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The Week’s Most Tiresome, Miresome, and On-Firesome Headlines

CLOWNTOWN L.A.
You know you have a frail infrastructure when a birthday clown can cripple your power grid.

Two days before the start of the worst fires in L.A. County history, 3,000 Angelenos were left in the dark after a birthday balloon hit a power line.

As the balloon was shaped like a doggy, cops rousted children’s party clowns. APBs went out for Professor Puddingpants, Commodore Chuckles, Bozoe Saldana, Whoopie Cushion Goldberg, Emmett Till Kelly, and the comedy trio of Larry, Çurly, and Mow (the Three Mexican Gardener Stooges). The LAPD describes the latter as last seen traveling in a Volkswagen Beetle stuffed with fifty other illegal harlequins.

Meanwhile, L.A. Mayor Karen Bass is taking heat for being in Ghana when the fires broke out. She was attending the inauguration of the new Ghanaian president, who took over for the previous one who died of AIDS, who’d taken over for the previous one who died of malaria, who took over for the previous one who died because he ate a black mamba to cure his AIDS and malaria.

Upon returning to L.A. after catching Ghana’s fastest overnight mode of transport (baboon-pulled rickshaw, aka the “red-ass”), Bass found an “unwelcome home” party in her city, after word got out that she’d slashed the Fire Department budget.

Her defense: “I only cut $17.6 million. I wanted to cut an additional $49 mil, but the City Council wouldn’t let me.”

She then sat back and waited for applause that never came. Good to know that with Kamala in the wind, we still have one prominent black female politician who can’t read a room.

CRANK, CALL
Sometime in the not-too-distant future, a being from another galaxy arrives on Earth. Equipped with a brain far beyond that of man, the visitor quickly absorbs all human knowledge and history.

A reporter asks the intergalactic visitor if he has any questions.

Alien: “I do. In the 2004 Democratic primary, Governor Howard Dean was booted after going ‘yeeeeeaaaargh.’”

Reporter: “Indeed.”

Alien: “I must be missing pertinent data. Did he go ‘yeeeeeaaaargh’ and then strangle someone?”

Reporter: “Nope, he just went ‘yeeeeeaaaargh.’”

Alien: “Did he go ‘yeeeeeaaaargh’ and fling feces?”

Reporter: “No, just ‘yeeeeeaaaargh.’”

Alien: “But then in 2028, Gavin Newsom…”

Democrats get to write the end of that skit. How will the party that once considered “cheering clumsily” a fatal error deal with a presidential aspirant who responded to a desperate fire victim by faking a call to Joe Biden?

You’ve seen the video. A distraught mom confronts the governor over the terrible flaws in the state’s fire response. And Newsom attempts to evade the conversation by saying, “I’m literally talking to the president right now.” When the woman asks to hear the call, Newsom, who’s as fast and loose with the word “literally” as he was with his own lockdown rules during Covid, replies, “There’s literally…I’ve tried five times, but there’s no signal.”

Never in history has there been a better time for the “you keep using that word” meme.

Newsom should’ve been more creative:

“I called 1-800-CORN-POP, but he wouldn’t connect me. He’s a bad dude.”

Let’s not look too stupid to that alien visitor; when added to the rampant looting and arson going on in the fire zone, and Newsom’s well-known opposition to last year’s Prop. 36 tough-on-crime initiative, the phone incident should end him for good.

Unless today’s Democrats are so far gone that Newsom’s deceit won’t bother them.

Alien visitor, prepare to be literally baffled.

FIRST NON-RESPONDER
In the 1980s, NBC produced a series of Saturday-morning informational shorts called One to Grow On, in which celebrities gave safety tips to children.

One spot showed two black kids home alone when a fire starts. Dwight Schultz of the A-Team appears and tells them, “Don’t try to be a hero!”

Apparently those kids grew up to be L.A. Fire Department DEI chiefs.

A widely circulated video shows LAFD Assistant Chief Kristine Larson, an obese black lesbian, telling citizens that if they get trapped in a fire, it’s they own damn fault. Don’t come lookin’ to her for no help, ya ofay smoke-inhalin’ Freddy Krueger-lookin’ flammable crackas.

In a promotional video—and yes, this was an on-purpose LAFD video, not a surreptitious recording—Larson slams normies for asking if she’s strong enough to carry someone from a burning building. “‘You couldn’t carry my husband out of a fire?’ Which my response is, ‘He got himself in the wrong place if I have to carry him out of a fire.’”

“Don’t you be gettin’ trapped in no fire, I just got mah nails did” is the new LAFD slogan.

The only reason an LAFD diversity hire would race into a burning building it to heat up they fries. Though to be fair, Larson’s more likely to be eating tacos.

Larson’s attitude will soon be reflected in other DEI-dominated professions.

Medicine: “Don’t come to me wit’ yo disease, honky. You got dat brain cancer from thinkin’ too much racism.”

Air Traffic Controller: “Take yo’ mayday and shove it, KKK. You got yo’self up there, you git yo’self down.”

Pharmacist: “You want me to label yo’ pills? I can’t even read.”

DEI—the gift that keeps on taking.

SHE-RO SANDWICH
Last week Metro U.K.’s “gender reporter” Alice Giddings declared the greatest menace of 2025 to be “white alpha males.”

Tell that to the postman who last week encountered a Hispanic alpha she-male.

Musician Warren Zevon, terminally ill with cancer in 2002, gave an iconic piece of advice to his fans regarding making the most of life: “Enjoy every sandwich.”

A fine notion…unless there’s a tranny around. In which case it’s the desire to enjoy a sandwich that’ll kill you.

Postman Ray Hodges, a black gentleman, was on his lunch break when he stopped into a Harlem deli for a sandwich. Also in the deli was Alvin “Jaia” Cruz, a 6’5″ tranny with a history of stabbing people and, because it’s NYC, a history of being immediately released lest the city appear “transphobic.”

As the mailman was about to pay for his order, Cruz, a male-man, demanded that he let “her” go first, lest he appear transphobic. When Hodges, with limited time to eat and get back to his route, refused, Cruz pulled out a butcher knife and gutted him. Literally, cut out his guts.

The good news is, this was a murder of a federal employee, so Biden can pardon Cruz before leaving office.

No word on the sandwich Cruz wanted to order, but most likely it was a meatball sub(human). Or an LGBLT. Or a naanbinary. Or maybe a ho’boy. Or a pork tenderloin district (surf-and-TERF). Perhaps a faguette with the soup-of-the-day, dys-phở-ria. Hopefully not a Dragwood, as those take forever to make.

And Hodges? He ordered the Croak Monsieur.

At trial Cruz will likely claim that it wasn’t murder at all; he just transitioned Hodges to a corpse while performing “bottom surgery” on his intestines.

As for Hodges’ guts, police couldn’t locate them. Considering that the deli was located in a shady bodega run by foreigners, it might not be a coincidence that the newest item on the menu is black pudding.

ABANDON HOPI, ALL YE WHO ENTER HERE
You gotta feel sorry for the Native Americans. The white man wiped them out with diseases (because Indians die if you sneeze on ’em), defeated them in war after war (because Indians never developed steel; you have to have a Bronze Age before a Steel Age, and the natives were stuck in the Stick-and-Mud Age), and bartered their land for a six-pack and a Chivas.

What do these poor, defeated people have left?

Their homegrown psychedelics, of course! The drugs they take to forget they’re Native Americans.

But now the white devil is even taking that away. According to The Guardian, increased use of psychedelics among Americans has led to a shortage of peyote. The rise in peyote use is due to the fact that the American Indian Religious Freedom Act of 1994, signed by Bill Clinton while he was high as f*ck, allows for the legal use of the hallucinogen among Native Americans.

Hence why most people caught with the substance claim Indian heritage, from kids at Beverly Hills High (“My legal name is Rachel Abramowitz, but my Indian name is ‘Never Goes Down on Boyfriend’”) to the Chicago ghetto (“Man, I’m an Injun; my name is ‘Killer of Ten Bearers of Cold Fries’”).

The Guardian describes peyote as “a small spineless cactus,” ironically the British public’s nickname for Keir Starmer. Peyote only grows in the Southwest, so the supply is finite. And according to Navajo leaders, should it run out, the natives have few other options to escape the deadening reality of their lives.

“Yes there’s paint-huffing,” a Navajo spokesbrave told the paper, “but that’s a little too high-tech for us. Few of us have the know-how to operate heavy machinery.”

The Navajo chieftain, “Presides Over Detritus,” has a plan to catch Americans who speed down the winding desert roads of the reservation.

“An anvil attached to a rope will drop the moment we hear the ‘meep-meep’ of a speeding car. I will be in charge of lighting the rope on fire so that it snaps exactly as the road riders pass underneath.”

Sadly, on the first attempt, the rope didn’t fully break, the car got away, and the chieftain walked under the anvil and looked up to assess the problem.

The new chieftain promises that his rocket-powered car-catcher will work much better.