July 11, 2021
The Week’s Most Flailing, Bewailing, and Smooth-Sailing Headlines
WACKY IRAQI HAS A FEW SCREWS LOOSE(IFER)
It’s hard to believe that London was once a city in which the greatest risk its inhabitants faced was insomnia caused by the odd ghost or two showing up at all hours to lecture about the true meaning of Christmas.
If there’s one story that exemplifies what London has become today, it’s the sordid tale of Danyal Hussein and his pet demon, Lucifuge Rofocale.
Hussein is an Iraqi-Kurdish immigrant who personifies the term “not sending their best.” Weak-minded and impressionable, as a teen Hussein fell under the spell of London’s murder-crazed imams. At age 15, he found himself on the radar of Scotland Yard’s “anti-extremism” task force. From 2017 through 2018, Hussein was enrolled in ’er Majesty’s “Prevent Programme,” which takes Muslims who are prone to radicalization and teaches them to be singing chimney sweeps with fake Cockney accents (major funding for the Prevent Programme provided by the Dick Van Dyke Foundation).
In 2019, Hussein was deemed “cured” of radicalization. He swore to his Anglo benefactors that no longer would Muhammad hold sway over his actions. He was free of all allegiances to Islamic extremism. Indeed, he was done with Islam entirely.
And just like that, a fine BRITISH gentleman was born. He was released back into society with a bowler hat, an umbrella, and an Aero bar.
But there was a fatal flaw in the Prevent Programme: Low-IQ Muslims were “cured” of their Muhammad fetish by having their slavish predilections “redirected” to new saviors. It’s like replacing one OCD with another. So yes, Danyal Hussein did drop that loser Muhammad…in favor of a better deity—a demon called Lucifuge Rofocale. He began praying to this demon daily. And apparently the demon “told” him that if he would “kill six women in six months” he would “win the £321million Mega Millions Super Jackpot lottery and not be suspected of his crimes.”
Hussein drew up an actual contract with Rofocale, which he signed in his own blood (Rofocale, for some odd reason, didn’t countersign). And then he murdered two sisters in cold blood as they were enjoying a night on the town.
Because the sisters were black, their mother is now accusing the British government of racism for releasing an Islamic nutcase back into society, which the British government only did in the first place so as not to appear racist.
Sometimes you just can’t win! Unless, of course, you don’t let any of these people into your country to begin with.
But that’s all water under London Bridge now.
For his part, Lucifuge Rofocale stated that he will not pay out the lottery money, as Hussein killed only two women. “We had a contract,” Rofocale told the BBC. “Two women? That’s barely worth winning the football pool.”
Catch more of Rofocale’s commentary in his weekly Guardian column “Wot the Devil Are You Talkin’ About?”
Last week was not a good one for the U.K.’s immigration and integration policies. Over in Manchester, a Nigerian immigrant doctor named Robert Jenyo was engaging in the racial equivalent of yelling “rape” after a one-night stand.
The 53-year-old Jenyo is a lousy doctor. Well, to be fair, he’s good by Nigerian standards. He’s a whiz with cow dung and chicken innards, and he always rigorously sweeps the walkway in front of his clinic to brush aside the evil duppies that collect from the spirits of his dead patients (a.k.a. all his patients). He’s quick to write prescriptions for people with AIDS (“rape one nun every two hours; if condition persists, rape a baby”), and he was first in his class at Yoruba U. when it came to diagnostics via lizard entrails.
Unfortunately for Marcus not-so-Welby, lizard entrails aren’t always the best tool with which to diagnose cancer. Way back in 2007, Dr. Ungabunga was treating a 60-year-old white man who complained of back and neck pains. Any competent doctor would’ve easily spotted about a dozen signs that the man had potentially fatal cancer. But Jenyo consulted with Papa Legba who said the guy just needed a heating pad and bed rest, so Jenyo sent him home with some Icy Hot…and he promptly died of cancer a short time later.
The gentleman’s son sued Jenyo for malpractice, winning £30,000. Jenyo, however, filed a countercomplaint against the son, claiming that the young man had launched into a racist tirade following his dad’s death, pelting the bad doctor with foul slurs. “I will ensure you are sued and struck off,” the enraged son supposedly told Jenyo (“struck off” is British for “prevented from practicing.” It’s also one of the more unique fetishes in British porn). “You go back to your own country and give way for white doctors to work, you fucking nigger.”
Basically, Jenyo tried to portray himself as the victim. “Yes, I misdiagnosed the father, but the son called me ‘nigger,’ so we’re even.”
Unfortunately for the witch doctor, the attempt to shift blame didn’t work, and the quack was indeed “struck off.”
Last week, while appearing before the Medical Practitioners Tribunal Service in Manchester to argue for the restoration of his license, Jenyo admitted to having completely fabricated the “racist insults” incident. It turns out that killing the dude’s dad wasn’t good enough; he wanted to pour salt in the wound by making the son look like a hate-filled maniac (Jenyo’s lies could’ve landed the son in prison under Britain’s “racial intimidation” laws).
“I had been under pressure at work and was stressed and I was trying to cover up things. When the complaint came in, I did not want the details of this case to come out and suggest to patients, my colleagues, and to the public I am a bad doctor,” Jenyo told the board. “I now realize the impact my actions have had on the son and his family and I regret what happened.”
Jenyo also copped to falsifying medical records in order to hide other errors.
In a rare burst of sanity, the board refused to reinstate his license.
Say what you will about Nigerians, they have a great national motto: “At least we’re not Haiti.”
If you’ve ever had the misfortune of living next door to a house that’s an eyesore—maybe the owners are hoarders, or hillbillies, or squatters using the place as a crack den—you know what it’s like to be the Dominican Republic, having to share an island with Haiti.
In the early 1800s, the Dominican Republic was occupied by Haitians. It was a brutal occupation; theft of crops, theft of livestock, heavy taxation. And then in 1838 two Dominicans were walking down the street and one turned to the other and said, “Dude, they’re just Haitians. Haitians, for Chrissake.”
And with that epiphany the Dominican War of Independence began, At the first major skirmish, the Battle of Azua, 2,200 Dominicans took on 10,000 Haitians, killing 1,000 of them while losing only two of their own. At the Battle of Santiago, 500 Dominicans routed 10,000 Haitians. And soon enough every Haitian had been chased back to the Section 8 tenement they call a nation.
That brief period before Dominicans realized who their occupiers were was Haiti’s first and final shot at glory; it’s all been downhill since then.
Haiti’s first ruler, a dictator named Jean-Jacques Dessalines, was murdered and dismembered by his own people after his followers ran out of whites to slaughter. And that set the tone for all Haitian leaders to follow: take power, do terrible things, refuse to leave, get deposed or killed.
Carrying on that noble tradition, last week Haiti’s current “guy who took power, did terrible things, and refused to leave,” Jovenel Moïse, was assassinated in his home by gunmen who used the old “[Knock knock knock] Water and Power; we’re hear to read the meter” ruse to gain entry. Sadly, it was only while opening the door that Moïse realized that his country has neither water nor power. But by then it was too late.
Moïse’s assassination has left his country leaderless, as it turns out that the Haitian “constitution” is just the lyrics of a Wyclef Jean song. “No one knows who’s in charge of Haiti,” declared Slate’s Joshua Keating, who pointed out that the one man who might’ve been able to bring order to the line-of-succession chaos, Supreme Court President René Sylvestre, died of Covid last month.
And his predecessor died of AIDS.
And the guy before that? Probably cholera. Or Gorilla Glue.
It’s striking that a nation known for 200 years of presidential assassinations still doesn’t know what to do after a presidential assassination.
As the country’s constitutional crisis worsened, leading to riots (because of course it did), the Dominican Republic sealed its border with its neighbor, leading the descendant of that first Dominican to say to the descendant of the second one, “Why the hell didn’t we do this a long time ago? We live next door to Haiti.”
OXFAM ON THE ROXFAM
And speaking of Haiti…
Oxfam was founded in 1942 by a bunch of Oxford toffs. Oxfam—which stands for Oxford Famine Relief, and not “Oxes is family, they is”—seeks to combat hunger in those less fortunate parts of the world that were often rendered less fortunate because the bleedin’ Empire colonized ’em and left the poor blighters to starve.
What started out as a vanity project for blue bloods to chuck their uneaten toast at Punjabis has turned into one of the worst NGOs on the planet. In 2018 it was revealed by The Sunday Times that following the devastating 2010 Haiti earthquake that shook the nation so violently every Haitian instantly learned the “Beat It” jittery-guy dance, Oxfam, which was ostensibly in the devastated country to provide aid, had instead exploited the desolated natives for sex.
Oxfam’s then director of operations in Haiti, Roland van Hauwermeiren, was specifically accused of raping underage women. He escaped prosecution because authorities couldn’t spell his idiotic last name on a warrant. According to the Times, Oxfam, under the then directorship of Winnie Byanyima, a “Ugandan aeronautical engineer” (she’s best known for sailing the nation’s only paper airplane a record-breaking five feet across a room), covered up the org’s sex crimes because raping was one of the perks that attracted new recruits.
Oxfam was expelled from Haiti (which is the equivalent of being kicked out of Skid Row for poor hygiene). And earlier this year, Oxfam again faced charges of sexual misconduct, this time in Congo from 2018, when Oxfam workers were assisting during the country’s Ebola crisis.
There’s no universal definition of “low standards,” but “raping Ebola victims” is probably as close as it gets.
Rocked by these sex scandals, Oxfam, in a bid to regain all the gub’mint moola it lost on account of molestation, has decided to ferret out the root cause of its woes.
Turns out those woes stem from one thing and one thing only: whiteness!
Last week the organization circulated a survey among its staff members asking them to identify by race and, if they’re white, to apologize for the crimes of their color. According to the Times, the survey was not greeted with open arms by Oxfam employees. “Surely the time and money should be better spent on the real findings that some of the men they employ are sexual predators,” one staffer told the paper.
But c’mon, that would mean less underage sex. And who joins Oxfam for any other reason?
Better to pin it all on whitey, and get back to that sweet, sweet Ebola tail.
Blight privilege; the best privilege of all!
THEO WAS UNAVAILABLE FOR COMMENT
Cliff Huxtable is doin’ fine…but Claire’s in the doghouse.
Following Bill Cosby’s surprise release from prison on a technicality, friends and foes of “America’s rapey dad” weighed in on the controversial court decision. And whereas most of the blue checks who tweeted about the matter took the position of “It’s not ‘exoneration’ when a guy confesses to rape but says, ‘My confession was privileged,’” poor Phylicia Rashad just had to take a more contrarian view.
Rashad has played Cosby’s wife twice: once on the groundbreaking 1980s sitcom that taught Americans how not to see race at the same time it taught them how to see unfunny, and again on the misbegotten 1996 iteration, a ratings-starved abomination of such magnitude that when costar Madeline Kahn died of ovarian cancer during the show’s run, her castmates were bitterly envious that she found a way out of her contract.
Rashad might be a fine actress, but her talents don’t extend to reading a room. Following Cosby’s release, Rashad tweeted “FINALLY!!!! A terrible wrong is being righted- a miscarriage of justice is corrected!”
Rashad had just been named the new dean of Howard University’s College of Fine Arts, and apparently Mrs. Huxtable didn’t understand that when blacks don’t have whites to pick on, they’ll inevitably turn on their own. She was immediately slammed by Howard students for her “insensitivity” to the victims of sexual assault. Calls mounted, and are mounting still, for her resignation. After all, as dean she’d be responsible for handling accusations of on-campus sexual assaults in her department. And it’s a little hard to maintain credibility in that job when you’ve taken the position of “My friend confessed to drugging and raping women but he had an immunity deal which means he’s innocent.”
In an attempt to quell the firestorm, Rashad penned an open letter to the Howard student body, apologizing for her “upsetting tweet” and promising that if Bill ever expresses an interest in raping college girls, she’ll send him to Spelman instead (the guy’s blind; he won’t know the difference).
For its part, Howard University disavowed Rashad’s tweet, although as of now there are no plans to dismiss her as dean.
Cosby released a statement slamming Howard for slamming Rashad, claiming the HBCU violated her “free speech” rights, much as his own prosecution had violated his “free booty” rights (“If there’s booty to be had, it’s free for Coz”).
In his bizarre missive, Cosby attacked the media for perpetrating the 1/6 Capitol riot, and he attacked the nation’s filmgoers for not appreciating Leonard Part 6.
No word yet on any upcoming dates for the Cosby/O.J. Simpson/Mykelti Williamson “Holy Crap We Got Away With It” national tour.