The Week’s Most Salian, Antithalian, and Bacchanalian Headlines
THE TOKYO CANCELYMPICS
Please welcome the comedy team of Abbott and Kosato:
Kosato: “These are not Orympics. These are CANCERYMPICS.”
Abbott: “Olympics for people with cancer?”
Kosato: “NO! Not ‘cancerympics.’ CANCERYMPICS! Orympics for people who got cancered.”
Abbott: “That’s what I’m saying. Cancerympics.”
Kosato: “No, you brainress runatic. It’s the Orympics that’s more about canceration than sport.”
Abbott: “Ahhh, cancel-ympics. Indeed, old pal.”
No Olympics in history has ever captured the zeitgeist of the day like Tokyo 2021. This is an event that will surely be remembered more for who went home than for who stayed. The tone was set several months ago when Yoshiro Mori, president of the Tokyo Olympics organizing committee, was forced to resign after complaining about a mandate to make 40% of his committee members female. Mori claimed that women “talk too much” during meetings: “On boards with a lot of women, the meetings take so much time. Women have a strong sense of competition. If one person raises their hand, others probably think, I need to say something too. That’s why everyone speaks.”
Mori got the boot. The woman who was offered his job, Seiko Hashimoto, began delivering an acceptance speech in April and still hasn’t finished.
The composer of the Tokyo 2021 theme music resigned after admitting to making disabled children masturbate in front of him, earning him a nickname among his fellow musicians, “Gary Gritter.” Tragically, no one was canceled for choosing John Lennon’s “Imagine” as a last-minute musical replacement (a spokesman for disabled Japanese children complained, “It’s like we’ve been molested all over again”).
And then a few weeks ago, the director of the opening ceremony was canned for making a Holocaust joke in 1998. Details of the joke were not released, but hopefully it wasn’t anything as tasteless as “What four rock classics tell the story of Jews in Nazi Germany? ‘Hey Jude,’ ‘In the Ghetto,’ ‘I’m on Fire,’ and ‘Dust in the Wind.’”
Then, of course, there were the athletes canceled for using weed (man), and for testing positive for Covid even after being vaxxed.
And now, a Greek television commentator has been sent home and fired by his network after commentating rather distastefully while covering the always-exciting Olympic table-tennis contest. After South Korea’s Young-sik beat Greece’s Panagiotis Gionis (“Young-Sik, Panagiotis Gionis” sounds like a doctor explaining that a child is ill and then diagnosing the disease), veteran Greek TV presenter Dimosthenis Karmiris said of the South Korean players, “Their eyes are narrow so I can’t understand how they can see the ball moving back and forth.”
Karmiris was offered the choice of a cup of hemlock or a ticket back to Athens and he actually had to think about it.
And now with Simone Biles canceling herself from the competition, and dozens of athletes complaining about the vacant stadiums (spectators having been banned due to Covid), Tokyo 2021 is shaping up to be the ultimate season of Survivor, where folks only watch to see who gets sent home from the big empty island.
HELLO MUDDAH, HELLO FADDAH, HELLO NONBINARY BIRTHING PERSON
Ah, summer camp! A place for the young’uns to forge memories that will last a lifetime. River rafting! Mountain climbing! Nature hikes, whittling, archery, spooky stories by campfire. Oh, and lopping off genitalia and shooting up hormones.
Summer camp: where a boy becomes a man or possibly a girl or if the surgery goes wrong a misshapen monster.
Camp Quinebarge in Moultonborough, New Hampshire, bills itself as “the best LGBT summer camp in New England” (and heaven knows LGBTs love “camp”):
As an LGBT friendly summer camp, we provide a safe space for members of the LGBT+ community to be themselves. We welcome transgender and non-binary individuals, and are happy to make reasonable accommodations for privacy. We consider the gender identity of our participants and staff to be private unless the individual wishes to share it, and we will not share that information with anyone except medical staff when appropriate.
Parent picking up child after a month at camp: “Uh, Tommy…didn’t you have a penis when we dropped you off?”
Quinebarge: The only summer camp that uses the final scene from Sleepaway Camp as a promotional video.
2021 was going to be the summer of Quinebarge, with the camp taking advantage of relaxed Covid restrictions to promote its LGBT experience to kids throughout New England. Come climb Mount Deadname! Hike the Dysphoria Trail! Swim Lake Genderfluid! And meet our Native American mascot, Big Chief Vaginoplasty.
Sadly, it turns out that those in charge of Camp Quinebarge put all their effort into “inclusiveness” literature, and none into constructing a functioning camp.
The camp that was “open to everyone” was forced to “close to everyone” last week after just six days.
Six miserable, unbearable days.
Parents, who’d paid $3,400 for a two-week “camping experience” for their little Chaz Bonos, were abruptly called and told to come get their “birthed persons.”
Apparently, the organizers failed to provide food for the campers (they had no working dishwashers anyway). Isn’t that always the case? You get so immersed in the top and bottom surgery, the transitioning and pansexualizing, that you forget that even trannies gotta eat. The lack of food was compounded by a lack of sanitation, and—perhaps most important—a lack of staff. Turns out young folks didn’t exactly jump at the chance to be paid minimum wage to become counselors at Camp Shemale. Organizers were struggling to hire counselors just days before opening, and one of the poor saps who agreed to take the post left on the first day after being punched in the face by a kid (who’d already clobbered a fellow camper).
Who could’ve known that taking a bunch of brats raised by leftist parents who tell them they were “assigned” the wrong gender at birth and sticking them in the woods with no food or sanitation would lead to disaster?
The Boston Globe referred to the Quinebarge fiasco as “the Fyre Festival of overnight camps.” Still, if there’s a bright side, it’s that Jason from Friday the 13th was about to commit one of his trademark massacres, but even he got creeped out by what he saw.
“Is that a boy or a…uh…are those, um, balls? But is that a, uh, girl…but it has a beard. Okay, I’m goin’ back in the lake. This place is messed up enough without me.”
SOUS-CHEF? SIOUX CHEF. SUE CHEF!
The implosion of the “woke” sleepaway camp was not the only incident this summer of leftists being hoist by their own retard. In fact, the six days that Camp Quinebarge managed to stay afloat seem like an eternity compared with Brooklyn rooftop restaurant Outerspace, which closed a mere 24 hours after being named New York’s “woke restaurant of the summer.”
The New York Times bestowed that title on Outerspace because of the pricey Bushwick eatery’s “diverse,” “multicultural” fare, its “compostable paper bowls” that will single-handedly end global warming, and its “chefs of color” who make sure that your $80 cup of Tectualaxtaptic Incan soup is not served with a cracka.
You know the old fable about the scorpion and the frog? “But if you sting me, we both drown!” That fable has lost all meaning in Woke America. See, after Outerspace was named “restaurant of the summer,” the Asian, African, and bare-assed tree-dwelling Peruvian Injuns in the kitchen realized that they could parlay that publicity into publicity for themselves by screaming accusations of “racism,” “colonialism,” and “misogyny” at management.
Wait, you might say—if they sink the restaurant, won’t they, too, lose their jobs?
Very funny! Nope. Today, “chefs of color” who sabotage the restaurant where they work are guaranteed so much positive press from the media, they’re usually able to open their own establishment.
Like Outerspace chef Chinchakriya Un (who was named after 1970s porn music: “bow chinchakriya wow wow”). A Cambodian who dresses like Pocahontas, Stupidname McGee piggybacked off the Times piece to take to Instagram with a post calling the owners of Outerspace “culture vultures dressed in normcore” who practice “racist exploitation,” “white saviorism,” “dated power dynamics,” and “internalized misogyny.”
Because of course, who wants to eat at a place where the owners dress in “normcore”? Better they dress in Sacajaweacore.
“How we got here in the first place began with a colonial narrative pitched by them. I will hold myself accountable for missing so many red flags,” Chinchilla Urkel concluded, before promoting her own food company.
Funny enough, one of the owners of the now-shuttered Outerspace is the sister of failed far-left NYC mayoral candidate Kathryn Garcia.
Failed mayor, failed restaurateur. Life is hard for this family of “white saviors.”
As reported in the New York Post, the Outerspace fiasco was one of many examples this summer involving “restaurant workers of color” who tried to get their workplaces closed down with accusations of racism. In one instance, a “dishwasher of color” tried to shut his restaurant down after claiming that the owners chased him out while hurling “ethnic slurs.” But security cameras showed that the washee-washee man had actually collapsed on the kitchen floor from an overdose the day he was fired. No slurs were hurled except “call an ambulance.”
Too bad Camp Quinebarge closed; apparently, they needed dishwashers.
TWERK AND HARE
Remember the dark old days when superstition governed the medical realm? Back when it was almost impossible to procure cadavers for anatomical research? In the early 1800s, the study of human anatomy was exploding on the scene as the newest, coolest thing for young doctors searching for reasons for disease other than witch curses. Problem was, in Scotland—home to some of the leading anatomical institutes of the time—there were strict rules governing the use of human bodies for medical study. The deceased had to be an executed convict or a suicide (no harm in cutting up the corpse of a dude who’s in hell).
Sadly, Scotland wasn’t producing enough murderers or emos to keep up with the med school demand for cadavers. And with doctors willing to pay handsomely for stiffs, grave robbing became big business. Essentially, grave robbers were the tech startup whizzes of their day. And the Jobs and Wozniak of corpse snatching were William Burke and William Hare, who soon realized that it took less effort to murder indigents than it did to dig up graves.
Their bonnie bodies were fresh as the day’s cranachan!
Now, nobody condoned the murderous activities of Burke & Hare (except the Scots who appreciated indigent-free alleyways, and the doctors who were able to advance medical science, and the med students who were able to see dissections firsthand, and the families of deceased loved ones who didn’t have to worry about disturbed graves…okay, everyone condoned the murderous activities of Burke & Hare), but the explosion of so-called “resurrection men” showed that in the 1800s, doctors were willing to go to great lengths to understand the human body, even if it meant violating the superstitions of the era.
That was the 1800s.
Today, superstition has made a huge comeback, and this time the doctors are totally on board!
In 2020 the AMA adopted as official canon that race is a social construct, not a biological reality. Yes, by AMA rules, Rachel Dolezal is black. As is Jolson.
Sickle cell? Hey—Eskimos and Finns get it just as much. Disagree and you’re Delta Variant Hitler!
Last year at Yale School of Nursing, a few twerking sassy sitcom neighbors learned that black people have a high risk of hypertension, prompting one twerker to complain to the student newspaper that such talk is “anti-black rhetoric” because no malady can be “attributed to differences in metabolism or some other biological differences…because race is a social construct.”
The school gave in. From now on, blacks won’t receive extra screening for hypertension.
And last week, it was reported that some medical schools are no longer recognizing biological sex. Yep, no more acknowledging that men and women can have differing risk levels for certain diseases. There’s no biology in sex. It’s whatever you want it to be.
As Paul Simon sang in “Boy in the Bubble,” “medicine is magical and magical is art.”
Look for the next-gen Burke & Hare’s, coming soon. Smuggling not cadavers, but biology textbooks to the daring few doctors who still believe in that stuff.
And now, The Week That Perished’s Dumbass of the Week.
There were many dumbasses last week, but one managed to shine a few lumens dimmer than the rest.
Shane Sonderman really likes Twitter. Oh, you may think that you like Twitter. But you’ll never like Twitter the way Shane Sonderman likes Twitter.
May we all find a soul mate who looks at us the way Shane Sonderman looks at Twitter.
The 20-year-old, whose name in German translates to “special man,” is certainly “special.” Like in the short bus safety scissors kinda way. When Shane sees a Twitter handle he wants, he simply must have it! And if he can’t, he stops watching anime long enough to conduct harassment campaigns against the rightful owner. He’s been known to call in fake fires at the owner’s home, or have unpaid food delivered, or make anonymous threatening phone calls.
Poor Mark Herring was a 60-year-old grampa who’d been fortunate enough to grab @Tennessee in Twitter’s early days. The man lived in Tennessee, so it just made sense! Well, Shane Sonderman wanted that handle. Sure, he lived on the Arkansas side of the AR/TN border, but dammit it was close enough that absolutely he was entitled to that moniker!
After all, he’s special.
But old man Herring wasn’t about to give up his treasure. Sonderman tried every trick in the book—harassment, threats, offers of money…he even promised to give Herring his Kurogiri action figure.
So one pleasant evening in April 2020, as Herring was sitting on his porch deciding what brilliant morsel of wisdom to tweet next (“That Ray Stevens sure is a hoot. @Tennessee”), a virtual army of cops ran up on him, guns drawn. “Freeze,” they yelled. And freeze he did, permanently. He dropped dead of a heart attack.
Turns out Sonderman had “swatted” the old guy by having an accomplice call 911 claiming to be Herring. The caller, as “Herring,” said he’d just murdered his wife and booby-trapped his property with pipe bombs.
Last week Sonderman was sentenced in a Memphis federal court to five years in prison. The accomplice who made the call is a minor living in the U.K., and almost certainly he’s “special” too.
So, as Specialman begins five years of being an in-cell incel, he can at least take comfort in the fact that he made it to the top of the dumbass heap of the week.
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