Category: Two-Minute Hate

Disgusting People

Surrender

Legal Stuff, Muzzies, Two-Minute Hate

Surrendering to an enemy is not always a bad thing.  Sometimes, your position is hopeless, and continuing the struggle is not only pointless but perhaps ruinous — loss of life, loss of country, whatever.

But surrendering to an enemy when you have won?  That, my friends, takes a lot of doing.   Try this for an example of the latter:

Are you fucking kidding me?  The murderous bitch was “upset”?   Bloody hell, why not just put sunglasses on her to cover her eyes as well?  Or why bother with a mugshot at all?

When she expressed her anguish at the facial mugshot, they should have re-shot the thing, thus:

Or even better, if she had the proper attributes:

That would have been much better treatment for her… but no, Milord Justice had to roll over like a little possum and accommodate her stupid religious custom, when she’s accused of trying to join ISIS to kill non-Muslim people.

Fuck ’em — not just the terrorists, but the spineless assholes who kowtow to them.

By the way:  before the original and oh-so-objectionable mugshot is scrubbed from the Internet by the judge’s little cousins in wokedom, here it is.

Never Mind The Words

Music, Two-Minute Hate

…or, as musicologists call them, “lyrics”.

For the longest time, I’ve detested song lyrics.  I don’t mean specific lyrics, necessarily (although whoever penned the words in most Streisand songs deserves their own special circle of Hell), but all lyrics.

That’s because I love music, and lyrics are just a distraction from the art form.  It’s why the great paintings don’t contain expository words or speech bubbles — just a simple title suffices — and classical sculptures aren’t tattooed (although it’s only a question of time before they are, and I’m hoping that this can wait until after I’m dead).

Seriously:  somebody please enlighten me as to how Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata, for instance, would be improved by a male or female warbler spouting some execrable nonsense over Ludwig’s deathless piano.

And as a one-time chorister, I have to make an exception for some (but not all) sacred music, e.g.  Handel’s Hallelujah Chorus  or Fauré’s Agnus Dei.  And even then, using the latter as an example, it’s the same three lines repeated ad nauseam anyway.

I have a special room of hatred in my heart for opera, because not only are the lyrics generally trite and awful, but unless you’re fluent in German and/or Italian, 90% of the art form is completely incomprehensible anyway.

“But the voice is just another instrument!”

My point exactly.  There’s nothing wrong with the singing;  it’s when you add words that the whole thing falls apart.

I also make exception when the lyrics are satirical or humorous — when the music’s job is just to make the words memorable by the addition of a melody.  A fine example of this is to be found in the works of Gilbert & Sullivan, e.g.:

For as a general rule we know / Two strings go to every bow;
Make up your mind what grief will bring / When you have two bows to every string!

No greater argument against bigamy was ever written.

Don’t get me started on modern music.  Take for example CSN’s Suite: Judy Blue Eyes, a love song supposedly written about Judy Collins — who ended up bedding two-thirds of the trio, and it wouldn’t surprise me if the young houri  bonked David Crosby as well (because it was the late 1960s).  The song is brilliant, the harmonies, well, CSN;  but the lyrics?

Friday evening / Sunday in the afternoon;
What have you got to lose?
Will you come see me / Thursday or Saturday?
What have I got to lose?

As sung by the boys, the lyrics sound wonderful;  but they’re incomprehensible rubbish.

Which brings me to Steely Dan.  As Longtime Readers know, I have no equal when it comes to admiration for the works of Messrs. Fagen and Becker.  Complex music, wonderfully arranged and played:  Beethoven would definitely approve.  Now try and make sense of their lyrics.

While the music played you worked by candlelight
Those San Francisco nights
You were the best in town
Just by chance you crossed the diamond with the pearl
You turned it on the world
That’s when you turned the world around

…and Kid Charlemagne  was one of their more comprehensible efforts.

But the greatest example of bullshit lyrics were undoubtedly the prog-rock Yes.

Yesterday a morning came, a smile upon your face
Caesar’s palace, morning glory, silly human race
On the sailing ship to nowhere, leaving any place
If the summer changed to winter, yours is no disgrace

The best part is that Jon Anderson admitted many years later that the lyrics actually had no meaning;  he chose the words simply because of their sound and their scanning value to the music.  Which made me chortle out loud, because almost as many analytical pages had been penned by poseur “musicologists” attempting to divine some kind of meaning to Yours Is No Disgrace  as had been written by English literary poseurs attempting to do the same with the beaded curtain in Hemingway’s Hills Like White Elephants.  Same purpose, same foolishness.

No;  if you’re going to have lyrics in your song, make them throwaway stuff, e.g. Volman and Kaylan’s Elenore:

Elenore, gee, I think you’re swell
And you really do me well
You’re my pride and joy, et cetera…

Et cetera?  [snork]

I could go on all day about this stuff, but let me finish with something a little less tongue-in-cheek.  Here’s Ralph McTell’s Streets Of London:

Have you seen the old man
In the closed-down market
Kicking up the paper
With his worn out shoes?
In his eyes you see no pride
And held loosely at his side
Yesterday’s paper telling yesterday’s news

So how can you tell me you’re lonely
And say for you that the sun don’t shine?
Let me take you by the hand and
Lead you through the streets of London
Show you something to make you change your mind

Have you seen the old girl
Who walks the streets of London
Dirt in her hair and her clothes in rags?
She’s no time for talking
She just keeps right on walking
Carrying her home in two carrier bags

So how can you tell me you’re lonely
And say for you that the sun don’t shine?
Let me take you by the hand and
Lead you through the streets of London
I’ll show you something to make you change your mind

In the all night cafe
At a quarter past eleven
Same old man sitting there on his own
Looking at the world
Over the rim of his teacup
Each tea lasts an hour
And he wanders home alone

So how can you tell me you’re lonely
Don’t say for you that the sun don’t shine
Let me take you by the hand and
Lead you through the streets of London
I’ll show you something to make you change your mind

Have you seen the old man
Outside the Seaman’s Mission
Memory fading with the medal ribbons that he wears
In our winter city
The rain cries a little pity
For one more forgotten hero
And a world that doesn’t care

So how can you tell me you’re lonely
And say for you that the sun don’t shine?
Let me take you by the hand and
Lead you through the streets of London
I’ll show you something that’ll make you change your mind.

Not lyrics:  poetry.  Shakespeare would approve.

“Moderate”

Muzzies, Psychos, Two-Minute Hate

When looking at this little show (via Insty, thankee Squire), I was struck by one thing that CAIR chick screamed:

“I demand Jihad, I want ISIS to kill all of you.”

…which right there gives us the difference between a “moderate” Muslim and an “extremist” Muslim:  the extremist (ISIS) wants to kill all Jews, while the moderate (CAIR) wants ISIS to kill all Jews, and is quite okay with that.

Hope that clears everything up for you.

 

Peeve #564

Gratuitous Chick Pics, Two-Minute Hate

Among the several things about Modern Life that make me ultra-peevish is this thing about people walking around carrying drinks — water bottles, Yeti flasks, what have you — and I want to ask people (loudly) whether they think they’re going to die of thirst before they can get to the nearest tap or drinking fountain.  Mostly, this applies to women, the precious creatures, because Teh Experts tell us that We Must Remain Hydrated, Lest We Die.

Maybe when you’re crossing the fucking Mojave Desert, but not when you’re crossing the street in Dallas or Los Angeles.

However, let it not be said that I’m completely intolerant in this regard.  I am prepared, for instance, to make exceptions to my “Stop acting like a camel!”  gripe in circumstances such as these:

…although I should also point out that not all women seem to need that oh-so important drink in their hand every time they step outdoors:


…and of course, there are those poor things in obvious need of sustenance:

I mean, I wouldn’t want y’all to think I was that Krool & Hartless, after all.

But in all honesty, if you’re that thirsty, get off the street and find a place to assuage your thirst — and there are many of them, in cities all over the world.  Places like these:

It’s really not too much to ask.

Ah Yes, That Old Evil

Race Hustlers, Seen On Campus, Two-Minute Hate

Predictably, we’re starting to see that old bugbear start to rear its ugly head again:

Just to address Item #2:

She describes “a sense of urgency” as a damaging characteristic, arguing that it discourages inclusivity, long-term thinking, and learning from mistakes.

This “urgency” argument has even been used to criticize white workers who complete projects quickly or work overtime. Some activists also claim deadlines and strict arrival times are unfair because they don’t account for cultural differences—such as “Black time.”

“Black time” (or “Colored People’s Time” / CPT) is a term sometimes used to describe habitual tardiness in Black communities. NPR’s Karen Bates explains that she learned about CPT as meaning “clock-challenged” and used as a self-referential joke within Black culture.

Still, some academics take this idea seriously.

“Unjust experiences of time are the reason that due dates and deadlines are so harmful—they amplify racism, sexism, classism, and ableism that already deprive the most vulnerable in our communities of their basic rights and dignities,” certain professors argue.

We used to call this “Africa Time” back in my old homeland, and it wasn’t very fashionable amongst Blacks during the apartheid era (because they’d get fired for habitual tardiness), but since the Blessed Mandela’s ANC took over, it has become very much a thing (surprise, surprise).

And the other items on the list are equally wrong-headed and utter bullshit — prime examples of “you should have to change the institution to accommodate me”, and not the other way round.

Bloody hell, as if the airlines aren’t already using Black Time.

Not that this Oklin pustule is a solo act, mind you.  Here’s another one:

A University of North Dakota history professor who studies the American West believes monuments depicting the pioneers “reinforce white supremacy.”

In an interview this week with KJZZ Phoenix, Cynthia Prescott (pictured) discussed her research on pioneer monuments, including a book that argues the artwork promotes “white cultural superiority” and “gender stereotypes.”

Much like with Confederate monuments, the professor said America should re-examine artwork honoring American settlers.

“A lot of people have talked about Confederate monuments in particular, as being monuments that were put up in the late 19th, early 20th centuries for the purpose of enshrining a racial hierarchy. And through my work, I argue that Western pioneer monuments were doing very similar cultural work,” she told KJZZ.

Fucking hell;  left to non-Whites, the U.S. would still have the Mississippi River as its western border and not the Pacific.

Yup, it’s just another “deconstruction” of history to change it into something that’s more to the bullshit philosophy of Wokism and “racial justice”.

Just for identification purposes, here are the two above pseudo-academics, just to make recognition easier:

I know;  you never expected them to look like that, did you?

And by the way, the “bugbear” I referred to in the opening is not “White supremacy”, but the continued efforts of academia to undermine the very fabric of our nation.

Welcome To OUR World

Journalist Scum, The Gun Thing

In this report about a kid caught driving at some ridiculous speed, the article’s author complains:

Sadly, authorities did not provide a photo of or details on the specific make and model Corvette, but the teenager ran for approximately 20 miles (or 10 minutes), according to a release issued by state police.

Yeah, we gunnies have the same problem.  While we applaud and congratulate hero citizens for whacking some bad guy in the act of larceny, we are never told what gun was used to send the goblin to join the Choir Invisibule (/Monty Python).

Hell, all we are told is generic shit like “handgun” or occasionally “shotgun”, which is fine, but we would really like to know the important stuff like type of gun, caliber, ammo type (e.g. whether FMJ or hollowpoint), and even more accurately, what brand or type of bullet — Remington Gold Dot 200gr, Hornady Extreme Defense 185gr, SIG Elite V-Crown 124gr, etc.  This is important information, because then we can see for ourselves how well or otherwise the boolets affect the ungodly, instead of just having to rely on the usual “ballistic gel” so beloved of ammo testers.

Equally important is where said goblin was ventilated, along with pictures of said wound.  (Okay, maybe that’s a Pic Too Far, but you get my drift, right?)

If the Jackals Of The Press (JOTP) can’t be bothered to do any research, or even push the officials for details, what’s the point of even pretending to “inform” the public?