April 11, 2021

Source: Bigstock

The Week’s Most Mothering, Smothering, and Othering Headlines

Public Service Announcement: If you ever build a time machine, don’t travel back to the 1800s to give Frederick Douglass a briefing on the future.

“Such wondrous things you describe! Air travel! Smallpox eradicated! People communicating from one end of the earth to another via small handheld devices that send information through the ether! But tell me…what of my people? What of my good and noble race?”

“Well, Mr. Douglass, when I left they were injecting bouillon cubes into their anuses, but at least they stopped gluing their hair to their scalps.”

“Can you go back in time to before you told me that and…just…not tell me that?”

Yes, the newest craze among women of color has them injecting their butts with bouillon. It’s a fad that began several years ago in the Democratic Republic of the Congo, where large-bootied females are seen as the be-all (rear)end-all standard of beauty. Most Congolese women can’t afford fancy plastic surgery (indeed, the Congo doesn’t have very many fancy plastic surgeons anyway). So for some odd reason (one that likely explains the nation’s lack of Pulitzers), Congolese women got it in their heads that if they inject chicken stock up their rumps, the seasoning and salt will cause the tissue to expand, turning the recipient into every rap star’s ultimate fantasy.

Perhaps King Leopold got a bad rap. Might be that at least some of those deaths were attributable to behavior like this.

There’s a popular song, “Ntaba ya Bandundu,” that celebrates the bubble-butt custom, and there’s a how-to video on the practice, courtesy of Vice. The cubes of choice in the Congo contain iodized salt, sugar, chili, pepper, cloves, onion, corn starch, palm oil, soya lecithin, caramel coloring, and monosodium glutamate.

Congo: the only place on earth where you have to specify “no MSG” before a booty call.

Although, sadly, that “only place on earth” thing isn’t entirely true. The practice has started to catch on in the U.S. And that shouldn’t be a surprise. Remember O’Neal Morris? “She” was the black transgender amateur plastic surgeon who was raking in the bucks by injecting the posteriors of black women with cement and Fix-A-Flat to enhance their bootyliciousness. This “Florida woman” was arrested after one of her patients, Shatarka Nuby, died from the procedure. Dozens of others were permanently maimed by Morris’ cement-bottom treatments (treatments that, it’s fair to say, didn’t exactly help blacks with their swimming difficulties).

So, is there any shock that African-American women are copying the Congolese fad?

It’s gotten so bad, last week a medical doctor named Silas Agbesi issued a plea on Twitter for women in the U.S. and Africa to let their seasoned buns deflate:

Stop pumping seasoning cubes into your anus to widen your buttocks. It is not safe. It can lead to Hypertension. If you crush the seasoning cubes which contains largely salt and inject it into your anus, the lining of the anus would absorb a huge portion of that salt into your bloodstream. Excess salt in the bloodstream is a major contributor to hypertension, especially in Africans. A person, in theory, can develop hypertension from this practice.

Rectum? Hell, it killed ’em.

Whether Dr. Agbesi’s sage advice will be taken to heart remains to be seen. But at the very least, as black women continue to die from the procedure, this is one tragedy Farrakhan can’t blame on the Jews.

After all, no self-respecting Jew would waste that much chicken stock on anything other than soup.

If a tranny whines in a forest and no one is around to hear it, is anyone a transphobe?

If you’ve spent any time over the past year contemplating the multitude of human tragedies caused by the Covid lockdowns, your thoughts have likely focused on the restaurants driven out of business forever, or the mom-and-pop stores that were forced to close, or the service-industry people put out of work and the children deprived of an entire year of proper schooling. Or the elderly forced to die alone, barred from human contact with relatives.

Well, if those are the stories that concern you, you are one selfish SOB. Because what really mattered during America’s quarantine year was that trannies didn’t get the affirmation they needed.

At least that’s how The New York Times sees it.

“How Do I Define My Gender if No One Is Watching Me?” is the title of arguably the most blindly clueless, oblivious op-ed in the history of the media (at least since “How to Explain Bavarian Hostility Toward Me? Must be Anti-Semitism!” by Eugen Leviné, May 1919). The NYT op-ed, which ran last week, was written by Alex Marzano-Lesnevich, who “identifies” as a “non-binary transgender,” which roughly translates to “It’s impossible to tell if it’s an ugly man who became an uglier woman or an ugly woman who became an uglier man.”

“Congo: the only place on earth where you have to specify “no MSG” before a booty call.”

Marzano-Lesnevich is what’s known as a “tilter,” in that one look at “him” will have any normal human tilting their head like a dog, struggling in vain to understand the ghastly puzzle before them.

The op-ed details the unbearable hardships suffered by Marzano-Lesnevich because of the Covid lockdown. See, with so many service and retail entities closed, there were no “normies” to hassle, harass, bully, and berate.

I was surprised by how much my gender instead seemed to almost evaporate. No longer on the alert for how to signal a restaurant’s waitstaff that neither “he” nor “she” applied to me, or for whether colleagues and neighbors would use the right language—devoid of anyone to signal my gender to—I felt, suddenly, amorphous and undefined.

If you’ve ever wondered whether the whole tranny thing is just a way for the attention-deprived to trouble people who are actually contributing to society, that’s a bingo!

Where did my own gender reside, then, if not in sending signals of difference?… How do I define my gender when I—accustomed to how visible my gender usually makes me—am no longer being watched?

Trannyism is literally about being seen. That’s why it’s never acceptable to say, “Hey—you go be whoever or whatever you want; just don’t force me to play along.” You have to play along; that’s the point of the exercise. That’s why the word “affirm” is so prominent in trans theology. Gender affirmation surgery. “Affirmation is transgender support’s first priority.” Affirmation by definition requires two parties, one to be something, and one to affirm it. Trannies are not content to just be; they need everyone else to affirm.

And in a locked-down, quarantined world with no one to condescendingly tell the homely, hairy dude in a dress, “You’re a bee-yoo-teeful lady,” the tranny is left with naught but…himself.

And that ain’t no exaggeration. Self-described “queer and disabled trans man” Grayson Schultz, who’s probably caused enough head-tilting to keep a thousand chiropractors in business for life, lamented last week that the lockdowns have damaged the health of transgenders by forcing them to look at themselves: “The video calls so many of us are now on all day means that trans people are confronted with their image more often, which can be triggering.”

Yep, seeing yourself in that Brady Bunch box on a Zoom call is a rather cruel reminder that you’re Greg not Marcia.

“Gender nonconformists” are a small but vocal minority of Tinkerbells who vanish when everyone else stops believing in them.

Next time you’re asked to clap, consider the benefits of refraining.

And speaking of transvolk…

Film buffs often debate which actor best typified the character of James Bond. Connery the swaggering Scot? Moore the debonair Brit? Brosnan the steely Irishman? Lazenby the Aussie? Dalton? Craig?

Wrong on all counts.

It turns out that the member of the Bond franchise who best personifies the spirit of a British superspy isn’t one of the actors at all, but one of the directors: Lee Tamahori, helmer of 2002’s Bond blockbuster Die Another Day.

So what makes Tamahori the real Bond? Is it his bravery under fire? His expertise at counterintelligence? His dedication to queen and country?

Well, the “queen” part isn’t far off.

Tamahori is a dude in lipstick, a tranny who enjoys pretending to be a woman in order to solicit men for sex. In 2006 Tamahori was arrested in L.A. during a prostitution sting. Wearing a black wig and an off-the-shoulder dress, he approached an undercover officer and offered to fellate the gentleman for money.

Congratulations, Lee Tamahori: You’re fully qualified to be the head of MI6!

Richard Moore serves as chief of the British Secret Intelligence Service (MI6). And it turns out that his codename “C” stands for “cis.” Because Moore, though not transgender himself, has decided that MI6 must—for England to survive—devote itself to the tranny cause. Last week Moore hoisted the “transgender flag” (the “Union Jacqueline”) over MI6 headquarters. As reported in The Sunday Times:

Faced with evolving threats from China, Russia and Iran, Moore stressed that a diverse pool of talent strengthened the security services. “We’re proud of our trans and non-binary colleagues and committed to providing an inclusive workplace where you can be your true self,” Moore, 57, said. “Diversity makes us more effective, inclusion makes us stronger.”

Yes, “faced with evolving threats” from two superpowers where the leaders firmly understand that men are not women, “C” has decided that the best counter-maneuver is to chock his intelligence agency full of mentally unstable man-woman-things who wage war not against enemies of the Crown, but enemies of men in a gown.

That’ll show the foes of democracy! Nothing defeats a Novichok-wielding Russian assassin more effectively than shouting “CALL ME MA’AM!” (after all, Novichok is a “binary” chemical weapon. So by definition it can be defeated by those who reject all that is binary).

On the other hand, to be fair, it might not hurt MI6 to encourage the recruitment of androgynous males to counter the Chinese, who, being just barely dimorphic themselves, have an obvious edge in the gender-bender arms race.

The good people of England can sleep soundly tonight, knowing that their freedoms are being protected by people who, when not engaging in espionage, are lopping off various body parts and injecting chemicals to create artificial hormonal changes.

The new James Bonds take their martinis neither shaken nor stirred, but transduced.

The last time this much attention was paid to a dead body, Jimmy Savile was popping a bottle of champagne and playing a Barry White CD.

Poor George Floyd, fentanyl freak–turned–Cardiff (gentle) Giant, his corpse, or at least the most intimate details of its biochemistry, paraded around Barnum-style in a three-ring-circus trial and social media sideshow.

Journalists can’t even seem to agree on how many pathologists actually played Operation on Floyd’s cadaver. According to the Star Tribune in an article last week about the Derek Chauvin trial, Hennepin County Chief Medical Examiner Dr. Andrew Baker is “the only doctor who performed an autopsy” and “the only person to perform an autopsy on Floyd.” Baker reported “no physical findings that support a diagnosis of traumatic asphyxia or strangulation.” According to a summary of Baker’s conclusions, Floyd’s heart failed because of “stress, drugs, enlarged heart, and [heart] disease.”

Last June, however, the same Star Tribune that just last week described Baker as “the only doctor who performed an autopsy” and “the only person to perform an autopsy on Floyd” also reported that “Floyd’s family hired two pathologists who conducted a second autopsy that concluded Floyd died of asphyxia.”

So wait, were there two autopsies or one? Seems confusing. Then again, were you seriously expecting any of this to make sense? Hasn’t the response to Covid convinced you that once “science” becomes politicized, it becomes amorphous? It becomes whatever the prevailing political wisdom dictates.

To be sure, there’s much that is murky and incomplete about that “second autopsy.” But what’s funnier is how the prosecutors and political powers-that-be are spinning the inconvenient Baker autopsy. Last week prosecutor Jerry Blackwell told jurors that Baker’s conclusions demonstrate “the limitations of pathology.” Sometimes there’s just “no evidence left behind” of how someone died. Therefore, like any good Monday Night Football commentator, ya gotta go to the video! “I would tell you that you can believe your own eyes that it’s a homicide, it’s murder,” Blackwell instructed the jury, referring to the video of Floyd’s arrest. “You can believe your own eyes.”

To hell with science! Just go by the video. And Blackwell, who at least is being paid to sling cow pies, isn’t alone in pushing the “believe your eyes, not the science” lunacy. Last week, FiveThirtyEight, the blog run by pollster Nate Silver (a man who makes a living by calling elections incorrectly), interviewed Dr. Karl Williams, chief medical examiner of Allegheny County. Dr. Williams declared, “After that video [of the Floyd arrest] we know why he died. But it doesn’t necessarily mean, OK, that there’s going to be any evidence of that.”

Basically, cops are ninjas who are trained to kill without leaving any evidence. Therefore, the video is more important than the so-called “science,” because cops know how to kill without leaving traces. Those damn cops, a pathologist’s nightmare! Indeed, if a cop is accused of murder and there’s no physical evidence to back up the charge, that just means he’s an especially well-trained ninja and therefore deserves even more time behind bars! Lack of evidence of murder means more evidence of murder.


Leave it to Scientific American—a publication fully estranged from the first word in its title and damn near estranged from the second—to make it clear that if you don’t believe the video over the science, you’re more than wrong…you’re Nazi wrong! In a piece written by twelve morons, most of whom have names that don’t exactly sound “American,” the authors lament that “the law would believe a physician’s report over the reality they (black people) saw with their own eyes, and have lived with their own lives.”

To believe a “physician’s report” over what a black person claims to have seen is, according to authors Shadravan, Tsai, Barceló, Mensah, Roxas, Kung, Misa, and Shen, “white supremacy.”

Well, that seals it! Science is bunk! Truth can only be known when filtered through a black person’s eyes.

So, then…what about all those black people refusing to take the Covid vaccine? Good for them, ignoring “physicians’ reports,” right?

Science marches on.

Woodrow Wilson High School in Portland, Oregon, was having a problem. Swastikas everywhere! So many swastikas, the school’s Jewish kids couldn’t count them all. Or, you know, photograph them. Or prove that they actually existed. But that doesn’t mean the Nazi hate symbols weren’t real. They were simply “mind”-real as opposed to physical reality-real.

In 2019, so many kvetching schmendricks complained to the school district that officials resolved to take action. And since the school’s namesake was a damn filthy racist, surely it was his ghost that was leaving the phantom swastikas (ghosts are jerks). It was decided that the only way to exorcise the apparitional hate symbols was to change the school’s name.

That was 2019. Then 2020 came, and BLM and Antifa pretty much told Portland that if it ain’t black, send it back! So rather than rename Wilson High after someone Jewish (it’s a great tragedy that Oregon will never know the glories of Buddy Hackett High), it was decided to rechristen the school after a black icon.

It should be noted that the school is less than 5% black.

And so, this year, Ida B. Wells High School was born. It was either Ida B. Wells or Al B. Sure.

Now that Woodrow Wilson High had a new name, a new mascot was needed. The previous mascot, chosen to honor Wilson’s favorite film, Birth of a Nation, was a man in blackface saying, “Ef I doan’ get ’nuf franchise to fill mah bucket, I doan’ want it nohow.” Well, that had to go. And a committee of good, leftist Portlandian whites and Jews slaved…um, make that struggled for weeks over the question: What type of mascot does Ann B. Davis High deserve?

A choice was made: The new mascot would be an evergreen tree!

Evergreens are characterized by the life-giving force of their foliage, the strength of their massive trunk, and the depth of their roots—in an individual tree and as a forest of trees. They provide shelter and sustenance. They have histories that preclude us and will continue in perpetuity after we are no more.

So said the mascot committee upon announcing its decision.

Yet all was not well at Ida ratherB Sailing High. Several among the school’s small minority of blacks brought up a point that no one else had considered (because it’s massively retarded): Black people used to be lynched from trees! The evergreen is a tree. Therefore, evergreens are pro-lynching.

Initially, the mascot committee members tried pointing out that evergreens were never used in lynchings. Their branches are not strong enough to hold a human body. Evergreens are Christmas trees, not hangin’ trees.

In response to those vile expressions of common sense, the protesters pointed to their faces and said “black!” And the whites relented.

The evergreen mascot plan has been put on hold, as all involved parties draw up a list of which trees owe reparations to blacks, and which don’t. While extremist blacks desire to hold all trees responsible for lynchings, just as all whites are responsible for slavery, reasonable blacks only want deciduous trees to pay. There’s been no official comment yet from deciduous trees because they’re trees.

During World War II, the Japanese floated thousands of incendiary bombs over the Pacific toward Oregon. One can only hope that a few of them might still be out there, now that their landing would no longer be an act of war against the U.S., but one of mercy.


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