May 23, 2021

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The Week’s Most Sagacious, Temptatious, and Vexatious Headlines

It’s a fine Saturday afternoon in Los Angeles’ historic Olvera Street shopping district. Your craving for Mexican food has brought you to the Downtown location, because—following L.A.’s Food Service Anti-Cultural Appropriation Racial Purity Act of 2019 (a.k.a. the Nuremburrito Laws), which mandated that “nonwhite” food can only be sold by establishments owned by nonwhites—Olvera Street has become one of the few remaining areas where one can obtain restaurant-quality tamales.

As eateries are still only allowed 50% capacity, you sit outside, savoring the mild May weather, awaiting your table. You are approached by a small Mexican child.

“Señor, I am Pablo. Mi familia has suffered greatly from the Covid. I no beggar boy, but for only one dollar, Pablo will tell you a story of hope and inspiration in these terrible times.”

You think to yourself, why not? A little pre-dinner entertainment would be pleasant.

Pablo begins his tale…

Richard Montañez was a janitor…a lowly Mexican-American janitor sweeping floors at a Frito-Lay manufacturing plant in Rancho Cucamonga, Calif. One day, while cleaning a toilet in the building’s dreaded “nachos wing,” Montañez had a flash of brilliance: Why not market Cheetos covered in spicy chili powder, a “flaming hot” snack food that would revolutionize the staid, boring world of crunchy comestibles? So certain, so confident was Montañez in his vision, he mustered the temerity to personally call the Frito-Lay CEO, who rewarded the janitero valiente with a pitch meeting, where the entire corporate staff was blown away by the idea. And voilà, in 1989, Flamin’ Hot Cheetos hit the stands, becoming the company’s defining—and best-selling—product.

And Montañez became a superstar. As a motivational speaker, he commanded fees as high as $50,000 to tell his rags-to-riches tale at high schools, universities (including Harvard and USC), and corporate diversity seminars for Walmart and Target.

He penned a memoir. He was the subject of a book, 2012’s Taco USA: How Mexican Food Conquered America. And last year his story was scooped up by Disney’s Searchlight for a feature film titled Flamin’ Hot, to be directed by the mystifyingly successful TV señora Eva Longoria.

The film was supposed to begin production last year, but was delayed due to Covid.

For once, Covid did something right. Because it turns out Richard Montañez “invented” only two things: jack and squat. His entire story was a lie, complete make-believe. Flamin’ Hots had been created by a young female junior exec named Lynne Greenfeld at Frito-Lay’s Plano, Tex., HQ. For decades, Frito-Lay bigwigs tolerated Montañez’s tall tales, not wanting to appear “racist” toward a Mexican janitor. But when news of the Longoria film made the papers, Greenfeld finally had enough, demanding that the company set the record straight.

After all, Montañez had stolen the accomplishment of a woman. Frito-Lay was in a bind: They’d be offending a victim group whether they remained silent or told the truth. Miraculously, they decided on the latter. The company released the following statement last week:

None of our records show that Richard was involved in any capacity in the Flamin’ Hot test market. We have interviewed multiple personnel who were involved in the test market, and all of them indicate that Richard was not involved in any capacity.

The writer of the Longoria film, Lewis Colick, a “faith-based” filmmaker responsible for such hits as “God’s Not Dead but Kirk Cameron’s Career Is” and “Left Behind IV: Kevin Sorbo’s Friends Go to Sundance Without Him,” told Variety that the film will go on, because “enough of the story is true” (by “enough,” Colick clarified, he meant “absolutely not one word”).

Richard Montañez, who traded on his ethnicity like it was a precious metal, profited greatly from his lies, and he will continue to profit, because in the end, lying is fine if you do it for “inspirational” reasons.

“You like Pablo’s tale, señor?” the boy asks.

“No, not at all! It’s a terrible story. The bad guy made millions, and nobody learned anything. Still, I promised you a dollar, so…hey, where’s my wallet?”

“Apology, señor, but as Pablo was distracting you, mi hermano Miguel picked your pocket. Have a nice day!”

As you watch the child run off into the distance, you realize that there’s a new Richard Montañez born every minute…along with a sucker to enable him.

2020 was a year built upon the firm foundation of several unyielding truths:

(1) Pandemics are best handled via repressive lockdowns and the quarantining of the healthy. States that follow those rules will handily avoid large casualties, while those that don’t will become massive graveyards.

Wait…okay, that “unyielding truth” ended up yielding.

(2) Voter fraud simply never happens. No one has ever dared to exploit weaknesses in voting regs to advantage the candidate or party of their choice.

Oh, damn, More yielding.

(3) Okay, then, there’s this one: Making it easy for the poor and “urban” to collect government pandemic welfare cannot go wrong. Poor urbanites are the most trustworthy people on earth; their race and class make them noble! Just hand out money on the honor system, and not a dime will be misspent.

Turns out this “truth” yielded most of all.

Last spring, the U.S. Congress and President Trump opened up the coffers to hand out billions in Covid unemployment assistance payments to all who applied. The process by which an American could collect those payments was grueling and rigorous…to the comatose. But for any able-bodied halfwit, it was about as easy as getting an extra ketchup packet at McDonald’s. You just had to go online and provide a name, date of birth, Social Security number, and confirmation that you were unemployed (“confirmation” meaning you had to say “I’m unemployed”).

And there you go! All the money you need, courtesy of Uncle Sam.

Last June, in Brooklyn (home to many people who, we are told, are incapable of obtaining IDs for voting), eight young urban contemporaries—ages 18 to 25—hatched a plan: They’d get they’selves some Social Security numbers from the borough’s many fine homeless winos (“Yo, you want dis Thunderbird? Hand over dem digits, you smelly-ass Uncle Remus-lookin’ mofo”). These eight young budding rap moguls were surprised to find out that the pandemic relief database did not cross-reference addresses, meaning that once you had enough Social Security numbers, you could actually have an unlimited number of Covid welfare debit cards sent to the same address, and no red flags would go up.

“A ‘Meghan and Harry as poo’ billboard would be more of an insult to poo.”

Your tax dollars at work! But a necessary security lapse, as surely monitoring the number of assistance payments sent to one address would be discriminatory against the nation’s illegal dreamers, fond as they are of living 400 people per apartment.

Soon enough, the eight hip-hop Brooklynites had amassed an almost unbelievable two million dollars in fraudulent Covid payments. And they would’ve gotten away with it, too, if it weren’t for their meddling low IQs. The def cozeners made one fatal mistake: They simply couldn’t resist the imperative to pose on social media flashing their ill-gotten gub’mint cash while bragging of their criminal exploits. These “entrepreneurs” uploaded photo after photo of themselves sitting in newly purchased sports cars wearing designer clothes holding giant loads of cash while boasting of gamin’ da game.

Last week, as President Biden was in the White House Rose Garden chasing down that squirrel who’s been badmouthing him to the sparrows, and as Shadow President Harris was deciding if sleeping with the president’s doctor could possibly facilitate an “accidental” fatal mix-up regarding the old man’s medication, federal law enforcement agents actually did some law enforcing, and the Brooklyn Buffoonalo Soldiers were arrested. Each suspect was caught in possession of dozens of fraudulently obtained Covid assistance debit cards; several were apprehended as they were making ATM withdrawals.

At their arraignment, the defendants cried out in unison, “Maaaaaaaan,” which is an officially accepted plea in New York City courts.

The Biden Administration reassured the American people that just because eight uneducated young lowlifes could so successfully game the system, it doesn’t mean that vote-by-mail with no signature verification could ever be similarly abused. Indeed, Jen Psaki assured the press that any claims to the contrary are nothing more than lies told by that damn backbiting squirrel, whose word should never be taken under any circumstances.

It’s said that as Thomas Paine was agonizing over how best to advance the cause of independence from Great Britain, he had two potential concepts in mind. The first was a pamphlet that would lay out the case for American independence in a manner so impassioned, so intelligently argued, so firm of conviction, that the assent of the reader would be swiftly commanded.

The second was to draw King George as a giant stinky poo.

Did Paine make the right decision? Not according to a group of Trump supporters in Calvert County, Md. They recently erected a billboard overlooking Route 4 and Bowie Shop Road in Huntingtown that portrays Biden and Harris as two lumps of dog poop sitting on a patch of grass, complete with buzzing flies (because subtlety). “Don’t Blame Trump,” the billboard reads, “You are stuck with these two shitheads.”

Additional lumps of poo adorn the text, because subtlety.

The local Democrat Central Committee has tried to get the billboard removed on vulgarity grounds, but county commissioners have pointed to a 2015 SCOTUS ruling that in effect stated that billboard language cannot be regulated for things like four-letter words.

Jeanette Flaim, chairwoman of the Calvert County Democrat Central Committee, told a local news affiliate, “It’s just vulgar. Kids are going to school, and they’re going by it every day, and parents are driving their kids. We just don’t think kids should have to see that or parents should have to explain that.”

Flaim was then reminded that she represents the same party that openly advocates:

(1) Child drag queens
(2) “Drag queen storybook hour” for children at local libraries
(3) Sexually explicit material as required reading in grade schools
(4) Children as young as 8 being allowed to lop off their genitals because an Instagram “influencer” told them they were “assigned the wrong gender” at birth
(5) Abortion on demand for minors with no parental consent
(6) “Transgender” education starting in kindergarten
(7) The abolition of the nuclear family because mommies and daddies are “oppressive”

After hearing the list, Flaim laughed like Woody Woodpecker and jumped out a window.

To be sure, the Biden BM image is crude. But it’s funny to hear Democrats talk about “protecting kids from vulgarity.” Just last week, Tucker Carlson ran a segment about a revolt by parents in the Loudoun County, Va., school district over the obscene and sexually explicit “literature” assigned to their kids. Several parents used a school board meeting to read excerpts from the “educational” literature—excerpts so laden with filthy language and bizarre sexual imagery that every other word had to be bleeped for TV. The school board members—Democrats—ignored the parents’ concerns.

But a glorified Mad magazine depiction of Biden and Harris as doggie dookie must be removed because kids may see it.

Bizarre but typically leftist logic.

Worse still, unconfirmed reports from Calvert County suggest that members of the area’s Hindu community have misunderstood the billboard to be an endorsement of public outdoor defecation. “Kamala is embracing her Indian roots! She’s telling us it’s okay to be who we are,” one local Punjabi crowed to a reporter. “Pooing outside is part of our identity, and not only does Kamala endorse it, she even persuaded her stuttering elderly manservant to join her. I’ve never been prouder to be an Indian.”

Africans have a bizarre relationship with light skin. On the one hand, African albinos are being hunted to extinction faster than the mountain gorilla. Sub-Saharan albinos are very much sought after…unfortunately not for their company or conversation skills (which are apparently not that great anyway; how many times can you hear “my mama so white” jokes before they become tiresome?). No, African albinos are in demand for their body parts, which are believed by witch doctors and honors students to contain magical properties.

In nations like Malawi, Tanzania, and Zambia, mass graves have been discovered containing albino corpses missing hearts, legs, arms, ears, eyes, and genitals. As reported by the International Red Cross in 2009, “a complete set of albino body parts in Dar es Salaam—including all four limbs, genitals, ears, tongue and nose—was fetching the equivalent of $75,000 US dollars.” What is not ingested is worn as a good-luck charm.

“Look,” a spokesman for the Chinese herbalist community recently told National Geographic, “when I eat tiger kidneys to supersize my pecker, that’s science. But eating an albino’s nose to gain good luck? That’s just kooky.”

Yet just as Africans chow down on the “too white,” they really love making themselves more white. Just not, you know, white enough so that the neighbors try to eat their testicles. Skin lightening creams are all the rage in Africa, and have been since precolonial times. Skin whitening solutions, both over-the-counter and homemade, are big sellers in South Africa, where government attempts dating back to the apartheid days to ban the sale of “bleaching” creams have failed to stem either the supply or the demand.

Traditionally, African bleaching creams have contained mercury, which, as described in a 2020 Quartz piece, “inhibits the formation of melanin by rendering the enzyme tyrosinase inactive; and it exfoliates the tanned, outer layers of the skin through the production of hydrochloric acid.”

It also kills you, a small fact that has never seemed to hurt sales of the products.

Last year, Somali activists, aided by the Sierra Club, persuaded Amazon to no longer carry skin lightening products that contain mercury. The fact that Amazon was actually allowing the deadly products in the first place, even as it was banning any and all books that the ADL considers “anti-Semitic,” says a lot about Jeff Bezos’ priorities. Poison Africans all you like; just don’t suggest that less than 6 million Jews died in the Holocaust.

Having won that battle against Amazon, anti-bleaching activists are now facing an even greater fight, against even more formidable foes: Prince Harry and Meghan Markle. Recently, Meghan let Harry out of his S&M gimp box long enough for the couple to sign a multimillion-dollar multiyear “global partnership” contract with Procter & Gamble.

P&G, it turns out, is one of the world’s largest suppliers of melanin-inhibiting bleaching creams in Africa (and also in Malaysia, Singapore, and India).

Ironically, 28 years ago, when she was 11 years old, Meghan took time out from mercilessly teasing her darker-skinned black peers to lead a boycott campaign against P&G for a “sexist” dish soap TV commercial that depicted mothers washing dishes. The light-skinned mixed-race tyke was even interviewed on local TV stations about her anti-P&G activism.

So now, activists are turning the tables, wondering why Meghan can possibly be willing to make a profitable business deal with P&G as that company sells skin bleaching products that kill Africans. How, these activists wonder, can this woman, who openly weeps about racist oppression every time her chauffeured luxury car is forced to park in a white zone at LAX, not be concerned with what P&G is doing in Africa?

To be clear, nobody’s holding Harry responsible for the business decision, because that would imply he has some small amount of say in the relationship (the sad fact is, about ten years ago the Prince was mistaken for an albino in Mwanza and his balls were taken).

But Meghan. How can that whiny racial-identity-driven self-obsessed perpetually “feeling sorry for herself” narcissistic social climber be okay with partnering with P&G?

Activists asking that question should take a trip to Route 4 and Bowie Shop Road in Calvert County, Md. Biden and Harris are not the only lumps of anthropomorphic feces on the world stage; that billboard could just as easily be Meghan and Harry.

Although at least dung serves an important role in ecology, so really, a “Meghan and Harry as poo” billboard would be more of an insult to poo…and that’s just unfair.

“How did the war affect you, Grampa?”

“Guadalcanal was hell. A living hell. Dodging shells, dodging bullets. When the food ran out, we ate insects. Not that I could keep anything down…dysentery was eatin’ me to the bone. But we kept goin’…crawlin’ through mud, mosquitoes turnin’ our skin raw like sandpaper. Four days in, my buddy Hank, he gets the top of his head blown off by a sniper…no more than two feet away from me. My gun jammed, so I grab his bayonet, and I see three Japs comin’ right at me. So I char…”

“No, no, Grampa, I don’t care about that. I mean your self-esteem. And your gender identity. Did the war make you question if you’re nonbinary? Was there tolerance in your unit when a soldier would come out as trans? Were you genderqueer positive?”

“Christ…looks like I fought for the wrong side.”

A new U.S. Army recruitment video profiles a young woman who recalls her life before enlistment. “Emma” recounts her childhood (via animated flashback) with her two lesbian mommies, one of whom looks like a woman, the other like Clark Kent if portrayed by an endomorph with dropsy. As “Emma” sails through a privileged, social-justice-immersed life filled with joy and stability—after all, LGBT dogma demands that the daughter of two mommies cannot possibly develop any emotional problems—she ends up at a prestigious college in a sorority filled with “strong women.”

But after graduation, “Emma” realizes that her multicultural sorority sisters are all having their own “adventures.” One is “studying abroad in Italy.” The other is “climbing Everest.”

“I needed my own adventures,” Emma declares.

So, after meeting with a recruiter, she joins the U.S. Army as “a way to prove my inner strength…and maybe shatter some stereotypes along the way.”

“I answered my calling,” Emma dramatically states at the end of the commercial, as her animated avatar dissolves into her real-life visage.

Funny enough, throughout the entire two-minute-and-twenty-second video, amid all the talk of lesbians, strong women, LGBTs, “equity,” and self-esteem, there’s one word that never pops up, not even once: “America.” You know, the nation that the Army supposedly protects.

A promotional spot for the armed forces of a nation that never once mentions the name of that nation. It’s almost as if those who produced the spot are ashamed that the Army actually does anything other than give the children of scissor sisters the opportunity to outshine that sorority friend who climbed a mountain.

“Like, errmahgerd! Destina climbed Everest. I’ll show her—I’ll climb an obstacle course wearing fugly green fatigues.”

Social media pundits have had a field day contrasting the “Emma” promotional spot to army recruitment videos from China and Russia…videos in which not only is the name of the nation uttered, but the recruits are shown not dreamily reminiscing about their two mommies but blowing the living crap out of enemy targets in defense of their homeland.

China: “We will dominate you with superior firepower and a willingness to die and sacrifice our loved ones if necessary rather than submit to the decadent desires of the dog-faced demons.”

Russia: “The ice water that runs through our veins will exit our bladders as freezing urination that will serve as a glacial sarcophagus to envelope and suffocate the weak Western limp-wrists who’ve known neither strife nor struggle yet in their arrogance believe themselves superior to those who have.”

America: “My two mommies kissy kissy at night and Everest is too cold for my postgrad adventure so I’ll join the Army so that I can help men become women and ERRMAHGERD get that nasty gun away from me it’s a tool of right-wing racist oppression!”

Khrushchev slams his shoe on the podium: “We will bury you!”

Emma rolls her eyes: “Like, no way, Tibor Transphobe. We’ll bury ourselves, thank you very much.”


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