The Worst Week Yet:
February 6-12, 2022

A compilation tape showing Joe Rogan, shown here groveling for forgiveness, dropping 24 n-bombs in 29 seconds may be the new world record holder.

3,492 words

“Rogan” Spelled Backwards Is “Nagor”

Is there even a remote mathematical possibility that “Reggin” sounds a lot like “Rogan,” but when you spell “Reggin” backwards, it’s the most awful word in the English language?

Not too long ago, massively successful podcaster Joe Rogan made sport of how people timidly say “the N-word” instead of “nigger” due to a medievally superstitious amount of power accorded to the word by the people who not only demand you never say it, but who will attempt to socially murder you if you have ever said it, no matter how innocent the context. For example, in 2018, the founder of Papa John’s Pizza was famously forced to resign after using the word not to describe some low-class black person, but as part of a lecture about how it’s a bad word that no one should ever use.

Now, after a compilation tape emerged where Rogan drops a breathtaking 24 N-bombs over a mere 29 seconds, he finds himself groveling and using the term “the N-word” in a desperate ploy to be forgiven:

There’s a video that’s out, that’s a compilation of me saying the N-word. It’s a video that’s made of clips taken out of context of me of . . . 12 years of conversations on my podcast, and it’s all smushed together, and it looks fuckin’ horrible, even to me. . . . Now, I know that to most people there’s no context where a white person is ever allowed to say that word, never mind publicly on a podcast, and I agree with that. . . . Now, I haven’t said it in years, but for a long time, when I would bring that word up, like if it would come up in conversation, instead of saying “the N-word,” I would just say the word. . . . I thought as long as it was in context, people would understand what I was doing. . . . It’s not my word to use. I am well aware of that now, but for years, I used it in that manner. . . . I never used it to be racist because I’m not racist.

Of course you’re not racist; you’re just that guy who said “nigger” 24 times in 29 seconds, and no matter how sincerely you may attempt to fight for the free exchange of ideas, you’re always going to be the guy who said “nigger” way too many times. Even if a tsunami is on course to devastate the West Coast in an hour and you’re the only broadcaster who is earnestly trying to convey this information and save millions of lives, all anyone ever has to do to discredit you is ask, “Sure, but aren’t you that guy who said ‘nigger’ 24 times in 29 seconds?”

It doesn’t matter if now you say that you’ve “evolved” and realize that as a white man, you have no right to say that word; it’s like a serial killer, after dispatching two dozen hookers, expecting to receive amnesty because he realizes he “fumbled the ball” with that whole hooker-murdering thing.

I’m not trying to say that there’s not a certain type of inadequate white man who, after receiving lousy service at McDonald’s, isn’t above tossing out an N-bomb while shooting at the black workers — but that’s this guy, not Joe Rogan. I’m not even trying to say “nigger” more than is absolutely necessary. But I feel it’s dangerous and spooky to place black people, of all groups, so completely beyond reproach that merely saying the word with no ill intent is considered more reprehensible than murdering someone for saying it.

America, check your priorities.

It’s Lonely Out There For Female Pedophiles

I’m not sure there’s a stereotypical “look” for a female pedophile, which may be the whole point of the essay “What Is It Like to Be a Female Pedophile?” by Craig Harper, Ph.D., who very strongly resembles a butch lesbian.

In his analysis for Psychology Today of a new study by two women that has the inappropriately empowering title “‘We Do Exist’: The Experiences of Women Living with a Sexual Interest in Minors,” Harper gingerly outlines the psychological difficulties of being a female pedophile in a world that unfairly “stereotypes” all pedophiles as male. According to Harper, not even being recognized as a legitimate pedophile by other pedophiles is another of the unique crosses that female pedophiles are forced to bear:

Female pedophiles experience stigmatization from male pedophiles due to their hidden nature, necessitating specific services and support. . . . They are also indicative of additional hurdles to their well-being over-and-above the sizable barriers to seeking help that is known to be experienced by people attracted to minors in a broader sense…the women interviewed discussed having a “lonely secret existence” . . . This feeling of being a minority within a minority was said to be a “double-edged sword,” as it served to increase mental health difficulties within the community, while simultaneously acting as a buffer against the stigmatization of the “usual” pedophile stereotype.

Imagine, if you dare, the psychological torment of being a female kiddie-diddler in a world that won’t even give you credit for it. I hate to ever concede that John Lennon was right about anything, but this proves that woman really is the N-word of the world.

Black Manosphere: The Dark World of “Nigcels”

Nicole Young is a Philadelphia-based black writer who “loves to talk about race, Black [sic] womanhood,” and I stopped paying attention after that point, so I can’t tell you much else about the lady except the fact that she has a frighteningly large set of teeth.

In an article for Elle called “My Brush With The Black Manosphere,” she bemoans a video date with some dusky dork who immediately started attempting to woo her by spitting out terms such as “hypergamous,” “dominant masculinity,” “high-value men,” and “pair bonding.”

You can buy Jim Goad’s The Redneck Manifesto here.

“For months,” Young writes, “I had seen similar words and themes being used on social media. On Twitter, men that wield a particular animus against Black [sic] women are sometimes derogatively called ‘nigcels.’”

After having unwittingly entered the Lair of a Nigcel, Young says she started researching this oddball micro-culture of black men who form a collective identity over their inability to seduce a partner and who, like incels of other colors, harbor a poisonous loathing for women of their own race.

She encountered prominent nigcel influencers such as Mr. Palmer, who markets “Fuck Child Support” hats and refers to black women as “Baby Mama Terrorists.” She perused the cinematic output of the mysterious helmet-wearing nigcel Mad BusDriverX1, who records eugenic-themed videos with titles such as “protect your seed black men invest it into white Asian or Latina”:

There’s going to be two types of black people in the future and one’s going to be black-ish and one’s going to be traditionally black . . . the permanent underclass, you know what that’s going to be. No disrespect, if you’re a black man who needs to save himself go on ahead . . . because you can’t save it, it’s ingrained, you’ve got to let it [the Black (sic) race] die out because they don’t want to change.

Nigcels also have disparaging stock names for the female archetypes who pollute the black manosphere: the overbearing Mammy, the scolding Matriarch, the self-obsessed Miss Thang, the Welfare Mother, and the slutty Scraggle Daggle.

In short, they have all of the faults of white incels: inability or unwillingness to blame themselves, even one tiny bit, for their incapability of finding a willing mate, a nerdy reliance on technical and statistical terms to frame the art of romance in a manner that is certain to dry up the vagina of any potential partner to the point where you can hear creaking sounds, and a tendency to demonize the objects of their pursuit to a degree that sends almost all of them running for safety — except that, on top of all that, they must also deal with the unfortunate handicap of being black.

Her Name is “Kaliyeha,” So of Course She Faked a Hate Crime

It must be unimaginably agonizing for a fat black girl to go off to college hoping to be hated for being a fat black girl, only to realize that thanks to unceasing PsyOps via meticulously targeted TV commercials, everyone worships fat black girls these days.

Tadpole-faced Kaliyeha A. Clark-Mabins, 19, is a student at the world-renowned Southern Illinois University Edwardsville. I don’t know if she was baptized “Kaliyeha” or whether she had some sort of dopey ideological transformation that ended up with her choosing that name, but I’ve heard rumors that “Kaliyeha” is a Swahili slang term meaning “fake hate.”

Mabins was recently charged with three counts of filing a false police report. According to the charging documents, she told police that on

January 23, 2022, she was the victim of a Hate Crime, in that she reported that two notes were posted on her dormitory room door, located at Room 119, Woodland Hall, SIU-E Campus, Edwardsville, Illinois, saying “BLACK PEOPLE DON’T BELONG” and “DIE B*TCH” and Kaliyeha Clark-Mabins knew at the time of this transmission there was no reasonable ground for believing that such an offense had been committed.

Mabins also specifically named two white students — I won’t reprint their names here, but you can find them via that link — who had become hate-crime suspects and campus pariahs based merely on the words of an overweight adult woman who resembles a tadpole. Outrage at the school resulted in a petition with nearly 2,000 signatures demanding that “some white teens on campus” be expelled.

If the school administrators had any common sense and even a pinch of academic bravery, they’d hire a graffiti artist to paint a mural that says, BLACK PEOPLE WHO PERPETRATE HATE-CRIME HOAXES DON’T BELONG ON CAMPUS.

Wandering into the Backwoods: The Rich Sonic Tapestry of Jewish Country Music

As someone with a great fondness for nearly all country music up until about the year 1970, I do not associate Jews with the genre beyond my suspicion that many Jews are terrified at the very thought of country music.

Although I’m certain that there were crypto-Jews and JINOs and all other manner of Shadow Jews and Ghost Jews infiltrating the country music industry from its inception, the only Jewish country act I could name on the spot was Kinky Friedman and the Texas Jewboys, whose very name trafficked in the fascinatingly uncomfortable cultural dissonance between diamond merchants and cattle wranglers. The aggressively vulgar Friedman was known for songs such as “They Ain’t Making Jews Like Jesus Anymore,” “How Can I Tell You I Love You (When You’re Sitting on My Face),” and his rendition of “Asshole from El Paso.” Friedman’s entire shtick seemed to be a deliberate act of blasphemy against country music.

Culturally, though, I’d say the most significant Jew in country music was clothing designer Nudie Cohn, born in Ukraine as Nuta Kotlyarenko but who gained fame as the American tailor who spearheaded those ostentatious multicolored rhinestone-and-saguaro-spackled “Nudie Suits” beloved by so many peacockin’ male country singers in the 1960s and ‘70s.

Otherwise, apart from enjoying the occasional bluegrass rendition of “Hava Nagila,” I know naught about Jews in country music, which is why I suppose I should be grateful that Philadelphia’s Weitzman National Museum of American Jewish History is hosting a four-part “Jews and Country Music” online symposium on Tuesdays at 8 PM EST starting on February 15.

One segment will be devoted to Mark Rubin, a “charismatic musician from Oklahoma” who evidently doesn’t photograph as charismatically as his supporters might wish. According to Jewish Exponent, “Rubin is an unabashed Southern Jew,” and I can’t tell whether they would prefer if he were to be abashed.

Until now, I had never heard of Mark Rubin.

Another segment will focus on Nefesh Mountain, shown here performing a “Woody Guthrie Hanukkah Dance.”

I had never heard of Nefesh Mountain, either.

Also trotted out as evidence that “Jews have a long and storied history in country music” is Jewish musician Joe Buchanan.

I’d never heard of Joe Buchanan. I couldn’t even tell for sure that he’s Jewish.

I would never have expected Waylon Jennings to memorize the Torah or to control the media. I wouldn’t have been able to conscience telling Johnny Cash never to eat pork. Such things would be pushy and inappropriate. By the same tokenism, aspiring Jewish crooners should stay in their lane — and their lane is not Music Row in Nashville, Tennessee.

How Many More “Tough Conversations about Race” are White People Supposed to Have?

As a white person who will assume I’m writing for an entirely white audience as is my wont and privilege to do, I was wondering if, like me, you were feeling a bit peeved and fatigued at all these soul-searching “tough conversations about race” that it’s high time we all had.

I have a simple credo: “If you want me to treat you nice, don’t pee on me.” Basic human psychology.

Savala Nolan is a black female writer who is extremely plump and light-skinned — I feel it would not be unfair to refer to her as a mulattopotamus. After apparently deciding that it was time to temporarily stop eating, she wrote “It’s Time For White People to Have Tough Conversations With Their White Friends and Relatives.”

Nolan — who also lists her name as Savala Nolan Trepczynski, and nothing ever smells right to me about a black person with a Polack surname — specializes in the literary niche genre of Scolding White People. Of the four articles she’s published so far in TIME, one is about how racism helped kill her father; apart from her new piece about how white people need to have some “tough conversations” with other white people, she’s also written about how white people need to be kinder and how they need to come to terms with their whiteness.

She sounds like an absolute bitch to me. As much of a racist asshole as I am, I’d feel like a complete jerk if I were to write a piece titled “Obese Mulatto Women Need to Stop Eating Donuts.”

About those tough conversations, Nolan writes:

I know a lot of white people. A lifetime of private schools, three years at an elite law school, a job in academia, a house in the suburbs, my own family — I’m surrounded. . . . But, very often, these white people and their efforts disappoint me. They frustrate me. They make me sad. . . . They disappoint and frustrate and sadden me because their work — as earnest and crucial as it is — frequently fails to demand the participation of the white people with whom they have the tightest, most honest, most intimate relationships.

In other words, she is not “surrounded” by a parka-thick layer of self-inflicted blubber, she’s surrounded by white people. They, not a lifetime of looming heart disease, are her primary impediment. And she’s increasingly finding that white people are a pain in her ass because they won’t act like her and constantly hector other white people about how they’re failing to confront their whiteness so egregiously that it makes her want to squat down, let out a loud grunt, and pee all over them again.

Writing for the National Academy of Sciences, Matthew W. Hughey’s “Superposition strategies: How and why White people say contradictory things about race” accuses white Americans of deliberately being both racist and anti-racist in order to gin up “an increasingly racialized culture war”:

Due to the centrality of race and racism in social, economic, and political life, coupled with the racially privileged position of White people, the assessment of White racial attitudes is an ongoing concern. There is a great deal of survey-based, quantitative work that demonstrates a compelling case of White attitudinal polarization — a grouping of authoritarian, racist attitudes versus another alliance of progressive, antiracist attitudes — an increasingly racialized culture war. . . . Both racist and antiracist attitudes are simultaneously alive and dead in the same individual or group. Contradictory White discourse helps maintain a sense of self-efficacy and coherent White racial identity within conflictual and politically supercharged social situations, as well as within racially unequal social structures.

Dearest white friends, when I read something such as that, such a giant shitpile of forced meaninglessness posing as effortless profundity, I think, “What sort of creature would not only type such a thing, but also press “SEND”? And then I saw a picture of Matthew W. Hughey. And another. And another.

No further questions, Your Honor.

“Savage”: Two Black-on-Asian Murders in NYC

When black people, seemingly at random, murder Asians on the streets of New York, it only goes to show that they had good teachers in the white supremacist society that so shamelessly whipped, raped, and lynched their great-grandmammies and great-grandpappies.

Black person murders Asian? Blame white people. It’s a brutally efficient system.

You can buy Jim Goad’s Whiteness: The Original Sin here.

Last week, 50-year-old Jarrod Powell — who apparently doesn’t mind stomping little yellow men to death but is at least polite enough to wear a facemask in the courtroom — was indicted on charges of second-degree murder as a hate crime in connection with an April 23 assault on Yao Pan Ma, a 61-year-old unemployed Chinese immigrant and father of two who’d apparently been slumming around in East Harlem looking for cans to sell when Powell allegedly ran up behind him, knocked him to the ground, and started stomping on his skull. The New York Post referred to the attack as “savage.” The 114-pound Ma was rushed to a nearby hospital and placed into a coma, where he remained for eight months until he finally died on New Year’s Eve.

In January in Times Square, a candlelight vigil was held to remember Michelle Go, a 40-year-old Asian woman who was pushed in front of a subway to her death by a man who police have identified as 61-year-old Martial Simon, a grey-bearded black man who appears to have no remorse.

Both of these entirely ignored stories would have received monstrous coverage if only the Hate Criminals had been the right color.

Headless Woman Found in My Hometown

Just as it’s never good for one’s mood to look up old school acquaintances on social media to see how fat and decrepit they’ve gotten, it can feel like a hammer kick to the groin of one’s soul to check back on what’s going on in the dumb little working-class suburban Philly township where I grew up, because with the direction this world seems to be headed, the progression of time hardly ever makes things look better.

Early last Friday morning at an apartment complex in Clifton Heights, Pennsylvania that the online app tells me is only about 739 feet from the house where I grew up, police responded to a 911 call in which a witness said they heard screaming and banging and the sounds of sawing. After knocking on the apartment’s front door and receiving no answer, one cop walked around to the back and peered into a bedroom window, where he says he saw 32-year old Nicholas P. Scurria hacking away at a woman’s leg with what appeared to be a machete. After a closer glance, the policeman realized that the woman had already been decapitated. After police broke into the apartment and seized Scurria, he allegedly said, “She tried to cut my balls off.”

“This morning’s horrific murder is a sad reminder of the threat that many women face on a daily basis,” said District Attorney Jack Stollsteimer, severely overdramatizing the average woman’s daily threat level, continuing:

Preliminary indications are that the victim and the defendant formerly had a romantic relationship and were — at the time of the murder — sharing a residence. Based on the defendant’s statements at the time of his arrest, in response to what the defendant perceived as a threat to his masculinity, he brutally killed — and then dismembered — his victim. His actions were cowardly as well as evil, and he will be prosecuted to the full extent of the law.

I remember seeing the hard-working dads of Clifton Heights having fistfights out on their front lawns. But I don’t remember hearing about anyone ever getting murdered there, much less decapitated.

In Glenolden, Pennsylvania — 1.4 miles from the house where I grew up — a volunteer fire company has been suspended for 30 days after audio leaked of firemen disparaging the “bunch of fucking nigs” who run the fire department in the nearby town of Darby. “That’s the fucking problem,” says one of the white volunteers. “Blacks are taking over shit.”

The segment of the tape which caused the most outrage was when officers mocked the name of Fanta Bility — an eight-year-old black girl shot to death by police last August in Sharon Hill, Pennsylvania, about 1.5 miles from the house where I grew up.

In my old neighborhood, people may have used the word “nigs,” but I don’t recall police ever killing anyone. They definitely didn’t kill any black people, because there were no black people there to kill. But that was a long time ago, way before the advent of progress.

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