January 02, 2022

Bonnie Parker and Clyde Barrow, circa 1933

Bonnie Parker and Clyde Barrow, circa 1933

Source: Wikimedia Commons

The Week’s Most Defining, Refining, and Auld Lang Syne-ing Headlines

In 2019, while promoting her “black Bonnie and Clyde” movie Queen & Slim, Greek-Jewish-Jamaican filmmaker Melina Matsoukas (a.k.a. Zorba the Kvetching Rastafarian) asked a question for the ages: “Why Bonnie and Clyde always gotta be white?”

Well, the obvious answer is because they were white. Bonnie and Clyde were real people.

But another, equally valid answer is that they never ran themselves over with their own getaway vehicle.

By virtue of his name, Kashontez Kavier Cash-On Grigler was never destined to cure cancer. Indeed, if you name your baby Kashontez Kavier Cash-On, give birth, leave the hospital, and drive directly to county lockup to deposit the child. Because that’s where he’s gonna end up anyway, so you might as well cut out the middleman.

Or, you could do what the Grigler family has actually done. Fourteen-year-old Cash-On was skulking about with his girlfriend in their hometown of Aurora, Colo., when they came upon a minivan ripe for the stealing. So they stole it. With the girl at the wheel, Kashontez decided to hang out the door, doing his best “I’m kang of the world” impression.

Sadly, he lost his grip and fell under the vehicle. And with that, Cash-On cashed-out.

Now, no one can blame his parents for grieving (though you can totally blame them for the name that sealed his fate). But the Griglers have decided to deal with their grief by trying to get the owner of the minivan criminally charged because their son and his girlfriend stole it. See, the minivan was too much of a temptation for the young astronauts, so they shouldn’t be held responsible for the theft. Anyone who owns anything nice needs to be prosecuted if a black person dies after stealing it.

The family hasn’t said if they plan to sue the owner should Aurora’s DA not charge him. But if they do, they’ll likely find some shyster who’ll take the case pro-bonehead.

Mind you, it’s not just black Americans who have difficulty assigning proper blame for a loved one’s death. A new HBO Max documentary, Adrienne, tells the story of actress-director Adrienne Shelly, who was murdered inside her Manhattan office in 2006 by 19-year-old Ecuadorean illegal alien Diego Pillco.

Pillco, who was working as an off-the-books hire at a construction site at the time, has given multiple, contradictory accounts of the crime. He initially claimed that Shelly infuriated him by asking his crew to keep the noise down (to be fair, the Ecuadorean national anthem is a jackhammer pounding concrete…if you’re ever offered tickets to the Ecuadorian National Symphony, take a pass).

Pillco explained that he followed Shelly to her office to lecture her on cultural sensitivity, and when she balked, he did the only logical thing and strangled her.

In later versions of the story, Pillco confessed that he’d just wanted to rob her, but when the blonde gringo wouldn’t give up the goods, he “snapped.”

Regardless, as it’s NYC, he’ll be a free man in 2033, when he’ll be in his 40s and more than able to resume blonde-hunting.

The HBO Max documentary about the case was produced by Shelly’s widower, Andy Ostroy. And as he’s been promoting the film, Ostroy’s taken every opportunity to slam “xenophobic” opponents of illegal immigration who dare to say that letting murderous illegals into the country is what led to a murderous illegal killing his wife. Indeed, Ostroy even penned an op-ed lecturing people to not insult his wife’s killer by calling him an “illegal.” Rather, he’s “a killer who simply happened to be an undocumented immigrant” (that’s an actual quote).

Oddly, Ostroy sued the construction company that employed Pillco, which, though a worthwhile endeavor, appears at odds with his continued support as a “proud Democrat” for open borders. He’ll sue the ground-level scumbags who hire the illegals even as he champions the scumbags at the top who let them in in the first place.

Ostroy should team with the Griglers for a seminar: “The most idiotic way to react to a loved one’s violent death.”

With Afghanistan ringing in 2022 back in the iron grip of the Taliban, the nation can finally start making TV shows that appeal to its cultural base. Of course, shorn of Westerners, Afghans can’t actually figure out how to broadcast TV signals, so their TV shows are stage productions witnessed by sex-slave boys who then travel the countryside describing them.

“Absent from the Tutu obits was acknowledgment of the fact that by any measure, the old bastard failed badly at his ‘life’s work.’”

The Afghan version of I Love Lucy (“I Love Lutfia”) is particularly entertaining. In one episode, Lutfia burns the casserole and her husband Rakki shoves her face in it. In another, Lutfia sneaks into Rakki’s adhan-calling to get in on the act, so he severs her vocal cords.

The Mertzes are played by goats.

Okay, maybe that’s not 100% true, but what is is that the Taliban are cracking down on the casting of women in TV shows. In that, they don’t want women cast in TV shows. Afghanistan’s “Ministry for the Promotion of Virtue and Prevention of Vice” (known in the U.S. as “Angry Incel Reddit Group”) has demanded that TV dramas and soaps no longer use females in any of the roles. Shows can still portray women; the roles just can’t be played by women (more work for those sex-slave boys…and possibly a few directing gigs for Bryan Singer).

Also, Taliban clerics have passed a law restricting travel by unaccompanied women. No female Afghan may go farther than 45 miles from her home without a male relation in tow.

So, basically they’re locking down women but with no soap operas or other women-centered TV shows to keep them occupied.

At least give them The View. As in, literally—send those harpies to Kabul, and if anything unfortunate should befall them, the Taliban would get so much good publicity they might finally get that aid package they’re angling for.

Last week, South Africa’s Nobel-winning anti-apartheid activist Desmond Tutu passed away at age 90. Tutu was one of the most effective spokesmen for the anti-apartheid movement in the 1980s. Always media-savvy, Tutu helped spawn a spate of anti-apartheid songs from the likes of Hall & Oates, Bob Geldof, the Fat Boys, Jackson Browne, Daryl Hannah, Bono, and Bruce Springsteen.

The idea was to bombard the West with aural crimes against humanity, so whites could know the true meaning of suffering. “See how you like it,” Tutu famously said after the debut of the Bono/Fat Boys single “Jo’berg Sucka MCs.”

Absent from the Tutu obits was acknowledgment of the fact that by any measure, the old bastard failed badly at his “life’s work.” His defining achievement was the establishment of South Africa’s “Truth and Reconciliation Commission,” which was supposed to “heal the nation” by giving amnesty to anyone who committed crimes under apartheid as long as they stood before the commission and confessed.

The idea was, blacks who harmed whites would be forgiven by whites, and whites who harmed blacks would be forgiven by blacks.

One of those things happened, the other didn’t. Can you guess which is which?

So many whites have been murdered since the beginning of black rule in SA that it’s tempting to wonder if the uneven outcome of Tutu’s commission was a bug or a feature.

In 1998, when Anne Paton, the widow of the white author whose book Cry, the Beloved Country was supposedly an “inspiration” to Tutu, wrote a letter to The Sunday Times explaining that she was fleeing SA due to the nonstop murdering of whites (and her own near-murder), Tutu conveniently forgot to get any musicians on board for a benefit song (Johnny Depp’s short-lived rock band P had recorded “Die Anne” just three years earlier…a song ready-made for the occasion!).

Tutu died knowing that his jibber-jabber about “reconciliation” was as meaningless as a Zulu rain chant.

The only question (which the MSM will never ask) is, did Tutu die disappointed…or pleased?

A funny thing happened when Virginia politicians kowtowed to BLM and decided to decimate all Confederate statues and monuments…they realized that the history they were destroying was more than just representative effigies.

There was, like, actual history inside those statues.

Several of the demolished sculptures had been constructed with time capsules in the base.

While razing the 134-year-old Robert E. Lee memorial in Richmond, workers leveling the pedestal came across a curious oxidized copper box. Turns out the box was a time capsule placed there in 1887.

Fearing that the box might contain racism, it was rushed to a forensic lab to be examined under controlled conditions.

Sadly, upon opening the container, the statue-destroyers were not attacked by suspended-animation murder cicadas. A pity, as the world would’ve been better for it.

Instead, the “researchers” (who, keep in mind, were happily participating in the physical destruction of historical artifacts) came across historical artifacts and feigned delight at their discovery like nobody would catch the contradiction.

“Yay, I just destroyed a 134-year-old monument! But ooooh, I just uncovered an old newspaper clipping! I’m a good historian!”

Along with newspaper clippings, the box contained Confederate money (burn it!), a button from a Confederate uniform (melt it down!), a shell fragment from the Battle of Fredericksburg (use it to shoot white women!), and an old directory of the city of Richmond (imprison the descendants!).

Hopefully, the inconvenient box will be the last impediment to clearing away the Lee statue to make room for its replacement, a monument to the legendary moment when Nikole Hannah-Jones discovered Mallomars (“man, they tasty”).


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