The Week’s Most Leveled, Bedeviled, and Disheveled Headlines
ACRONYMS ARE ANTI-BLACKRONYMS
WTF OMG SMH. It’s only February and already the people who do the stuff that makes you say, “It can’t get any stupider than this” have gone and done something stupider than this. Yes, the leftist guardians of social justice and racial “equity” (get used to that word; it’s gonna be drilled into your skull like an orbitoclast for the next four years) have decided that, in their never-ending quest to label non-racist things as racist, acronyms are now the product of “white supremacy.”
Like so many plagues, this one started in that storied California town where the streets are paved with poo—San Francisco. Last week the San Francisco Unified School District declared that its arts department, VAPA (Visual and Performing Arts), must no longer be known by that acronym, because acronyms are “racist.”
According to Sam Bass, director of the arts department formerly known as VAPA, “The use of so many acronyms within the educational field often tends to alienate those who may not speak English to understand the acronym.” Bass was then asked why that makes acronyms “racist,” as there are plenty of white people in the world who don’t speak English. But sadly, before he could reply, he slipped on a transient’s droppings and impaled himself on a pile of AIDS needles.
AIDS, by the way, is an acronym. So AIDS is racist. But KKK is not. Like NSDAP, KKK is an “initialism,” which is not racist (it’s an initialism if the letters are pronounced individually, but an acronym if they are spoken as one word). GLAAD is an acronym. Hence, gay people are racist. MALDEF, the name of the largest Latino advocacy group in the U.S., is also an acronym, which is odd if acronyms are anti-immigrant. It’s almost as if those San Francisco “educators” are just making this nonsense up as they go along.
Spoiler alert: They are. Bass told the New York Post that the decision to abandon acronyms was based on the findings of a 1999 “paper” by “anti-Zionist Jew” Tema Okun of the Israeli Committee Against House Demolitions (it’s okay—PLO is not an acronym). However, Okun’s “paper” doesn’t mention acronyms at all. The things she does mention as the most racist evils since Hitler wore blackface include “perfectionism,” “a sense of urgency” (like what Democrats always invoke for why this or that climate-change or social-justice policy must pass immediately), “worship of the written word,” “with us or against us thinking” (like the kind of ideological “purity tests” being used by Democrats against “election deniers”), “individualism,” “objectivity,” and “the right to comfort” (because heaven knows leftists of color never demand “safe spaces” where they can exercise their “right to comfort”).
“Understand that discomfort is at the root of all growth and learning,” Okun declared in her paper.
Seems like a perfectly good argument for demolishing the houses of Palestinians, then. All that discomfort will surely aid their growth and learning.
Sam Bass was unable to explain why he cited the Okun paper as the source of his anti-acronym crusade, when the Okun paper doesn’t mention acronyms. But to any objective (racist) individuals (racist) reading these written words (racist), one final acronym seems unavoidable when describing the sad state of San Francisco today: FUBAR.
LUNATIC INADVERTENTLY PROVES HIMSELF RIGHT
The innocent wisdom of a child is nothing compared with the mentally dissociative wisdom of the paranoid schizo. Steven Brandenburg is the Wisconsin ex-pharmacist who purposely destroyed hundreds of doses of the Moderna Covid vaccine last December. Brandenburg worked as the overnight pharmacist at the Advocate Aurora Health Hospital, and the day before Christmas, he intentionally left over 570 vaccine doses at room temperature to spoil (either that, or he was trying to get in good with Santa by leaving free vaccinations instead of cookies).
Several patients ended up receiving those spoiled doses.
Turns out pharmacist Brandenburg is, as they say, a few caplets short of a refill. Dude’s no generic-brand OTC nutcase; he’s as daffy as they come. After initially trying to chalk the destruction of the vaccines to innocent error, now—in advance of a Feb. 9 court hearing—the cuckoo chemist has admitted that he destroyed the doses on purpose, for reasons that seem like the product of a man in need of meds, rather than one who should be dispensing them. Brandenburg told investigators that he believes the vaccine alters the DNA of those who take it. He also claims the vaccine will implant recipients with a microchip. And it’ll make people infertile, too (probably for the best, as who knows what kind of mutant babies would result from all that reconfigured DNA?).
However (in Peter Griffin voice), “you think that’s bad,” Brandenburg’s just gettin’ warmed up. He also believes that the world is flat, and the sky is just “a shield put up by the government to prevent individuals from seeing God.”
FactCheck: Most theologians agree that God would not allow his presence to be concealed by a sky shield. Plus, according to Elon Musk, sky shield technology is still several years away from reaching a Deity-proof level of security. We therefore rate this claim false.
According to friends and family, Brandenburg has been into “conspiracy theories” for nearly a decade. And apparently last June his wife finally had enough of his bunkum, filing for divorce and essentially telling him to hit the road and keep on walkin’ till he finds the fucking curvature. She last saw him on Dec. 6, when he forced her to accept a bunch of “prepper” supplies because apparently the sky shield was about to fall (all hail the prophet Chicken Little).
The inadvertently funny part of this story is, without meaning to, Brandenburg ended up proving his point about the dangers of vaccines (and other meds), just not in the way he intended. By all accounts, Brandenburg had reached the position of hospital pharmacist with flying colors, acing all exams and becoming licensed like anyone else in his field. Yet he’s clearly insane. A reminder that the people we trust with potentially life-or-death matters of medicine are every bit as fallible as the rest of us. All the more reason that the concept, so popular in the Covid era, of “trusting thee science” should be met with skepticism when it’s misused to mean “trust thee scientists.”
A doctor or a scientist can be just as batty as a 7-Eleven bum. But a 7-Eleven bum can’t inject you with an intentionally expired vaccine dose.
“Trust but verify” worked for Ronald Reagan, and it’s a damn good guiding principle for dealing with matters of healthcare, too.
Reserve your faith for your relationship with the Almighty…that is, if you can see Him beyond the sky shield.
NAPOLI TURNS TO CRAPOLI
Remember the good old days when Italian Mafia families were comprised of nice guys who cared about the community and only harmed them mugs wot had it coming? Well, those were the “good old days” in movies, at least, when godfathers cared about the old neighborhood and never refused a favor on this, the day of their daughter’s wedding. And if they put horse heads under the odd sheet here or there, it was only because a pedo film director had it coming.
How times have changed! The Italian Campania region is under the viselike control of the Camorra crime family, and let’s just say that the Camorra are not exactly the Corleones. Along with drug selling and various protection rackets, the Camorra made their mint by cornering the toxic waste disposal industry in and around Naples, creating what has become known as the “Triangle of Death,” an area 25 kilometers outside Naples that’s essentially one giant cancer-causing illegal toxic waste dump. When that area reached capacity, the Camorra got creative, hiding toxic waste in parks, ditches, backyards, ravines, and caves. It’s believed that the Camorra crime family has illegally disposed of over 10 million tons of industrial waste; cancer in Camorra-controlled territory is a good 40 to 47% higher than elsewhere in Italy.
It seems only natural that a Mafia clan that profits from detritus would eventually turn its attention to Third World refugees. The Camorra have “worked with” (as in, “tendered unrefusable offers to”) Napoli officials to make the city a safe harbor for African migrants, who are then employed in the sex trade (the females) or the drug trade (the males).
In January 2019, when Naples mayor Luigi de Magistris made a huge deal out of proclaiming his city a haven for African refugees, the world press was kind enough not to mention the Camorra goons pressing a gun to his back.
According to The Guardian, the Camorra traffic in human toxic waste has turned the Castel Volturno municipality outside Naples into a “war zone like Beirut” with “the highest murder rates in the country.”
And now the Camorra family is making a new demand of the Napoli natives: No more sirens on emergency vehicles. According to The Sunday Times, “Ambulance drivers in Naples are demanding police protection after the local mafia ordered them not to use their sirens and flashing lights because they disturbed drug-pushers.” Apparently, the sirens and lights scare off the druggies and johns, robbing the pushers and pimps of customers.
Napoli ambulance drivers also report being assaulted by family members who become angry when a loved one dies before the ambulance arrives.
So it’s kind of a lose-lose; use the siren and get there quick, the Mafia beats you up. Turn off the siren and get there slow, the family beats you up.
This is what happens when you let Fredo run the town. Between the homegrown criminals and the immigrant wretches, Naples is a city where sleeping with the fishes is fast becoming an attractive option compared with living in a Mafia-run Third World toxic waste war zone.
THE GIRL WHO CRIED WOLFOWITZ
Misha Defonseca had a story that was too good to be true, a story so harrowing, so unbelievable, so ultimately redemptive and hopeful, those who heard it came away positively transformed. When she was but a child of 7 tender years—a Jewish girl in occupied Belgium—the brutish Nazis deported her parents to a death camp. But little Misha got away…barely. Escaping into some nearby woods, with no survival skills, all looked lost. But then a pack of wolves adopted her as one of their own, teaching her how to hunt, forage, and stay warm, and providing her with remedial classes in basic math and a small amount of beginner trig, but only at the middle-school level (they were wolves, after all).
Having been conditioned to think of herself as a canine, Misha survived the war and went on to live a normal postwar life, if one doesn’t count the constant crotch-licking and the occasional instances of being scared awake by her own farts.
For some odd reason, Were-Misha never mentioned her lupine wartime experience until 1997, when, at age 60, she began shopping around her memoirs. Publishers never asked for any proof of her tale, and besides, Misha claimed that amnesia suffered during her ordeal had blanked out any memory of her human birth-name (she decided to go with Misha after she left the pack because her wolf-given name of “Oooowoooowl Hooooowoooo” didn’t sound Jewish enough).
Her book, Misha: A Mémoire of the Holocaust Years, was translated into twenty languages, selling millions of copies around the world. In 2007 it was adapted into a French feature film, Survivre Avec les Loups.
In 1998 Misha sued her publisher, claiming that she deserved more money than the book had earned her in royalties, because apparently the wolves never taught her basic accounting. At the trial, Misha wowed the Massachusetts jurors with four words: “Jew” “Holocaust” “survivor” “wolves.” They awarded her $7.5 million dollars. Misha then turned to the judge and angrily repeated, in a louder tone, “JEW” “HOLOCAUST” SURVIVOR” “WOLVES.”
The judge upped the damages to $23 million.
Facing bankruptcy, Misha’s ex-publisher, now on the hook for a huge amount of dough, did the thing that a more prudent and less opportunistic publisher would’ve done at the very beginning of this affair: She did some research into the story.
Turns out every square inch of Misha’s tale was a lie. She ain’t Jewish (she was born and raised Catholic); her parents were Resistance fighters until her dad was arrested by the Nazis and gave up his comrades, leading to the family becoming pariahs; and the closest she ever came to seeing a wolf was reading Little Red Riding Hood.
The publisher was able to get a court to overturn the civil suit verdict, and Misha the Wolf Woman quietly vanished into the nighttime fog.
Last week, a new documentary film about this debacle premiered at Sundance. Misha and the Wolves, which received glowing praise at the festival, is set to be released to the public on Netflix later this year.
This bodes poorly for the Simon Wiesenthal Center’s Museum of Tolerance, which is being forced to revamp its wing about Jewish children who were rescued from the Holocaust by animals. “We’ve removed the Misha exhibit,” the SWC’s Rabbi Marvin Heir told the AP, “but we stand by the testimony of Yitzak Schleimerman, who survived Auschwitz by hiding in the trees outside the camp with a family of chimps.”
The film of Schleimerman’s life, Torahzan of the Apes, is scheduled to premiere this May.
It’s been 24 years since Disney rejiggered the Pirates of the Caribbean ride at its theme parks to make the pirates less sexist (because if pirates were known for anything, it was respecting the sanctity of the female body). Last year, Disney pledged to redo its Splash Mountain attraction because some of the ride’s themes were taken from that most forbidden of Disney films, Song of the South (Peter Griffin voice part 2: “You think that’s bad, you shoulda seen that other Song of the South attraction, Haunted House Negro”).
And now the inevitable PC hammer has come for that most venerable attraction, the Jungle Cruise. Frankly, with its depiction of African native headhunters and frightened tribesmen chased up trees Dan’l Boone song-style, it’s surprising that it took this long for Disney to feel the heat.
Although a date for the Jungle Cruise “renovation” has not been set, it’s expected that it’ll occur this year at all Disney theme parks worldwide (the first Jungle Cruise opened along with the original Disneyland in 1955).
In a series of statements released by a rainbow coalition of multiracial male and female Disney execs, the company outlined its new plans for the attraction. Gone will be all of those uncomfortable animatronic figures. Instead, the role of the ship’s skipper will be expanded, in order to “tell diverse, inclusive stories” to the boat’s riders.
An official Disney press release further elucidates:
We want to make sure everybody has the best time—that guests from all over the world can connect with the stories we share and that how we bring those to life are respectful of the diverse world we live in. And when they get off the attraction, they know that we have done our homework because these are the details that matter.
So get ready, thrill-seekers! When you board the revamped Jungle Cruise ride, expect to hear “diverse, inclusive stories,” secure in the knowledge that the park “did its homework” to get the “details” right!
That’s going to be much more fun than charging hippos or water-spraying elephants.
Tour Guide: “Welcome to the Jungle Cruise adventure! My name is Mbesi, and I will be your skipper. Are you ready for fun? Good! As we embark on our journey, let me tell you the story of little Sipho and the trickster lion. Sipho, who the villagers had nicknamed Mbweha, or ‘jackal,’ wanted nothing more than to own a drum, which we call ngoma. Hawu, his sister Ngesi exclaimed one evening at a dinner of rice (or as we say, mchele) and beans (maharagwe—can you say that?), tomorrow I shall find you a suitable drum…who can remember the word for “drum”? Anyone? Yes, ngoma. Very good! Kwasuka sukela, the next day…”
Small Child: “Mom, when do we get to the animals?!”
Mom: “Any minute, honey. He’s just setting the scene.”
[30 minutes later]
Tour Guide: “…so Bhubesi the trickster lion had gathered the magic sticks, or as we say, vijiti vya uchawi, and little Sipho grew excited even as Ntemo the warthog, or as we would call him, Ntemo nguruw, warned him of Bhubesi’s nature as a scoundrel and deceiver. It was then that Ngesi arrived with the ten stones of bravery, or mawe ya ushujaa, and…”
Child (sobbing): “Where are the animals!”
Mom: “This…this can’t be the entire ride.”
[45 minutes later]
Tour Guide: “…so Sipho, recalling his nickname of Mbweha, thought to himself, what would a jackal do? Little did he know that Isante the learned owl, or bundi in my native tongue, had been watching with interest…”
Child: “Please drown me, Mom. Please, throw me overboard.”
The ride finally ends with one animatronic diorama—a faithful re-creation of the Zulu scientists who cured malaria, as they accept their Nobel Prize from genuflecting cave-dwelling white men.
Sadly, nobody on the boat sees it, all having chosen the comparative bliss of a watery death.
No refunds will be offered to any riders who survive.
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