February 13, 2022

Eileen Gu

Eileen Gu

Source: Martin Rulsch, Wikimedia Commons

The Week’s Most Basking, Multitasking, and Unnecessarily Masking Headlines

Welcome to the 2022 Winter Olympics, where athletes from around the world are mistreated by a bunch of inscrutable automatons bent on world conquest through slave labor and superior math skills.

According to the Daily Mail, the rations being fed to the athletes in what passes for Beijing’s “Olympic Village” (a.k.a. Maoschwitz) are starvation-level scraps. But the Chinese math whizzes insist they’ve crunched the numbers and the competitors are receiving just enough calories to keep them alive…though not enough to let them win medals.

Also, athletes are being rousted from their beds at all hours for random Covid tests, and if the tests come back “unclear,” they’re hauled off to internment centers.

You know it’s a crappy Olympics when the Israelis actually hope to be taken hostage by Palestinians because it would mean an improvement in their living conditions.

It’s gotten so bad, competitors from over fifty nations have started a petition to get Eric Rudolph furloughed and flown to Beijing.

To Xi and his cohorts there’s only one thing that truly matters about these games, and that’s Eileen Gu. She’s the spoiled Zoomer brat who was raised, educated, and trained in America, only to compete for China because of racial identification with her “homeland.”

For Chinese leaders, this is the Gulympics, a chance to show the West that its gullibility regarding immigration will be its downfall, that no matter what kindness or benefits the West shows to Chinese migrants, racial loyalty—exactly what the West discourages in its own people and what the Chinese encourage in theirs—will win the day.

Gu is the ultimate gangster moll, hanging on Xi’s arm as he sneers, Edward G. Robinson-style, “M’yeah, see? Kipling was right, see?”

Indeed, word has it that Xi has included a copy of “The Stranger” with every meal of Oldboy-brand Sustenance Dumplings served to American athletes.

Now that’s just rubbing it in.

A common standard for determining if a criminal is competent to stand trial is whether the accused tried to conceal their crime, which indicates an understanding that society disapproves of their deed.

For example, if a dude kills his wife because a 40-foot whelk named Dippidy-Drippidy ordered him to, that’s crazy. But if he meticulously covered up the crime, that demonstrates an acknowledgment that he knew what he did was wrong.

On the other hand, if a woman strips naked, covers herself in tapioca, and runs down the street slashing people with a machete while pooping on the sidewalk (in San Francisco this is known as “a daily occurrence”), and when the cops come she hands them the blade and says, “I killed Gordon Lightfoot; where’s my Nobel Prize?” well, there’s a candidate for an asylum, as she’s obviously unaware she did anything wrong.

Which brings us to Stacey Abrams, the Angelyne of American politics. Last week, Abrams attended a “Black History Month” book reading at a Decatur elementary school (the book-of-the-day was How to Achieve National Political Prominence by Eating Ribs, Being Black, and Never Winning). During the event, she posed for a photo, unmasked and smiling like a psychopath, surrounded by a roomful of white children bound and gagged by masks.

She actually thought this was a good look. She had no idea it would cause controversy. She proudly tweeted the photo (as did the school’s principal). Look at me, unmasked, gap-toothed grinning like blackface David Letterman, forcing these ofay white devil-kids to “mask up” because I love having the power.

Shockingly, there was a backlash. Abrams deleted the tweet (the principal of the school, Holly Brookins, deleted her entire account!) and accused those who criticized the photo of racism for attacking her during Traffic Light Inventor’s Month.

Two days later, after consulting with Dippidy-Drippidy, Abrams apologized on CNN for the “bad optics.”

It ain’t optics; it’s brain-rot. The fact that Democrats keep posing for these kinds of photos without foreseeing the societal disapproval is legal-standard insanity—not just unfit to stand trial, but to hold office.

Hecklers are the bane of live performers. Nine out of ten times, they’re incoherent drunks just looking to humiliate themselves. But every now and then, a heckler arises who speaks for the room.

“You know it’s a crappy Olympics when the Israelis actually hope to be taken hostage by Palestinians because it would mean an improvement in their living conditions.”

Remember Perry Farrell of Jane’s Addiction? If you were part of the L.A. music scene in the late 1980s, you’d certainly have heard that Farrell (born Peretz Bernstein, an only slightly less stereotypical name than Schmegegge Klutzenberg) was the “future of rock.”

And whoever told you that would’ve also been really into New Coke.

In December 1990, Jane’s Addiction were performing at the Hollywood Palladium when Farrell stopped the show cold to embark on an anti-GOP tirade. Over audience boos (this was back in the days when rock fans wanted music, not lectures), Farrell announced that he was going to “spread some truth” by declaring that “Barbara Bush is an ugly bitch.” And right after he said that, a Doc Marten launched from the audience beaned him on the forehead, to everyone’s delight.

During the next night’s show, Farrell once again tried to talk politics…and a Birkenstock came flying through the air, cracking him in the face.

The names of the heroic Doc Marten and Birkenstock guys are lost to history. But if they left no footprints in the sand, it’s not because they had no shoes.

It’s because Jesus was carrying them.

Last week, far-left “comedian” Heather McDonald, a writer for really far-left atheist “comedian” Chelsea Handler, was performing on stage at the Improv in Tempe. In lieu of jokes, she lectured the audience about vaccinations while mocking Christians: “I’m double-vaxxed, booster, flu shot, and I have the shingles shot, too, and I still get my period, yes! I never got COVID.”

Sarcastically, she sneered, “Clearly Jesus loves me the most!”

And then she passed out, dropping like a stone, hitting her noggin on the mic and fracturing her skull when she hit the stage.

Pride wenteth before the fall.

In 1990, you could count on the audience to bean the self-important onstage scolds. Not anymore. But thankfully, Jesus is there, tossing spiritual Birkenstocks to show that the ultimate heckler’s veto lies with Him.

James Madison: “Behold, my Amendment the Third: ‘No soldier shall be quartered in any house without the consent of the owner.’ Now, who could argue with that?”

Scooby Franklin: “Yeah, but, like, man, what if in the future some city orders Americans to quarter street dudes who, like, poop their pants and do drugs and howl at the moon and…”

Madison: “Enough, Scooby. We only let you in here because you’re one of Ben’s 200 bastard sons. But you’re a fool. This Republic shall never sink to a level where a city would order such a thing. My Third Amendment will cover soldiers only. Now, back to the opium den with you.”

Narrator: “Yet Scooby Franklin was correct. And in the year 2022, the city of San Francisco proved Madison wrong.”

Yes, the leaders of Pooptown USA are coercing locals into taking the city’s “unhoused” into their own homes. Using a combination of financial incentives and threats to expose old “N-word” texts, SF elites are trying to force locals with spare rooms to open them up to spitting, crapping, injecting, ranting, stinking schizos in order to make space on the sidewalks for more spitting, crapping, injecting, ranting, stinking schizos.

Essentially, the city is forcing every SF property owner to become a Section 8 landlord.

Fun fact: In the rental business, Section 8 means subsidies to house criminals, druggies, and welfare cases. In the Army, it means you’re a friggin’ lunatic.


The city’s push to put hobos in homes came the same week that an interview with an SF homeless guy went viral. In the video, the dude admits that he ain’t no Red Skelton lovable tramp, but a felon who lives to steal and do drugs.

Odd how Nancy Pelosi hasn’t opened her mansion to him.

Wonder why?

What if you could take the worst things of the 1980s and combine them in one person, a kind of Typhoid Mary embodying the most hellish detritus of that decade?

Take one part Boesky scandal, one part S&L meltdown, one part Milken bilkin’, one part ZZZZ Best Ponzi, and mix them together with that pinnacle of 1980s cultural vomit: white rappers. What would you get? You’d get Heather Morgan, a.k.a. “Razzlekhan.” This 31-year-old NorCal-bred Pacific trash vortex is accused, along with her husband, of a $4.5 billion heist involving manipulated cryptocurrency, NFTs, the “dark web,” money laundering, and Walmart gift cards.

But Morgan isn’t the kind of cultural sore content to just be runny; she has to be painful as well. Before her thievery was exposed by the Justice Department, Morgan, who wrote financial advice columns for Forbes, encouraged CEOs to relieve their stress via “rapping.” And Morgan, under her “performance name” Razzlekhan, was quite the rapper, if by “quite” one means “deafeningly unbearable.”

Waving her arms like a masturbating chimp, Morgan’s “raps” never even reached the level of that 1980s rapping answering machine tape:

I’m glad you called, but I’m not home;
But I’ll be back before too long.
Wait for the beep! Wait for the beep!

Still, Morgan literally incorporated those very lyrics into her raps.

No word on whether the CEOs who hired her for rapping advice got a free Alfonso Ribeiro breakdancing board to compensate for the money she swindled.

Morgan and her husband are facing 25 years in prison.

Sadly, it’s for financial fraud, not their music, which one could argue is the greater crime.


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