This was gonna be my end-of-the-year wrap-up (it was written and proofed and everything), but the Vivek “mediocre culture” thing got me fired up, so I’ll run the New Year’s column next week.

Am I enjoying seeing MAGA turn on Musk over his push for more cheap imported labor?

Heavens, no, I’d never harbor ill will toward the plate-lipped albino who banned me for life from X because an anonymous Holocaust denier came at me aggressively on a morning when I was grieving for a lost friend and I told the denier, “If you ever come to Beverly Hills, I’ll kill you myself” (that’s the tweet that got me banned).

I’m bringing this up to make a point. Bengali geneticist Razib Khan is exactly the kind of “skilled immigrant” Musk wants to import. And no question Khan’s smart (he was raised here); hell, he even wrote four pieces for Takimag in 2009!

He’s also written for Unz.

Okay, I take back the “smart” thing.

But now he’s gone full Kipling; the Gods of his far-off land have repossessed his blood.

The day before Vivek’s tweet, Khan tweeted “i hate nazis, and i will literally kill you if you come for my children,” which he followed with “the reason the retard right thinks i’m anti-white is because i said i was going to kill ppl if they were going to try and deport my children out of this country based on their race. i still stand by that. I’ll kill you.”

Khan’s being performative; his kids are anchor babies, they’re safe (even if Trump finds a way to end birthright citizenship, it won’t be retroactive). More important, Musk not only didn’t ban Khan for saying “I’ll kill you” (aimed not at one denier troll as in my case, but all ICE agents and immigration restrictionists), X won’t even make him delete the tweet!

This double standard, along with reports that Musk is removing blue checks from Xers who defy him on H-1B, suggests that he’s reverting to Dorsey-era tactics in which “favored” groups get to say things disfavored ones can’t. Worse still, Khan’s tweets prove that even the best of ’em, the “highly skilled” (which Khan certainly is, plus he leans right, or at least he used to), will revert to “I keeeeell you” tribalism regarding deportations of their people.

What man-child Elon doesn’t get is that nobody trusts Big Tech. Elon and Vivek say, “We’ll only bring in the top .01%,” and MAGA—paranoid as it is (too much in my opinion, but not in this case)—ain’t buyin’ it. MAGA sees “only the best” as cover for “everyone who applies,” and if Elon would stop treating MAGAs like British cave divers to abuse, he’d realize that the problem is not racism but lack of trust.

Back to Vivek.

I’ll quote the relevant passage from his now-infamous Dec. 26 tweet:

Our American culture has venerated mediocrity over excellence for way too long (at least since the 90s and likely longer). That doesn’t start in college, it starts YOUNG. A culture that celebrates the prom queen over the math olympiad champ, or the jock over the valedictorian, will not produce the best engineers. A culture that venerates Cory from “Boy Meets World,” or Zach & Slater over Screech in “Saved by the Bell,” or ‘Stefan’ over Steve Urkel in “Family Matters,” will not produce the best engineers.

Vivek’s belief that we’re defined by the TV characters we enjoy is absolutely retarded, and he’s retarded for espousing it. It’s such a stupid way of thinking. As is his claim that enjoying a fictional character means you “venerate” that character. Vivek might’ve closed 2024 with the dumbest tweet of the year.

And before you say, “No, Vivek’s a genius!” may I remind you…well, I’ll just quote this tweet from a guy who stated it perfectly:

Here’s Vivek Ramaswamy in 2015, scamming the public on his Alzheimer drug that had already failed drug trials four times before he bought it for pennies. He rebranded it & took the company public in an IPO. Then he & his family dumped $2 billion of stock before it failed again.

Vivek’s no genius. He’s a glorified “Microsoft security” phone-scammer.

The idea that unintelligent sitcom characters in some way “train” kids to be underachievers is lunatic. I’m not talking about the “kids watch too much TV” debate. I’m speaking about what Vivek was speaking about: TV characters. He says you can judge an entire society by the sitcom characters people enjoy. He claims that those characters shape a culture and a nation.

So imbecilic. Kids who grew up with Welcome Back, Kotter in the 1970s loved John Travolta’s dim-witted Barbarino. That doesn’t mean they became underachievers like the “Sweathogs.”

I’d ask Mr. Swarthyvishnu to produce data. Has he done any research to prove his assertion? It would be simple enough to do (he has the money). Poll a few thousand highly successful professionals who were children in the 1970s. Of the ones who regularly watched TV, ask them if they favored the “dumb” characters on their favorite shows…Barbarino on Welcome Back, Kotter, Ted Baxter on Mary Tyler Moore, Rerun on What’s Happening!!, Lenny and Squiggy on Laverne & Shirley, Chrissy on Three’s Company. That would help determine if “venerating” (appreciating) an anti-intellectual TV character leads to real-life anti-intellectualism.

But of course Vivek has no data (just like with his phony Alzheimer’s cure). And he has no need for any. He simply wants to feel superior to you.

TV characters are a sore spot for Indian-Americans. For Subcontinental men in general. Vivek knows that men who look like him were never on TV back then, because Americans don’t want to see ’em, and more to the point, American women don’t want to see ’em. Subcontinental men are unappealing to white women to a degree that even surpasses Oriental men, who at least can sometimes have a kind of kung fu masculinity (what they lack is the, um, “nunchucks” in the pants).

Vivek is angry at you because he knows your women wouldn’t give him a second glance on the street. So he bitterly attacks you for liking the “wrong” TV characters, the “pretty” ones. What he’s actually saying is, “Why don’t you people find my kind attractive?”

Which brings me to another point. To again quote:

A culture that celebrates the prom queen over the math olympiad champ, or the jock over the valedictorian, will not produce the best engineers.

And to again say, retarded.

It’s exactly the feeling of having to compete with jocks that drives many boys to excellence. Bud-Bud has it backwards. If women fawned and fainted over nerds, nerds wouldn’t try as hard at life. It’s exactly the dynamic he despises that breeds success.

If you know anything about the great rock & rollers of the 20th century, you know that half of ’em say they first started playing music as a way to compete with handsome jocks for the attention of women. Vivek’s hated hierarchy not only gave America some of its greatest music, it’s a factor that contributed to America defining music for the entire fucking globe since the advent of radio.

That same principle applies to nerds, who realize that they can’t compete with jocks in the looks department, but, being smart, they know that high school romances with dumb surfers fade and the pretty girls will start thinking about their future and might just seek a guy with a good job and good prospects.

If nerds were “venerated,” it would lead to them exerting less effort, not more. It’s struggle that forges people.

Me? The fact that I was always the short kid led to me developing a dominant and very verbal personality. It also helped develop my abstract reasoning skills, as I was forced, by circumstance, to figure out how to circumvent my physical shortcomings (though not in the nunchuck department, but you can’t just jump to that in polite society) in order to be popular with the ladies. As a result, I never had any problem attracting girls.

As I often mention, I never even graduated high school. My senior-year final semester I ditched every day with my gal pals. I didn’t need a diploma, because there are two places I won’t be caught dead: a gym and a college classroom.

And by age 21 I was on national TV back when that meant something (the era before the internet), and I was speaking on college campuses rather than enrolling in them. And today, on X, my early-1990s work is discussed dozens of times a day, even though I wish it weren’t, even though I realize I inadvertently spawned a cult of morons who argue with other morons over stuff I did as a kid in 1992 that’s long been surpassed by my later work. But I’ll say this: When it’s 33 years from today, nobody’s gonna remember Vivek. He’ll be a taco fart, a big stink vanished in the wind, a long-forgotten joke.

I don’t particularly like being remembered (and tweeted by Elon’s favorite idiot accounts, one of which recently posted an old clip of mine and it got 5.1 million views in one day) for things I did when I was young. But the bottom line is, this high school dropout with no college education who watched Welcome Back, Kotter and Laverne & Shirley has made a good living through verbal skill, personality, and abstract reasoning ability, and to whatever extent I’m the product of environment as well as IQ (I’d seek Steve Sailer’s counsel on that, but he’s busy chasing after Vivek with calipers), I can say that the part of me that was forged by environment was forged by the nerd/jock hierarchy Vivek claims makes America “mediocre.”

He’s gaslighting you. He’s using something you do that’s perfectly normal—watch and enjoy fictional characters—and he’s claiming that you and your children are so weak-minded you become the characters you enjoy, and the reason America needs more Indians is because you’ve gotten mediocre, and your kids are mediocre, because you’re favoring the wrong TV characters.

As if Indians aren’t obsessed with the lamest, most mediocre movies and TV shows imaginable, nothing but macho shirtless action heroes beating up rooms full of people, then dancing for no explicable reason.

Gaslighting at its finest. He’s calling you mediocre because you occasionally enjoy anti-intellectual fictional characters, and he’s suggesting that the remedy is to import millions of people from a culture where the favored content is almost totally comprised of anti-intellectual fictional characters.

If you know Indian movies, you know what I mean.

In fact, the most successful “Indian” film to break through into the U.S. market was Slumdog Millionaire, an intelligent film…made by white Englishmen.

Because only Westerners have the smarts to make a truly mediocre culture appear magical on screen.

That’s the Western gift…not just intelligence but creativity. And neither Barbarino nor Urkel can kill it.

But replacing our workforce with Indians can.

You know the tiny little sparkly-winged angel you have sitting anally impaled on the top of your Christmas tree? She’s dressed all in white, isn’t she? So have you ever considered the sheer embarrassment if she happens to suffer her period sometime during Holy Week? One German university has. They’ve even considered what might happen should the blood-shedding angel happen to identify as being male.

Göttingen University—once home of the famous fairy-tale Brothers Grimm, now of a bunch of real-life fairies—has just held a helpful Christmas lecture, “Oh My Bloody Mess: Trans and Non-Binary People Bleed Too.” This was led by a “gay trans man” (I think that means a heterosexual female, who fancies men, pretending to be a homosexual male, who also fancies men—i.e., a straight woman) named Alexander Hahne.

Hahne, a “somatic counselor, sexological bodyworker, dancer and pleasure activist,” promised to provide some seriously “bloody insights” into the family-friendly festive world of “menstruating trans and non-binary people,” after which questions were “very welcome.” Not the kind of questions I’d be asking.

Once the lecture was over, students in attendance were invited to engage in a kindergarten-like session of seasonal decoration-making—but not with glitter, glue, and colored craft paper. “Have you always wanted to hang a bloody tampon on your mom’s Christmas tree or make a beautiful butterfly decoration out of sanitary pads?” asked promo material. If so, “Then it’s your evening.”

And if you think sticking a tampon on a tree is bad, wait until you see what the queers have now hung on Santa Claus.

Baby, It’s Brown Inside
In the highly liberal Dutch city of Rotterdam stands a very queer statue of Santa Claus indeed. Popularly known as “The Buttplug Gnome,” it represents a dwarfish jet-black Santa holding a miniature misshapen Christmas tree…one so misshapen it clearly resembles an anal toy of some kind. With his other hand, he also rings a large black bell end.

Is this just a case of misguided public innuendo? Probably not, given the past record of the sculptor responsible.

Paul McCarthy is not a member of a cheap Beatles tribute band, but a Californian artist with an overriding obsession for buttplugs. As such, every Saint Nick he makes (and he makes many) would appear to actually be a Saint Dick instead.

Another such statue stands outside Oslo Hospital in Norway, right next to the Proctology Department. Following its unveiling, McCarthy explained how he first became fascinated with buttplugs when he received one as a (Christmas?) gift in 1972. He stood this “next to a little goblin on my desk,” the juxtaposition providing inspiration for his statues.

An alternative account has it that McCarthy found a buttplug mysteriously sitting on a chair one day, perhaps placed there by a homosexual poltergeist or brownie, then glued it firmly in place like one of Marcel Duchamp’s old Surrealist-Dadaist “ready-mades,” before exhibiting this under the utilitarian title Chair With Butt Plug.

Santa Claus Is Bumming a Clown
McCarthy (who isn’t actually gay) considers himself more of a “clown” than an artist, many of his best-known works being performance pieces like Hold an Apple in Your Armpit, in which he did just that, or Class Fool, where he threw himself around a ketchup-splattered classroom until he vomited, before dropping his trousers and ramming a Barbie doll up his rectum. In the measured words of Wikipedia, “The piece ended when the audience could no longer stand to watch his performance.”

Equally fascinated by what emerges from anuses as by what can be inserted into them, many of McCarthy’s pieces center upon fecal matter, like his 2008 Complex Shit, a giant blow-up turd that was blown away by strong winds in Switzerland one night, leading to headlines like “Is It a Turd or a Plane?” Or was it just Santa’s new big brown gay-sleigh?

McCarthy has been drawing pictures of Santa whilst high on drugs since the 1970s, considering Father Christmas a totemic figure “ripe for satire as a quasi-religious, god-like bastion of life under capitalism.” As such, the arty-fartist enjoys cosplaying as a presumably gay Saint Nick himself, combining his main manias of poo, bumplugs, chocolate, and Christmastime.

In routines with names like Santa Chocolate Shop, McCarthy plays a genuinely Bad Santa wandering around with chocolate/shit smeared over his red-gone-brown costume. His 2014 piece Chocolate Factory created a fully functioning production line spewing out chocolate Santas and buttplugs, operated by elves in blond wigs, hoping to create “an atmosphere of delirium.”

Some skeptics think McCarthy is only creating an atmosphere of moral corruption. In 2014, he erected an “ambiguous Christmas tree”—i.e., a huge, 24-meter green buttplug—in central Paris. McCarthy claimed it was just a verdant spatial abstraction, but locals disagreed, toppling the thing in disgust, before one man “punched him three times in the face, yelling that he was not French and that his work had no place” there.

Others complained about desecration of the “sacred symbol of the Christmas tree.” More aesthetically advanced Parisian officials dismissed such primitive protests, explaining the inflatable sculpture had “enough ambiguity not to confuse the children” of the city.

We Three Queens of Orient Are
If you actively want to confuse your kids, various alternative queer Christmas options are now available. Just send them off to the aptly named “Santa Camp,” where they can meet an obese “Trans Santa” who asks children their pronouns before he/she asks them their names. Strangely, the presents they/them ask for upon Santa Fey’s knee are all variants upon a theme: chest binders, courage to come out as perverts to their parents on Christmas morning, that kind of thing.

I remember as a child one classmate fibbing that his father had punched him in the face after he had requested a Game Boy for Christmas; supposedly, his dad thought he was asking for a “Gay Boy.” Trans Santa (real name Levi Truax) would have given the lad a big sloppy rainbow kiss. He may also have handed him out an Xmas jumper reading “He knows when you aren’t sleeping, and he knows when you aren’t woke.”

According to a write-up of the whole Santa Camp experience, once the confused teens are finished, they leap off Trans Santa’s lap and “pump their left fist in triumph.” At least I hope that’s what they’re doing…

While Shepherds Touch Their Cocks by Night
Christmas is a time for giving, and if you want to be a Secret Santa for a trans kid yourself, head to transanta.com, which matches up needy trans people with potential donors at Christmastime who, instead of gifting food and coins to the homeless, would much prefer to contribute “gender affirming clothes” and “cool accessories” to grasping deviants—or engage in generous acts of “investing in trans survival” as the transatanists themselves put it.

One particularly tragic case was Alex, 24, from California, a single parent who “experienced gender dysphoria during their pregnancy,” presumably because she thinks she’s a man, and men don’t get pregnant.

What special gift did s/he want? A “bicycle to make transportation back to work a lot easier.” Just hop on the bus with your baby, love, they do mother-and-child discounts, you know.

If you would like to help Tiny Tim transition into Tiny Tina (or even a Christmas Carol?) this year, why not head online yourself, give him a big fat goose, and tell him where to stuff it?

Bum All Ye Faithful
Those parents whose offspring are more into musical theater could agitate for a revival of The Santa Closet, a 2019 Off Broadway production about a gay Santa, a one-man show created by Jeffrey Solomon, of the Houses on the Moon Theater Company.

In this play, after a gender-fluid New York boy named Gary asks Santa for a doll, Rudolph the Lavender-Nosed Reindeer explains that:

“I’m very proud of everything we have achieved here in Christmas-Town. In the early seventies we broke the color line and opened up the workshop to elves of color. We put in access ramps throughout Santa’s workshop…. I’d been pushing for us to adopt a more relaxed attitude towards gender and do away with the so-called ‘Soldier for Jimmy, Dolly for Sue’ policy, this whole color-coded gender fascism—let’s break up the binary, man.”

Such reckless reindeer rhetoric soon leads to Santa being outed as a gay radical himself, who once participated in the Stonewall Riots.

The subsequent tabloid scandal leads Santa to fly away with his chosen long-term catamite Giovanni Geppetto, a distant descendant of Pinocchio, on his big pink sleigh, doubtless before then sitting wide open right on his wooden nose and yelling, “Lie to me, big boy!”

Cumming Down Your Chimney Tonight
Some pinkwashed dupes now speak of a gender-neutral “Santx,” truly putting the “X” in “Xmas,” whilst in 2020 a special beardless and androgynous yellow “Mx Claus” emoji was introduced as “a gender inclusive alternative” to either Santa or Mrs. Claus. Does s/he have a North Pole down south or not? Nobody knows.

The Norwegian Post Office even encourage their citizens to lick Gay Santa’s backside on their Christmas card stamps, running special TV adverts in 2021 showing Santa in an openly homosexual relationship, so as to advertise “the flexibility of our services” and celebrate fifty years since the legalization of same-sex sack-emptying over there.

Following an uproar over this ad, a U.K. opinion poll was commissioned, clearly showing how all this never-ending agitprop was having its intended effect. About 60 percent of over-60s thought it was not okay for Santa to be bent, whereas around 60 percent of 18- to 24-year-olds thought a Homo Santa was cool.

This was billed as kids thinking Santa was “too straight, white and male” for their tastes. Unfortunate, really, as Santa is a straight white male.

On the Twelfth Gay of Christmas, My True Love Gave to Me…AIDS
How to reverse this militant mind-warping? How about telling toddlers Father Christmas has AIDS? In 1991, a militant march of HIV-riddled Santas invaded Macy’s in New York after one of their number had been refused seasonal employment there lest he spread the plague on to knee-perching kids through his infected Kris Kringle, singing “Santa Claus has HIV, fa-la-la-la-la-la-la-la-la!”

In 1985, the Dickensian-named pop star Tiny Tim released a far less HIV-positive novelty Christmas single, “Santa Claus Has Got the AIDS This Year,” with truly harrowing lyrics:

He won’t be yelling out, “Ho, ho, ho, ho!”
But he’ll be screaming out, “No, no, no, no!”
He’s lying sick in bed
Call the doctor there instead
Santa Claus has got the AIDS this year

Tiny Tim was obviously being a total Scrooge McFuck here, but fibbed his trolling was all just a reference to a special brand of medicinal chocolate bar, “AYDS,” marketed as an appetite suppressant. The product’s old “Go on the AYDS diet” argument took on a whole new meaning once the similar-sounding disease grew famous in the ’80s, leading to the snack being discontinued, the very same problem that today faces once-popular online tombola gambling site e-bola throughout West Africa.

At first, it was optimistically thought the AIDS epidemic would boost AYDS’ brand recognition and sales, because, as one company executive honestly said, “People who suffer from that disease are not the same people who are trying to lose weight,” the bum-bug already doing that for them for free anyway. Hence, Tim’s song was supposedly about fatty Santa having eaten so much yummy slimming chocolate he was lying in bed slowly shitting himself to death.

So, if you don’t want your own kids to embrace Queer Santa this December, pop online and play them Tiny Tim’s highly disturbing, but gayness-deglamorizing, Christmas carol. They’ll hate it. Poo-loving artist Paul McCarthy, however, will no doubt lap the whole thing up. Possibly literally.

The Week’s Most Leary, Dreary, and New Yeary Headlines

INMATE, OUTMATE
Biden concluded 2024 by commuting the sentences of every federal death row inmate, including child-killers and mass murderers. He left only three behind: “Young Bieber”-haired moppet Dylann Roof, who killed nine black worshippers in a church; growly Robert Bowers, who murdered eleven elderly Jews in a synagogue; and Kyrgyzstan’s gift to America Dzhokhar Tsarnaev, who bombed the Boston Marathon out of jealousy because Bostonians love stretching their vowels yet he comes from a nation with none.

Amazingly, the families of Roof’s victims slammed Biden for not sparing Roof. To which every white American exclaimed, “Blacks not wanting to kill a white? A Christmas miracle!”

Meanwhile at the L.A. Times, a newspaper so foul monkeys fling it at poo (Angelenos walking down the street have been known to use a dog turd to scrape the L.A. Times off their shoes), the paper ran a three-page plea for Governor Newsom to outright release serial killer Michael Cox, a man on California death row for the 1984 slaying of three teenage women, two of whom were sisters (triplets, but the third girl survived).

Sure, the Times argues, Cox was a drifter who was darkly obsessed with the teens; he’d routinely drive through town shouting at them, “Fuck you, sluts, whores, and bitches.”

The Times claims Cox was “framed” by his mentally retarded underage bride with webbed feet, who, with the IQ of a child and the feet of a duck, somehow masterminded a plot against Cox (a web of deceit). That cops found a bevy of weapons in Cox’s car after the murder is, according to the Times, irrelevant.

Missing from the story is its central lesson: If you don’t want to be accused of the brutal murder of three teen girls, don’t follow them around in your car shouting “sluts, whores, and bitches.” Otherwise, you’ve no reason to act surprised when those women end up carved like a Walmart butterball and you’re suspected.

Very simple wisdom…lost on the Times.

WE ARE THE WORLD(’S WORST PEOPLE)
Remember when A-list musicians used to raise money for impoverished ordinary folks by holding self-congratulatory benefits and singing the worst songs ever recorded (“We Are the World,” “Do They Know It’s Christmas”…most people would find better harmonies in the death screams of Valens, Holly, and Bopper as the plane went down).

There’s good news and bad news. The good news is that celebrity entertainers have long given up those costly star-studded group fundraisers for the much cheaper joy of singing on TikTok, thank God (the “all-star” online collaboration from 2020, in which celebrities traded verses on “Imagine” in order to make Americans feel even worse during lockdowns, lost at the Grammys to Kobe Bryant’s death scream as his chopper went down).

But here’s the bad news: Celebrities are now raising money from you, not for you.

As detailed by Business Insider, super-wealthy entertainers raided Covid funds meant for struggling businesses and used it to (further) enrich themselves. Lil Wayne, worth about $100 million, pilfered $8.9 million in pandemic relief largesse and used it on private jet flights around the world, clothes, accessories, and pot.

If you’ll recall, when Wayne was busted on a felony gun charge, Trump pardoned him.

And there’s the quality judgment that’ll make the next four years so much fun.

Chris Brown spent his $10 million Covid grant on his 33rd birthday party, a celebrity basketball tournament, and a seminar he taught on socking women in the face and getting away with it.

“DJ” Steve Aoki, who’s a multimillionaire because he plays records, which apparently nobody else on earth can do, took his $2.4 mil grant and put himself on payroll, using the received money to pay himself for the “job” of receiving it. So Aoki, worth $120 million from spinning records, now has two BS jobs.

Americans will never get any of that dough back, but ordinary folks can still take revenge: Get together and record a song as bad as “We Are the World” and play it over and over again outside the mansions of these crooks.

STAND-UP TRAGEDY
2024 started with a public immolation and ended with one, with another in between.

Forget “Year of the Monkey”; 2024 was “Year of the Monk.”

In February, when tough-guy soldier Aaron Bushnell set himself on fire to protest Israel, he stood erect for 45 seconds, fully engulfed, screaming “aaaarrreeeaaaarrrrgh” like an attention-seeking meathead at the gym.

And all of Bushnell’s anti-Israel fans were like, “That soldier took it like a man!”

Then in April, Max Azzarello, a self-appointed “sleuth” protesting the DEEP STATE, did the same routine outside Trump’s NYC trial, managing to stand erect for thirty seconds. And his fans were like, “Wotta WARRIOR! He wouldn’t go down.”

And then a week ago a homeless beggarwoman in a Coney Island subway car was set afire by an illegal Guatemalan, and she stood upright, fully engulfed but in dead silence, for at least one minute (the video cuts off after sixty seconds, so we don’t see her go down). In theory, considering that transit cops ignored her plight, she may still be standing there burning today (NYC could make a tourist attraction of it).

“Soldier” Bushnell, “sleuth” Azzazello…what pussies. Especially Bushnell, doing all that performative weight-lifter grunting that made his fans go gaga. A homeless woman showed him how to be stoic.

The illegal firebug, Sebastian Zapata (who kept sneaking back into the U.S. no matter how many times he was kicked out…they don’t call him “Chili Relentless” for nothing), told authorities that, not being Mexican, he can’t figure out how to work a leaf blower, so he was just practicing how to burn leaves so he could work as a gardener.

Sounds like a ridiculous alibi, but Guatemalans are just stupid enough to mistake a shaggy-clothed homeless woman sleeping on a subway seat for a pile of leaves.

With Guatemala, it’s never a matter of “they’re not sending their best.” It’s that they have no best to send.

“DON’T GET LACROSSE WITH ME!”
The fact that a murderous whoring stripper lied about something is no great surprise. The button on the gag is that the whoring stripper’s name is Mangum. There are a hundred jokes that can be built around that, and none of them are family-friendly.

Stripper/prostitute Crystal Mangum was the black hooker who, in 2006, accused three white Duke lacrosse players of raping her at a party. The case fell apart because there was never a shred of evidence to begin with, but that didn’t stop Duke admins from banning the accused students from campus, canceling the lacrosse season, firing the lacrosse coach, and declaring a state of war against La Crosse, Wisconsin.

The only thing that kept the case briefly alive was a cover-up by then Durham County DA Mike NiFong (“that’s NiFong—capital ‘N,’ small ‘i,’ capital ‘F,’ small ‘o’ small ‘n’ small ‘geeeee’!”). NiFong would eventually be disbarred, and the accused students cleared.

Last week Mangum came clean, admitting that she made up the entire story because she “wanted validation from people and not from God.”

You gotta be a really bad whore if you aren’t getting validation enough from gumming men. Perhaps she was just bad at it; maybe her name should’ve been Manchew. No wonder her Yelp whore rating is only one star (“that ho left bite marks” reads one review by user Dick DeMasticated).

Although she was briefly the toast of the left, Mangum blew her fame just as she’d done a thousand johns. She was tossed into the pen after murdering her pimp boyfriend, and what a loss that was for the world.

And now Mangum, who claims to have found Jesus (he’d been actively hiding from her), is asking the wrongly accused lacrosse players for forgiveness.

Let’s hope the Jesus she found is the Christian savior and not the Mexican prison guard who routinely has her gum his man-goo.

BBC SO FAT…
It’s impressive that a media institution in England—a nation where blacks are former colonials as opposed to former slaves—would inadvertently outdo American blacks in the comedic art form they originated: “yo mamma” jokes.

Recently the BBC ran a piece titled “Outdoor spaces not welcoming for bigger bodies.”

Yes, yo mamma too fat for the outdoors.

Yo mamma too fat for earth itself.

But it’s not a joke; the BBC said it in earnest.

The BBC piece profiles a group of morbidly obese ladies who are on a campaign to have the outdoors made bigger so they can fit in it.

How can you have a punchline when the premise itself is already so funny?

“The outdoor spaces are traditionally not welcoming for those of us in bigger bodies.” That’s an actual quote from one of the fleshy Indiana Jones boulders interviewed for the piece, a woman named Claire Brown OBE(se).

Honestly, if you’re so fat that “outdoor spaces” can’t fit you, cut down on the kidney pudding, you monster. Even Godzilla never complained that the world was too small for him.

Funny enough, all the fatties whining about the earth not being big enough for them are women. Who’d have thought?

On the other hand, perhaps it’s best the fatties stay away from our national parks. Remember that time an obese black woman visited Yellowstone because she wanted her fries to be hot as magma? She sat on Old Faithful, and the buildup of pressure was so great, she was blasted into orbit. Word has it on a clear night you can still see Rosa Parks-and-Rectum circling Uranus.

‘Tis the season for giving.

For me, that mostly means supporting charities.

One organization I donate to is SSP, Student Sponsor Partners, a nonprofit that gives scholarships to kids from low-income families. SSP helps children escape bad public schools by providing grants to students so they can pay the cheaper tuition at mostly Catholic schools.

I’m not Catholic, but I give to SSP because their schools are better than the dreary ones run by the bureaucratic unionized government monopoly. They do better for half the cost.

It feels good to give.

But wait.

Government already gives out more than a trillion dollars in welfare programs.

State governments add another $744 billion.

In total, we’ve spent $25 trillion on poverty programs since America declared “War on Poverty.”

Yet 1 in 10 Americans still live in poverty.

Some say the solution is simple: Spend more! Throw more money at the problem, and surely it’ll go away.

The World Institute for Development Economics says, “Welfare policies, such as cash transfers to the poor, unemployment benefits, child subsidies and universal health care … can break cycles of poverty.”

But $25 trillion later, why haven’t they?!

Because government handouts erode self-reliance.

Government programs push the message: “You need a handout. You deserve a handout. It is no longer up to you to support your families, neighbors or even yourself. It’s up to government.”

As a result, welfare programs are no longer a bridge to independence but a ball and chain that weighs recipients down. Welfare doesn’t equip people with tools to become self-sufficient. It rewards dependency.

For the first time in history, America has a near-permanent “underclass” — generation after generation that lives off government. Welfare discouraged self-improvement.

People avoid marriage lest they lose benefits. Able-bodied people avoid work so monthly checks from Uncle Sam remain untouched. Fathers are often kept out of the home, especially when welfare workers visit, to avoid cuts to benefits.

The solution? Giving … but not by government. By people like you and me.

This holiday season, I will also support the Doe Fund, an organization that helps former addicts and prisoners rebuild their lives through meaningful work.

Unlike government welfare, their approach isn’t built around handouts. They say, “Work works.” They encourage self-sufficiency.

Most Doe Fund recipients don’t go back to jail.

Charities aren’t a perfect solution, but they’re better than government welfare.

Charities get to choose whom they help. They can focus resources on those who genuinely need a hand while saying no to those who just need “a kick in the butt.”

Government doesn’t. Its one-size-fits-all approach means money flows out, regardless of whether it helps or not.

It’s important to remember that in both cases, it’s your money being spent.

But when you give to charities, you have the power to decide where your dollars go. You can support causes where your donations make a real impact.

Government, on the other hand, forcibly takes your money and routinely wastes it on people who don’t deserve it.

In America’s welfare system, 70% of the money doesn’t even reach the people it’s supposed to help; it goes to bureaucrats who run the programs.

Charities actually deliver most of their money to those in need. If they don’t, donors stop giving.

Charity handouts also come with expiration dates, which is a good thing. Since recipients know handouts are not guaranteed forever, they have an incentive to take responsibility for their own lives, sooner rather than later.

Government handouts have no such urgency. The checks keep coming.

Charities do a better job.

Redistribution of wealth is in full swing in the U.K. under Keir Starmer’s Labour Party, but a lesser-known project is the redistribution of organs.

I don’t mean church organs. I mean body parts. A change in the law on organ donation, quietly put through, is very much part of the agenda that has been gaining pace in Britain for years under the always socialist NHS, which has been pushing deep-state, leftist ideas for years irrespective of the flavor of the government.

Unless you opt out, the presumption is that you agree that your organs can be automatically taken from your body “when” you die. This law change was put through a few years ago, during the height of the pandemic lockdown, from the previous system where you had to sign a donor card if you wanted that to be the case.

Or as the NHS puts it: “On 20 May 2020, the law around organ donation in England was changed to allow more people to save more lives.” Lucky, lucky us, being given this opportunity.

“Now that the law has changed, it will be considered that you agree to become an organ donor when you die, if: you are over 18; you have not opted out.”

Note to Americans, please realize that this is what state health care gives the state the ability to do. You’re just spare parts to them.

In the U.S., presumed consent as a form of almost mandatory donation has rightly been rejected on the basis that it cannot possibly be determined that someone definitely knows that the government is presuming they agree.

In the U.K., it is not so much Invasion of the Body Snatchers, if you like references to cult horror films, as Presumption of the Body Snatchers.

A year after they presumed they could have your organs, incidentally, the U.K. law was changed in 2021 to presume they could share your private medical notes with companies for “research purposes” unless you opted out. Again, no very great public warning was given, so you would not realize. I have no doubt a similar trick will be used eventually to presume everything.

Maybe the state will start presuming you agree to be vaccinated unless you opt out and a vaccine hit squad will simply bang your door and stick the needle in. Well, you agreed, they will say. You didn’t go online and opt out.

But for now, it’s just “sharing” your medical notes with Big Pharma and snatching—sorry, harvesting—your body parts.

Since the law was changed to presume you agree with this, there has been a jump in organ donation unsurprisingly—only 2.5 million people (out of a 68 million population) registered an opt-out.

There has also been a reported rise in the number of people declared brain-dead and switched off in NHS hospitals.

Of course, that may be a coincidence. But we also have to consider the possibility, don’t we, that whether or not we ever get official figures to corroborate the rumors on social media, the organ donor change has had an effect on how doctors are viewing the seriously sick lying unconscious in hospital beds hooked up to machines? Could they be switching people off more quickly?

Or indeed, if you want to consider another horrifying scenario, more slowly. Because I believe I’m right in saying that in order to keep your organs fresh and usable, they have to keep them oxygenated by a live blood supply, so they have to keep you turned on when you’re really to all intents and purposes dead, until the new host body is ready to get your organs.

In any case, the presumption that a human body can be stripped for parts like an old car being plundered for tires, door panels, battery, starter motor, leather seats, is bound to have changed something.

If you are asking me why I think the British state wants to strip people for parts, then I would allow the state to point to the shortage of organ donors.

But I would also add that an idea is gaining hold, and we see it in the euthanasia bill going through the U.K. Parliament, that life with infirmity and pain is not worth hanging on to, and that youth and what we now call “beauty” is to be worshipped and promoted and prioritized above age and falling to bits, which used to be considered okay, and inevitable.

If you accept that we favor youth and “beauty” and increasingly marginalize age and infirmity—and Botox and Ozempic are certainly part of that—and that we want to hurry oldies and sick people off to the grave like so many oxygen thieves (or indeed carbon emitters), then you maybe accept or fear that organ donation has now become part of a wider agenda to prioritize youth over infirmity.

In other words, if there are good organs inside bodies that the state deems worthless, then those bodies are maybe going to be less strenuously attended to and saved, and their organs redistributed, much like wealth through the taxation system, to those who are considered by the socialist state as more deserving.

And as it always does, the socialist state will say, “It’s for the good of society.” Everything horrifying the big state does is done beneath this banner.

I first discovered by word of mouth that my organs would be taken unless I opted out, very much in the way I found out my medical notes would be “shared” with companies for “research purposes.”

I had to go onto the NHS website and fiddle around with an opt-out registration. They certainly did not go out of their way to tell anyone, announce it, or explain it.

If you heard about it, you could opt out. If you didn’t, tough luck. You’re now an old Ford Cortina. You’re no more than a Toyota pickup truck. If you break down by the side of the road they might give you a few goes with the jump leads, but if that doesn’t readily work, then maybe it’s off with all four tires and up with your bonnet and out with various bits of your engine.

The mangled remains are handed back to your relatives to be buried, so what are they to complain about?

I’m Roman Catholic, so I don’t want this to happen for spiritual and religious reasons. But I also don’t agree with it because I suspect the state would write me off quicker when I might have lived, or indeed keep me artificially alive once I’m gone in order to preserve my organs. I don’t like it either way.

I also suspect the state is saying my value once I’m an old or sick person on life support is less than a younger person who is suffering from cancer or a heart condition and, in their view, needs my heart, or my kidneys, or eyeballs.

No, I’m sorry, I don’t accept that. You can keep me hooked up and do your best to revive me and sod the other person you want to give my headlamps and starter motor to, no matter how much younger and shinier than me they are. As far as I am concerned, if they are dying and I am surviving, then that is the way the cookie is crumbling.

If I am about to come back from the brink, more of a burden to society, so be it. And even if I’m done for, it’s up to me if I want to go in that coffin in one piece. Bodily autonomy either means something or it does not. Unlike your money, you can take it with you, actually. Or you can at least stop the state from pilfering it.

I’ve been catching up on my reading of late, and here’s the one and only Papa Hemingway’s advice to writers: “Don’t let them suck you in to start writing about the proletariat, if you don’t come from the proletariat, just to please the recently politically enlightened critics.” Hear, hear! Leave it to Papa to tell unpalatable truths, especially true today with the proles all-conquering and the nobs in hasty retreat. Papa was right to warn us.

As it’s Christmas time, Hemingway’s advice on what we should be reading during the holiest of Christian dates is: “John O’Hara’s Appointment in Samarra, because it’s by a man who knows exactly what he is writing about and has written it marvelously well.” Papa was at times rough on O’Hara, another of my hero writers, stating in an interview that we should all chip in and send John to an Ivy League University. The rambunctious and heavy-drinking Irish-American was a terrific writer, and held Ivy Leaguers with impeccable backgrounds in high esteem, but so did the great Scott Fitzgerald, or did he?

I’ve just finished the umpteenth book on the tragic Scott, and will get back to his Princeton problem in a jiffy, but first some more about Papa. Hemingway reinvented modern American prose, and his best work is deeply moving and rich in meaning and psychological complexity. He also lived on an epic scale in fascinating times and in fascinating places. None of those grungy, dirty tenements and lowlifes for Papa to write about. He and F. Scott wrote about the upper classes and their salubrious whereabouts. Papa was mythologized by the masses for his bravado both in life and in his fiction. Fitzgerald was greatly misunderstood because of his drunken shenanigans early in his life. People forget that Scott hit the big time in his very early 20s, and was considered finished by the time he was 30. Both Papa and Scott were masters at their game, both turned their storytelling into melodies, and both knew that only bad novelists are editorialists for their own convictions. Both were later on betrayed by their bodies due to booze, and in Hemingway’s case terrible head injuries caused by not one but two airplane crashes in the same week.

Yep, neither Scott nor Papa editorialized, instead letting the reader make up his mind, the sign of a great writer. In Dick Diver, Jay Gatsby, and Monroe Stahr, the reader encountered a series of ill-fated characters unable to overcome personal weaknesses. Fitzgerald knew all about that. Papa had set the stage with lean, hard, athletic prose in The Sun Also Rises, where Jake Barnes had his manhood shot off during the war through no fault or weakness of his own. The rhythm, the idioms, the pauses of that first novel of his set the standard for living speech. Frederic and Catherine’s tragedy in A Farewell to Arms was again through no fault of their own, but the vicissitudes of life.

Scott blamed it on personal weaknesses, Papa on life; both were right, Scott being more critical, whereas Papa was more romantic. Fitzgerald’s characters were injured by wealth, Hemingway’s by fate. Neither writer liked the rich, and Scott got a raw deal because he wrote about them. In real life, Scott warned his daughter at Vassar “not to go Park Avenue,” as he saw the ruling WASPs of the time (and old Princeton classmates) as vulgar when compared with his Baltimore clan. He called the Tom Buchanan character in Gatsby “the one percent at its worst.” The growing power of industrialists and financiers (read the techies of today) offended Scott’s romantic sensibilities, and he wondered if this rising republic of consumers could ever recover its old idealism. He depicted those doubts so brilliantly in the shimmering green light that watches silently over Gatsby’s grand illusion.

Fitzgerald’s moral concern about corruptive wealth and a culture too impressed by fame and fortune would stand up today, in fact today more than ever. Papa also held the rich in contempt, and in “The Snows of Kilimanjaro” calls the rich “dull and repetitious and they drank too much, or they played too much backgammon.” Both men had some very rich and good friends like Winston Guest in Papa’s case, and Gerald and Sarah Murphy in Scott’s. Both writers died much too young, Papa at 60, Scott at 40. But even dead, both men have remained more alive than ever in their novels, especially because those who came after them were dead already.

Here’s my wish list for the incoming Trump administration to make America healthy and prosperous and great again in 2025.

1. Slash Job-Killing Regulations
The regulatory state is a $2 trillion tax on the American economy. We all want worker safety, a clean environment and consumer protections, but in too many cases the costs of regulations far outweigh the societal benefits. President-elect Donald Trump has promised to slash 10 rules for every new rule. Just do it, Mr. President.

2. Make the Trump Tax Cuts Permanent
As JFK, Ronald Reagan and others have proven throughout history, lower tax rates lead to more growth, more investment and more jobs. The Trump tax cuts meant that a typical family of four earning $75,000 a year saw their tax bill fall by half — a benefit valued at more than $2,000. And the corporate tax rate fell from 35% — the highest in the world — to 21%, bringing jobs and capital to America. Trump has promised to make all these tax cuts permanent. Why? Because they worked almost exactly as we anticipated they would.

3. Replace Welfare With Work
Growth will require more able-bodied Americans getting off welfare and into jobs. Welfare — which includes cash assistance, public housing, food stamps, disability payments, unemployment benefits and Medicaid — needs to be a hand up, not a handout.

4. Use America’s Abundant Natural Resources
America has well more than $50 trillion of natural resources that are accessible with existing drilling and mining technologies. This is a vast storehouse of wealth that far surpasses what any other nation is endowed with. We can use the royalty payments and leases to reduce our national debt while creating hundreds of thousands of jobs.

5. Cut Medical Costs by Demanding Health Care Price Transparency
One of many ways to bring health care costs down to consumers (and taxpayers, who pay half the costs) is to require hospitals, pharmacies, doctors and health clinics to list prices for what they are charging. The Committee to Unleash Prosperity estimates that $1 trillion to $2 trillion could be reduced from health care costs, with no reduction in the quality of care, by allowing consumers to shop around on the internet for the best price — just as we do when we buy groceries, a home or a car. This will foster free market competition and lower prices.

6. Allow School Choice for All Families
Test scores in America have been plummeting. Kids are graduating from high school — if at all — without even being able to read the diploma. America no longer ranks in the top 10 in many academic achievement ratings.

A child can get a better education at HALF the cost in the Catholic school system and in many charters.

Trump has endorsed universal school choice for ALL children regardless of income or ethnicity or race. This is the civil rights issue of our time.

7. Implement a Pro-America Immigration Policy
Trump’s committed to securing our border, but we also need legal immigrants through a merit-based immigration system. This visa system would select immigrants based on their skills, talents, investment capital, English language ability and education level. These characteristics all presage success in America.

8. Revive America’s Great Cities
Our once-great cities in America — from New York to Chicago to Detroit to San Francisco to Seattle — have come to look like war zones. Crime has run rampant. Businesses and people and capital are fleeing and leaving the poorest Americans — mostly minorities — stranded with tragically limited opportunities other than working at Walmart or McDonald’s for minimum wage. Since 2020, our major cities have lost nearly 1 million residents. And tens of thousands of businesses.

Trump wants to revitalize our cities and abandoned rural areas through deregulation, reduction in tax rates, changes in zoning policies and infrastructure investments.

9. Pull the U.S. Out of the Paris Climate Change Treaty and Other Anti-America Agreements

We must end American participation in globalist treaties that hurt America most. This includes the Paris Climate Accords — a treaty with which most other nations have failed to comply, yet which places huge burdens on American companies and workers. Trump also has pledged to end global taxation — such as Treasury Secretary Janet Yellen’s global minimum tax. Do we even need a United Nations?

10. Finally, Drain the Swamp
There is a reason why three of the five wealthiest counties in America are in or around Washington, D.C. Washington is getting rich at the expense of the rest of us. Fewer than 10% of overpaid federal workers (of which there are more than 2 million) are working full time in the office even though COVID-19 ended three years ago. These are swamp employees that often get paid $150,000 or more a year. Fire them if they don’t show up. And relocate federal agencies in other cities.

These are admittedly bold aspirations for an economic transformation toward freedom and free enterprise. But the one person who can get it done is Trump.

Ah, my annual Christmas column, where I get to write about anything that tickles my fancy.

So about the New Avengers “Angels of Death” episode…

Okay, okay, sorry. I’ve run that joke into the ground enough for one lifetime.

But here’s a story I don’t think I’ve ever shared…the time I saved Chynna Phillips’ life.

You know Chynna Phillips, right? “Daughter of the Mamas & the Papas band members John and Michelle Phillips.” That’s how Wikipedia phrases it. Me, I’d have said “Daughter of Incesty McFukkindaughter and the thin one who didn’t choke on a ham sandwich.”

But that’s just me. I’m a charmer.

As my regular readers know and are sick of hearing about, I went to majority black L.A. public schools in the early 1980s during the peak of the crack epidemic. And I loved it. I have nothing but great memories from those years.

I get so much pushback from readers about that. “There’s no way you were happy and popular at a black school! Recant your heresy, Jew!”

Over the years I’ve come to understand that some of you want to be lied to. In October some VDARE author wrote, “I darned near religiously read David Cole’s column. Then he got into a bad habit of hispandering. The blacks may be bad, but hispanics are fine and dandy.”

Well, murders are way down with blacks gone and replaced on the East/Southside by Mexicans. That’s just a fact. You want me to lie about it? You want a nursery rhyme, you big brave white retard who’s scared of data?

Murder rates aside, my junior high and high schools were just fine. I was happy and popular, voted “best actor” in both yearbooks, never hassled or harassed. I’ve tried to explain it in past columns, but maybe there is no explanation. Maybe my experience was anomalous.

I’ve lived here 56 years, and I loved my black schools. And—also—we’re better off now that blacks have skedaddled. See, life can be contradictory. Say what you will about American blacks, and Lord knows I do, because they’ll shoot you to death over a fender bender or a “hard stare” or cold fries and they’ll drown in a puddle when fleeing the cops, and yeah, L.A. County is better now that Mexicanization on the Eastside and white/Asian/Persian gentrification on the Westside have displaced them, but a scrawny white Joo like me could’ve only found the acceptance and popularity I did in a black school, a school full of verbal extroverts who love caustic insult humor (not that any of them knew what “caustic” means, but they understood it in spirit).

Had I gone to, say, Rudy “Butch” Stanko High in Shitkick, Wyoming, I’d have been surrounded by brutish car-repairing cattle-slaughtering blue-collar white boys who’d have made my life miserable by calling me faggot for my love of musical theater. But black kids? They worship entertainers. Being an entertainer gives one a place of honor in the black community. Can you sing? Dance? Tell “yo mamma” jokes? You’re accepted. And respected.

A black school might be a nightmare for some, but my nightmare would’ve been Stanko High, where I’d have been called queer just because I danced. At my school, that’s the exact thing that made me popular.

At Stanko High, the pretty white girls woulda had a hundred Brad Pitts to blow before they’d even cast a fleeting glance at me crotchwise. But at my black school, the pretty white girls had, well, me. Me and, like, forty other white/Jew boys. We were it; take us or leave us. I scored like a sonofabitch because if you were a white girl who went white, there were only forty of us in a sea of 2,100 Yaphet Kottos. It’s me or LaDante.

And this is something I never quite understood, and something I still don’t fully understand: Among the small collection of white chicks at my schools, some only dated white, while others only dated black. But there were no crossovers. Six years I never saw a single crossover, a white chick who dated white and black. Never happened. The girls made a racial choice, a commitment, and they stayed with it. White or black, but never both.

Damnedest thing. Maybe you can explain it to me. I’d ask Steve Sailer, but as it’s Christmas he’s at the North Pole running tests comparing the IQ of Heat Miser vs. Snow Miser (science demands answers).

My high school girlfriend, a preternaturally perfect blonde, wouldn’t have touched a black boy even if he were some Green Mile cancer-curing magical mega-negro. On the other hand, the stubby little blonde blue-eyed Irish transplant from Waukesha I was gaga over for some bizarre reason would only date blacks. She liked me, and we had many enjoyable nights together, but like a Birmingham water fountain she was coloreds only.

My ex-girlfriend is still one of my best friends, but Waukesha Wendy died of fatness ten years ago, because if there’s one thing black men don’t want their white women to do, it’s slim down.

Sometimes God gives you cold fries because you don’t need any more fries, you fat-ass bitch.

One of the realities of black schools during the early ’80s was that every semester there’d be an LAPD narc in the student body. It came with the territory. The narc would collect data on the dealers, and at semester’s end the cops would descend on the school in Wagner-esque Apocalypse Now style with Chief Daryl Gates riding a battering ram shouting about napalm, and all the kids who’d been ID’d by the narc would be scooped up, lined up, and hauled away.

To be clear, there was just as much drug use at Beverly Hills High, but the BHPD would never do a drug sweep…not with half the parents being attorneys.

In my sophomore year the narc was a black girl, and the arrest sweep happened the day before my theater class was to premiere our production of Dracula.

We lost ten cast members that day. And I, as Van Helsing, had to improvise around the arrested performers. I had lots of fun with that. If you’ve never seen Dracula as a comedy, you’ve missed out.

So the first semester of my senior year, the narc was an unimpressive blonde. She did everything wrong. She was way too obvious about asking Jamaal, “Where the drugs be at, homie?” She wouldn’t kiss any boys. Well, shit, that’s how you know someone’s a narc; they’re a cop, and an adult, so of course they can’t kiss or otherwise sexually interact with a minor.

Pretty girl who asks “where da drugs” but won’t kiss a boy? Might as well tattoo NARC on your forehead.

On the final day of the first semester, the blonde girl was conspicuously absent. And before the gangbangers could say, “Where she at?” the helicopters descended and the cruisers drove in and the LAPD did its sweep and picked up three dozen cracky blackies.

We all wondered, who’ll be the second-semester narc?

And then Chynna Phillips showed up.

I need to word this carefully as I don’t want any defamation claims. What I heard—and this doesn’t mean it happened, it just means it was the school scuttlebutt—was that Phillips had been booted from her ritzy white private school for drug abuse. Kicked out of blue heaven, she had no choice but to finish her senior year in black hell.

And what did she do the moment she arrived? She started asking about procuring drugs, of course.

At a school where several Crip leaders had just been imprisoned courtesy of a blonde narc.

So it’s lunchtime and I’m speaking with my friend Anthony, a Crip captain. A short kid like me, but good with a gun and violent when provoked. His nickname was “Microcrip,” and you’ll think that’s a joke but it’s 100 percent true. And he was my pal.

He tells me that Crip upper management is convinced that the new blonde girl, “Vachynna Phillips,” is another narc. She be askin’ too many questions about product. She be wantin’ to buy too much powder.

And he tells me that the Crips are thinking of “taking her out,” payback to the LAPD after years of humiliating gang sweeps thanks to their female narcs.

And I’m like, “Oh no, Anthony, she’s no narc. That’s Chynna Phillips. Her parents are big wealthy druggie pervert musicians. She’s not asking about drugs because she wants to arrest you. She’s asking about drugs because she wants drugs. Take her money, not her life.”

And what followed was ten minutes of me trying to explain the Mamas & the Papas to a Crip.

“You know, “California Dreamin’”? Call-and-response, “stopped into a choich”?

It took a while, but I finally convinced Anthony that she was on the level.

Funny enough, Anthony did remember “the fat ho that choked on the ham sandwich.” That’s literally the detail that brought him around (fat white women are forever seared into black consciousness). And being a punctilious dick even back then, I had to correct him that just because you die while eating a ham sandwich doesn’t mean the ham sandwich killed you.

It’s a principle I live by to this day.

Plus, I pointed out that the first-semester narc had been a blonde, and the LAPD never repeats the same trick two semesters in a row.

Anyway, I dispelled Anthony’s concerns, and the Crips embraced Phillips. They sold her whatever she wanted to snort up those cruelly flared nostrils of hers, and everyone came away happy.

So yeah, I saved her life. But where’s MY parade? Where’s MY medal? Thinking back, I don’t believe I said a single word to Phillips that entire semester, or she to me. But yeah, I persuaded the Crips to not kill her.

Venmo me $500, Chynna. I’m a banned author; I could use the dough. Or just go to BuyMeABeer.com. Five bucks would be fine too. After all, Christmas is a time of giving.

You’re married to Billy Baldwin, aren’t you?

Shit, maybe I should’ve let the Crips kill you. Woulda been doing you a favor.

Anyway, for the rest of you, as you listen to Wilson Phillips sing “Hey Santa!” on the radio, just remember that we wouldn’t have that coke-nosed incest baby had she been shot in the back of the head in a south-of-Venice-Boulevard crack house in March 1986 because a bunch of ignorant blacks thought she was a narc.

Wilson Phillips would just be the fat one.

Who, ironically, would’ve been feted rather than feared had she attended my high school. A school, perhaps a relic, in which white, black, Jew, and blondie lived in peace. A school in which ham sandwiches never blocked the epiglottides of our fatties and a wealthy cokehead could be saved by a tiny Jew speaking reason to a midget Crip.

May you all find such anomalous joy.

Takimag recently reported on a Bronx-based so-called “Racial Justice Center” that released a handy guide for how to racially ruin Christmas by going around asking intentionally stupid questions like “Why Is Santa Claus Always White?” Naturally, the center in question did not provide the obvious answer: “Because He’s a White Man.”

It can be a dangerous question to ask, though. Back in 2013, students at Indiana University drew festive flak after running a yuletide “Racial Justice” session of their own, creating a wall display, “CAN SANTA CLAUS BE A BLACK MAN?”

Alongside a “stereotypical” image of a black Santa playing a saxophone (not the first stereotype about black people that comes to mind, personally…) were a number of Christmas stockings asking pertinent questions like “If Santa Claus is a black man, wouldn’t all the presents be stolen?” and “If Santa Claus is a black man, would you let him come down your chimney?” Given certain controversial modern-day black-on-white crime patterns across the United States, he might force you to.

A Brown Charlie Christmas
By 2019, the true question had become not “Can Santa Be Black?” but “Can Santa Be White?” A panel discussion about “Decolonizing Pop Culture” at the Northwest Folklife Festival in Seattle featured a contribution from a black educator named James Miles, who told his audience as follows: “When I go to a mall and I see [a normal] Santa Claus, I say, ‘Hey, cool, look, there’s a white Santa Claus.’ If there’s a black Santa Claus, I just say, ‘Hey, there’s Santa Claus.’” Onlookers often challenge him on this, telling Miles that Santa is white. “No,” Miles then replies, espying a Valuable Opportunity For Public Education. “Santa Claus is whatever I say Santa Claus is.”

At least Miles deigns to recognize Santa as still being a humanoid. A bizarre escapade in 2013 saw an essay published on Slate.com by a coal-black soul named Aisha Harris, who complained that “a melanin-deficient Santa remains the default,” something that had alienated her from the figure since childhood. She proposed a new Christmas movie in which Santa magically race-shifted to match the skin color of every family whose home he entered—Robert De Niro would play white Santa, Eddie Murphy black Santa, and Jackie Chan yellow Santa. No Jewish Santa, of course; too much of an inherited ancestral aversion to chimneys.

Alternatively, “making Santa Claus an animal rather than an old white male could spare millions of non-white kids the insecurity and shame that I remember from childhood,” suggested Harris. Why not have a simultaneously white and black non–homo sapiens Santa called Penguin Claus?

“Being a penguin, Santa Claus can still reside in a snowy homeland—though for scientific accuracy we’ll need to move him from the North Pole to the South,” Harris further clarified. So great was Harris’ own commitment toward “scientific accuracy” that the currently published version of the article features the classic postscript correction that, in its initial publication, its author “originally identified penguins as mammals. They are birds.”

This essay produced a subsequent sudden bloody outburst from then Fox News anchor Megyn Kelly, who objected to such blatant attempts to skew the “historical” racial record of key festive figures. “Jesus was a white man too,” she said. Only when played by Robert Powell. “[Jesus is] a historical figure, that’s a verifiable fact, as is Santa,” Kelly added, so as not to disillusion any watching toddlers, and each “historical figure” was definitely white. Not to everyone these days.

Absent Father Christmas
In 2020, a black Arkansas man named Chris Kennedy awoke appalled one bleak December morn to discover Father Christmas himself had left a “disturbing letter” of complaint in his mailbox after being disgusted by the sight of an eight-foot-tall inflatable Saint Nig outside Chris’ home.

“Please remove your negro Santa,” the “you’ve been naughty” note commanded. “You should not try to deceive children into believing that I am a negro. I am a Caucasian (white man to you) and have been for 600 years. You being jealous of my race is no excuse for your dishonesty.” The message concluded with Santa telling Kennedy’s family to move out of town “with the rest of your racist kind.”

Such plain statements of folkloric fact made Kennedy “extremely angry.” Making sure to address attendant media outlets whilst wearing a big T-shirt reading “BLACK FATHER” accompanied by a cartoon image of a trophy cup, as if black men somehow deserve a prize for looking after their own children, Kennedy refused to deflate his blow-up blackface doll.

Once news broke, final proof Kennedy lived in an evil, white supremacist neighborhood was provided by the fact that many of his white neighbors quickly and slavishly rallied round by running out and buying their own black Santas to pump up in their front yards too, in pure BLM-mandated solidarity. Remind me, who’s meant to be suffering endlessly in the position of severe racial oppression each Christmastime here again?

Insanity Claus
In 2016, Minnesota’s Mall of America decided to employ its first-ever black Santa to pander toward the formerly arch-Scandinavian state’s recently defiled demographics, in the shaded shape of a retired U.S. Army veteran named Larry Jefferson. He even grew a big beard for the occasion, rather than just strapping on a fake one—at least that particular part of his physiognomy was still white.

Speaking to the media, the admittedly highly avuncular-looking Larry was full of color-blind spiel about how “We want Santa to be for everyone, period,” as “kids don’t even notice” his race, and therefore “I’m still Santa, I just happen to be a Santa of color.” But if that’s really so, then why were the press making such a big thing about his chocolaty skin tone? If Santa’s race is a matter of absolutely zero importance, why not just leave him as being white, like he always has been?

So many white people made similar observations that the Mall of America had to temporarily close down their social media comments feed. “Santa is NOT black!! That is a nasty lie and a horrible thing to subject children to!” typed one. “I bet he climbs down chimneys and steals people’s presents,” said another, probably a recent graduate of Indiana University.

Another commenter called Larry’s hiring “an atrocity” as “blacks [ate] each other in Africa,” possibly even with sprouts for their Christmas dinner. A user named “Viper Duck” quacked out his rather extreme opinion that now that there was “nothing too sacred to muddy up” with negroid-ness, not even Santa Claus, only “Black genocide will fix the problem.” Don’t put that on your list to Santa, Viper, it could technically be considered a hate crime.

Even effete Japanese Star Trek actor George Takei got in on the act, tweeting out self-righteously that he was enjoying “Watching [white] people meltdown over a Black Santa in the Mall of America [screaming] “Santa is white!” Well, in our [WWII-era US] internment camp he was Asian. So there!”

What color was Santa in actual Imperial Japanese WWII-era internment camps, when he was busy handing out enslaved white inmates a single extra grain of rice in their Christmas Day rations, I wonder? As yellow as pissed-on snow.

Bing Crosby or Bill Cosby?
Black Santa dates back at least to the 1960s and ’70s, when U.S. black radical groups in places like Chicago held “Black Christmas” Kwanzaa-type parades in which a black Santa waved to kids in order to, as The Washington Post put it in BLM-crazy 2020, rally against “the specter of White Santa Claus…[who was] just another example of White cultural hegemony and the psychological harm inflicted upon Black people, and in particular Black children, in a society shaped by White social attitudes and expectations.”

Black children could not possibly experience any “psychological harm” from special 1960s Black Power Christmas card illustrations like this one depicting small negro kids killing a white “Pig Santa” coming down their chimney one December 24 by shooting, stabbing, and beating Porky to death with an actual dwarf Christmas tree, all accompanied by the very merry yuletide message “WE WANT AN END TO THE ROBBERY BY THE [WHITE] CAPITALISTS OF OUR BLACK COMMUNITY.”

Nor could America’s impressionable black youth ever conceivably be groomed to grow up racially disturbed by being forced to attend events like the Reverend Jesse Jackson’s MLK-memorializing “Dr. King’s First Annual Black Xmas” parade held in Chicago in 1968. Here, local Afros were urged to “do their Christmas shopping with black businesses,” which is really just a polite way of avoiding openly saying “race-boycott all the thieving honkies, kikes, and slitty-eyes.”

Jackson denied the traditional term “White Christmas” had anything to do with snow at all. Jackson thought the song’s title was just a subliminal reference to the holiday secretly being a capitalism-led “white holy day set aside for whites” who “profit from it” by causing black customers to become “locked out of their mobility by being imprisoned with 11 months of debts” to pay for all their needlessly expensive presents. If that really is the case, then it implies Jackson patronizingly believes all blacks to be helpless infants with zero impulse control who shouldn’t be allowed any agency over their own bank accounts. Jackson’s son certainly shouldn’t, but that’s another matter.

The Reverend Jackson’s parade featured a candy-distributing black Santa dressed in a dashiki in the colors of the Ghanaian flag and a black glove in support of the Olympic “Black Power” Schwarze Heil saluters of earlier that same year. He was further carrying a sack bearing the Motown-style legend “Soul Power” and even a bunch of “love beads,” just to keep the local queer crowd happy, no doubt.

Rudolf the Brown-Hat Reindeer
Speaking of which, inevitably, there is now a gay black Santa available to corrupt little kids’ minds today too, in the shape of a 2017 children’s book, Santa’s Husband, by comedy writer (well, he pens material for Stephen Colbert, anyway) Daniel Kibblesmith. Here, Santa is a happy ho-ho-homo, married to a black male look-alike of himself who stands in for him at public events when he has to attend clinic for his latest dose of antiretrovirals.

The book started as a joke in response to the Mall of America controversy and Megyn Kelly’s open proclamation Santa was an Aryan just like Jesus, but then became real, published by no less than HarperCollins.

“We were very careful not to have anything offensive in the book,” Kibblesmith promised, following publication. “The only way you can find the book offensive is if you find the premise offensive.” I think that might be what you call a tautology.

If you saw any problem with a gay black Santa, added Kibblesmith, “we see [that] as maybe a problem with the reader,” not the book. Clearly, the true purpose of the text, besides introducing children into Queer Race Marxism, was just to troll white conservatives. Mission successful! My favorite outraged online response was as follows: “Two men fucking each other in the ass doesn’t make for a good Christmas story.” It might have improved Love Actually.

We shall continue this very theme next week, when we explore the sad, pink, chimney-pumping world of Queer Santa.

The Week’s Most Mingling, Singling, and Kris Kringling Headlines

A DINGBAT ATE ME BABY
Remember the good old days when Australians and New Zealanders were thought of as rugged individualists?

And then came Covid and we saw that those pathetic wimps were all flex and no muscle. Lockdowns, compliance, cops beating anyone who refused the vax, all under the watchful sunken eyes of New Zealand Prime Minister Jacinda Ardern, a literal skeleton. Hunted mercilessly by He-Man, Ardern could never set foot in a university because she’d be forcibly returned to the anatomy lab.

So now, in an attempt to further humiliate itself on the world stage, NZ has decided to reverse its visa ban on Candace Owens, declaring that her warnings about Jews drinking the blood of Christian babies are “important to free speech.”

Australia’s Owens ban remains in place for the moment, but only because when Owens held up the bris knife she claims Jews use to exsanguinate children, Paul Hogan said, “That’s not a knife…THIS is a knife!”

A-list director Peter Jackson, born in Pukerua, New Zealand (yes, their main bay is called Puke-a-rua, and doesn’t that make you want to swim there?), agrees that it’s important to spread warnings about Jews eating babies. “When I started shooting Lord of the Rings, we were actually going to use children as hobbits,” Jackson told the Vegemite Daily (Australasia’s No. 1 newspaper), “but the Jewish studio execs kept eating them.”

“Runaway production” from Hollywood contributes several billion dollars a year to New Zealand’s economy. So it’s a really smart move to piss off Jews.

As for Owens, word is she might decide to permanently relocate to the region, where the prehistoric subhuman Papuans need someone even they can look down on as retarded.

LUIGI, LUIGI, YOU BREAK-A MY HEALTH CARE!
Long before the name Luigi became a laughingstock thanks to the Mario videogames, the 1978 Chevy Chase/Goldie Hawn movie Foul Play featured a scene in which the two leads, racing through San Francisco to stop an assassination, crash into a restaurant called Luigi’s Pizza Palace. As the building shatters and patrons run for safety, Luigi comes running from the kitchen screaming, “LUIGI! LUIGI! You break-a my ristorante! LUIGI! LUIGI!” Chase gives Luigi a phone to call the cops, and Luigi screams into the receiver, “LUIGI! LUIGI!”

It makes zero sense why Luigi is screaming his own name. In any other context, that scene wouldn’t be funny at all. Imagine Steve Sailer in a fender-bender getting out of his car yelling, “STEVE! STEVE! My car is damaged. STEVE! STEVE!”

Definitely not funny. Disturbing, actually. The Foul Play scene only works because Americans find the name Luigi hilarious. And if you’re an American and you name your child Luigi, people will find him hilarious. Even if he murders a health-care exec.

And in fact, Brian Thompson’s assassin Luigi Mangione was only caught because after the shooting he ran through Manhattan screaming, “LUIGI! LUIGI! I break-a Brian Thompson’s pulmonary trunk. LUIGI! LUIGI!”

Last week GoFundMe pulled a fundraiser for Luigi, as it violated the ToS regarding raising money for criminal acts. So of course MAGA crowdfunding site GiveSendGo stepped in, raising nearly $100,000 in one day to pay for the defense of an assassin, as every blue-collar white who voted for Trump last month in the hope that MAGA could curb its insanity at least until the inauguration bowed his head in defeat and silently murmured, “Oh, shit.”

Meanwhile, far-left pseudo-journalist Taylor Lorenz, who calls herself a millennial not because she’s part of that generation but because she’s roughly one thousand years old, is in hot water for expressing “joy” at Thompson’s killing. Lorenz, who lost out on the role of the old lady from Titanic because she was considered too aged for the part, is now using her allies at Wikipedia to keep any mention of the “joy” incident off her Wiki page (see the debate here).

Lorenz claims she was not actually cheering the execution but the “attention” it brought to the health-care system. And to her credit, she did quickly condemn President Garfield’s assassination, which she witnessed firsthand.

She was even more forgiving of the Ramesses III assassination, which she took part in while screaming, “LORENZI! LORENZI! You break-a my harem! LORENZI! LORENZI!”

RED STATE OF SHAME
With Disney conceding defeat in the culture war by removing a tranny subplot from an upcoming animated film while admitting that such issues are better left out of children’s movies, indicating that the bluest of blue corporations has finally gotten the message about “trans acceptance,” perhaps it’s time to look at how “red states” are handling the issue.

Remember when John Mellencamp declared himself a socialist and endorsed Obama?

Well, I was born in a small town,
Free-market scorn in a small town,
Your pay is shorn in a small town,
To fund LaQuesha’s next bay-beeee.

Mr. Mellonhead was speaking of Seymour, Indiana, where he was born and raised.

Yep, good ol’ RED Indiana! Voted GOP in every presidential election but one since 1968.

Indiana…redder than the Injuns it’s named after.

Indiana…using taxpayer dollars to give incarcerated murderers sex-change operations.

In 2002 Jonathan Richardson was sentenced to 55 years for strangling a baby (to be fair, he claimed the baby started it). Then he went trans and changed his name to “Autumn Cordellioné” (because Babestrangle McChokeychild was already taken), suing the state of Indiana to obtain a free dick-lopping. And a District Court judge has ruled that Indiana taxpayers must foot the bill.

Funny enough, Richardson is scheduled to be released in 2026 anyway…

Day off/day served in a small town,
Released with verve in a small town.
Recidivist perv in a small town!,
Hide yo’ kids from freed tra-neeeeee.

…so it’s not clear why he can’t wait twelve months and pay for it himself as a free man.

Oh, right—he gets the same joy making you pay as he did murdering that baby.

(Norm Macdonald voice) That guy’s a real jerk!

Anyway, stick this one in your “Red States will always be safe” file.

Was born a man in a small town,
Wasn’t God’s plan in a small town,
I’m goin’ tran in a small town,
Thanks to all your tax mon-neeeeee!

UFOs AND GUIDOS
UFOs are attacking New Jersey.

MARS NEEDS GABAGOOL!

Mysterious objects sighted in the skies over America’s trashiest state—some say it’s aliens, others say it’s drones. Tucker Carlson, still on the hunt for the demon that molested him, says it’s Satan himself.

And for the sake of accuracy, it should be pointed out that Tucker was likely attacked not by a demon but an owl, as his high-pitched laugh mirrors their mating call.

Still, even leftist newspapers agree that something weird is floating in the skies above the state that’s a boil on the ass of New York. Which itself is a boil on the ass of America. So N.J. is essentially a boil upon a boil.

Is that why aliens are scanning the area? Or could it have something to do with Chris Christie’s gravitational pull?

Some suggest that the objects are drones sent by enemy nations. Russia gathering intelligence by monitoring what the hairiest women on earth are saying about Zelensky.

That Putin…always got his finger on the furry pulse.

Or perhaps it’s China, spying on Italian men who wear gold chains while dressing like pimps, listening to rap, slapping women, and speaking in slang.

Secretary Xi, just because Uyghur is pronounced “weeger” doesn’t mean you have to pester wiggers.

We may never know the answer to the great New Jersey drone scare of 2024. But what we do know is that Candace Owens will blame the Jews.

LICENTIOUS PLATES
Vanity plates? More like “oh-the-humanity” plates.

California has the second-highest number of Jews of any state. New York is first, of course, but the Jewish population there declines daily by being beaten to death on the street by Daquans.

The problem with California is that the state’s government bureaucracy is run by mumbling Third Worlders. Recently a Tesla Cybertruck was seen driving through L.A. sporting the license plate LOLOCT7, which many Jews took to mean LOL (“laugh out loud”) October 7 (the date that, according to the L.A. Times, a bunch of Jewish women raped themselves and framed Hamas).

After photos of the LOLRAPE Cybertruck went viral, the L.A. DMV, aka “the last place where blacks outnumber beans” (“NEXT LINE! This ain’t the right line, suh”), apologized, promising to withdraw the plate.

But wait—turns out the Cybertruck’s owned by a Filipino, and, according to him, “LOLOCT7” has nothing to do with Israel or Hamas. Rather, it has to do with an imbecilic people who have Spanish names but don’t speak Spanish.

Literally, that’s like going to Italy and seeing a hundred morons screeching, “I’m-a Luigi,” but when you try to speak to them in Italian they claim to only speak Bantu.

Even though Filipinos have Spanish names, they speak a chicken-cluck called Tagalog (derived from the local sport of playing tag with pieces of wood. It’s dull to watch, but it still beats golf). Per local news station KTLA: “Lolo means grandfather in Tagalog, CT is short for Cybertruck, and the number 7 represents the owner’s seven children.”

Cased closed. Except that the plates on the Filipino owner’s other cars, “GASJEWS1488,” “KILL6MILKIKES,” and “HITLERROCKS1932,” are a bit harder to excuse.

Apparently, “extermination” is Tagalog for “candy and kittens.”

Thankfully, since nobody in California government speaks English anyway, and no L.A. public school grads know history, the matter was quickly laid to rest.

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