July 06, 2024

Newport Beach, California

Newport Beach, California

Source: Bigstock

The Week’s Most Griping, Piping, and Stars-and-Striping Headlines

Last week A Quiet Place: Day One landed a franchise-high opening box-office tally of $114 million. The Quiet Place saga is set in a dysgenic earth ruled by blind, flightless space pterodactyls who eat anyone who makes noise.

Yes, it’s based on a Jane Austen novel.

Day One is an origin story, telling the tale of the arrival of the murderous space turkeys, and it stars Lupita Nyong’o as a New Yorker forced to keep her mouth shut.

Turns out that’s just what Americans want to see this summer: a black woman who shuts the f— up or dies.

Coming in at the bottom of the box office was Thelma, a film about a 100-year-old biddy who takes revenge against a telemarketer. The titular character is played by Methuselean mummy June Squibb, who rose to fame as “debutante who slaps Stepin Fetchit for looking at her” in 1935’s High-Society Hijinks.

Thelma eventually traces the villainous call-center scammer to an evil Englishman played by Malcolm McDowell.

Even though most telemarketers who prey on the elderly are Indians, in this film the real bad guy is a diabolical Brit!

Magnolia Pictures, which paid a hefty sum for Thelma at Sundance this year, is also responsible for the 2021 documentary Fauci, which presents the Munchkinoid malefactor as a hero who saved the world.

Magnolia specializes in fantasy.

Sometimes you need more than oatmeal to set things right.

Crete, Nebraska, used to be a nice place to live. Billy Booth was born there 74 years ago, and hang-dangit, he had a good small-town boyhood, learning the birds and bees by watching dogs in the park, romancing his high school sweetie at the harvest dance, losing her later that night when he tried to mount her like a spaniel, raising a family that eventually left him because he wouldn’t stop humping their legs, and eventually settling into life as a gun-hoarding grumpy old man, still sore that those dogs didn’t teach him the finer points of romance.

“The Quiet Place saga is set in a dysgenic earth ruled by blind, flightless space pterodactyls who eat anyone who makes noise. Yes, it’s based on a Jane Austen novel.”

Meanwhile, Crete changed around him. In 2004 the town’s main employer, meat-processing plant Farmland Foods, was sold to the conglomerate Smithfield. Everyone knows Smithfield from its high-quality pork products mixed with bits of rubber gloves (the company’s motto: “Our Secret Ingredient is (G)LOVE!”), but what many don’t know is that Smithfield’s a massive GOP donor. So of course this “patriotic” company began trucking undocumented beans into Crete the minute it took over. The town’s now 41 percent Hispanic.

University of Nebraska-Lincoln published a paper titled “Crete: City of Contrasts” (yes, some hayseed wrote that unironically), which details how 50 percent of the Crete school system is non-English-fluent. But have no fear—the town’s priest, Father Julius Tvrdy of Our Lady of the Missing Vowels, is making sure that all remaining white Cretins learn to speak Spanish, as opposed to the beans learning English (true fact: The surname Tvrdy is Hungarian and refers to a person from the village of Tard. No joke; he’s literally Father Tard).

Last week Old Man Booth had enough. It was 4 p.m. on a Friday and the house full o’ beans across the street was having its daily street fiesta. Ranchera music, fireworks, and lots of ¡AY YI YI!

His cries of “You spics get off my lawn (that you mowed)” unheeded, Booth grabbed a shotgun, blew the livin’ salsa out of the celebrants, then barricaded himself in his house and blasted his head open.

R.I.P. Crete’s George Bailey: It’s a Gunderful Life (“Every time a gunshot rings, Angel the gangbanger gets hot wings”).

Booth’s body was handed over to Smithfield. Best to not inquire what happened then.

Poor Gavin Newsom. For the California guv, it’s the best of times and the worst of times…a tale of two titties. And those titties belong to the state’s pass-around slut Kamala Harris.

See, Gavin tops the list of Democrats who could replace Biden should the mummified jimmy-crack-cornpop finally have one senior moment too many (“Look, Jack, I had to give the Fort Knox gold to that guy from Microsoft security because he told me I had malware, man”). But Gavin’s white. And that’s a problem.

So last week Gavin had a dilemma on his hands. The three remaining Republicans in Sacramento (they’re a breed so rare, Chinamen hunt them for their penises, because those yellow degenerates can’t help but drive endangered species to extinction) qualified a ballot initiative for November that would reverse Proposition 47, the George Soros/Newt Gingrich measure that decriminalized theft.

Gavin, knowing that his beloved dystopian anarchy might be jeopardized should Californians go for this Republican plot, came up with a brilliant counterstrategy: He floated his own November initiative, a fake Prop. 47 reversal that doesn’t actually reverse Prop. 47 but includes one tiny concession to law and order: a third shoplifting charge can be bumped up to felony.

Gavin’s idea was that voters would split the two measures and neither would pass. But there was a problem…the state’s Legislative Black Caucus instinctively understood that them three-time shoplifters would likely be black. And ain’t no way you be puttin’ no black people in jail in Cali! So the caucus leaders told Newsom, “You put our honor students in prison, we back Kamala once old Joe’s fallen and can’t get up.”

And just like that, Gavin liquidated his Prop. 47 initiative.

A true man of principle. Indeed, a principal in a special-needs school with 5 percent honor students who must be coddled at all costs.

Speaking of coddled California blacks, let’s visit Newport Beach. As one can expect from an upscale city that’s 80 percent white and 0.8 percent black, crime is low. Or, to phrase it differently, enrichment is low. All those spoiled alabastards going about their daily lives with no blacks to beat and rob them.

Thankfully, three black Californians, each from a different part of the state’s ass-end, decided to bring diversity strength to Newport last week.

Leroyernest McCrary of Compton (and seriously, if you encounter a Leroyer nest in your backyard, don’t try to dispose of it on your own; call an exterminator), Jaden Cunningham of Lancaster (the county’s meth-head Section 8 outpost), and South Central’s Malachi Eddward Darnell (the extra “d” is for death) drove two hours south to Newport Beach to show those whites what they’re missing.

Parking in Newport’s fancy-pants Fashion Island mall, the three Moors-men of the blackopalypse cased the customers, deciding which one to rob.

“Let’s get that white ho comin’ outta dat jewelry store!”

“Naw, let’s do that old dude with them Apple Store bags.”

In the end, the three Ink Spots decided to rob a 64-year-old white tourist from New Zealand who was exiting Barnes & Noble. Because to ghetto thugs, books are as rare as diamonds.

“Bitch be buying books? She gotta be, like, the queen of Englund or sheeit.”

Of course, a black thug stealing a book is like a shark eating a cell phone; it can’t possibly absorb anything of value from the bounty. Still, they tried to grab the tourist’s bag, and when she resisted, they ran her over, fatally.

Last week, New Zealand moved sharply to the right politically. Maybe the Kiwi hobbits want to preserve their ability to buy books without gentle stone giants enriching them to death.

The South Carolina Department of Education made headlines last week for introducing the most stringent ban on tranny/LGBT “literature” in the entire U.S. For the moment, if parents in S.C. want to warp their kids, they’ll have to do it themselves, because S.C. school libraries will no longer carry such classics as Charlie and the Fudge Factory (turns out Willy Wonka’s “contest” was not one you want to win), Tom Saw-ya (the rapscallion opens a penis removal business in his treehouse), Little Lord Flauntleroid (the young gentleman’s very proud of his anal fissures), and of course Win-He-the-Poo (don’t ask…it’s about fecal fetishism).

South Carolina’s ironfisted approach to removing sexually explicit books from school libraries has got the gays all fired up, and frankly a little turned on because of the word “fisted.” James Taylor’s even agreed to record a protest version of his song “Carolina in My Mind”:

I’m gone to Carolina in my mind,
Gonna keep my ’gina, teacher told me it’s just fine.
Adam gonna be Eve,
Fella hiding his balls in a pant sleeve,
Yes, we’re going to Carolina in our mind.

To offset that terrible loss for deviants, the press had to highlight at least one tranny-positive story last week. And journalists found that story in the exploits of Nikki Hiltz, a “transgender” runner who qualified for the U.S. Olympic team.

“Trans runner Nikki Hiltz qualifies for Paris Olympics after placing first at US trials” bellowed the headlines. The only small wrinkle is, Hiltz is a biological woman competing against biological women. That she thinks she’s a man is fine; nobody has a problem with Olympic runners thinking weird things, like that time when sprinters Agnes Tirop and Damaris Mutua thought, “Hey, we can be successful, independent women in Kenya without being raped and murdered!”

Or when Tori Bowie was like, “I can totally give birth at home alone! Hospitals and doctors are for wusses.”

So really, the headlines for the Hiltz piece should’ve read “woman wins women’s event.”

But that’s a little too linear for today’s journalists, who, in their quest to normalize abnormality, long ago traded “who what when where and why” for “WTF WTF WTF WTF and HOLY CRAP WTF.”


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