Robert F. Kennedy Jr.

Source: Bigstock

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

HANG LOOSE, BRO
“Oh Calcutta?” More like “Oh, He’s Un-Cutta.”

Residents of L.A.’s Mid-Wilshire district are being terrorized by a naked old homeless black man who’s been prowling their neighborhood every night masturbating at their doorsteps and waving his wanker at their children. The black gent, rather dignified with a stark-white beard, has been caught on dozens of Ring cams, flashing homeowners, frightening the wives, and making the predominantly Jewish and Asian husbands feel woefully inadequate.

Considering that Mid-Wilshire is the home of the La Brea Tar Pits prehistoric fossil museum, it’s only fitting that a proto-human is running around banging his bone.

Uncle Penus has also been using his zip-a-dee-doo-dah to mark front doors with jazzy jizz, which is kind of like Passover as reinterpreted by PornHub.

The DA refuses to prosecute More-Glans Freeman; indeed, for far-left Cuban George Gascon, a black man’s penis is the only waving object he’ll salute. Hence why Samuel L. Whackson has been running free for months. However, the tide might be turning against Paul Disrobeson; during a recent streak through the neighborhood, he stole clothes and towels from a parked camper.

This is L.A.: You can wave your willy all you want at kids, but don’t dare steal from hipster camping influencers. Besides, Gascon was concerned that Dennis Haysplurt might use the pilfered items to hide his nakedness, which would be a concession to the racism of L.A.’s whites and Asians, who must be forced to see James Earl’s Bone, to be humbled by their comparatively smaller endowment.

The fleshy-flashman has been identified as Dushaun Barnett, and considering that “douche” is literally in his name, it’s odd that he prefers showcasing his front instead of his backside.

Barnett is currently awaiting a mental health evaluation as his papers to run for City Council clear.

FDIC DOA
With apologies to The Music Man…

O-ho the coroner wagon is a-comin’ down the street,
Please don’t let it be for me.
O-ho the coroner wagon is a-comin’ to my bank,
Don’t wanna die before I cash in my CD.

O-ho the Wells Fargo Wagon is a leavin’ with a corpse,
Rigor amortized, she cashed out as death’s payee.

If you think your bank has slow service, stay away from the Tempe Wells Fargo. On the morning of Friday, Aug. 16, employee Denise Prudhomme, 60, scanned into work.

She never scanned out.

On Tuesday the 20th, it was discovered why: She was dead. She passed on Friday afternoon, at her desk, and nobody noticed until Tuesday afternoon. And no, Monday had not been a bank holiday; everybody went about their business with a corpse in the room. When a loan matures, that’s one thing. But dead bodies tend to be quite noticeable smell-wise when they do the same.

Apparently the only check that Wells Fargo doesn’t honor is a wellness check. The banking giant’s “woke” national leadership has pledged to eliminate redlining, but flatlining is still welcomed in their branches.

Wells Fargo admins have yet to explain how a dead body could sit at a desk unnoticed for five days after cutoff time, although police have ruled out fowl play (“a murder of escrows”).

The bank has hit the Grim Reaper with a substantial penalty for early withdrawal, and a Cease and Deceased Notice to prevent it from happening again.

Hopefully Ms. Prudhomme now resides in Heaven and not HELOC.

BEAN THERE, DONE THAT!
When it comes to “crime tourism,” Los Angeles has no shortage of locations for visitors who travel there to snap pics in front of famous crime scenes.

“¡Ai mi vida, here’s the Wonderland murder house where extraordinario actor pornográfico John Holmes asesinado cuatro hombres with his muy gigantico churro!”

“Man, it was worth the trip from Baltimore to pay our respects at the Sam Cooke murder site. Poor mutha was worryin’ about Cupid’s bow, when he shoulda been thinkin’ about the motel manager’s gun. Pour one out for m’man.”

“You kiddin’, nigga? This Courvoisier cost me twenty bucks! Get the money to buy your own damn drink.”

“Well, I guess I’m gonna have to blow this town.”

But last week another kind of “crime tourism” was exposed in L.A. A half-dozen jumping beans who owned a rental car agency were using the vehicles to facilitate burglaries and smash-and-grabs. Crime gangs from Central America would travel to Van Nuys to “rent” a car to use in thefts around the county. Then the car would be returned, scrubbed of prints, the plates would be changed, and the thieves would return to El Salvador and Guatemala after paying the agency owners their share.

A highly complex operation from people who’ve yet to figure out the toilet.

Arrested were Miguel Angel Barajas, Ana Maria Arriagada, Federico Jorge Triebel, Juan Carlos Thola-Duran, and John Carlo Thola (when everyone in a nation has to have three names, it’s inevitable that there’ll be some repetition).

Adding to the woes of our “better food” enrichers, across the country in Nassau County, which last week enacted the nation’s first face-mask ban, Wesslin Omar Ramirez Castillo (four names? He must be aristocracy) became the first man arrested under the new statute, after police caught him skulking around houses in the middle of the night.

When cops noticed a massive bulge under Juan Jacobo Jingleheimer Schmidt’s shirt, he told them “estoy embarazada.” And embarrassadad he was when the bulge turned out to be a bag of weapons and robbery tools.

Adiós, muchacho. Rest assured that even if you’re deported, you can always return as a crime turista.

MILK, MILK, LEMONADE, AROUND THE CORNER NERVES ARE FRAYED
Of course, not every bean thief aims high. A countywide crime syndicate? Targeting the homes of the wealthy? Such reaches always exceeded the grasp of Esteban Santillan, 19-year-old resident of Chesapeake, Virginia, who wanted to be a master criminal but who, saddled with only two names, was the laughingstock of the maestros criminales he idolized.

On Aug. 14, two suburban white kids—10-year-old Rebecca Caldwell and her 8-year-old brother Josh—were helping neighbors get some relief from the heat by selling ice-cold lemonade from a stand.

And that’s when Santillan, with an ice-cold heart, drove up and stole the kids’ money jar, making off with $40 that he sent back home to Mexico so his mamacita can spend one night off the streets of the red light district.

Sadly, Santillan was unaware of that wondrous American invention the Ring camera, and last week he was apprehended. Latino advocacy groups have come to Santillan’s defense, claiming that the young lad only stole the money because the lemonade was subpar compared with the “better food” brought in by illegals.

That said, it’s not just the brown folks who can crush the dreams of entrepreneuring kids. In Norwood, Massachusetts, young Danny Doherty, 12, decided to set up a homemade ice cream stand to raise money for his autistic brother’s hockey team (the Norwood No-Touchings). Unfortunately for Danny, the town council shut down the stand and confiscated the ice cream, because they figured the family was used to seizures.

Actually, the ice cream was taken for fear it might contain listeria; in Massachusetts, food poisoning is only allowed from illegal-alien sidewalk vendors.

Fortunately, the story has a happy ending: Neighbors welcomed back the stand to the tune of $1,000 in sales, and Boston radio station WWBX purchased $3,600 of the homemade confection.

Then they all died of listeria.

Sometime the killjoys are right.

FREE KILLY
And speaking of killing, love RFK Jr. or hate him, the guy’s got a weird relationship with animals.

Indeed, when the fact that you live with ravens and hunt with hawks isn’t the oddest thing about you, that’s alarming.

Earlier this month, Kennedy copped to a 2014 stunt in which he found a dead bear on the road and drove the deceased animal to Central Park, where he posed the carcass on a bicycle because he thought “it would be funny.”

Honestly, posing it with a picnic basket would’ve been a better gag.

Two weeks ago it was revealed that RFK-J had also tried to pull the animal’s brains out through its mouth (he wanted to see if it was smarter than the average bear).

And now, RFK-J, who is not smarter than the average Kennedy, has copped to a 2012 incident in which he found a beached whale and sawed its head off, driving home with the decapitated dome strapped to the top of his car to scare the crap out of anyone who ever applauded poor captive Shamu doing tricks.

Thankfully, RFK only took the head; he left Moby’s dick intact.

As odd as all of this seems, RFK-J still has a ways to go to match the killing prowess of his uncle Teddy, who eschewed killing animals for drowning secretaries.

One wonders how all these dead, maimed beasts might affect RFK-J’s endorsement of Donald Trump. Considering RFK-J’s hobby of studying birds of prey, and his love of examining animal entrails, the question remains whether this “Central Park augur” will be a blessing or a curse for Trump.

Word has it that Trump’s promised RFK-J a plum cabinet position in exchange for his endorsement. And a fancy new title befitting the Kennedy clan’s reputation as American royalty: the Mince of Whales.