Kamala Harris

Source: Bigstock

The Week’s Most Colicky, Frolicky, and Bollocky Headlines

MS. CREOSOTE DEMANDS A RECOUNT
Last week, officials finally finished counting the votes in the Sumter, S.C., mayor’s race. And what a barn burner it was! Sumter has had the same mayor for twenty years—the ancient Joe McElveen, who announced earlier this year that he’d finally be leaving office on account of advanced fossilization. The first competitive mayoral race in two decades brought out some of Sumter’s heavy hitters, including its heaviest: 29-year-old Sabrina Belcher, a morbidly obese (and honestly, that term isn’t strong enough) BLM supporter, who ran in the name of bringing “racial justice” to her nearly 50% black city.

Belcher is known around town for two things: her homemade “rap” videos, and her gravitational pull, which plays havoc with the tides at nearby Myrtle Beach. She was inspired to enter the race by the politician who had the greatest impact on her life—Mayor McCheese. She ran on a platform of keeping all-you-can-eat buffets open during COVID.

She also had the benefit of being the only candidate based on a novel by Sapphire.

Sadly, by August, polling showed that Belcher was trailing far behind local real estate agent Foxy Rae Campbell. Poor Belcher had not anticipated the presence of an even sassier black woman in the race. Now she’d have to get creative in her campaigning. But how? Must think, must think. Two hours and ten gallons of Dreyer’s later, Belcher hatched a plan: She’d fake her own kidnapping at the hands of MAGA racists acting on behalf of an opposing candidate! After all, Bubba Wallace’s silly string garnered national headlines for weeks, and a NASCAR parade in his honor. If Belcher could carry off a hate hoax, surely she’d get a parade as well (plus, she could act as her own float). She enlisted the help of her friend Christopher James Eaddy, who would play the part of the kidnapper.

Belcher livestreamed her kidnapping because of course she did, and police wondered why she was livestreaming an “unexpected” kidnapping, because of course they did. After several days of the kind of grilling she doesn’t like, Belcher confessed to the ruse. She was charged with filing a false police report of a felony, and conspiracy. Eaddy was charged with conspiracy (his mug shot screams, “What was I supposed to do? She’d a’ sat on me if I refused to go along with the plan”).

Yet Belcher stayed in the mayor’s race, hoping she could win the support of the people who still think Jussie Smollett was telling the truth. But with the votes now counted, it appears that “Bossie” Smollett came in dead last, with just 2.74% of the vote. Although the fact that anyone voted for her at all is rather astounding.

In a final blow to her campaign, mere days before the election, Mayor McCheese withdrew his endorsement. It had nothing to do with the kidnapping hoax; turns out all this time he’d mistakenly thought she was the Grimace.

KATRINA AND THE COVID WAVES
With COVID wave number three (or is it two? Four?) sweeping over the world like a murderous tsunami (if by “murderous” one means “not inordinately lethal”), world leaders are doing their best to control the spread of the China-born pathogen.

One brilliant idea adopted by dozens of civilized (and a few decidedly uncivilized) nations is that cross-border traffic will be limited to travelers who can produce proof of a negative COVID test. This scheme is truly ironclad. There’s absolutely no way that anybody could possibly cheat that system. After all, there’s never been an instance in history of foreigners faking IDs or travel documents. It’s almost ludicrous to think about!

“Fake papers”? Absurd.

Except apparently not. A thriving Third World black market trading in phony negative COVID tests has become a global menace, much to the surprise of absolutely no one except the imbecilic leftists who see noble nonwhites as incapable of deception. Hey, did somebody mention imbéciles? Ah, the French. Last week, dozens of Ethiopian “refugees” were caught selling fake COVID test results at de Gaulle.

A Brazilian ring of COVID test forgers has been working the Southern Hemisphere, and untold numbers of enterprising Pakistanis have been covering the U.K., offering fake test results for around $200. Bangladesh, meanwhile, is home to an assembly line of phony COVID test results, which are being sold to migrant workers “for $59 a pop,” according to The New York Times.

Some conscientious Third Worlders who don’t want their money to go to faceless, impersonal COVID-test factory farms are seeking out people in their own community who’ve been tested and found to be negative, and “borrowing” their results for international travel. According to one Pakistani gentleman who spoke to the Lancashire Telegraph about an arrangement he made with his COVID-free buddy, “You can simply get their negative test and change the name and birthdate to your own. You also put a test date on which is within the time limit required.”

In the face of the growing international trade in fake negative results, governments are struggling to come up with a strategy to prevent Third World immigrants from spreading the infection in the West. “Not letting them in” isn’t on the table, almost certainly on account of that “imbecilic leftist” thing, which tends to reject the conception and acceptance of simple, commonsense solutions.

HIS FODDER’S A MUDDER
Costello: I just bought me a racehorse.
Abbott: Well, if you’re gonna run him in a race, if the track is wet will he run well?
Costello: I think so…
Abbott: What I’m asking is, is he a mudder?
Costello: How can a he be a mudder? Ain’t a she always a mudder?
Abbott: Certainly not. Sometimes a he makes a better mudder than a she.
Costello: Look, suppose the mama horse has little horses, does that make her a mudder?
Abbott: Well, that depends on her feet.
Costello: Ya learn sumpin’ every day, don’t cha?

Major League Baseball may not yet have players named Who, What, and I Don’t Know, but at least one revered Abbott & Costello routine has become 100% nonfiction. Fodders can now be mudders, or, in some cases, a mudder can become a fodder only to decide to become a mudder again.

Freddy McConnell is a journalist for The Guardian. But that’s not the worst thing about her. See, “Freddy” was born a woman, and with a few screws loose to boot. In 2013 she began hormone therapy in order to “transition” to manhood, and in 2014 she had her breasts lopped off because that’s not even remotely insane. Her passport and National Health Service records were changed to reflect her “new gender,” and she prepared to get her final ladybits ripped out because, again, there’s nothing even slightly lunatic going on here.

However, in 2018, before losing her babymaking tools, “Freddy” decided to conceive. She went off the hormone therapy, which allowed her to menstruate again (actual women tend to do that), then she got knocked up, got pregnant (totally in line with what actual women do when knocked up), and had a baby.

Following the birth of a child who will surely prove a cash cow to therapists, “Freddy” finally completed her transition. She’s now fully a man under British law (look it up, it’s in the Fagna Carta). So, as a newly minted “man,” she decided to have herself declared her baby’s “father,” even though she birthed the child through a biological process that tends to be associated with mothers. This proved too much even for the progressive Brits, and last week a panel of wig-wearing High Court justices decided that since “Freddy” was a woman when she gave birth, that fact must be reflected on the birth certificate of the baby. The justices argued “in favour of the right of a child born to a transgender parent to know the biological reality of its birth.”

In other words, delude yerself all ya want, pseudobloke, but the law won’t take part in helping you delude your kid.

Needless to say, British alphabet-soupers are up in arms over the decision, because what’s the fun of going trans if you can’t mislead children? Might as well just go back to cross-dressing like those wig-donning m’luds. On the other hand, British “TERFs” applauded the court’s confirmation that giving birth is a uniquely female endeavor. And people from outside the U.K. expressed surprise that there was still an ounce of sanity left on the Sphinctered Isle.

For “his” part, McConnell, having reached the end of her legal appeals, has now decided to devote herself full-time to a new career—professional “Jameson Parker in Prince of Darkness” impersonator.

She traded breasts for that mustache. Arguably the most appalling aspect of this story.

JUST DON’T CALL HER “DRUMPF”
And while we’re in the U.K…

The BBC is doing a victory lap over its newest win in the war against free speech. The calcified pretend-journalists at the state-funded reminder of why Britain’s no longer great were bored one evening, and after a few hours of mincing and fopping, as effete Britishers tend to do, they decided to scan Facebook for posts that were “insulting” toward VP-elect Kamala Harris. They examined individual pages, and they scanned entire groups. And after they compiled their blacklist, they sent it straight over to Mark Zuckerberg’s mansion, where the list was brought to Zuck by his inscrutable, feet-bound consort as he sat on his beanbag filled with thousand-dollar bills and extracted baby hearts, playing Minecraft with one hand and plotting global genocide with the other.

By the next day, every post the Beeb had flagged was gone, much to the delight of the giddy Goebbelers at the broadcasting giant, who joyfully added prancing to their nightly mince and fop fest.

And what type of posts had the journos targeted for banning? In the words of a BBC report trumpeting the triumph, they specifically went after “memes where Harris’ name is mocked.”

Yep, there’ll be no mocking of Kamala Harris’ name. From Tricky Dick to Ronnie Raygun to Billary Clinton to Barack O-bomb-ya to, of course, DRUMPF, that name-punning shit stops right here.

The British have spoken. And Zuck listened.

Of course, one can assume that the mocking ban only applies to the names of Democrats. In fact, a cursory examination of Facebook reveals plenty of posts mocking the names of GOP senators and representatives, and quite a few about Florida governor “Ron DeSaster” and “Ron DeSatan.” But I’m certain Facebook’s gonna be right on top of those any minute now!

Interestingly, the BBC also flagged posts that complain about the fact that Harris is not a “foundational black American,” and thus not entitled to the “victimhood cred” claimed by blacks who trace their U.S. roots to slavery. The BBC boasted that they were able to get Zuckerberg to eradicate posts that claim Harris “is not ‘black enough’ for the Democrats.”

So apparently telling a black person “you ain’t black” is now verboten on Facebook…unless you’re a certain dementia-addled mumble-mouthed figurehead president-elect.

In which case it’s fine.

Media Matters cheered the BBC’s flag-fest, while complaining that Zuck needs to step up his game and remove more anti-Harris speech on his own, so that the British don’t have to do it for him.

Yet another case of foreigners doing the work that Americans—or in this case one beady-eyed, expressionless American Jew—won’t do themselves.

SING US A SONG, YOU’RE THE PIANO MANGLER
In the 1960s, the University of California, Berkeley, became ground zero in the fight to empower the people. Have something to say, friend? Speak it aloud at the free-speech zone in Sproul Plaza, the freest place on earth! Be heard, my brother. The Man won’t hassle you here. Tired after a long day of fighting the system, comrade? Want to rest your weary feet? Rest them at People’s Park across from the campus. The Man won’t roust you there; sleep in peace!

Soon enough, Berkeley became a mecca of soup kitchens and loitering, growing to become one of the biggest hubs of welfare cases, SSI recipients, and homeless bums in the nation. And it turned out that a lot of those SSI hobos have severe mental-health issues. By the dawn of the 21st century, People’s Park had become a most unwelcome space for people, taken over by a permanent class of homeless squatters who would occasionally stab or shoot interlopers, and sometimes each other. Local eateries became places where patrons would be set on fire by roving “unhoused” pyros. And Sproul Plaza’s free-speech zone was appropriated by thugs as the staging area for Antifa rallies organized to keep conservative speakers off campus. Soon enough, that area became arguably the least free and welcoming place on earth for speaking one’s mind.

Several years ago, two UC Berkeley juniors, Daniel Geng and Josh Yurtsever, decided that what the campus needed in order to restore that feeling of communal camaraderie and ’60s-era idealism was music! The two plucky youths raised funds from the people (via GoFundMe) to put a piano in Sproul Plaza, so that all day long, any random passerby could plink out a tune, sing a song, or, as the Doobies say, just “listen to the music.”

Music would soothe the schizos. Music would calm the thugs.

The “social experiment” worked for about six months, until a 2018 video titled “The Racist Keyboard” went viral. In that video, a piano had its black keys removed to “prove the point” that when something becomes solely white, it sucks. Removing black keys from a piano became a way to strike a blow for “racial justice” (see, the piano is worthless now because the black is gone. Get it? Get it?).

So, a late-night vandal forcibly removed the black keys from the Sproul piano in December 2018, completely ruining it.

But Berkeley students vowed to bring the piano back. More money was raised, and another, better piano was installed at Sproul.

The people spoke! And the people, united, will never be divi…

…oh, wait. Last week the new piano was hacked to pieces in yet another late-night raid. It was literally reduced to kindling. Another “racist keyboard” demolished like a Confederate monument. Sproul Plaza has finally been liberated from music.

That’s the problem with doing things in the name of empowering “the people.” More often than not, “the people” are dicks who should probably not be empowered, ever.

R.I.P. Sproul piano.