Curly, the boss’ son

“Who throws an alligator from a moving vehicle?” I thought to myself as my brain jerked and bubbled like a rapped radiator preparing to blow a head gasket; it was the last bit of crimson news I had scrolled through and it was one click of mayhem too many. For hours, my eyes had been glued to a bleak horn of plenty, packed to absurd levels of real-life, pixelated horror coursing through fiber optics and oozing, cold gruel like, through my retina and into my motherboard; my device wasn’t playing nice. What started as a day researching the coddled butt-mouth culture of the Alt-Right nerd brigade was soon waylaid, and laid to waste, by a plethora of bloodshed and ballistic-missile submarines adorned with nuclear warheads. I was feeling the sour effects of the Ludovico, and I needed to unplug before I was scrambled to screaming static, completely. “Who throws an alligator from a moving vehicle?”


I thought, for a hot minute that the spoiled mayonnaise world of the Alt-Right would be an impenetrable digital fortress complete with toxic moats and Trump trapdoors, given their reputation of using hard jargon and insider slang, but it turns out they’re just stupid, really really stupid … a cabal of neophytic twits and ninnies who champion mean-spiritedness, adore antiquated societal traits such as segregation and who feast on schadenfreude; it’s less half-dead Rush Limbaugh blowhards and more slaphappy troll-hards plying their young Vaseline-coated hands at antisemitic grandstanding mixed with hip (to them at least) cotton candy-colored hee-hawing. It’s real edgelord bullshit, and a dong-fest, to boot. And here’s the rub — they love to be berated. Being viewed by normies as soulless, Hot Pocket-devouring, propagating agents of evil really gets them shooting the goo into their Fruit Of The Looms. To receive a demerit from, say, a website like Jezebel or Salon, is a diseased feather in their prized fedora. They see themselves as potty-mouthed piglets leading a make-believe theater of war against anyone of non-European descent, an unfuckwithable movement out to save disenfranchised and oppressed white boys from Washington to Nantucket and Kalamazoo, too. If you’re a victim of feminist-inspired political correctness and puppet-mastered multiculturalism and need a macho-sounding board to test your tuff talk on, well then, come join in on all the wicked fun they’re having within this flaccid fantasy playground, where bad behavior is awarded a pin to the lapel in the shape of a row of hand-clapping emojis, because, you see, there’s a genocide being inflicted on white Americans at this very moment, and so to protect the sacred blood of their blonde brethren, these basic little scamps are doing their damnedest to repackage Dark Enlightenment as a new brand of sexy rebellion. Fuck liberals, and fuck your conservative grandma, these young-guns are what’s happening, and they’re going hard.

Andy Rooney Got Me Like

Before I could find out where exactly this genocide of whiteness was taking place and why the “Jew”-controlled media wasn’t reporting such an atrocity, I was sideswiped by real news, that involved real threats, to real Americans, such as police officers continuing their daily diligence of executing people without due process. As I write this, on Sept. 24, 2016, the police have killed 848 people thus far this year. Armed or unarmed, that’s too many, on PCP or not on PCP, that’s too many, resisting or complying, that’s too fucking many. Meanwhile, Trump bellows from the manospere: “Give power back to the police,” as out-to-pasture and quickly-running-out-of-time assholes like Mike Ditka want Colin Kaerpernick to leave the country for his insubordination against the crumbling authority of hollow patriotic gestures. All the while some anchor from “60 Minutes,” who wasn’t Mike Wallace, went on a terrifying tour aboard the USS Kentucky, our very own nuked-out submarine, with enough fire power to destroy the world 70 times seven, a power that only a sitting president can wield, a power that Donald Trump wants within his greasy clutches, a power his supporters, that dumpster full of deplorables are all too happy to hand him. Sleep tight.