I grow dizzy when I recall that the number of manufactured tanks seems to have been more important to me than the vanished victims of racism. –Albert Speer
WHEN THIS WORLD CATCHES FIRE
BOOK THREE: SAVAGE NOXTOWN
CHAPTER TEN: PART TWENTY-FOUR: KINGDOM COME
“Did either of you Yobs ever notice,” said the ever-cynical Count Justin Victor to Pappy O’Day and Tipsy Smith, “how Jews is too clever to ever be used as a dray-hoss for another man? They’re always after going into business for themselves, where they rise and fall on their own merits. From push-cart peddler to merchant prince—often in the same generation. They’re not the boys for mooching after Gummint jobs—there’s no such jobs open for the likes of them to begin with, but even if there were, could you imagine a Jew as a mailman, carrying around that heavy bag all the live-long day, bein’ bitten by sullen curs and scolded by fat old hags? No, they’d rather buy up a bit of property and then, when they have to go on foot, it’s to collect the yaller boys as is their monthly rent. And here’s another thing I’ve noticed about ‘em—they hardly ever go where they’re not wanted. They tend to stick to their own. Real slick. Not because they’re afraid of being razzed, like the Dagoes and the Hunkies—more because they’re kind of aloof and stand-offish, like a cat. But don’t confuse me with the facts—I just know what I know.
“Another slick bunch of buggers are the Yellow Men. Forget about whining your chops about that poor Chinaman, who does your laundry. Ye needn’t feel sorry for the likes of him. Don’t you know there’s a fabulous warren of tunnels extending far below Noxtown where the heathen Chinee all eat and sleep, and where some of whom, like a coal-mine mule or drayhorse, never do see the light of day? They smoke opium and gamble down in them tunnels, and carry on with white women and all the other unspeakable practices that are attributed to them are no doubt true, for where there’s smoke, there’s fire. Where they came from, I hear, they still believe in slavery. I got it from a reliable source. I heard it from a friend of a friend, who got it from a Catholic priest.
“And—while we’re on the subject of the Mackerel Snappers–Are the Irish very much better? God Damn Your Good Luck Soul if you think so! Forget Sean O’Blockhead, the conductor of the electric trolley-car, for his is a hard lot, but he will always accept a little palm oil in lieu of throwing yer whole party of Blutos off’n the tram fer want of payment—the stinkard! Forget the Policeman on the beat, whom everyone calls Clancy, even though yon wild Hibernian might be anything from a Mick to a Seamus. He can be bought off for a bright red apple or a shot of whiskey or a crisp dollar bill. Like magpies they are, these Irish policemen—they’ll allus come over on you, and will glaum onter anything in sight, including a hot stove. And ain’t they cute, the Peelers, with their little helmets and their billy clubs that they like to pound on the sidewalk whenever they need some assistance in a great big hurry now. I’ll tell you this—you don’t have to be a half-grown shad to be a Copper—but it don’t hurt none. What kind of man takes a job cleanin’ up after someone else’s garbage? I’ll tell you another thing–An Irishman is like a Greek—he won’t forget a wrong and he’ll hold a grudge forever—furthermore, he’ll cook the devil in his feathers. Don’t ask me where they come by it—all their argumentative nature and drunken fussin’. Must have been inherited from the legendary bog-trotters as trod the earth once upon a day. Or maybe the Irish are half human and half fairy-folk, like the legends say. I’ll tell you this much—there’s nothing like the love of a good woman to soothe your savage Mick. Though it doesn’t last. Love never does. After she’s squeezed out a dozen bairns—and usually well before—old Mikey is back on the sauce. A-loungin’ with his fellow lushmen, listenin’ to idiotic jigs, a beefin’ about the Gaw-damn English, and hardly ever up to doin’ anything except to be goin’ home to beat the candle and blow out his wife—or vicey versy.
“Well, now, I say God bless the Dago for one thing—he keeps the Irishman in line. As blustering as a drunken Irishman can be, a brawlin’ with his fists, never fear—because along comes a sneaky Dago with a knife and gives him the old au reservoir. No wonder the Dagoes have been around for thousands of years. Those greasy, garlicky, oily sons-of-bitches usually know when to keep their mouths shut, which is all the time, unless, of course, they’re with their own kind, then all they do is talk. Never knew such a crew for yapping and blowing and making with the grand gestures. Screaming and hollering, whenever they’re not eating and drinking, and sometimes before, after, and during. Now, a few of these Dagoes—you can’t really call them white men, now, can ye—they become Doctors and Lawyers and such-like—that’s the dream of Dago heaven right there—but most of them seem to find themselves working in construction. Which is fine, for the well-built ones. Otherwise, the scrawny and squinney-eyed ones end up as priests. Which is fine—why shouldn’t they profit from all their dumb-fogged fables and lackwit superstitions? Or otherwise they become fruit stand vendors, or barbers, or Goddamn pimps. Some of them dagoes is mighty handsome, in a greasy way. Probably on account of many of them, they are a mongrel race. It’s a known fact that they got all kinds of bloodlines mixed into ‘em, over many thousands of years. Including the old Tar Brush, you may be sure. Well, they say a mongrel is always healthier than a pure-bred.
“Then there’s the Hunkies. Them, and their blessed chalk, and their Bitter Lamentations, and their cabbage, and their duck’s blood soup, and their blasted kiełbasa—and their vodka! They’re even after putting booze in their doughnuts! Work hard, play hard—phaugh! That’s the same excuse that drunks give out the world over! I’ll tell the world: If ever a man was made to push a wheelbarrow and be made into a beast of burden, it’s the Hunky. He’s got no ambition to do anything greater. And if he has, you know that he lives far away from where he was brought up, and has probably changed his name to sound more like an Englishman. God knows you can’t talk to them. I’ve tried. For I’ll swear that they don’t say much and they don’t have much to say. Cept’n maybe ‘Pass the doughnuts.’
THE DIXIE CUPS
‘The Cutting Challenge’ on social media
In the room the women come and go. Talking of Mr Craig Raine-O. (I’m a famous heterosexual man, you know.)
5*AVATAR OF THE ZEITGEIST
Top 12 Assclowns of the GOP 2016 Presidential Field
How Bobby Jindal lost everything: A one-time GOP hope, gutted by Grover Norquist worship and his own ambition
The special awfulness that is Rick Perry:
Scott Walker Moves Toward Candidacy With Fund-Raising Arm
6* DAILY UTILITY
SEVEN REASONS TO UPGRADE TO WORD 2010
A GOOD SHIT IS BEST
BY WILLIE MURPHY AND HARVEY PEKAR
CVS PROFILING BLACK CUSTOMERS
“ill-founded institutional belief … minority customers are criminals and thieves.”
REICH OF THE BLACK SUN
Carl Jung’s Delightfully Disgruntled Review of Ulysses and His Letter to James Joyce
11* DEVIATIONS FROM THE PREPARED TEXT: A REVIEW OF OTHER MEDIA
Actors reportedly paid $50 a pop to cheer at Donald Trump’s presidential campaign announcement
We can see that Trump is already keeping his promise to create new jobs.
TEN STORIES ABOUT DONALD TRUMP YOU WON’T BELIEVE ARE TRUE
CONTROVERSIES IN POPULAR CULTURE.
801. CURRENT SUPERSTITIONS (1896)
- “Sparks on the bottom of the tea-kettle means rain”.
I would like to compile a series of modern superstitions.
- A squealing fan belt means wet weather.
- Grinning clowns portend infantine nightmares.
- Big shoes, big package. Small shoes, not worth the bother.