Category: Mocking Furriners

Kein Zweiter Änderungsantrag

Mocking Furriners, The Gun Thing

…which means that the Krauts don’t have a Second Amendment, as witnessed by this sad tale:

Granted, there’s a law in Germanland called the “War Weapons Control Act” which says you can’t own, for example, a Pzkw Mark V (Panther) — I assume it means a working tank;   otherwise, it’s nothing more than a museum piece…

…which old Klaus-Dieter’s clearly is.

And in any event, the old buzzard is eighty-four years old;  he’s hardly likely to launch a blitzkrieg on the local municipal offices, is he?

On the other hand:  70 assault rifles?  That’s impressive, even by Texas standards, although the alleged ammo stash (2,000 rounds) is woefully inadequate — assuming they’re the Stg-44’s 7.62x33mm Kurz cartridges, that’s less than one 30-round magazine per gun.

Also not enough to launch a decent assault on the local Ampt.

Now, the anti-tank “cannon” (seriously?) — even if it’s the teeny Pak 36 with its 37mm gun — would be kinda fun to take up to Boomershoot or to use in times of, shall we say, civic fun and games.  Had it been the fearsome 88mm KwK 36…well, now we’d be talking turkey.  But unlike the Pak 36, you can’t tow it behind your Ram — it’s way too heavy, even for the 5.7-liter engine.

But whatever the actual gun, there’s no mention of any ammo for the thing, which makes it all the more ridiculous that Klaus-Dieter’s been fined a quarter-million euros for owning it and the other decommissioned items.

Final note:  he kept it all in his basement.  Some basement.

And I’d love to get my hands on one of those Stg-44s, assuming they haven’t been wrecked.

Now Accents?

Mocking Furriners, Snowflakes, Wokism

Great Cicero’s bleeding adenoids, have we come to this?

Linguist Dr Rob Drummond, who works at Manchester Met University, argued using accents for comedic effect in sitcoms like Fawlty Towers, where Andrew Sachs famously portrayed a clumsy Spanish waiter called Manuel, promotes ‘lazy stereotypes’ and can be ‘pretty damaging’.

Damaging to whom, exactly?

While my native accent is pure Johannesburg WASP (often mistaken for British in America, but never in Britishland), I love doing accents.  While some are not so good (my Texas twang fools absolutely nobody), my Indian-, French- and even German-accented English are all pretty good.  (Afrikaans-flavored English, of course, is second nature.)  My Scottish accent is passable outside the U.K., but nothing beats my Australian — I’ve fooled even native Aussies into thinking I was pure Ocker, and having armed myself with some Strine slang, it’s unbeatable.

And if I live somewhere for any lengthy period of time, the native accent is easy — when I lived in north Jersey, even some of my NJ buddies could be fooled when I called them up and asked in my best Hoboken Nasal, “Yo, howya dooin’?”

So now I can’t do accents anymore, in case someone is “damaged”?

Fuck that.

That Freedom Thing

Mocking Furriners

The old expression goes, “If you are not allowed to laugh at something, you’re facing totalitarianism.”

Try this example:

Katie Hopkins has been deported from Australia after ‘joking’ about breaching hotel quarantine rules and calling Covid lockdowns the ‘greatest hoax in human history.’
The controversial British social commentator, 46, boarded a Singapore Airlines flight from Sydney at 3pm on Monday after her ‘critical skills’ visa was torn up by the Federal Government and she was fined $1,000 (£536) for answering the door of her room in quarantine naked and without a face mask in violation of quarantine rules.

Here’s the best part:

It was at 5am on Saturday that Hopkins took to Instagram live to post a speech where she ‘called out’ the lockdowns in Sydney and Melbourne and threatened to answer her hotel door naked.

Why is this funny, in light of her expulsion?  She never actually answered the door naked and maskless — she only jokingly threatened to do so.

Nevertheless, to the priggish OzGov, who have to lock down their population serially because of their inability to manage any form of mass inoculation against the WuFlu, this was All Too Much:

Home Affairs Minister Karen Andrews said on Monday morning: ‘I hadn’t heard of her before and I don’t want to hear about her ever again.
‘I thought it was just shameful, the fact that she was out there boasting about breaching quarantine was just appalling,’ she told the ABC.
…
‘As soon as we found out about her behaviour and the fact that she was out there openly flaunting our quarantine system here, we took pretty strong action as quickly as we possibly could to get that visa cancelled, and to make sure she would be leaving the country,’ she said.

What a bunch of self-righteous tools.

Other Priorities

Crime, Gypsies Tramps & Thieves, Mocking Furriners

I spoke of Victoria Coren a little while back, and now it’s time to call on her brother Giles, albeit for different reasons:

Giles Coren exploded with rage on social media this morning as he revealed thieves pinched his £65,000 eco-Jaguar for the second time in just three months.
The TV presenter, 51, turned detective back in April after his beloved car was stolen but police told him they didn’t have the ‘manpower to investigate’.

Of course they don’t.  Perhaps it’s because if you go on Twatter and call a footballer a nigger, the response will be dramatic, and immediate.  But to continue:

In an incredible thread, [Coren] posted pictures of his journey in tracking down the Jaguar I-Pace, which he eventually found in Highgate, north London, telling followers he ‘got his electric kitty cat back’.

Didn’t help much.  After spending a small fortune to re-key his car and change all its “anti-theft” doodads, the car was stolen again, leaving Coren in an incandescent rage.

In a furious tweet, Mr Coren wrote: ‘They’ve stolen my fucking car AGAIN!!!! Cost me three grand to reset the keys and put in a new tracking system after last time and what good does it do? FUCK ALL.
‘If you see a black Jaguar iPace reg ending JVN could you tell me? I’ll give you a million pounds.’

Giles, ol’ buddy:  if you’re going to drop a million bucks, you should rather move out of London, to a more law-abiding place like say, Reading.

I’ll give him the last word, though:

The food critic began: ‘Last night the cunts stole my new Jaguar I-Pace. So Fuck them, fuck the environment and fuck any sort of giving a shit about cars.
‘I’m buying a six year old diesel fucking Skoda and everyone can just fuck off.’

Note to the Greens:  when you’ve lost the food critics… after all, this electric car thing will soon lose its allure for other reasons.

Gapping It

Gratuitous Chick Pics, Mocking Furriners

Back in the late 1960s and early 70s, it became apparent that Rhodesia was going to fall and become just the latest African shithole (now known as Zimbabwe).  As a result, there was a veritable flood of White Rhodesians over the Limpopo River into what was still a prosperous South Africa.  With their typical mordant wit, Rhodesians called this exodus “taking the gap”, and abbreviated it into the simpler verb “gapping”.

Of course, this was only a short-term solution, because as one wag of my acquaintance put it:  “Where are you Whities going to go next?  The Atlantic Ocean’s deep, you know?”

One of those who foresaw the inevitable Zimbabwe-fication of South Africa was Your Humble Narrator, who had inherited his longtime family tradition of cowardice (see:  fleeing France for the Dutch Cape to escape the persecution of the Huguenots), and thus took his own gap to these United States in the Great Wetback Episode of 1986, deep Atlantic Ocean notwithstanding.  And so did quite a few others, Longtime Friend Trevor actually beating me here by a few months.

Since the Mandela Honeymoon, South Africa has of course continued its own steep plummet into Darkest Africa, and the flood of Gappers has increased, not just to the U.S. but also to Canuckistan, Oz and even to Britishland (for those fortunate enough to have British passports).

I told you all that simply so that I could show you the latest Gappers, who happen to be the twin nieces of the late Princess Diana, and who grew up in Cape Town.  Ladies Amelia and Eliza have landed in London for good (Brit citizens, natch), and I’m fairly sure they’re going to do well, having been blessed with good looks, excellent dentistry, breeding and no small amount of Spencer cash.

Of course, if they follow what seems to be the new norm in upper Brit society, they’ll no doubt soon be enamored of the usual crowd of tattooed rappers and malcontent European footballers of questionable descent.

Call me cynical, or realistic.