very reasonable fee of only $14,000, the android will spread its legs “so that a real person and the robot can interact to achieve pregnancy,” as when Priscilla Chan successfully mated with Mark Zuckerberg (although she got paid rather more to go through with the horrific and immoral procedure, and in this specific instance it was the Chinawoman who was the human and the father who was the robot).
The resultant fetus will then be fed by being pumped “nutrients through a hose in its abdomen,” which coincidentally is also precisely how Alex Jones feeds himself by all appearances, probably 24 hours a day solid, like a goose being stuffed up to become foie gras.
A metallic womb, one would imagine, would strongly resemble in shape one of Anish Kapoor’s abstract metallic Bean sculptures: Is that why Anish kidnapped a baby and placed it inside one back in 2004, to perform early prototype robo-womb research upon behalf of Dr. Qifeng and the CCP? Kapoor has erected eerily similar installations in cities all across the West, like New York, London, and Paris. There is even a colossal one in China itself, supposedly made without Kapoor’s permission but probably just another large-scale prototype mega-womb supervised by Dr. Q. Or is it in fact a form of disguised military barracks?
Inside all such giant metal wombs, says Alex Jones, lurk several thousand cloned members of the People’s Liberation Army, grown to maturity from mere zygotes, just waiting to receive the relevant order from Beijing to burst forth in a flood of automatic gunfire and amniotic fluids to conquer NATO wholesale from within. The whole idea of camouflaging military installations by having them pose as innocent public artworks may seem a little unlikely, but, as Jones has credibly pointed out, did not a Chinaman named Sun Tzu famously once write a manual called The Art of War?
Subsequently ridiculed for his self-evident lack of expertise in the field of contemporary Chinese geopolitics, Jones was asked by real journalists if he even knew the name of the manifesto of Chairman Mao. Jones replied that no, he didn’t, as far as he’d heard it was a Little-Read Book.
SUCKING TICK IS GOOD FOR YOUR HEALTH
Until last week, Western Michigan University was best known for two things and two things only: being a university, and being located in Michigan, probably the Western part of it. Now WMU is better known to conspiracy theorists as being home of a morally retarded plot to unleash a plague of deadly ticks out onto the land to infect humans with a strange new debilitating disease: veganism.
Yet, unlike all the above stories, the conspiracy theory in this instance is actually true!
The all-American, all-disease-ridden insects in question are lone-star ticks (Amblyomma americanum), whose bite has the capacity to trigger something incurable called Alpha Gal Syndrome (AGS). There are many terrible chronic consequences of AGS, including stomach cramps, hives, diarrhea, and anaphylactic shock. Oh, and death, too: AGS can cause allergic reactions to medicines, killing the patient outright. But, happily from a mad left-wing environmentalist viewpoint, it can also trigger sudden allergies to polluting meat and dairy products—forcing sufferers to become vegans whether they want to or not.
Therefore, a new paper coauthored by two WMU eco-academics, “Beneficial Bloodsucking,” recommends covertly genetically modifying the ticks so they can spread AGS to as many soon-to-be repentant ex-carnivores as possible, thereby to gift such lucky people a free “moral bioenhancer” within their very bloodstreams.
The academics claim to be experts in the field of medical bioethics, but so did Unit 731 of the Imperial Japanese Army. One coauthor, Assistant Professor Blake Hereth (they/them), bills himself as “an openly queer, disabled, Hindu philosopher,” so has no doubt spent countless hours agonizing about whether or not it is morally right for a man to eat meat. His final conclusion? Yes, just so long as you don’t swallow.
The other guy, Professor Parker Crutchfield, has explicitly advocated surreptitiously feeding people mind-control pills to force them to participate in left-wing behavior like wearing Covid masks and eschewing bacon, his book Moral Enhancement and the Public Good arguing that “everyone should be administered a [psychoactive] substance that makes us better people…without our knowledge.” They started with putting fluoride in our toothpaste and finished up by slipping Communism into our water supplies.
An alternative, far more genuinely morally acceptable GM program worth pursuing might be modifying the genes of ticks to cause lifelong infertility and then releasing a big bag of them into the faculty common room of WMU to stop lunatics like these from ever being able to reproduce. That really would be a form of “moral bioenhancer.”
Although, given his own “openly queer” sexual proclivities, it would appear Professor Blake Hereth has been bitten by a similar reproduction-retarding bug already: Never mind “Beneficial Bloodsucking,” his next paper is due to be called “Beneficial Cocksucking.” If only his parents had stuck to that kind of limited sexual activity while dating, argues Alex “Deep Throat” Jones, Hereth need never have been born at all.
Just like the fake child actors of Sandy Hook…
Convention is like nature: You throw it out with a pitchfork, yet it will return. The very attempt to escape it as such, merely because it is convention, is itself deeply conventional.
This is not to say, either, that convention ought to be blindly followed just because it is convention. Conventions can be bad; but they are bad not because they are conventions, but because they are stupid, cruel, etc. No one should go out looking for conventions to slay.
This is all but a preliminary to describing something that I saw and read recently in the French newspaper for aging bourgeois leftists, Libération. It was a full-page article about someone called Marie Patouillet, of whom I had not previously heard. She won a gold medal at the Paris Paralympic Games, that modern substitute for the dearly missed Victorian freak show in which exceptionally fat ladies (exceptionally fat for their time, that is; they would hardly be noticed nowadays) or people with striking deformities or abnormalities would be exhibited to the prurient gaze of a public ever in search—as it still is—of a dose of sensation.
I should here point out that I am, of course, in favor of assistance to the handicapped to help them do and achieve as much as possible. I learned this lesson very early in life when my best friend at the time, from whom I was inseparable, was one of the last people in the country to be struck down and rendered paraplegic by polio. His mother was a Christian Scientist and had a rather peculiar attitude to illness, not really believing in its reality (she died of cancer not many years later, at what then seemed to me a great age, but what would now seem to me no age at all). My parents, as I recall it, were admirable in the face of my friend’s paraplegia: While they did everything that they could for him, they did not make a fuss, but accepted his difficulties as they accepted the weather, and he was included in everything that he could be included in. He was neither lionized, condescended to, nor insulted. As a result of all this, he had a distinguished career, overcoming much of his handicap to a remarkable degree.
Marie Patouillet seems to be, by contrast, the very model of a modern upright citizen. Besides her disability—apparently, she cannot walk or run fast or far without crutches—she is lesbian, tattooed, shaven-headed, pro-Palestinian, married to an actress, and against discrimination and stereotyping. Could virtue go further?
Since winning her medal, she has given up competitive cycling. She used to train ten hours a day, which is to say, “the relentless effort to gain a tenth of a second,” which strikes me as perhaps admirable in its determination but as rather stupid and worthless as to its end.
The photograph accompanying the article shows her looking pensive, her tattoos peeping out from below the sleeve of what appears to be a close-fitting football shirt, her fair hair cropped in a masculine fashion, or as someone trying to rid herself of head lice, her two little round earrings more redolent of piercing than of jewelry, holding hands with her “wife” while resting her head on that person’s heavily tattooed leg.
What does she do with her time now that she no longer cycles competitively? Among other things, she gives talks, either for nothing or paid by businesses, about sexism, “LGBTphobias,” and inclusion. There are, she says, still too many problematic stereotypes repeated and taught in sport.
Such as what? That, for example, women are no good at football, at any rate by comparison with men? This is an evident fact, not a stereotype. A very moderate men’s team, or even male youth team, can defeat the very best women’s team. The fact is that women were not made for football, and no sensible person would think any the less of them for that. Their attempt to play is perfectly within their rights, of course; but there seems to have been a concerted, almost ideologically inspired effort recently to convince the public that women’s football is an exciting rather than a dispiriting spectacle. For example, in Charles de Gaulle Airport a couple of weeks ago, I observed huge liquid-crystal screens showing a short clip over and over again of ponytailed women footballers behaving exactly like their male counterparts, jumping for joy and embracing one another after scoring a goal (one did not see the goal itself, which no doubt would have revealed the very moderate qualities of women in the sport). Poor Charles de Gaulle, that his name should be associated with this display, the modern Western equivalent of North Korean propaganda!
What is rather peculiar about the subject of this article is that, while excoriating stereotypes, she should herself cleave so closely to a stereotype that so many people have of the masculinized lesbian. Evidently, she has not the imagination to see herself as others—many others—might see her. Although inclusive, she would not include them in her otherwise all-inclusive inclusivity, even if they constituted a majority. If they said that they found her appearance unnecessarily ugly, she would ascribe their judgment not to an aesthetic faculty, but to mere social prejudice. If you don’t like the appearance of someone, it can only be because you are suffering from some kind of phobia, an irrational fear of them. Anything goes, so long as it does not partake of, or derive from, former conventions. This is the new convention of conventions.
Reading the article made me almost long for the days of Ivy Compton-Burnett and C.V. Wedgwood. The former was a truly original novelist, successful in her day, and the second a serious but also highly popular historian of the 17th century. Both were in long-term lesbian relationships with women of distinction, and everyone knew that they were, but no one remarked on it or said anything about it. It was none of anyone’s business, and the two were known and respected for their work. This now seems to have been a time of prelapsarian sophistication by comparison with modern coarseness.
Theodore Dalrymple’s latest book is On the Ivory Stages (Mirabeau Press).
Historical verisimilitude does not seem to concern Hollywood writers these days. Not that it ever did. Blatant misrepresentations in the movies are far too many to list here. The bloodthirsty George Custer was portrayed by an almost angelic-looking Errol Flynn in They Died With Their Boots On, while the desperate and homely Dutch hooker Mata Hari—guillotined by the cowardly French as a German spy—was embodied by Greta Garbo in all the thespian’s magnificence.
Never mind. Movies are supposed to take us into a dreamworld, or a nightmare one, hence the historical falsifications. I no longer go to movie houses because of the ill-mannered audiences. People talk, eat loudly, smoke pot, pass wind, and act as if they’re at home. In my home I do not watch films that deal with science fiction, aliens, horror, or African-Americans being mistreated by white Southerners. I only watch old black-and-white films with intelligent plots, witty dialogue, and actors who speak proper English and do not mumble. Again, there are too many of the above to list here, starting with The Best Years of Our Lives; John Wayne, Spencer Tracy, Burt Lancaster, and William Holden films; not to mention the great Gone With the Wind.
There, now you have it. Recently, however, a friend pointed out that modern Hollywood now casts black actors in period dramas of past centuries. In other words—and I’m making this up because I have not seen such trash—you can see, for example, Mark Antony as a black man addressing the Romans in the “I come to bury Caesar, not to praise him” funeral oration. Or you may now watch a black Henry V exhorting his troops at Agincourt against the French knights. Finally, I think a black Rhett Butler and an even blacker Scarlett O’Hara would draw applause, especially when she shoots that dirty white Yankee would-be rapist in the face. (Butterfly McQueen would be magnificent as played by Lindsay Lohan, and Big Tom by Arnold Schwarzenegger.)
Again, never mind. What Hollywood types have to be careful about is not historical accuracy but TV antennas, solar panels, double-parking lines, and such while shooting historical epics. What these modern Shylocks wish to tell us is that blacks are far more likely to watch their trash, and all-white period dramas should soon be extinct. And they now can take all the liberties their greedy souls wish. This is no Austen-land; anything goes. Just imagine, you can now see the great Benedict Arnold landing in Saratoga in a Chinook chopper, or better yet the heroic Nathan Hale loosening his Brooks Brothers shirt before the noose. Last but not least, the great George Washington crossing the Delaware in a cigarette fast boat with a Bertram V8 hull. What joy, and how the moola will roll in from the ads for the mod technology that helped us win our independence. And don’t forget, as historical verisimilitude no longer matters, you can always cast Eddie Murphy as Robert E. Lee, finally ridiculing the greatest of all Americans. Our modern Cecil B. DeMilles’ message is exhortatory: No matter how famous and great a historical fact, character, or novel, they can change it to suit today’s minorities.
But let’s face it: The real problem in America is California, because one of California’s main products dominates American culture. Yes, you guessed it, it’s Hollywood, and Silicon Valley doesn’t even come close as far as influencing how Americans see themselves, their lives, and their country. Once upon a time, before young, left-wing, bald whippersnappers who can read a balance sheet backwards took over, ugly, bald, uneducated Jewish refugees from Europe made wonderful pro-American movies that made the masses proud. The whippersnappers have since managed to turn the industry into one that shows America at its worst with every picture Tinseltown produces.
But there is good news. The film industry that is based in Hollywood has been hijacked by Texas, Georgia, Arizona, and other Southern states whose production costs are far lower than the ones in California. Once upon a time California was the closest thing to paradise. Then, however slowly, the Golden State turned into the inferno of today, with the largest homeless population in America, the worst schools, the highest crime, the highest taxes, the largest open-air drug dens, and the largest criminal gang membership. Nine million Californians voted for Kamala, 6 million for The Donald. You do the math. California can be saved only if 9 million dickheads are moved to places unknown: like outer Siberia, although I like those nice Siberian folks, especially the women, and they don’t deserve to be invaded by 9 million jerks from sunny El-Lay.
California and Hollywood are proof that very bad things can happen unless one is vigilant. The state was once a glorious place for sport, love, business, life, everything. It is now a hellhole full of gangs and criminals and untalented greedy Hollywood types. Stay away and keep watching black-and-white flicks.
