Friday, July 28, 2017


Aside from a truly epic level of sheer incompetence in every conceivable area, the defining characteristics of the Clownstick regime are projection and overcompensation. Few things are more off-putting than obvious pussies pretending to be tough guys. Clownstick is a sundowning man-baby who hasn't soiled his tiny hands since he was a teenager, most likely picking on first-graders. Da Mooch is a sawed-off wannabe made guy, the typical chihuahua acting all pit bull.

To take just one of the examples from today, I couldn't care less if these MS-13 fuckers get lined up and machine-gunned into an open pit. It would be doing the world a favor; they have nothing to offer except misery and violence. That doesn't mean it's a good idea for the putative leader of the country to be exhorting police to get physical on citizens. Do we really need more people getting shot by jumpy police trained to think of themselves as "bulletproof warriors"?

Here's a thought -- maybe put more police in the neighborhoods where the gangs are proliferating. They could, I dunno, walk a beat, talk to the people and businesses in these areas, get acquainted with the humans in the area, instead of just driving through periodically with menacing glares. The idea that gangs can be completely eradicated from urban areas is a pipe dream of course, but if it's going to happen, it's through either community policing or all-out war. And if you choose the latter, then be prepared for more collateral damage.

This projection naturally trickles down to the fatties and closet cases of the 82nd Chairborne keyboard martyrs, the hardcore Pillsbury cowboys amped up on Mountain Dew Code Red and an sense of entitlement inflated like their blow-up wives. It culminates in fart-knockers like Alex "More Extra Cheese" Jones and Michael "Last Name Is Really 'Weiner'" Savage trying to gin up a mob with their Hutu Power Radio horseshit.

Fortunately for the rest of the country, these dipshits are as hilariously inept as their clown-shoes idol. The best thing the rest of us can do is convince them not to reproduce. Maybe tell them that their flat-faced, squint-eyed, fetal-alcohol progeny would simply be out of place in a rapidly browning gene pool. Throw in a coupla Tyler Perry movies for good measure, that oughta skeer 'em real good.

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