Your Wingnut Fuck-Up Of The Week

(God help me—Photo of an actual botched Wal-Mart Cake)

Or 24-Percenter Tales To Astonish!—Issue #41:
“Jesus and The Amazing Time Travel Machine”

Many readers and commenters here have rightfully cited a simple point in fact—a point in fact that is troublesome to have to deal with, but is undeniably so—that there is a hard-core 20%-to-30% of the American people who will unflinchingly believe as the one, true Gospel anything their lunatic, dim-bulb masters tell them.

I'll tell you why that's distressing. It's the uncomfortable feeling that these wind-up bots of muddle-headed group-thought will say and do just about anything to defend their positions—wrong as they may be, and are just as liable to lash out irrationally when their side loses enough clout to where they can be more easily ignored.

Let's focus on the slightly better prospect of the two—the “say and do just about anything to defend their positions” path. We are talking about people who have had it imbedded deep in their primary operating systems—like Robocop's “Prime Directive” list—the guiding mantra that THEY MUST NEVER ADMIT TO BEING WRONG...EVER!

They can answer 2+2 =5 as a “Final Jeopardy” question before a live audience of hundreds and millions of TV viewers, or run down from the stands and drop kick a just-grabbed-from-the-stands newborn 70 yards through the goalposts on ‘Monday Night Football”, and as sure as Djimon Hounsou ain't Edgar Winter's brother, they will find a way to deny, straight lie and justify their goof-up as somehow not being a goof-up at all.

The case in point today?

The broken-hammer dumb Bill O'Reilly while playing his role of skeevy Father O'Falafel on the radio for his 38 listeners, got all authoritative with a caller about how the Middle East's current clashes were all pre-ordained, stating:

(November 13th O'Reilly Factor: RADIO via Media Matters)

...“Go to Revelations in the Bible and look at the prediction for the end of the world. It's fascinating, because it does involve the Middle East, and it does involve the clash of cultures, as Jim pointed out.”

“Now, a lot of people think that's superstition, nonsense, all of that. The secularists reject it out of hand. And I'm not trying to convert you to be a Bible-thumper. I'm just saying it's an interesting read. This was written -- what? Five thousand years ago?”

Um...I have found that even a great many non-Christians know the simple and oft-repeated time-frame of the Bible's time of creation—Jesus died 2000 years ago, and the Bible was written shortly thereafter. 2000 years ago! I know it, You know it. Even the most lapsed CEOs (“Christmas and Easter Onlys”) know that hammered-in little factoid.

But Bill O'Reilly somehow didn't, and in fact pulled an extra 3,000 years out of his onanistically-diddled ass and plain-old fudged (Good God! Did I just use the verb “fudged” in that sentence too?) the date.

Keith Olbermann didn't miss O'Reilly's half-assed Bible schooling either, and here's where it gets hilarious:

(O'Reilly) who blasts secular progressives and makes fun of people who slip up on their biblical knowledge; he made a bible reference himself; “go to revelations in the Bible and look at the prediction for the end of the world.  This was written, what, 5,000 years ago?” 


Five thousand years ago?  All right, let me go through this slowly for you.  The Revelations in the Book of Revelations are said to have been written by John after an Angel came to see him with these revelations from Jesus Christ.  Jesus Christ, Bill.  Now, he was supposed to have died roughly 2007 years ago, which is where we get the number on the calendar, the calendar things with the years on it.  It‘s a.d., ano domini (ph), year of our lord.  It is sort of dated back to the death—

The rusted, cinderblock-propped clown car that is Newsmax.com—the “Dick and Jane” primer for the freepazoid set then decided to come back on Olbermann, chiding him for dating A.D. as “roughly 2007 years ago” as opposed to subtracting the assumed 33 years of Christ's life to get the “proper” 1,974 years.

O'Reilly missed by thirty centuries and they look the other way, Olbermann says “roughly 2007 years”—missing by about thirty, and he's the fuck-up? Well, to complete the “no limit to their ass-covering” circle, Newsmax went here—without so much as a fare back:

But were you right in suggesting that Bill O’Reilly was wrong? In a word, no.

Bill O’Reilly, as you reenacted him, tossed off questions asking whether the Book of Revelation was written 5,000 years ago. But odd and off-base as this number is, we technically cannot call O’Reilly wrong.

Why? As its resident star-scientist Carl Sagan could have explained to you when you attended Cornell, lowest vine of the Ivy League (which, as a privileged loony-left kid from Westchester, you probably chose because it is known as “Big Red”), simple questions may imply but rarely assert factuality. Therefore simple statements in the interrogative mode — questions — are almost never “wrong.” E.g., “Could it be that this footprint is evidence that Bigfoot exists?”

It’s like Sen. Hillary Clinton avoiding direct answers in debates.

But, Keith, Bill O’Reilly’s inflection made clear that he himself was asking questions about whether the Book of Revelation “was written, what? 5,000 years ago?”

Yes...that's how far they will go. Fuck the “Chewbacca” defense—these sillingtons have brought it millions of light years home with the good, old American “Bigfoot” defense.

For them, O'Reilly was right because in the middle of his religious bloviating, where he authoritatively speaks of how “interesting a read” Revelations is (See, he's read it and whatnot.) and cites passages predicting this and that, he states in “Who doesn't know this?” question form when the book may have been written, thus making it okay to muff the date by thirty fucking centuries!!! Brilliant!!!

That kind of neener-neener cognitive dissonance is the sort that leads fools the way to dusty, head-bagged, and freshly-Nike-ed death.

You kind of know the rest of it...

“Out! Out, brief truth!
Thou art a walking annoyance,
A poor substitute,
Who struts and frets his hour 'pon the stage
And is paid attention to no more.
T'is a tale, told by a reality-spouter,
Full of sound and fury,
Signifying uh...nothing they want to hear.

And with that, I reluctantly await Sean Hannity's splitting the uprights later this season at a Jets game and having it all explained away as an unfortunate “metatarsal-to-infant malfunction.”

I can only hope that the netting behind those ever-moving goalposts breaks the tot's fall somewhat.

There's more...

To: Bill O'Reilly -- From: Keith Olbermann

No one stays on top forever, Bill-O. Especially when one is a walking, psyche-exposing, common-sense damaged, bed-shit on daily parade like you. You fucked up dissing the folks uptown—you know it—and as I'm sure you're finding out, this is becoming quite an issue in town. I fielded four different calls about it last night, from boiling angry Black professionals—a lawyer, and a mass-transit executive among 'em. Ohhhhh, I know you'll issue your apology on Friday afternoon, hoping to bury it—but it ain't gonna end there. Not saying you're gonna be fired—you spoke for your network and your sooty-handed, pointy-hatted viewership.

But this will be readily incorporated into the rest of the creepy, evil shit that defines you, i.e.: A sexist, manipulative, lying, depraved, insensitve, retrograde, troglodytic bigot. We intend to put rockets behind you to help speed your plow of self destruction. We're comin' for you. And so is Keith Olbermann—on your heels like a dog on a lead-footed mailman.

Steady gainin'. Comin' for your Number One spot.

The best moment is :55 seconds in. Seriously. It's enough to make you spit iced tea on your monitor...motherfucker.

There's more...

“Waiter..There's A Racist In My Soup!”

You know what? I'd rather NOT have what he's having...


I, your erstwhile LowerManhattanite was born in Harlem. At Harlem Hospital.

I've lived in Harlem off and on for at least a quarter of my life.

Worked there, grew up there, had a daughter of my own born there.

It's the historic “Capital of Black America”, boasting its crown jewel of Black entertainment—The Apollo Theater, as well as being the home of the great Black arts movement—The Harlem Renaissance— in the 1920's. It is shorthand for “The Black Experience” in the eyes of many Americans, thanks to its dense concentration of population, and location in the bustling world metropolis that is New York.

And in its being shorthand for “The Black Experience”, it leaves itself wide-open for a motormouth racist like Bill O'Reilly to impugn everything about it, and all African Americans in general—just by his self-destructive, condescending, and ultimately impossible attempts to present himself as an open-minded, unprejudiced human being.

Bill's own words kick him dead in the ass. The sordidness, via Kos:

O'REILLY: You know, I was up in Harlem a few weeks ago, and I actually had dinner with Al Sharpton, who is a very, very interesting guy. And he comes on The Factor a lot, and then I treated him to dinner, because he's made himself available to us, and I felt that I wanted to take him up there. And we went to Sylvia's, a very famous restaurant in Harlem. I had a great time, and all the people up there are tremendously respectful. They all watch The Factor. You know, when Sharpton and I walked in, it was like a big commotion and everything, but everybody was very nice.

And I couldn't get over the fact that there was no difference between Sylvia's restaurant and any other restaurant in New York City. I mean, it was exactly the same, even though it's run by blacks, primarily black patronship. It was the same, and that's really what this society's all about now here in the U.S.A. There's no difference. There's no difference. There may be a cultural entertainment -- people may gravitate toward different cultural entertainment, but you go down to Little Italy, and you're gonna have that. It has nothing to do with the color of anybody's skin.

_________________________________

O'REILLY: That's right. That's right. There wasn't one person in Sylvia's who was screaming, "M-Fer, I want more iced tea."

(JUAN) WILLIAMS: Please...

O'REILLY: You know, I mean, everybody was -- it was like going into an Italian restaurant in an all-white suburb in the sense of people were sitting there, and they were ordering and having fun. And there wasn't any kind of craziness at all.

Know how you find out who's a racist? You don't ask the clown a trick question. You just open a mic, let him think he's king, and let him go...to...town.

How ugly is this statement from Bill-O? Let my Black ass count the ways...

1.) “I was up in Harlem a few weeks ago, and I actually had dinner with Al Sharpton, who is a very, very interesting guy. And he comes on The Factor a lot, and then I treated him to dinner.”

Who the hell starts an anecdote about a dinner with someone of importance by mentioning that he treated the guy to the meal? Who gives a Goddamn who paid for the meal? Unless the pay-er is trying to make himself appear more magnanimous than he thinks people assume him to be. “We went to dinner” is all one had to say, and ever does say—unless one is feeling a bit defensive about something he's not coming clean about. Wonder what that might be, Bill-O? “Give me a Nobel, people! I came out of pocket and bought a hungry n*gg*r a ham-hock, uptown!”

Whooo-lawd! Bill shaw-nuff do be takin' care a' peoples!

And please. You know Goddamned well that the sanctimonious asshole expensed it. The cheap, whoring bastard.

2.) “And I couldn't get over the fact that there was no difference between Sylvia's restaurant and any other restaurant in New York City. I mean, it was exactly the same, even though it's run by blacks, primarily black patronship. That's right. That's right. There wasn't one person in Sylvia's who was screaming, "M-Fer, I want more iced tea."

You couldn't get over that fact, Bill? What...in the wide world of sports would make the place “different” enough to even be an issue to consider? What were you expecting? Gruel served in shallow bowls with no utensils? Flies flitting about? Tasty “Uncle Charlie's Cannibal Stew” on the “Specials” menu? What?! “Even though it's run by Blacks”. That's right. There wasn't one person in Sylvia's who was screaming, "M-Fer, I want more iced tea."?

Apparently the rumors of straight-razor fights in the vestibule, and craps games near the utensils station run by a gold-toothed pimp's not panning out left our ill-informed patron somewhat aghast.

Which is actually undertandable...as I get the same sense of shock and awe when I go to the Dan Lynch Irish Pub on Third Avenue downtown and see a full-on, “Quiet Man”, twenty-minute donnybrook not develop. Begorrah! Tis' a miracle, indeed!

And maaaaaan, when I'm at Umberto's Clam House in Little Italy and don't see a sweaty, pinstriped dude with a gingham napkin hanging down get shot full of holes by a coupleo of swarthy, shady gunsels in homburgs and pinky rings...my jaw just hits the floor, and keeps goin' right down to the basement...where they're stomping grapes into wine—or so I've been led to believe.

In his attempt to sound oh-so-condescendingly pleased that Crips didn't knife him in the bathroom, because this place is sooooo different from the other restaurants he frequents, the silly bigot tips his hand, gives us the tell, and then sits there smiling as if he's got a fan of cards we can't see.

I know the people who run Sylvia's—the Woods family, Sylvia in particular and her hard working daughters, son, and grandkids. I've eaten there maybe...a hundred times. If you've ever gone there on a weekend morning, you know you can barely get in through the crush of Japanese tourists filling the place, after getting off the rows of tour buses jamming Lenox Avenue and the nearby side streets. And if you've been up there any length of time in the last decade, as I have in living around the corner from Sylvia's for two years, you'd also know that the area is in a state of serious gentrification, with affluent Blacks coming “home”, as well as rich Whites buying in and opening businesses up and down Lenox, and cross-ways on 125th Street. But O'Reilly (who evidently doesn't know that Bill Clinton's offices are about 300 yards down the block from Sylvia's ) seems to think it's all “Superfly TNT” and “The Mack” goin' on in the Isaac Hayes-soundtracked streets of Harlem he read about in dog-eared, old Signet Iceberg Slim paperbacks. This story is gonna bug ownership in an odd way. They don't like to rock the boat, and don't mix “politics” with the tasty greens they serve. They come pretty much down the middle politically.

But the staff don't play. You don't come in there and disrespect, and treat that place—a NY cultural, and gastronomic icon—like some bumpkin selling fried fish sandwiches out the back of his Country Squire wagon on the side of the road. He's not gonna be punished in any way by FOX for his words. It's their worldview. We can hammer him over it, and make him feel squeamish for what he said when he realizes (Ha.Ha.) just how fucked up it sounded and was. It'll be just one more notch on his belt of racist assholery.

The folks who are gonna get his ass back are gonna be...the help. Not just at Sylvia's, but anyplace he goes where Black folks control aspects of the food. Kitchen and restaurant communities are small ones—and once this story gets around, and becomes legend among the people who staff these places...well...

Bill had best take his business elsewhere. You'd be amazed at what awful things can get into a sauce, or roux, that a man would never be able to taste goin' down, but would be candy-fucking-sweet as revenge to the undeservedly dissed people who bust their asses in these restaurants.

Black folks will never forget the scene in “Roots” where Leslie Uggams' beaten-down Kizzy spits in the water she's serving her addled, former slavemistress, the bitter, evil Missy Anne (as played by a frighteningly mean Sandy Duncan).

And come on Bill...you just knows how we loves bein' all kuh-razee an' bodacious, actin' out dem scenes from tha movies we watches, right?

Right.

Check your gravy closely from here on in, Billy. You'll need to.

There's more...