September 03, 2023

Source: Bigstock

The Week’s Most Sabering, Neighboring, and Day-of-Laboring Headlines

A prehistoric veldt in South Asia.

Members of a hairy, knuckle-walking Paleolithic cavemen tribe stare quizzically at a large black monolith. Grunting, screeching, and flinging poo, they hesitantly approach the odd structure.

Suddenly, the monolith emits a low-pitched hum.

The cavemen gather around.

The monolith speaks:

“Greetings, I am from Microsoft security. We have detected malware on your computer, sir; your Windows is corrupted. We can assist you in remedying this issue; please prepare a cashier’s check or if you don’t have one we’ll take several handfuls of cumin.”

And that’s how Indians evolved.

Two million years later, India has finally conquered space.

Well, a small portion of it.

Last week an unmanned Indian craft landed on the moon, much to the shock of the world, because Indians haven’t yet mastered the toilet.

A spokesman for GASA (Ganesha Adulation and Space Agency) told the AP, “We’re always looking for new places to deposit feces. Nobody else is using the moon, so we figured, why not?”

India’s next plan is to be the first nation to make contact with beings in another galaxy.

The year is 2180. An Indian spaceship approaches a habitable planet in constellation Cygnus.

A message from the planet is beamed to the Indian ship.

“Greetings, spacecraft! This is Ambassador Krankor of the planet Nadir. Identify yourselves!”

“We are from Microsoft security, sir. We have detected malware on your computer.”

“Oh, for f—’s sake…Indians! Shoot ’em down!”

If you think the “cold fries” hooligans are bad when they’re aggressive, just wait till you see ’em passive aggressive!

“Fifty trapped Zoomers transitioned and detransitioned in the time it took to get traffic flowing again.”

Last week at Papa Bees chicken wings in Longwood, Florida, five soul sistas—Kenisha, Tyesha, Keiyanda, Jaheigha, and Jasmine (yes, those are the real names)—were unhappy with their order. News reports don’t detail the exact nature of their complaint, but it probably had to do with the fact that the ladies had to pay; surely the meal should’ve been free for the five female stars of Netflix’s upcoming von Trapp Family biopic (“Trapp House: Do-Re-My-Ass”).

Ironically, Longwood is named after the thing no man has after seeing photos of Kenisha, Tyesha, Keiyanda, Jaheigha, and Jasmine.

The five disgruntled diners hatched a brilliant scheme: Instead of smashing up the joint, they’d clog the toilet to punish the restaurant for displeasing them. After spending twenty minutes arguing over whose stank-ass weave would be used for the task, the pyramid-builders decided to use toilet paper.

And the caper was on! Like Ocean’s Eleven, but more like Ocean’s Number Two.

Kenisha: explosives expert (especially after eating Taco Bell)
Tyesha: Safe cracker (as in, your crack is safe with her…for about five minutes, till she smokes it)
Keiyanda: Wheelwoman (what Elmer Fudd wonders when he sees her: “Is dat a wheel woman?”)
Jaheigha: Muscle (just her larynx; nobody can shout louder in a movie theater)
Jasmine: Cat burglar (actually, Hamburglar)

One by one the girls did their doody and stuffed roll after roll of TP into the toilet, which clogged and flooded the store.

Sadly, the team had made one minor error: They were the only customers.

Traffic-light-inventing skills don’t translate to heist-planning.

The restaurant manager plunged the toilet, and the girls went back and did it again! And this time the manager asked them to leave.

So the ladies smashed up the place.

Let’s be honest—it’s a chicken wing joint in Orlando. It was destined to be smashed up. Sure, Funk Force Five tried Shatyāgraha, but when it comes to unhappy blacks in restaurants, the nonviolent solution is never enough.

Teach your children well,
To rain down hell, with a bullet facial,
On someone sellin’ fries,
That person dies,
If the spuds are glacial.

Don’t you ask them for their sauce,
They won’t part with it, of course,
So just take it with great foooor-oooorce.
And know they hate you.

The day after the Longwood LaQuishas busted up the wing joint, over in D.C. a group of black teens visited a McDonald’s (the preceding eight words have never appeared in a story that doesn’t involve violence), and much to the staff’s relief, they were actually satisfied with their order.

Fries? Hotter than the sun. Burgers? Extra everything as part of the Reparations Nappy Meal. Shakes? No broken machines. McNuggets? Fresh from the fryer, scalding enough to earn a lucky LaQuisha $800,000.

As the teens exited the establishment, the staff breathed a collective sigh of relief, and the manager texted his wife, “For me the war is over.”

Sadly, the teens still had to get across the parking lot.

Truly, the risk of fast food causing black violence doesn’t end until the food’s been consumed and digested…and as the Longwood ladies proved, even then there can still be issues.

While walking to their car, one of the teen girls—16-year-old Naima Liggon (trivia: The shortest-lived 1970s game show was Naima Liggon. “I can naima liggon in three notes, Bill!”)—decided that she didn’t have the good sauce. The good sauce had been chosen by her friend.

The disgruntled Liggon could’ve gone back into the McD’s and asked for a different sauce. But as the D.C. school system offers fifty classes on Emmett Till but not one on critical thinking, “Nick Saucy” decided to beat her friend mercilessly to steal her sauce.

And then the friend stabbed her to death.

Liggon died as she lived: furious about McNuggets.

In response to the incident, blacks in D.C. are asking, “What can be done to prevent such tragedies?”

Well, maybe if adult blacks would stop slaughtering each other over fast food, the kids might follow suit.

Just a thought.

Longwood’s Great Crappit Caper wasn’t the only Ocean’s Eleven-style action-adventure heist last week. In Chicago, an unnamed woman of some considerable girth apparently decided to smuggle a handgun into a White Sox game. But Guaranteed Rate Field (which in Chicago refers to murder rate) has metal detectors through which all fans must pass!

How to pull off the plot?

According to initial reports, the woman hid the gun in her belly fat. And even though she set off alarm bells while entering the stadium, security, fearful of a sexual harassment lawsuit, left her fat-flaps unexamined.

To be fair, of the two fleshy bodily crevices where a fat person can hide a gun, she chose the least disgusting option.

News reports say Machine Gun Belly is a public school teacher, so of course she lacked the intellectual prowess to foresee the flaws in her plan. Like, what if her belly twitched? Which it did, and for once a leftist was triggered in the literal way. The gun fired; the bullet grazed her belly fat and ended up in a bystander’s leg.

In related news, the teacher’s outie is now an innie.

As a result of the shooting and the confusion that followed, a postgame concert featuring Vanilla Ice was canceled.

So for the first time in history a Chicago public school teacher actually helped the people of her city.

The woman’s attorney released a statement in which he denied the gun-smuggling charge. Police have ruled out the gunshot coming from outside the stadium, but the attorney claims there was a second shooter—a different fat woman with a gun in her belly fat that discharged when she belched.

Addressing cameras at the press conference, the attorney declared, “The real shooter was behind the gassy knoll.”

Time to root for the Injuns!

As the Burning Man festival was getting underway in Nevada last week, a bunch of Hollywood-funded white morons from New York, California, and Europe decided to set up a blockade on the highway leading to the concert site.

The reason?

To protest climate change.

And by creating a multi-mile traffic stoppage in 100-degree temps, with thousands of cars idling, spewing exhaust, and cranking up the AC, the “activists” probably did more damage to the environment that day than if they’d stayed home and yelled “How dare you” at their farting dog like Greta Thunberg does.

Thankfully, the location of the blockade happened to be on Injun land—the sovereign territory of the Paiutes. And it turns out, if you give today’s Injuns the opportunity to smack the hell out of trespassing whites, they’ll take it. The Paiute cops smashed through the blockade with their squad cars and dragged the protesters away at gunpoint as they wailed in fear.

And in that instant, the activists became Regreta Thunberg.

The traffic jam of hard-rockin’ millennials stretched for so long, new supplies of fentanyl had to be droned in from the border to restock the caravan’s depleted supplies. Fifty trapped Zoomers transitioned and detransitioned in the time it took to get traffic flowing again.

Interestingly, one of the demands of the protesters was that Burning Man ban plastic straws at the venue. Ironically, that demand was issued several days after a new study revealed that the paper straws that have been mandated in blue cities contain toxic “forever chemicals” that kill you in large doses.

So, the “climate activists” caused a traffic jam that polluted the air and released “greenhouse gases” via heavy AC use, all to force the festival to abandon plastic straws for straws that murder the sippers. And only a posse of unsentimental Paiute policemen had the guts to use brute force to stop the madness.

Congrats, Paiutes—you may be the first Injuns to make a convincing case that the wrong side won the Frontier war.


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