"A clean Death Star is a Happy Home..." -- The Overlord
First order of business: I got an answer to a question I asked just a week or so ago about the tendency of African-Americans to walk in the street rather than using sidewalks.
I got the answer, so to speak, from the horse's mouth, a black man of my acquaintance who told me, thusly:
"It's a defensive thing. When you're walking the streets at night you want to be seen by the police, to let them know you're not a threat or up to anything bad. It's also a defense against muggers who might charge out from behind a tree or bushes: you have space to run away, if you have to".
That kinda-sorta made sense to me.
And then I asked why African-American women do it, too. And he responded:
"Because they can't all fit on the sidewalk".
I shit you not.
However, he meant this in the sense that for some other unexplained reason, black women find it necessary to walk three or four abreast while simultaneously screaming over each other.
That, he could not explain.
The greatest podcast in the history of podcasting will resume this coming week. The Idiot's Perspective (available on X and Spotify, soon to be everywhere) continues now that my trusty sidekick, the lovely and only slightly-aromatic Joe Rice has finally recovered from his 27th dose of COVID.
Good thing he got vaxxed, huh?
Still, just to be on the safe side, I will not enter Typhoid Harry's studio/abode without wrapping myself in Saran-wrap, wearing a gas mask and gloves, and hanging a bud of garlic around my neck.
I've had two doses of pneumonia in the past calendar year and I don't need a third.
It should be safe(r), since if I recall correctly, Joe was forced to eat the pangolin having lost a bet. You don't want to know: the circumstances were somewhat embarrassing and took place amongst naked people high on peyote.
Actually, Joe is a prince. A true gentlemen.
No, really, he's an asshole.
But, no, I jest, he's really okay. Just don't put your hands anywhere near his mouth.
I'm somewhat chagrinned to see the sainted Malcolm Gladwell, Canada's answer to the age old question "Who farted?", has finally had the courage -- or the sense of opportunity, take your pick -- to finally come out of the closet, as it were, on the subject of trannies.
After taking the boilerplate leftoid (that's a combination of "leftist" and "hemorrhoid") view that men can be pregnant, men are really women if they just wish it really hard, and that Unicorns do, indeed, exist, for many years, Malcolm finally -- finally -- admitted that he was a gutless douche who was afraid to speak his true mind for fear of losing invitations to really shitty cocktail parties and phony awards for puking up nonsense disguised as journalism.
Or, as he put it, he was "cowed".
No, you were not "cowed". That would assume you were being actively bullied, Malcolm. No, you took the path of least resistance until it was safe to truly speak your mind. That makes you a coward. It also makes you a hypocrite, as Douglas Murray demonstrated in a famous Monk Debate over the importance of a free press and free speech.
I recommend that you watch these debates, Minions. They're available on YouTube.
I will be taking a short sabbatical at the end of the month and taking a long weekend in Pennsylvania, where I will visit the Gettysburg national monument and then stuff my fat face in the Dutch Country, afterwards.
I have never been to Gettysburg, history buff that I am, and I'm looking forward to it.
I'm also looking forward to some good, old-fashioned Amish baking. Say what you will about their quaint habits and lifestyles, but these people can COOK and BAKE better than almost anyone on the planet. The simpler life with softer manners is also something of a tonic. It's shame that I don't go more often.
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