The FORBIDDEN Takimag Pieces!

What I was not allowed to write...and why

During the ten-plus years I wrote a weekly column for Takimag, and the five years I did The Week That Perished as well, there were a couple of times I was told to back off.

Then in the final month of my tenure, April 2025, that “couple” became “many.”

But let’s not get ahead of ourselves.

The first time a column was edited without my approval came in February 2020, when my opening to a piece about “jogger” Ahmaud Arbery was cut for going “too far.” Sadly, because the opening was slashed without my knowledge, I wasn’t able to take out the callback to the opening that occurs at the closing, thus making the final paragraph confusing and nonsensical.

Here’s the opening that was excised:

The Divine Black Jogger in Us All

I'm surprised, shocked, in fact, that no enterprising soul has discovered the profit potential in marketing a service to young urban thugs that pre-produces the “he wouldn't hurt a fly” photo that will inevitably wallpaper the media in the event of death by white man.

Of course, I realize that young urban types are not much for thinking ahead. And sure, the odds for most thugs is that their violent end will come at the hand of another person of color, in which case the media won't bother to look for outdated, unrepresentative photos.

But hip hop culture is consumerist at its core; money is never an object when it comes to appearance and rep.

So, and I'm gonna sound like an insurance salesman here, but...my young urban friends, are you covered in the event that you run into a white guy who fights back? Don't leave your posthumous “butter wouldn't melt in his mouth” photo to moms or auntie or, worse, to chance.

Here at Gentle Giant Corp,, a division of Honors Student Inc., we'll work with you to painstakingly craft a photo that, upon your untimely passing, will tell every MSNBC and CNN viewer that whitey just killed the most amazing, high-potential black man who ever lived. Using state-of-the-art CGI, we can put you at Johns Hopkins curing cancer, or at NASA plotting the course of a Jupiter probe. We'll show you rescuing a puppy from a storm drain, teaching toddlers to read, lunching with the Dalai Lama, or being a doting uncle to Kobe's fatherless children.

Don't worry; no matter what we create, the media won't question it.

No one wants their yearbook photo to be their epitaph. When you become the next BLM rallying cry, give Kamala Harris and Shaun King a timeless portrait they won't just post, but pin.

All jokes aside (not that the above is entirely in jest; there's real money in that idea), I've always been fascinated by the media's obsession with deifying every POC who comes out on the losing end of a fight with whitey. Journalists never accept gray areas where race is concerned. Flawed black men never get shot; there's never an apportionment of blame. If a white kills a black, it's always Hitler vs. Jesus.

END

Personally, I don’t think I went “too far” - it’s perfectly excusable satire - but I didn’t complain; Taki’s mag, Taki’s rules.

Then in April 2020, I was told to stop writing about Covid possibly coming from zoonotic origins. LAB LEAK LAB LEAK so sayeth Tucker, so sayeth GOD! But, as I’d already written one more Covid piece, I asked to run it, promising it would be my last.

It was picked up by Drudge and we got our best numbers ever.

In October 2021, following the Alec Baldwin fatal shooting on the set of the movie Rust, I thought the incident would make a good Week piece.

Now, to be fair, this was kind of a fetish piece for me. I’ve always been obsessed with the classic TV crime show Columbo (my youngest TV memories from the early 1970s), so I thought I’d dramatize Peter Falk’s canny detective setting a trap to catch Baldwin. It was mainly just a way for me to mimic the patter of one of my favorite shows:

“Shooting Star” (a Columbo Mystery)

Tragic as the Alec Baldwin on-set shooting is, it really does seem like a perfect episode of Columbo. After all, the iconic TV detective often went up against arrogant Hollywood types who murdered their colleagues. So why not take a moment to visualize the Columbo/Baldwin “gotcha” moment:

Baldwin: “Lieutenant, you’re becoming a nuisance.”

Columbo: “I’m sorry, sir. It’s just that this case really has me stumped.”

Baldwin: “Well, Columbo, you can’t win ‘em all.”

Columbo: “True enough, sir. True enough. I’ll get out of your hair.”

(turns to leave...pauses...turns back around)

Columbo: “Just one more thing...remember the other day when I asked you to bring me an empty gun from the prop room?”

Baldwin: “Yes, what about it?”

Columbo: “Well, sir, there were four guns on that tray. I know because I had ‘em put there. Three were loaded with live rounds, and one had empty plastic dummy bullets. And you brought me the empty one.”

Baldwin: “Yes, Columbo. As you requested.”

Columbo: “Right, sir, of course. But the thing is...and this is what puzzles me...how did you know the empty one?”

Baldwin: “I checked the chambers. I saw which one had the dummy bullets.”

Columbo: “Well, sir, I have to make a small confession here. I had the propmaster rig those guns so they couldn’t be checked.”

Baldwin: “You...what?”

Columbo: “Yes, sir. I’m sorry for the trickery, But you couldn’t have opened those guns because they couldn’t be opened. The only way you could’ve known was by the weight. You’ve handled so many prop guns in your career, you knew the difference. So the day of the shooting, there’s no way you could’ve been handed a loaded gun without knowing. It wasn’t an accident, was it, sir? You secretly loaded the gun in the prop room, you asked an inexperienced intern to bring it to you, then you blamed her for handing you the wrong gun. You had to kill Ms. Hutchins because she found out you were skimming money from the budget. So you murdered her and set the whole thing up to look like an accident.”

Baldwin (resigned): “You’re a very clever man, lieutenant. I wish you’d been my agent; I might not have had to embezzle.”

Columbo: “Thank you, sir. That means a lot.”

END

Unfortunately, much like Halyna Hutchins, that piece got killed. Turns out Taki is good friends with Baldwin, so from that point on there was a “no mentioning the Baldwin shooting incident” policy at Takimag.

Again, I didn’t complain.

Then this year, I was told to lay off all criticism of Elon Musk, another Taki friend. Initially I took that to mean “no more pointing out that he obsessively retweets Nazis.” So in this Week piece I made a very gentle and brief critique of Musk…and it was pulled. Here’s the excised Week segment:

MAD HATTERS

Everything a politician does is, to one degree or another, a stunt. Stunts are as much a part of politics as bribes, mistresses, and Lauren Boebert hand-jobs. What matters is, how well does the stunt work?

Last week saw a political stunt gone well, and one gone disastrously wrong.

The latter first: maybe it’s time to ban wacky hats.

Elon Musk appeared in Wisconsin sporting one of the state’s beloved “cheesehead” hats and doling out million-dollar checks to sway the state’s pivotal Supreme Court race. Apparently, the sight of the world’s wealthiest man in a cheese hat was supposed to be endearing.

According to the results of the election, in which Musk’s candidate was flattened like a slice of Kraft American, it was not.

The cheesehead stunt was reminiscent of that time in 2021 when Ben Shapiro moved the Daily Wire to Nashville and he appeared at an event in Grand Ole Opry ten-gallon-hat attire, looking less like Kinky Friedman and more like “Anne Frank’s claustrophobic brother tries and fails to find a better way to hide.”

Shapiro soon fled Nashville for Florida after realizing there’s not a single store that sells designer yarmulkes.

Political hat stunts rarely work. FDR received negative press for attending a 1935 Senators game sporting a hat that said “My other wife’s a supermodel.” Ulysses Grant’s beer-guzzling helmet was seen as beneath the dignity of the office.

JFK was the first president to not wear a top hat at his inauguration. Ironically, three years later he really came to regret not having his head covered.

But not all stunts go bad. Last week’s successful one involved New Jersey Senator Cory Booker giving the longest continuous Senate floor speech in U.S. history, breaking the record of Strom Thurmond’s day-long filibuster against the Civil Rights Act in 1957, and Senator Hillary Clinton’s 2003 filibuster against large-assed women who give head to married hillbillies.

The Booker stunt was clever because Republicans, bound as they are to the “Democrats are the real racists” talking point, had no choice but to cheer the busting of Thurmond’s record.

Good one, Cory. It took a bald brutha to show that you can be clever without a hat.

END

I was straight-out told, NO criticism of Musk or X. Even something as benign as pointing out his cheesehead hat. Nothing, zero, NO mockery of Musk or his platform, no mention of his Wisconsin electoral loss.

And yet again, I didn’t complain. I even replaced the cheesehead piece with a backup so that The Week wouldn’t be one segment shy.

I was also told to lay off Ron Unz. This opening to a column about online Holocaust denial was removed:

I don’t care much for Ron Unz. I don’t wish him harm; hell, every time the villagers chase him with torches, I’m the first to point out that he’s not an animal but a human being.

That said, Unz is emblematic of a major problem facing the right.

Taki’s daughter Mandolyna (who edits the site) told me that she didn’t want to alienate Unz readers, as “we get a lot of traffic from that site.” While I, again, accepted the excision, I did attempt to explain that the reason we get “traffic” is that Unz’s fanatical readers post my pieces in the site’s insanely active comments section because they get angry, because they don’t like what I write about their deformed leader. Unz cultists don’t fight in the comments over pieces that are inoffensive to them. When I anger them, that’s when they share the offending links.

Mandolyna was unmoved, and I accepted her judgment.

But then, in my final month, things really started to spiral. Mandolyna began editing my pieces for style, rewriting entire sentences, moving sentences around. Ten years of loyal service, for that? By Mandolyna’s own admission, nobody, not even Sailer, brought more traffic to the site than I did (in an email from April 13, 2020, she wrote “You bring the most traffic week after week, for which we are eternally grateful. Takimag would be nowhere without you and we will do anything to keep you happy and doing your best work for us”). So this new policy of rewriting me was baffling, and the best I could do to explain it was to accept that some people like to take advantage of compliance. Once I said “okay” to the ban on mentioning Musk and X, the demands only increased.

Amazingly, I still didn’t balk at the rewriting.

My balking came a week later, when I was finally pushed too far.

The way The Week worked was, of the five segments, I’d get to choose two of the stories, and Mandolyna would send me the other three for me to “make funny.” When Jim Goad used to do The Week prior to 2020, he hated that aspect of it. He hated having Mandolyna send him stories to “make funny,” because the stories she chooses are often not funny at all.

“How the fuck can I make a story about an oil embargo or stock dip funny?” he once railed to me over the phone.

But me, I liked the challenge of making not-funny stories funny. As a writer, it’s exactly that kind of challenge that I felt kept me sharp, kept my wit sharp. Oil embargo story? Make it about Arabs. There’s a wealth of puns and insult humor there. Stock dip? People jumping out of windows, or the elderly regretting poor investments (Arabs, blacks, beans, Chins, Indians, oldies, trannies, any story can be related to at least one easily-mocked group).

So for five years, that’s how it worked. Mandolyna would send me her three stories by Wednesday, and I’d have them “funnied up” by my deadline of Friday morning.

But then came the second week of April. And Mandolyna didn’t send me any stories. Tuesday comes, then Wednesday, finally it’s Thursday night with my deadline the next morning, and no stories. So I had to make a choice: email her, or choose them myself. Now, Mandolyna HATES to be bothered. Hates it. She considers writers needy, clingy, and annoying, which we are, so that’s why I always went out of my way not to bother her.

I decided that if she forgot to send me the stories, she must be very busy indeed (and thus even more undesiring of being bothered), so I chose the three stories to accompany the two I’d already chosen myself. That way we’d have a full Week for Sunday (actually, at that point Mandolyna was running The Week on Saturday, too).

Well, as “thanks” I got reprimanded for not bombarding her with reminders. She admitted to “forgetting” to send me the stories, but she attacked me for choosing them myself. “You’re not the only one with a busy life, you know” she snidely commented, which was a pointless dig because the entire reason I chose the stories myself was that I assumed she’s busier than I. And I was trying to make things easier for her.

Lastly, she castigated me for featuring two stories that were set in L.A.

These two:

EAGLE ROCKED

L.A.’s Eagle Rock is situated between the filth of Downtown and the Armenians of Glendale. It’s known as the place where there’s never been a house sold without the buyer saying to his wife, “look, it’s what we can afford.”

Last week Eagle Rock saw the most excitement it’s witnessed since that time in 1997 when a home buyer bought without reluctance. A black gentleman speeding down the 134 freeway (which runs through Eagle Rock like a river...if rivers spewed carbon monoxide and sounded like Altamont) rear-ended a car, causing a pileup. Being a good citizen, he did what anyone would do – he leapt from the overpass to evade responsibility for the accident.

And it’s the only time in history a black man wished there’d been water below. Because there was just concrete. Which he landed on face-first.

Bloodied, the foundational black (so named because his face collided with a concrete foundation) ran into Eagle Rock, as police sped to the scene. Hatching a brilliant plan, this limping bleeding black fellow – a one-man gang summit as he was both Crip and Blood – climbed into the backyard of a house and pretended to be the homeowner, watering plants.

Cops, following the blood trail, entered the yard. But before they could arrest the guy, an insane white lady in a house across the street ran out, shooting a gun. Police ordered her to drop the weapon, and when she didn’t, they blew her shoulder off.

Turns out the woman was the wife of the bassist for Weezer. And now that she’s one shoulder shy, you can bet she’s saying to herself, “Beverly Hills, that’s where I wanna be!”

As cops tried to sort out the mess, they likely regretted that it wasn’t Eagle Rock that burned to the ground in the fires, because it would’ve been a loss to no one.

SLIPPERY SLOPES

This year marks the 80^th anniversary of the end of WWII, so expect a flood of chest-beating essays from newly-minted “antiwar” rightist influencers regarding why the U.S. shouldn’t have dropped the A-bomb on the Japs.

Meanwhile, Japanese-Americans will be doing their part to make you wish we’d killed more.

Because the American Japanese diaspora is to the Japanese nation what a retarded uncle is to the family that institutionalized him.

Japanese-Americans are primarily concentrated in Southern California. And as reported by CBS last week, these yellows are green with envy and red with anger as L.A.’s historic Little Tokyo (near Downtown) is being gentrified. As CBS reported, the gentrification reached a flashpoint after the district’s most revered restaurant – Suehiro – was evicted by its landlord to make way for a pot dispensary for white hipsters.

BTW, Suehiro is not to be confused with “Sue Hero,” the superhero alter-ego of L.A.’s Jewish lawyers.

Japanese-Americans vote Democrat to an extent that nearly rivals blacks. And now these slavish leftists are pissed off that a combination of Democrat tax incentives for pot shops and restaurant-crippling Covid closures have erased an iconic tempura joint.

But here’s where it gets especially stupid: according to CBS, the Japanese developer trying to “revitalize” Little Tokyo plans to do it by building “low-income housing” (i.e., tenements for black Section 8 welfare cases). So the great scheme to bring life back to Little Tokyo is to import a racial group known for compulsively socking Asians in the face.

Nippons? More like Nip-ponces. As the guardians of Little Tokyo begin building new slums to drive out the pot shops (a literal example of swallowing a spider to catch a fly), maybe the best line for rightist influencers is not “we shouldn’t have bombed the Japs” but “we bombed the wrong ones.”

END

A furious Mandolyna told me that she’s in Vienna, and neither of those stories resonated with that demographic.

Okay, I’d had enough. I sent her this:

Dear Mandolyna,

I sat on this email all weekend, in part because of the holidays and in part because I don’t make important decisions rashly.

You’ve been pushing me too far lately. The shooting of the Weezer bassist’s wife was a story of global interest, covered by every major news source. I’d have written about it no matter where it occurred. It’s not the place but the story. Weezer is a triple-platinum band that’s sold 35 million albums globally. There are only 2 million people in Vienna. So I have a hunch that for every one Viennese I lost (“ACH! ZISS IST NOT OF LOCAL INTERESZT TO ME!”) I picked up ten Weezer fans (actually, Weezer’s gone platinum in Austria, too). And the Little Tokyo story was about Japanese-American voting habits. I’d have written about it had it been San Francisco or NYC. It just happened to be L.A.

One hard and fast rule about this business is that people who don’t live in L.A. love mocking L.A., and people who don’t live in NYC love mocking NYC. So when I cover wacky crime stories, like the DOZENS I’ve done about NYC’s subway crime and street filth, I’m not alienating our readers outside those areas; I'm playing TO them. If I were covering City Council budget debates, sure – I’d lose them. But crazy crime stories that make L.A. and NYC seem dystopian? That’s exactly what people in other parts of the country/world love to read.

You’re picking apart everything I do these days, and I’ve had enough. I’m too old for this.

And the idea that I should’ve sent you a “reminder” about not getting the Week stories? Have you seen how you respond to emails from your writers? Always with annoyance. The last thing on earth I’d do is bother you with a “reminder;” I’d get my ass handed to me. When I didn't get the stories, how did I respond? "I'm sure Mandolyna's very busy so I'll assume that she's knee-deep in more important matters and I'll make life easier for her by writing the pieces myself instead of emailing her like the kind of clingy, needy author she hates." And what did I get in return? Sarcasm ("you're not the only one with a busy life, you know") and criticism ("too many L.A. pieces! We're losing the Vienna demographic").

A simple "thanks, Dave" might've been better.

But it was your statement “It must also be hard to be given direction when you haven’t gotten much of that in the past” that sealed the deal. That was egregiously disrespectful, to an extent that I simply can’t tolerate. I’ve always followed your directives, even when they’ve conflicted with your other directives. And those rare times I’ve argued – like remember April 14, 2020, when you told me to stop writing about Covid and I replied that I had one more Covid piece that I thought would bring in massive traffic, and that piece got on Drudge and you emailed me on April 29 “We got picked up by Drudge! I am so happy” – did I gloat about being right?

Of course not. I’ve always viewed Takimag as a team. When one of us wins, we all win.

But I can’t allow myself to be disrespected. So I have to quit. There are three weeks of columns since the last payment period. Consider them on the house; no need to wire me anything.

David

And that was that.

Now, after the Alec Baldwin thing, I always kept a few spare Week pieces handy, as replacements should any other segments be pulled last-minute.

Might as well clear ‘em out now!

Behold the FINAL Week That Perished Dave-penned pieces:

BOY TOY, OY!

Remember when children’s toys were simple? If you were a boy, you got plastic army men that you’d swallow and choke on. If you were a girl you’d get a doll that would wet itself so you could practice meting out severe corporal punishment to the incontinent.

Simpler times.

But today, the children of those trachea-blocked micturation-triggered kids from “simpler times” have managed to turn children’s toys into a Boschian nightmare.

Here’s a rough reconstruction of the discussion at toymaker Schylling in Andover MA two years ago regarding the “NeeDoh Nice Cube:”

CEO: “I have an idea! Let’s convince every parent that their kid has autism. Is the kid too loud? Too quiet? Too fidgety? Too sedentary? Autism autism autism. And then we’ll sell them a toy to make their defective retard ‘better!’”

Board of Directors: “Hear-hear! Huzzah! Bravo!”

CEO: “And then we’ll fill the toy with a caustic chemical so that if it’s ruptured, the retard will not only be defective, but deformed.”

Board of Directors: (dead silence)

CEO: “Did I mention that Schylling has a 37% stake in Acme Caustic Chemical Pediatric Reconstructive Surgery Medical Supplies, Inc.?”

Board of Directors: “Hear-hear! Huzzah! Bravo!”

Silly as that sounds, the NeeDoh Nice Cube, “designed to give kids the sensory stimulation they crave to those with anxiety disorders, autism, ADHD, ADD, OCD, and more” (that’s the actual description), has been disfiguring children nationwide, owing to the harmful chemicals inside that blow up even when not taunted but if exposed to heat, can Lon Chaney even the handsomest autist.

Last week Consumer Reports sent a formal letter of concern to the CPSC. And while the Trump administration is generally shy of regulatory overreach, word has it that in this instance there might be action taken, as too many MAGA autists are being Freddy Kruegered by one of the most bizarrely defective products in U.S. history.

END

This one’s outdated; it’s from this year’s Oscars:

ACADEMI AWARDS

Last week The Federalist blasted the Academy for nominating Demi Moore for Best Actress, with columnist and grrrrrl power conservative Jennifer Sey slamming the actress for playing the lead in a film about “the consequence of chasing youth” while, in real life, not “looking like Judi Dench” (yes, Sey actually condemns 62-year-old Moore for looking better than 90-year-old Dench).

Sey says Moore shouldn’t be in a movie about “actresses obsessing over their appearance” because privately “she seems to have continued obsessing over her appearance.” In other words, an actor can’t make a film if it contradicts with who they are in real life. So whatever you do, don’t tell Sey about all the “family values conservative” actors who’ve cheated on their wives. Another way to phrase that sentence is, “whatever you do, don’t tell Sey about any ‘family values conservative’ actors.”

And by all means don’t mention that recorded phone call where Mel Gibson calls his girlfriend a “cunt” because she didn’t give him a blowjob “before the Jacuzzi,” but rather “after!”

Incorporating that into The Passion sequel would really spice up the John the Baptist scene.

During the Oscar broadcast, Morgan Freeman gave a moving tribute to his friend Gene Hackman, before pausing and saying “why was one dog in the cage and the other two free? Did the one dog kill Hackman and his wife and the other dogs imprisoned him for the crime? Or are the other two dogs the killers and they locked up the third to shut him up ‘cause he’s the whistleblower?”

Jokes aside, Randy Quaid (aka the insane cackling prospector from every 1930s Western film) tweeted that Hackman was murdered because he was “living too long” and Hollywood was going bankrupt paying him royalties for his performances. All due respect to Randy (aka “wait...he’s related to Dennis?”), it’s unlikely that a town willing to pay Leonardo di Caprio $35 million for the straight-to-streaming flop Don’t Look Up is going to form an assassination squad over the $5.99 quarterly residual checks Hackman got from Loose Cannons.

END

Black crime is always paydirt:

BRIDGE OVER THE RIVER KWANZAA

Royal Bridge is going up, 
Going up, going up, 
Royal Bridge is going up, 
Die fair lady.

The Royal Park Bridge links Palm Beach with West Palm Beach. And it’s appropriate that a “royal” bridge was rendered infamous thanks to someone who “comes from kangz.”

Artissua Paulk was the Affirmative Action queen put in charge of opening and closing the Royal Park’s drawbridge. Artissua is unique for having a name that simultaneously sounds like a sneeze and the thing you hold to your nose when you sneeze.

Where Paulk is not unique is in being incompetent. Prior to opening the span, the operator must lower the gates on both sides, announce over the PA that the bridge is going up, and do three separate visual checks to ensure that nobody remains on the bridge.

Lower the gates, make an announcement, and check three times? Too much to ask from a DEI queen.

Paulk was busy texting as she raised the bridge, not looking, knowing, or caring that a 79-year-old white woman was still walking across the pedestrian lane. And Paulk done dropped that Miss Daisy-lookin’ bitch right into the bridge’s gear bay, killing her instantly.

Paulk told cops she’d done the visual inspection, but a security camera exposed that as a lie. Paulk also deleted texts from after the incident, in which she told her white supervisor “I killed that lady” and the supervisor advised her to lie about the visual inspection. Paulk was also given a urine drug test...by that same supervisor, who then “lost” the sample.

DEI hires get by with a little help from their fiends.

Paulk was charged with manslaughter, and given a sweetheart deal: two days in prison, as long as she stays off drugs and writes a letter of apology to the victim’s family. Paulk never wrote the letter (as if someone incapable of a visual check could write a letter) and failed her first drug test. In December she was sentenced to ten years in prison for parole violations (the police bodycam footage of the incident was just released last week).

A bridge too far...an IQ too small.

END

So are bad movies that flop:

NOT-SO-GREAT APE

Forget “staying in your own lane.” Sometimes it’s best to stay in your own country.

Take Winston Reckert. Oh, wait, the Reaper already did. In the 1980s, Reckert was known as “the Michael Landon of Canada,” a rugged, handsome TV star with an uncanny resemblance to the American Landon. When Landon died an untimely death from cancer, Reckert decided to make the move to the U.S. to fill the Landon void. But he never found success in the States, and then he died an untimely death from cancer.

Winston Reckert: mediocre actor but spot-on impressionist.

Some entertainers know better than to leave a sure thing. Like Roberto Blanco, the black Wayne Newton of Germany. Blanco was that country’s top performer in the early 1970s, but he knew better than to try to make it in the U.S., where black singers are plentiful and one Wayne Newton’s one too many. Plus, Blanco would produce videos of himself naked washing his ass in a shower while singing about all the white girls he was getting, knowing that his viewers included many former Nazi Party members. And why give that up?

Which brings us to Robby Williams, the UK’s #1 singer, completely unknown in the U.S. Was he happy to leave it that way? The UK’s a pretty big market, right? No, Williams had to cross the pond. And his vehicle? A $200 million biopic in which he plays himself, but as an ape.

For some reason, Williams figured “this’ll endear me to the Yanks.”

The result? A $200 million movie that earned $1.9 million, and that’s including the UK (in the U.S. it made $1.9 dollars, and that was from a box of Junior Mints employed as breath freshener by a prostitute using the empty theater to turn tricks).

Williams’ movie is the first flop of 2025, and experts say it likely won’t be topped.

Any UK performers of any worth long ago moved stateside. For the rest, like Williams, enjoy your Pakis and Bangis and terrorism, and if you ever want to try pork, pretty much banned now in London, feel free to visit the USA.

But please, don’t stay.

END

And idiot Canadians:

CANUCKLEHEAD

The problem with Trump’s decision to annex Canada is that it doesn’t involve the depopulation angle of his Gaza plan. Yes, Canada’s beautiful and all. And mineral-rich.

But the people...well...

Brampton, Ontario – population 475,557 – is not to be confused with Frampton, Ontario – population one guy who really wishes it was 1976 again.

James Schwal was the fire captain of Brampton. And in typical Canadian fashion, he apparently took that title way too literally, as in “to captain fires” rather than extinguish them. Last week Schwal was convicted of murdering his wife by breaking her neck, driving her SUV with the body inside to a cliff, placing the body in the driver’s seat, coating the interior with gasoline, lighting it, and sending it off the cliff.

Give the man credit; a Canadian actually did something dynamic for once.

But there was a problem: he lit the fire with his engraved lighter, which he left at the scene.

And that’s why Canadian Columbo is only a 5-minute show.

Funnier still, a week before the murder, Schwal had asked a local doctor if it’s possible to painlessly kill somebody by swiftly breaking their neck. When the doctor replied “uh...why ya askin’ me that, eh?” Schwal said, and this is not a joke, that he was trying to determine if Steven Seagal movies are accurate.

Yes, that’s literally what he said.

At least he didn’t ask “is it possible for a 97lb woman to beat up a 220lb man and kick him through a wall like in every Hollywood action film?” Because that might’ve betrayed a fear of his plan going wrong.

Still, it’s ironic that a guy fascinated by movie cliches would do a real-life “matchbook trope,” arguably the most tired cliché in crime movie history.

Dumb-oh, Canada.

END

My hatred for the L.A. Times is longstanding and intense:

CAUSE AND INEFFECT

Speaking of the L.A. Times, because untidied excrement cannot help but linger in the air, a week ago the paper ran a piece about the “unacceptable” rise in “hate crimes” in L.A. County. While the article by staff writer Rebecca Ellis, who’s such a hack that phlegm takes Robitussin to get rid of her, attempts to portray the rise in hate crimes as a war against trannies, Muslims, blacks, and Jews, when you read far enough into the piece, which you won’t because her prose is below Paulie Shore in terms of tolerability, you find that, in fact, the hate crimes have been almost entirely against Jews.

Now why would the Times bury that lede? It’s not a “rise in hate crimes” story, it’s a rise in “people hating Jews” story.

Because to embrace the lede might mean that the Times would have to examine its own role in the problem. This is a paper that publishes op-eds from Hamas. That’s not a joke. Also not a joke, this is a paper that ran a “political cartoon” showing Jews slitting the throats of gentiles and drinking their blood (the artist behind the cartoon was identified only as “C. Owens”). This is a paper where “““reporter””” (three sets of scare-quotes might seem excessive, but not in this case) Adam Elmahrek falsely accused Israel of blowing up a hospital following October 7, then accused Israeli girls of faking their own rapes to “frame” Palestinians.

L.A.’s only paper of record publishes anti-Jewish content daily, then runs a piece about a rise in anti-Jewish hate crimes in L.A. without asking “hmm...I wonder if we’ve contributed to this?”

Indeed, when Times owner Patrick Soon-Shiong, aka “the man you never trust around an open Coke can,” killed the paper’s Kamala Harris endorsement last November, he admitted it was because Harris was too pro-Israel.

Ching-Chong Chinaman? More like Ching-Chong Jews-must-die-naman.

In that same vein, last week the AP ran a piece attacking Americans for the fact that Caitlin Clark’s women’s basketball superstardom hasn’t led to increased attendance and support of the sport. So the same AP that ran two dozen pieces about how “you’re a genocidal racist if you start liking women’s basketball now that the star player is white” is also saying “how come you’re not liking women’s basketball now that the star player is white?”

Be grateful for journalists. They give metastasizing cancer cells something to feel superior to.

END

Yiddish words are funny. Mix with blacks, they get even funnier:

YID-DISH BEST SERVED COLD

Netflix’s new “hidden black history” epic The Six Triple Eight tells the true-ish story of a squad of black women who sorted mail for American troops during WWII. Directed by Tyler Perry, who plays all the female roles, the film argues that these gutsy gals helped win the war by keeping troop morale up via letters from home.

Welcome to Madea’s Mailroom.

One emotional scene shows the women agonizing over dead letters that couldn’t be delivered.

Bartleby the Scrivener, blackface-drag version.

Although many of the key plot points in the film are fairly accurate, one is completely invented. Lead character Lena Derriecott King falls in love with a Jewish boy named Abram. They pledge their love to each other before he’s shipped off to war. When he’s killed in battle and she realizes Abram sent her love letters that were never delivered, she enlists to improve Army mail delivery.

None of that happened. According to war historian Kevin Hymel, King merely “befriended a Jewish boy in Philly,” and it went no further than that.

Perhaps a good scene would’ve been the meeting that led to the “befriending.”

Abram: “Oy, a schvartze!”

King: “I did not fart, suh.”

Abram: “Farbissiner!”

King: “I’m not here for business, suh.”

Abram: “A shiksa!”

King: “Gesundheit.”

Abram: “Meshugah!”

King: “I ain’t your sugar.”

Abram: “Mieskeit!”

King: “Your kite ain’t my concern. Check a tree.”

Cut to King’s apartment.

King: “Mamma, I befriended a Jewish boy. I think he’s retarded.”

Abram: “Farshtunkener!”

Mamma: “Suh, if you farshtunked her, you gots ta marry her.”

END

Three for California (I salvaged bits of this first one for a column):

LIFT EVERY VOICE AND ANNOY

How do you know you’re not in a black high school?

Well, the presence of a swimming pool, for starters. And the cafeteria staff doesn’t live in constant fear of being murdered over cold food. Father’s Day is actually observed, and the detention room doesn’t need a baby-changing station.

Oh, and also the principal can tell the students to lower their voices, and the students lower their voices.

At Beverly Hills High blacks comprise 2.5% of the student body. Following Trump’s victory in November, students in this red, heavily Persian city held a pro-Trump celebration rally in the middle of campus.

Well, guess how the small handful of black students responded. If you guessed, “we’ze oppressed by MAGA racists! We shouldn’t have to hear white boys yellin’,” you got it right.

And how did Principal Drew Stewart respond? By mandating that at all future rallies students would no longer be allowed to “congregate, circle up, shout, or jump.”

A rally that doesn’t involve “congregating?” Only an educator could be that stupid.

Had blacks at any school been told they can’t “congregate” “jump” and “shout,” Governor Newsom would’ve called in the National Guard to protect the black right to be loud and annoying.

Black students would argue that banning acting a noisy fool is denying them their birthright.

Well, yeah. Banning screeching is patently discriminatory to screech owls.

As for banning “jumping,” perhaps exceptions to the rule could be made for jumping the broom.

The move to stifle MAGA rallies was spearheaded by black “teacher” Bella Ivory, who’s suing Beverly High for racism. The ban was backed by Laura Collins-Williams, the obese black assistant superintendent of the district who’s also suing Beverly High for racism.

There’s no mystery why everyone in California but blacks voted for the Affirmative Action ban.

You know what they say, “once you go black you get a frivolous lawsuit back.”

SCHIZO SAY CAN YOU SEE?

Sticking with California, but moving away from one of the sane parts to the part where the flag literally shows bat guano with the slogan “yes, we’re that-level crazy,” a new statewide initiative aims to solve the problem of schizophrenic homeless by telling them, “just don’t listen to the voices in your head.”

That’s not a joke. The program, covered in last week’s Wall Street Journal, “teaches people with psychosis to live with their imagined voices, hallucinations and false memories. With practice, such symptoms can be managed or ignored.”

Why didn’t anyone think of this before? Genius! The poop-covered raving lunatic with the knife who’s stabbing you because he thinks the “where’s the beef” lady lives in his head? Just tell him “no she doesn’t,” and voila – you’ve turned a horror student into an honor student.

More than likely, if schizos could quiet the voices based on pure willpower, at least some of them would’ve, and their kind wouldn’t be covering the streets of our biggest cities like odorous autumn leaves.

This is surely the best idea California politicians have had since they went to the Natural History Museum and raised a 5,000-year-old mummy from the dead to become a Bay Area congresswoman and drunken Speaker of the House (Pelosi’s Egyptian name was Too-tanked-khamun).

Maybe this new approach of “just talk them out of it” stems from the fact the Newsom can’t account for the $24 billion in money to “help the homeless” that CA has spent since 2019. Taking an approach that’s essentially “just talk the schizo out of it” will most certainly be cheap, which would allow Sacramento Democrats to hide even more of the additional $380 million that Newsom signed over in October.

Hiring a few hundred “homeless whisperers” would allow for that money to be rerouted to the things that really matter in the state, like slavery reparations, trips to Israel, and a Hadron Collider (which is 100,000 times hotter than the sun) for the Sacramento Black Caucus’ fries.

Of course, we could also just go back to using mental institutions, but that’s growing increasingly pointless in a state that’s one itself.

DA BOMB (THREAT)

Speaking of people who are not helping their cause...

In L.A. earlier this year, “““““deputy mayor of public safety””””” (ten scare quotes there; you’ll soon see why) Brian Williams (no, not the white guy) was one angry-ass Nation of Islam bow-tie wearin’ black man. A bunch of no-good Mexicans on the City Council had been recorded making disparaging remarks about the city’s vocal and shrinking black minority. Essentially, the Ciudad Councilleros claimed that blacks are unruly, demanding, unreasonable, violent, and unable to solve problems level-headedly.

So of course Williams decided to prove them wrong by saying “I’ze gon’ blow up City Hall!”

It’s as rational a response as killing someone over cold fries.

His bomb plot failed, and this month Williams was arrested. He’s facing twenty counts of trying to refry beans.

Had his plot worked, he’d have served up some tacos MUY carbón.

Previously, Williams served for seven years as executive director of Los Angeles County’s Sheriff Civilian Oversight Commission. That’s where blacks lecture police officers “you be beatin’ us fo’ no reason! You be racist! You be slavers!” Every cop in L.A. would prefer a colonoscopy to an appearance before the Civilian Oversight Commission (the cops in West Hollywood would really prefer it).

Because L.A. law enforcement has a seven-year history of being yelled at by Williams, his case has been turned over to the FBI to avoid any appearance of bias. So that means Trump will be able to pardon him!

That’ll finally win the black vote.

Considering Williams’ views on Mexicans, Trump could put him in charge of blowing up shelters for “asylum seekers.”

With the occupants still inside.

END

And there ya go! I always had a blast writing The Week, and I hope you had one reading it.

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