Category Archives: Comedy & Humor

NEW COLUMN: ‘Tarded’ Medical Idiocrat Won’t Treat ‘Unscannables’ Like Me

Art, Comedy & Humor, COVID-19, Healthcare, Intelligence, Left-Liberalism And Progressivisim, Pseudoscience, Science

“Why come you don’t have your Covid tattoo,” he yelps, cowering in the corner, “where’s your bar code”

NEW COLUMN is “‘Tarded’ Medical Idiocrat Won’t Treat ‘Unscannables’ Like Me.” It’s currently featured on WND.COM, The Unz Review, and on The New American.

Meet Doctor Lexus (diploma via Costco):

In Idiocracy, Mike Judge’s genius of a satire (really a documentary, if you think about it), Luke Wilson plays Joe Bowers, frozen by the military in 2005, “who accidentally wakes up in 2505 to find a broken-down, thuggish America, where language has become a patois of football chants, hip-hop slang and grunts denoting rage, pleasure and priapic longing, where citizens are obese, violent, ever-horny and narcotised by consumerism.” (As I said, a documentary. Citations here.)

The “dumb-a** dystopia” depicted in “Idiocracy” has evolved (devolved, rather) because low-IQ individuals, so robust, have out-bred the intelligent (yes, Judge openly references IQ as a measure of intelligence). Consequently, nothing gets fixed. There are garbage avalanches. A Gatorade-like drink has replaced water in irrigation. Because growers don’t know better, nothing grows. …

The most watched show on the “Violence Channel” is “Ow, My B-lls!” The “highest grossing movie of all time is called ‘A**,’ and consists of 90 minutes of the same naked, hairy butt on screen.” Audiences are enraptured. All enterprises are sexualized; Starbucks offers a “full body latte.” Costco is an Ivy-League law school.

Or, a medical school, in my tale of woe. Idiocracy is the perfect metaphor for my own visit to a Washington State doctor’s office. …

And the doctor’s office has become its own obstacle course. Combine endemic, Idiocracy-like institutional rot, with the control Covid has bestowed on some exceedingly mediocre and malevolent minds—and one can never be too prepared.

In the case of this grubby little shop, the pronoun slot alone on the attendant patient forms ought to have been a portend of what was to come. My choice of pronoun would have been “grammatical” had that option been offered. Otherwise, I never dignify the pronoun charade. See below:

Washington woke would sooner flout the spirit of the  Hippocratic Oath than speak ill of the homeless grotesquerie that is unfolding on our streets. Since the term “virtue signaling” has become a cliché—a term insufficient to the task—let me offer an improvement. The progressive’s preening aims to emphasize his or her own providential purpose in the universe. To that end, progressives like to discredit the rest of us. That’s more like it

When the appointment was scheduled, not a word of warning was forthcoming about the inquisition, the third degree, that would ensue at the front desk on the day of the visit. I’m healthy, masked and without fever. That ought to have been the end of it.

It was not. Shoved in my face on a stark sheet of paper, bereft of the office’s masthead, was the demand for my vaccination status. Well, of course. Doctor Lexus (diploma via Costco) wasn’t owning this disgrace. This was nothing to boast about.

I refused to divulge my vaccination status. …

READ ON. NEW COLUMN is “‘Tarded’ Medical Idiocrat Won’t Treat ‘Unscannables’ Like Me.” It’s currently featured on WND.COM, The Unz Review, and The New American.

 

 

Satire In The Big Easy: ‘A Confederacy of Dunces’ By John Kennedy Toole

BAB's A List, Barely A Blog, Comedy & Humor, Culture, English, Juvenal Early's Archive, Literature

The plot concerns Ignatius’s long war of attrition against the 20th Century ~ Juvenal Early

By Juvenal Early

New Orleans (N’awlins, as they say in the South) has always been a city full of characters.  Port cities are like that, and, as the Mississippi River’s window on the world, New Orleans has been the ne plus ultra of character cities, throughout its colorful history. It’s a veritable bouillabaisse of Acadians, swarthy Mediterranean types, rednecks, Cajuns, Creoles, Africans, Arabs, and anyone else who ever went down to the sea in ships. The most Catholic of cities, New Orleans did Carnival so well, its Mardi Gras became a major industry. Throw in jazz, politics, the Mafia, the flesh trade, and several quirky genius chefs, and you’ve got an unusually high quotient of characters.

Set in The Big Easy, John Kennedy Toole’s Pulitzer-Prize-winning novel A Confederacy of Dunces (© 1976), gave the world Ignatius J. Reilly, a latter-day Thomist, a Medievalist, a Grand Inquisitor, a man for whom the standard New Orleans character was degeneracy incarnate. Given his druthers, Ignatius would’ve chosen to live in a world purged of said characters. Fictional though he was, Ignatius has ended up becoming perhaps the grandest New Orleans character of them all. In homage, the real people of New Orleans erected a statue to Ignatius, and right on Canal Street.

Ignatius is fat, unkempt, lives with his mother, is a perpetual student of Medieval philosophy, and critic pop culture. He complains constantly about the misery visited upon him by his faulty pyloric valve (abused as it is, by Ignatius’s diet). As described in the book’s first paragraph, he is distinguished by his odd dress: baggy pleated trousers, oversized flannel shirt, a scarf, and topped off by a green hunting cap with earflaps—all this, mind you, in one of the capitals of The Long Hot Summer.

The plot concerns Ignatius’s long war of attrition against the 20th Century. The elevated language he spouts in defense of his worldview—and the way people react to it—makes for non-stop Rabelaisian pageantry.

A Confederacy of Dunces is a picaresque novel, lurching hilariously from one episode to the next, from one lively conversation to another. Ignatius is a man who can attract the wrong kind of attention just by waiting for his mother in front of a store. Whenever he speaks to people—which is often—he gets deeper into trouble. Completely without self-awareness, he insults virtually everyone whose path he crosses, assuming they’ll take it as constructive criticism from someone who obviously knows better. By the end of the book, he’s pissed off everyone to high heaven, and they all want a piece of him. The clashes and conflicts, conflated into his conversation, makes for some of the best social satire of the Sixties.

Irene Reilly wants her son to get a job. Setbacks old and new have depleted the family nest egg, and they need a new revenue source. As man of the house, Ignatius must sally forth and be the breadwinner, but his long college training in Boethius and the Middle Ages have fitted him for nothing outside of academics, and he burned his bridges there long ago. What to do? Reluctantly, Ignatius, age 30, begins his search.

He quickly lucks into a job with Levy Pants, a moribund sweatshop. The loyal but dull-witted office manager, impressed by Ignatius’s pompous language, hires him as a file clerk. Whereupon Ignatius dumps the company records in the garbage, fills the file cabinets with plants, and writes insulting letters to the company’s biggest customers. For good measure, he organizes the labor force—mostly black—and impels them to attack the company office, the vanguard holding a banner—made from one of Ignatius’s crusted sheets—proclaiming a “Crusade for Moorish Dignity.” He is, of course, summarily fired.

Next, Ignatius finds work pushing a hotdog cart for Paradise Vendors, Inc., and, of course, he ends up eating much more than he sells. His pyloric valve, as he tells everyone, completely shuts down. Dressed up as a pirate—head bandanna, sash, plastic cutlass, and earring—he roams the French Quarter, looking to cash in on the tourist trade (ironic, of course, since most tourists come to the French Quarter specifically for the great variety of Creole, Cajun, and Southern cooking). He catches the eye of a prominent member of the gay community—a sodomite, as Ignatius would say. Initially appalled, Ignatius hits on a brainstorm. If gays can be organized politically, they will eventually take over. Taking power, they will also control the military, rendering it effeminate, ineffective, and fabulous! A non-aggressive US Army means World Peace. It all fits into Ignatius’s master plan. (Hey! It’s not all that farfetched.) Ignatius sets to work with predictable results.

There is much more: the conflict at home with his mother; forays to the local movie palace, where he declaims loudly about the degradation of cinematic art; a couple visits to The Night of Joy, a Bourbon Street skin joint, where Ignatius hopes Boethius will save the world from its worst appetites. The plot builds and builds to the inevitable denouement and the unlikely Deus Ex Machina.

Most scenes are replete with wonderfully lively dialogue, at once zany and…well, altogether real. Toole knew his hometown and he captures the peculiar Brooklynese patois heard among certain of its down-market denizens (think Stanley Kowalski). Wondrous too is the elevated pomposity of Ignatius, truculence as poetry. As a special bonus, Toole throws in Mr Burma Jones, doubtless the greatest black character ever created by a white writer.

But why take my word for it. Let the book speak for itself.

There is conflict:

“You got any identification, mister?” the policeman asked…

“What?” Ignatius looked down upon the badge on the blue cap. “Who are you?

“Let me see your driver’s license.”

“I don’ t drive. Will you kindly go away? I am waiting for my mother.”

“What’s this hanging out your bag?”

“What do you think it is, stupid?  It’s a string for my lute.”

“What’s that?” The policeman drew back a little. “Are you local?”

“Is it the part of the police department to harass me when this city is a flagrant vice capital of the civilized world?” Ignatius bellowed over the crowd in front of the store. “This city is famous for its gamblers, prostitutes, exhibitionists, anti-Christs, alcoholics, sodomites, drug addicts, fetishists, onanists, pornographers, frauds, jades, litterbugs, and lesbians, all of whom are only too well protected by graft. If you have a moment, I shall endeavor to discuss the crime problem with you, but don’t make the mistake of bothering me.”

Movie commentary (during a public screening):

Popcorn spilled down his shirt and gathered in the folds of his trousers. “What degenerate produced this abortion?”

“Shut up,” someone said behind him.

“Just look at those smiling morons!” …

When a love scene appeared to be developing, he bounded up out of his seat and stomped up the aisle to the candy counter for more popcorn, but as he returned to his seat, the two big pink figures were just preparing to kiss.

“They probably have halitosis,” Ignatius announced over the heads of children. “I hate to think of the obscene places that those mouths have doubtlessly been before.”

Criticism of the Ladies Art Club:

“Oh, my God!” Ignatius bellowed…” How dare you present such abortions to the public!”

“Please move along, sir,” a bold lady said…

“You ladies need a course in botany. And perhaps geometry, too.”

“You don’t have to look at our work,” an offended voice said…

“Yes, I do!” Ignatius screamed. “You ladies need a critic with some taste and decency…The water in this bowl looks like motor oil.”

Helpful Race Relations:

“Shit! You think I like the Night of Joy? Ooo-wee. I wanna get someplace. I want to get someplace good, be gainfully employ, make me a livin wage.”

“Just as I suspected,” Ignatius said angrily. “In other words, you want to become totally bourgeois. You people have all been brainwashed. I imagine you’d like to become a success or something equally vile.”

“Hey, now you gettin me. Whoa!”

“I really don’t have the time to discuss the errors of your value judgements.”

Don’t forget LGBT:

“Please be serious for a moment. Stop fluttering around here.”

“Moi? Fluttering? What do you want, Gypsy Woman?”

“Have you people thought of forming a political party and running a candidate?”

“Politics? Oh, Maid of Orleans. How dreary.”

“This is very important!” Ignatius shouted …”you may hold the key to the future.”

“Well, what do you want to do about it, Eleanor Roosevelt?”

“You must start a party organization. Plans must be made.”

“Oh, please,” the young man sighed…

“You may be able to save the world!” Ignatius bellowed in an orator’s voice….

“This kind of conversation depresses me more than you could ever imagine,” the young man told him.

And the aforementioned Burma Jones at the Night of Joy:

“You oughta tell your customer use they ashtray, tell them peoples you workin a man in here below the minimal wage. Maybe they be a little considerate.’

“Listen here, Jones” Lana Lee (said)…” All I gotta do is phone the police and report you’re out of work. You understand me?”

“And I tell the po-lice the Night of Joy a glorify cathouse. I fall in a trap when I come to work in this place. Whoa! Now I jus waitin to get some kind of evidence. When I do, I really gonna flap my mouth at the precinct.”

“Watch your tongue.”

“Times changin,” Jones said, adjusting his sunglasses. “You cain scare color peoples no more. I got me some peoples form a human chain in front of your door, drive away your business, get you on TV news.”

When Ignatius is home alone, he fills Big Chief writing tablets with his unique invective, gems of nihilism, as his half-foe/half-ally Myrna Minkoff describes it:

I can at last describe to you our factory…The scene which met my eyes was at once compelling and repelling. The original sweatshop has been preserved for posterity at Levy Pants. If only the Smithsonian Institution, that grab-bag of our nation’s refuse, could somehow vacuum-seal the Levy Pants factory and transport it to the capital of the United States of America, each worker frozen in an attitude of labor, the visitors to that questionable museum would defecate into their garish tourist outfits. It is a scene which combines the worst of Uncle Tom’s Cabin and Fritz Lang’s Metropolis; it is mechanized Negro slavery; it represents the progress which the Negro has made from picking cotton to tailoring it.

You won’t want to put this novel down. But you also won’t want to rush through it.  You’ll want to savor every dialogue. There’s nothing else like it. Sadly.

Everyone loves this novel. Everyone I know who’s read it is also saddened, disappointed, and angered to know that it’s all we’ve got. John Kennedy Toole spent most of the 60s writing A Confederacy of Dunces and trying to get it published. Failing in the latter, he took his own life in 1969. His mother, believing ardently in her son’s genius, shopped the manuscript around, until she was finally able to press it into the hands of another Louisiana novelist, Walker Percy. In the novel’s preface, Percy describes how he reluctantly took up the dog-eared pages and was dismayed, after reading the first few pages, to find that it wasn’t bad enough to dismiss. He read on and gradually came to relish its genius. He managed to find a publisher for it, and a year later it won the Pulitzer Prize.  See if you don’t think it’s not the funniest novel you’ve ever read.

I could say a lot more about the book. Subplots involving a half-dozen of the novel’s eccentrics; Toole’s not-so-hidden messages; the sexual tension between Ignatius and Myrna Minkoff; strippers and cockatoos; theology, geometry, and the consolation of philosophy. But in the end, it’s just a great book to read. What’s it all mean? Who knows? Just read it.

With apologies to Walker Percy’s The Moviegoer (which is the great Mardi Gras novel), A Confederacy of Dunces is the great New Orleans novel.

*******

“Juvenal Early” is a contributor to Barely A Blog. His first essay was “The Dissident Right Has An Idiocracy Problem.” It made waves! He has a BAB archive.

FRED REED: Did the Jews Pull Off Krakatoa?

Anti-Semitism, Comedy & Humor, Conspiracy, FRED REED, Judaism & Jews

In which Fred proves that the absence of evidence is the evidence  …

 

BY FRED REED

For many years I had been casually interested in the powerful explosion of Krakatoa in the Sunda  Strait in 1883. As a small boy I had vaguely heard of it, as I had of dinosaurs, and accepted it as it was always described, an enormous volcanic eruption. This appeared reasonable, especially if one accepted the contemporary descriptions as they appeared in the many written accounts. There seemed no reason to doubt.

I accepted the official story, as I had the government’s story of Nine-Eleven until evidence began to appear that the building’s were destroyed by micro-nukes and directed energy weapons. And of course, I didn’t think much about Krakatoa at all, being busy with my work and the quotidian demands of life.

I consequently was shocked when a friend, whom I will call Eric, who had always seemed rational and measured in his thinking, suggested that the Jews had caused the explosion. I was inclined to dismiss the idea as crackpot, a “conspiracy theory.” It made no sense.

Then, at Eric’s suggestion, I began reading more carefully. I was surprised at what I found. In all the books I read, in accounts by Indonesians who were there at the time, there was no evidence of Jewish involvement. None. This seemed strange and, as I reluctantly came to think, damning.

As Eric pointed out, initiating an explosion so enormous, almost no matter how it was done, would have involved hundreds if not thousands of people, dozens of ships, many interrelated paper trails, and collusion at high political levels. Only a group with almost absolute control of society could have suppressed all of this without a trace. What was the only group with such influence?

The Jews, Eric said. Any other group would have left telltale tracks. That there were none left only one possible set of malefactors.

I at first resisted the idea. I knew of other accounts of hidden conspiracies by Jews that seemed ridiculous. For example, the perennial reports that Jews sacrifice Christian children. I long dismissed these as resulting from virulent paranoia, thinking that the only people who wanted to sacrifice Christian children were, occasionally, Christian parents. Many of these tales dated to medieval times when it was common to believe in witches, incubi and succubae, hexes and enchantments. I doubted whether the stories were true even then, and thought laughable the idea that my dentist was making Christian children into matzoh balls and eating them, presumably with mayonnaise from the Jewish mayonnaise interests. Think Hellman’s.

If such sacrifices were happening, I said, why were no children missing? Surely their parents would notice. There is evidence, Eric said, that they are replaced by holographic projections, like the ones used to make people think that airplanes ran into the Twin Towers.

I remained skeptical.  Over the years I had encountered many Jews, such as Ike Feinstein who owned the delicatessen near my home. He, and indeed all the Jews I had known seemed harmless. Most were dentists or doctors or otherwise useful people. Had such apparently harmless folk caused the greatest non-nuclear detonation since the asteroid that killed the dinosaurs? It seemed absurd.

But Krakatoa. On closer examination I noticed that in all the contemporary documents I had read, including many from the English-language press in Jakarta, there were no Jewish names. This was very odd. Even in the late nineteenth century, Indonesia had a large population. Jews were an international people, being found across the globe. That there were no Jewish names could only mean that they had changed them. This was consistent with the suppression of evidence of having arranged the explosion. It was plausible. I had met Jews named Miller and Smith.

Name-changing by Jews was simply a fact. I once knew a Jew named Hyman Baum who taught programming at the University of Kansas. He signed his name “H. Ezekiel Baum,” got tired of people saying, “Billy, I want you to meet Aitch Bawmb. Be careful! He’s got a short fuse! Haw haw!” He changed his name to Solomon Goldberg.

My awakening continued.

I wondered how the Brethren, as Eric called them, could have caused so enormous a detonation. In the 1880s, explosives were primitive. How…?

Eric pointed to the well-known formula that describes the increase in weight—mass, actually—that occurs with velocity. This equation falls out of Special Relativity, published by Albert Einstein (Jewish: See?) in 1905. In layman’s terms, the faster you go, the more you weight.

Wv = W0/(1 – (v2/c2))1/2

This shows that you can lose weight simply by holding still. Significantly, textbooks of physics, which are often written by Jews, fail to mention this. Who would want to hide a means of losing weight? There is evidence that the omission was forced by the Jewish mayonnaise interest and their collaborators, substantially responsible for the current obesity in America, as they do not want the public to consider losing weight, as by eating less mayonnaise—Hellman’s: Again, note the name.

Mayonnaise of course has nothing to do with Krakatoa, so far as we know.

Eric then pointed me to the writings of Maimonides Figlitz, a little-known physicist. Figlitz made the obvious observation that if you gain weight—again, actually mass—by going forward, then you would lose weight by going backward.  The greater your backward velocity, the less you would weigh. But the two directions are not symmetrical. Your mass can increase without limit as you go forward, but when going backward you can lose only the weight you start with.

Figlitz has calculated that, when your weight reaches zero, a singularity occurs, a space-time compression in which, at least in theory, one might pop out in the past, the emergence time depending on the backward velocity at the initiation of singularity.

Might this explain how the Jews arrived at Krakatoa? There is no conclusive evidence of this, such as observations of Jews going backward very fast, but they could have done it in remote regions or at night. There have been UFO reports consistent with this.

Everything began to fit. Was it possible…? If Israeli agents were going back in time by exploiting the retro-velocital singularity, then the stupendous explosion of Krakatoa could be explained as a nuclear event. Jewish scientists after all had invented nuclear explosives—Einstein, Oppenheimer, Szilard, Teller. Could it be…? Israeli agents from Dimona in the Negev certainly had the technical capacity to construct a hugely powerful bomb, probably a hydrogen bomb. The radiation would have been diluted in the waters of the Indian Ocean and Pacific in the more than a century that has passed since the event. Tellingly, I could find no media accounts of scientists looking for trace radiation in the Strait. Who controls the media?

Why would the Jews want to blow up Krakatoa? Eric told me of research by a friend, who died suddenly, who found in a remote monastery in Sumatra the draft of a patent application by a local Indonesian businessman, who had lived on Krakatoa, for a proprietary sauce he had invented. Yes, you guessed it. Krakatoa was blown up, and thousands killed, to protect—the Jewish mayonnaise interests.

******************************************

FRED REED describes himself as [previously] a “Washington police reporter, former Washington editor for Harper’s and staff writer for Soldier of Fortune magazine, Marine combat vet from Viet Nam, and former long-haul hitchhiker, part-time sociopath, who once lived in Arlington, Virginia, across the Potomac River from the Yankee Capital.”
His essays “on the collapse of America” Mr. Reed calls “wildly funny, sometimes wacky, always provocative.”
“Fred is the Hunter Thompson of the right,” seconds Thomas E. Ricks in Foreign Policy magazine. His  commentary is “well-written, pungent political incorrectness mixed with smart military commentary and libertarian impulses, topped off with a splash of Third World sunshine and tequila.”

FRED’S BOOKS ARE ON AMAZON, HERE

FRED’S ARTICLES ARCHIVE

Killer Kink

Hardboiled is back! (The exclamation point is to arouse wild enthusiasm int the reader, a boiling literary lust.) Gritty crime fiction by longtime police reporter for the Washington Times, who knows the police from nine years of riding with them. Guaranteed free of white wine and cheese, sensitivity, or social justice.

UPDATED (11/27): NEW COLUMN & Viewing: FDA Makes Fools Of Pfizer ‘Clot-Shot’ Recipients; Candace Kneecaps Caucasians

Comedy & Humor, COVID-19, Crime, Healthcare, libertarianism, Race, Racism, Republicans, The State

NEW COLUMN IS “FDA Makes Fools Of Pfizer ‘Clot-Shot’ Recipients; Candace Kneecaps Caucasians.” It’s currently on WND.COM and the Unz Review:

Excerpt:

… A knee-capping of a different kind was delivered to an exceedingly vulnerable Caucasian America by influencer Candace Owens. To wit, Darrell Brooks is the black supremacist, who used his vehicle to mow down and murder white grannies and grandkids parading in Waukesha, Wisconsin. But if you had dared to consider the race of Brooks in a hate crime manifestly motivated by race—you were boorishly berated by Owens as “brainwashed”:

“Darrell Brooks is a scumbag murderer—his race is irrelevant. …Disagree? You’re brainwashed!”

America is now systemically and institutionally anti-white. Black-on-white hate crime is rife, but it’s invariably not reported, underreported, or if reported, masked as something other than what it really is, precisely as Owens has done—and now orders you to do. Ignore her ilk—Republicans who’re always boasting about their color-blindness and their blindness to white suffering. Your life and the lives of those you love, very plainly, depend on it.

HARD TRUTH with David Vance and yours truly debates these and other thorny issues and wishes our American Hard Truthers a happy Thanksgiving.

WATCH AND SUBSCRIBE, please: “FDA Makes Fools Of Pfizer ‘Clot-Shot’ Recipients; Candace Kneecaps Caucasians”:

NEW COLUMNS IS “FDA Makes Fools Of Pfizer ‘Clot-Shot’ Recipients; Candace Kneecaps Caucasians.” It’s currently on WND.COM and the Unz Review.

UPDATE (11/27/021): This was a wide-ranging discussion with David and myself. We touched on this interesting finer point:

Who demonstrates a ruthlessly “extractive approach” to political power? The much-abused Amerindians? No. Australia’s poor Aboriginal peoples? Hardly … Listen.