The Week’s Most Teachable, Reachable, and Unimpeachable Headlines
Somebody get that sista a rabbit’s foot!
There’s bad luck, and then there’s Dr. Crystallee Crain, the urban contemporary version of Schleprock.
Last week, the Portland Tribune announced that the fair city of Antifa and perpetual riots was losing one of its finest voices in higher ed. Crain, who’d spent the past three years teaching at Portland State University’s Child and Youth Family Studies Department (she also sat on the city’s Human Rights Commission), was pulling up stakes, because racist Portlanders wouldn’t stop hate-criming her.
As the Tribune detailed, Crain’s problems started on a dark night in August 2018, when she was leaving a friend’s birthday party at a local tavern. Alone on the street, waiting for her Lyft, Crain was startled by the sight of five evil white male racists running toward her! The men were “all dressed the same, in tank tops, khaki shorts and socks,” Crain told the newspaper (today’s fashion-savvy hate criminals like to coordinate). As the racists chased her, they called her by name and chanted, “Dr. Niggerbitch” (coincidentally, that’s the title of a failed BET sitcom starring Wanda Sykes as a sassy inner-city physician).
Crain complained that racist neighbors saw the incident but failed to help. After evading her tormentors by hiding in a bush for ninety minutes, she called another Lyft and went home.
Cops could find no evidence that the incident occurred, but that’s only because they’re racist.
A year later, in July 2019, Crain was at a local pizzeria when a gang of similarly dressed evil white racist males pushed her from behind, again screaming, “Dr. Niggerbitch” (is that, like, a Portland thing?). Crain could only identify the attackers’ “white calves” (khaki shorts, remember?), but police, who studied security camera footage of the area from the night of the “crime,” again saw no evidence that it happened.
Damn racist cops!
And it doesn’t end there. Crain told social justice radio station KPFA that she’d received “bomb threats” at her previous teaching job (she referred to them as “fake bomb threats,” apparently oblivious to the extent to which that gave the game away).
Crain also revealed (as an interview subject for a 2019 book) that, back in 2016 when she was living in Oakland, racist cops forced her then husband to lie about a domestic disturbance in their home. The KKKops got the husband to falsely claim that she struck him…which Crain admits she totally did, but only in self-defense. The Nazi policemen then tormented her for hours at the station.
This chick cannot catch a break!
When PSU wouldn’t give her special protection because of her X-Men-like superpower as Hate Crime Magneto, Crain decided to leave the city for good. She told the Tribune that she’s been offered a new job at a California university, teaching on matters of equity and intersectionalism.
Good luck to that university. Crain seems like a very stable and trouble-free employee. Maybe she can be partnered in a classroom with Jussie Smollett.
A KANG GETS CROWNED
Sticking with a theme, we proceed to Placer County, Calif. (near Sacramento). Romey Kang is a UC Davis graduate (bachelor’s in biological sciences) who works for a medical weight-loss center. He also runs his own dog walking, training, and sitting business, whimsically named Romey’s Rascals.
Make a note that he walks dogs, and he trains dogs. But he does not, however, train dogs to walk. If your dog does not know how to walk, Romey’s Rascals is not the place to take it, because proper walking is not Kang’s forte.
That’ll make more sense shortly.
Last month, Romey Kang was the victim of the most horrific racist hate crime in the recorded history of the known universe (at least that’s how the papers portrayed it). He had been visiting nearby Folsom (the city, not the prison), and three (or two, or one) evil Nazi racists gave him a terrible case of the black ’n’ blues.
“Man’s Face is Broken in ‘Hate Attack’ Near Sacramento,” bellowed Yahoo News. Kang, who was found bloody and unconscious by cops on a city street, told police that as he’d been skipping merrily from a local drinking establishment, a “Caucasian man in a white shirt” beat him up for no other reason than “he didn’t like the color of my skin.”
Kang later told cops it was actually two Caucasian white-shirted racists.
Then it became three, because Nazis are shape-shifters who reproduce by fission.
Kang whined to Yahoo that “my cheekbones are broken, they have plates behind them now, my hard palate and upper teeth were separated from the rest of my skull. The doctors said it’s a miracle I didn’t have a brain injury.” He “lost most of his lower teeth,” his “nose was too broken to put plates into,” and his “jaw isn’t aligning well at all.”
The heavy drinking and the magical multiplying racists didn’t tip anyone off that the story might have holes. After all, Kang, who was oddly cagey in interviews regarding his ethnicity (he appears Indian, and Romey as a male given name, and Kang as a surname, can be Punjabi), pointed out that the attacker(s) stole nothing. So if robbery had not been the motive, what else could it have been? Sure, if he were some comically clumsy Hrundi V. Bakshi caricature, one might suggest that he drunkenly face-planted onto the pavement, rendering his visage bruised, bloated, and birdie-numb–numbed.
But such a suggestion would be racist. Indians are fine walkers; that’s why Gandhi never drove.
With the publicity provided by the breathless Yahoo and CBS News coverage, Kang launched a GoFundMe, which quickly spread online. By the beginning of February, he’d made over $20,000.
But last week, police checked nearby home and business surveillance videos, and while they didn’t see a hate crime, they were treated to a wacky drunken solo face-first fall video worthy of Bob Saget.
The local CBS affiliate broke the terrible news that Kang’s face was self-broken.
GoFundMe has suspended the fundraiser, and it’s very likely that Kang will be criminally charged for filing a false police report.
A “rascal” indeed. And considering that there’s likely not much future in being a dog walker who can’t walk, it looks like once Kang is free of his legal entanglements and looking for employment, he’ll have to hit the road and pound the pavement.
SLURRING THEIR SPEECH
Perhaps all white people should learn sign language. A radical solution, to be sure. But more and more it’s becoming impossible for whiteys to say anything—anything at all—without it being considered a fireable, and cancel-able, offense.
Poor Donald McNeil. For decades, ol’ Don had been The New York Times’ star reporter on matters of science and health (he’d been with the paper since 1976). And the dawning of the Covid Era gave Donny his moment in the spotlight. Whether Fauci was advocating wearing no masks, one mask, two masks, or the current directive of thirty (28 over the mouth and nose, and two over the rectum to catch errant farts), Don McNeil was there, to dutifully report “thee science” and educate the filthy masses.
Speaking of filthy, in 2019 McNeil accompanied a bunch of privileged upper-income teenagers to the disease-infested tropical petri dish known as Peru, as part of the Times’ yearly program of coordinating international trips for spoiled egocentric students of means, with the newspaper’s reporters serving as their tour guides. Think of it as similar to “take your daughter to work day,” but with an international twist, along the lines of “take your Zoomer asshole to South America day.”
Sadly, McNeil, being an older gent, didn’t realize that today’s young people, lacking a ’nam or an AIDS to thin their ranks and teach them humility, saw the vacation as a way to cancel an oldie. Ostensibly, the kids were in Peru to study “community healthcare in impoverished nations.” But in reality, the children of Times readers care about South and Central Americans only when they’re held in DONALD TRUMP’S RACIST BORDER CAGES. Free-range Peruvians in their native habitat are of little interest.
So the brats decided to make the most of their trip by coercing Don McNeil into saying “nigger,” and then getting him canceled.
Covid lockdowns and school closures have resulted in a plague of student suicides, but sadly not among the kids who most deserve that fate.
At dinner one night during the trip, McNeil’s students asked if they could pick his brain regarding a classmate back in the States who’d said the word “nigger.” As the student was white, what penalty should have befallen him? Expulsion? Imprisonment? Death by breaking wheel?
McNeil, not realizing that he was being drawn into a trap by the current generation’s unique amalgam of Dennis the Menace and Lavrentiy Beria, asked the obvious question of his youthful interlocutors: Did the white student use the word as a slur, or was he repeating it in the act of recounting a news item or a rap lyric?
And the kids were like, “Repeating what?”
And McNeil was like, “That word.”
And with that the joyful youngsters screamed in unison, “Ooooooooooh, we made you say ‘nigger’! You’re dead, grup!”
And dead he was. After nearly two years of telling the “Peru nigger” tale to all who’d listen, last week the young Stasis finally found an “investigative journalist” at The Daily Beast who recognized the story’s value. At first, Times editor Dean Baquet responded by defending McNeil, stating that his intent in using the word didn’t appear to be racist. But then the little dears from the field trip said, “Hmm, then maybe you’re the racist,” and Baquet changed his tune, declaring that McNeil’s intent “didn’t matter,” and he was so fired and how the fuck did The New York Times sink to the point where teenagers dictate HR policy?
How indeed. And if intent no longer matters when a white person uses the “N-word,” will the Times continue to champion the films of Quentin Tarantino?
More importantly, will the Times continue to allow its staff and editors to retain their actual physical balls, or will the castration become as literal as it is figurative?
IN DA BOUNCY HOUSE
Again, let’s stick with a theme: young people. And lest the previous item imply that today’s “yoots” are vile only when moneyed, let’s take a trip to Peoria, Ill., with it’s 21% poverty index and inordinately high crime rate (higher even than Chicago when it comes to property crimes). Peoria is wonderfully, blissfully diverse. With a population that is approximately 30% black, you can always count on Peoria to bring both da funk and da noise.
And da bounce.
The owners and operators of Peoria’s Elevate Trampoline Park had a dream…a wonderful dream (papaaaaa) to give the yoots of Peoria some good, wholesome fun. After all, who doesn’t like trampolines, right? Bouncing up and down for hours on end, what could possibly be more enjoyable than that, except maybe anything. So Peoria’s Elevate Trampoline Park was born. And to ensure that the venue attracted as many young people as possible, the owners decided to institute a special night, just for teens (because the children are our future).
“Black Out Teen Night.” Yes, that was the name. The actual name. As described on the Elevate Trampoline Facebook page when the weekly event was launched (i.e., back before the morons at Elevate realized what they’d done to themselves):
Saturdays from 8:00pm–11:00pm. Exclusively for teenagers, ages 12–19! Only $20 per person, for all three hours. Don’t forget to wear clothes that “GLOW” under a black light. Elevate socks are included in the price of our Black Out Teen Night pass.
Elevate even paraphrased Illinois’ greatest resident to attract kids to the “Black Out” night: “Four score and seven years ago…we jumped until we could not anymore.”
Sadly, Black Out Teen Night quickly turned into Black In Teen Night. Within weeks, the event became the place to be for the city’s diversified young folks. And oddly, in a development that could not have been foreseen by anyone, stuffing hundreds of black kids into a dark room filled with trampolines ended in disaster.
Last week, Elevate Trampoline Park was trampled in a rumble worthy of The Warriors, or any average day in war-torn Somalia. Dozens of noble multiracial nonwhite youngsters who are our future started beating the living crap out of each other, because of course they did. Video from the fracas shows the little angels tossing trash cans and throwing punches, and generally wrecking the joint, as hoodies and weaves go flying and frightened staffers cower in corners frantically texting their families, “If I don’t make it out alive, find the person who thought Black Out Teen Night was a good idea and murder him. Avenge me! Avenge meeeee!”
When police cleared the location of brawlers, the fights continued outside the business. Cops told a local TV station that they made no arrests, because George Soros or racial justice or maybe just because at this point why bother? Is it really the fault of the kids? Or is it the fault of the morons who thought they could be counted on to behave?
The day after the melee, Elevate released a statement explaining that all Black Out Teen Nights would immediately be canceled at all locations. Sources say the ad whiz who came up with the concept is hard at work on his next amazing idea: George Floyd Memorial Trampoline Night.
“He was killed for bouncing a check, so bounce back in his memory.”
That should play well in Peoria.
Remember back when we could forgive people their trespasses? Or, more specifically, when we could forgive country & western musicians their occasional slip-ups? Like in 1981 when Johnny Cash killed a bunch of ostriches and then got his ass kicked by a survivor?
Cash, who at the time was not averse to the occasional drink or line or upper, had built a wild animal park adjoining his Tennessee home. But the winter of ’81 had been especially brutal, and half the animals perished, including a shitload of ostriches. Indeed, all of Cash’s female ostriches died in the cold, which apparently left the males somewhat cranky. When Cash was startled by a furious and horny ostrich while walking his grounds (and, one assumes, stepping over the frozen hens), he became enraged, vowing to murder the blueballed bird wot scared him. The fight was, at best, a draw. Cash cracked the angry beast’s leg with a stick, but received five broken ribs and a ruptured stomach in the process.
Music fans had no problem forgiving the Man in Black for his animal cruelty (although ostriches continue to carry a grudge to this day).
If there’s a lesson from the Cash clash, it’s “Musicians are oftentimes dicks; live with it.”
Ah, but in 2021, these are the days of never living with anything. As proven last week when a young country & western star named Morgan Wallen was caught on camera using the “N-word,” apparently when drunkenly, if affectionately, referring to a friend of his.
Was that a sound decision? For fuck’s sake, the man has a mullet. If you expect sound decisions from a man with a mullet, more the fool you.
When the video of his N-word usage went public, Wallen was dropped by his agent and fired by his recording label, and his work, including his most recent album, was banned by CMT and removed from rotation by hundreds of radio stations nationwide.
One of Wallen’s musical collaborators even pledged to donate all of his profits to the NAACP, a small boutique organization that badly needs the funds.
Wallen himself has urged his fans to stop listening to his songs, and he’s embarked on a national apology tour in which all black Americans are invited to “ostrich” him Cash-style.
There’s only one problem…ever since his “cancellation,” Wallen’s album sales have skyrocketed…by 102%. And downloads of his music have increased by 67%. Even his older albums have hit the charts again.
This might represent a fatal flaw in cancel-culture methodology; cancellation as an inadvertent path to fame and fortune.
God forbid if other marginally talented washed-up musical failures begin engaging in racist speech to revitalize their careers. What might that bring us? Jimmy Ray’s “Are You KKK?”? Aqua’s “Klaus Barbie Girl?” Tanita Tikaram’s “Eleven Kikes of Loneliness”? Lushus Daim’s “More Than Jew Can Handle”?
Or maybe it’s just that country-music fans, accustomed as they are to songs of woe by doe-eyed sadsacks, are more forgiving. After all, when every song in the genre can be distilled to “my cheatin’ woman left me as I drank myself catatonic after my daddy died by crashing his beat-up ol’ Chevy truck into the steel mill so now I’m unemployed,” a single like “I done said nigger on TMZ, and now them coons is after me” is a guaranteed hit.
That’s all for this week. Now go Google Lushus Daim; your day will be much the worse for it.
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