December 31, 2006
The perils of sexually transmitted disease are
demonstrated by this pair of testicles of a man who
bought sex from a hooker in New York's Hell's Kitchen,
only to soon find worms emerging from his rotting
gonads!
The man's testicles eventually rotted and fell off him
onto a subway platform. In this photo, Mayor Bloomberg
displays them to a class of fifth graders as part of a show-
and-tell discussion about the dangers of unprotected sex.
Ver. Fr.: Le maire de New York deploie les testicles d'un
homme qui a engage dans sexe non-protege avec une
prostitutuee du quartier "Hell's Kitchen" (La cuisine du
diable). Les couilles ont ensuite commence a pousser
des vers, et se sont enfin detachees pour tomber par terre sur une rame
du metro.
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December 30, 2006
This woman asked me if I would like a blowjob. I said, “I don’t want any damn job.”
A lot of the women I know would rather blow you than give you sex because it doesn’t mess up their hair, and when they’re blowing you it’s easier for them to reach in your pocket and take your wallet.
This woman at LA International Airport put her baby through the x-ray machine that they use on the carry-on luggage. She thought it was a microwave. In Mexico, where she’s from, that’s what they use to get the kids brown. “Mrs. Gonzalez, how do you want your kid cooked?” “Medium.” Actually, that’s why they call it LAX. It stands for LA X-Ray. Putting your kid through the x-ray machine, that’s more like something you would expect from a man. Except me. I prefer to check the kid through with the check-on luggage. That way you don’t have to worry if the kid’s going to fit in the overhead compartment, and then you have to keep him under the seat.
There’s a reward out for Paris Hilton’s panties. Actually, Mayor Bloomberg said he approves of the new trend of women going around without panties, because that way it gives the pussy a chance to air out. It’s a pubic health measure. It gives the vaginal fluids a chance to dry out, and when you go down on the girl, you don’t eat all that stuff and get your arteries all clogged.
I had a date with Paris Hilton and we made love all night. But my crotch has been itching all day. Jeez, I hope I didn’t catch any crabs. Wait a minute. [reaches in the waistband of his pants and withdraws a large, black rubber spider]. OMIGOD! Well, she said she just got back from Texas!
Now, I read The New York Post everyday. It’s the only way you can keep up with what’s going on in New York. Who cares about Iraq or Somalia? I want to know what’s going on in New York. I want to know what’s going up Paris Hilton’s nose. Last week The Post ran a fantastic close-up shot of Paris Hilton’s nose that still had the little white spot from the coke that she put up her nose. Now, that’s what I call news. But Paris Hilton’s press agent said that that white stuff wasn’t coke at all. He said it was whipped cream from her dessert that got up her nose. I’ll buy that. In today’s Post they ran a front page story about how the clerk in a Dunkin’ Donuts store in Brooklyn got assaulted by an irate customer who was pissed-off because the store had run out of whipped cream to put in her hot chocolate. I happen to know for a fact that 5 minutes before this happened, Paris Hilton had gone into the store and put all the whipped cream up her nose, and that’s why they ran out.
Now, in the interest of science, I’m going to do an experiment to find out if you can eat whipped cream up your nose, like Paris Hilton says she does. I have this can of whipped cream and I’m going to shoot it up my nose. [shoots whipped cream up nose and all over face] Hey, it actually works! That was FANTASTIC! [Wipes the whipped cream off his face with black panties] Hey, look what I got here, it’s Paris Hilton’s panties! They smell like fish. It must be Friday!
Now when Hillary Clinton saw all the free publicity Paris Hilton was getting for not wearing panties, she decided that she wasn’t going to wear panties either, so now when Hillary Clinton gets out of a car, you get a flash of her snatch too. But with Hillary Clinton, it isn’t a charming little slit like Paris Hilton. It’s a grizzly, huge gash like a wound from the Iraq war.
When I heard that Hillary Clinton had thrown out her panties, I thought to myself, “This is my chance to cash in. If I can find her discarded panties, I can sell them on E-Bay and make a fortune of money.” So I went down to the Waldorf Astoria Hotel and I went through the dumpster behind the hotel, and I found these [displays a huge pair of bloomers with the words “CLINTON 2008” written on the ass in magic marker] I should make a fortune with this cool shit!
But that’s not all. I don’t know if you remember, but when Rudolph Giuliani was mayor of New York, he used to dress up in full drag like Marilyn Monroe, with a strapless gown, full makeup, a beauty mark, the whole bit. This was right around the time when his wife left him to appear in “The Vagina Monologues” and he moved in with those two gay guys. Kind of makes you wonder about the guy, you know what I mean?
Now, when Giuliani used to wear pantyhose and high heels, he didn’t wear boxer shorts. Oh no! Giuliani was wearing women’s panties too. So when Giuliani heard that Hillary Clinton was running around without panties, he figured, “I’m running for president too. Maybe if I start going around without panties I can get some free publicity too." So he threw out his panties as well.
When I heard this, I went NUTS! I figured, if I can find Giuliani’s panties, I can sell them as a matched pair with Hillary Clinton’s panties on E-Bay, or I can donate them to The Smithsonian Institution and get a big tax writeoff.
So I went up to Gracie Mansion, and I was rummaging through the garbage cans behind the mansion, but it’s been a long time since Giuliani lived there, and there weren’t any panties. So I was walking away, dejected, when I happened to look up, and what did I see, hanging from the branch of a tree? Giuliani’s panties! And here they are [displays a huge pair of ladies’ drawers with RUDY 2008 written across the butt in magic marker]
Imagine what a carefree guy Giuliani is, dancing around Carl Shurz Park like Holly Golightly, flinging his panties to the four winds! [dances around the stage singing “I feel pretty, oh so pretty…!” Flings the panties into the air] Whoop-de-doo! America’s Mayor! Geez! Now, if Giuliani runs against Hillary Clinton for president, it’s going to be like “Rocky Balboa” of the panties. “In this corner, weighing in at 208 lbs., in the blue panties, Hillary Clinton! And in this corner, in the pink panties, weighing in at 139 ½ lbs., Rudy “Tutti-Frutti” Giuliani. "And let the best panties win!"
FORGET ABOUT THIS BORING BLOG!!! GO TO MY NEW WEBSITE www.200motels.net
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Posted on 12/30/2006
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December 25, 2006
I once had a fantastic career as an accessory designer. I learned to do styling working for the French and Germans trained me in industrial production techniques, where you have to be precise down to the millimeter. When I came to New York in the 1980’s, I immediately began working for the top Fifth Avenue fashion houses.
I had the eye and I had the hands. Unlike most designers, who are only trained to sketch, I could deliver a finished prototype made by my own hands. In addition, I could set up major production runs of hundreds of thousands or millions of pieces.
I was two expensive men wrapped into one efficient package. This earned me a lovely apartment on a tree-lined street on the Upper East Side, French and Italian suits, weekends in Paris and Miami, Mexican vacations and an exclusive gym membership.
My styling put millions of dollars in my boss’ pocket, and he certainly thought the world of me! “You have a job here until you retire,” he repeatedly told me. With that reassurance, I spent money like an Albanian drug baron, treating daffy, neurotic women to expensive dinners, nightclubbing, vacations, you name it…
Economic recessions were for idiot office clerks to worry about. I was a lynchpin of the industrial economy. I was flashing long green and I had gold credit cards up my butt when accountants and stockbrokers were homeless and sleeping on their friends’ sofas.
And I had an arrogant attitude to match. This is New York, after all, where you don’t worry about the next person. “Things are bad all over,” people would tell me, to which I responded, “I’m all right, Jack!”
The warning signs were gradual, imperceptible. First came the fax machines. I could take a piece of hardware that I needed, and instead of sending it UPS to a supplier, just make a photocopy and then fax it all over town. That was wonderful! Then, instead of just working with suppliers across town or in Rhode Island, I could get a much better price in Taiwan or Korea.
Then, instead of just getting components from Asia and doing the production here in New York, we would fax them a picture of the item and they would send back a complete sample with a cheap price the next day by Federal Express, as though they were right in the next building. Finally the whole production came in air freight from Taiwan or Buenos Aires, and wall we had to do was put store tickets on the merchandise, repackage it and ship it to the distribution center in Bentonville, AR or St. Louis.
What did I care if our once bustling factory was now an empty shell of a place, armies of production workers now replaced by a skeleton staff of packers? I was still getting my big check.
Then guess what happened. First the trend went from flamboyant original looks to basic, corporate looks that hardly changed from season to season. And second, the big chains that previously depended on us found that they could cut out the middleman, us, and do business directly with the orient.
I had not looked for a job for a dozen years, and when my company folded I was shocked to find that the once-thriving New York accessory market had shrunk to nothing.
I was forced to go back to school and get a paralegal certificate, and now I am one of the army of redundant bozos that I used to find so amusing. My great hands that used to draw sketches, make patterns, cut and sew? I use them now to type on a computer keyboard.
Nevertheless, I still have my looks and I have hope. I have got a comedy act going, and I have the inspiration to write, which is more than most people can say. I figure that when things shake out, I will claw my way to the top like I did once before, and this time bigger and better. Contrary to what F. Scott Fitzgerald wrote, there can be second acts in American life if you’re determined enough.
What happened to the fashion sector is now hitting the media sector. Because of the blogs and the internet, a lot of people who thought that their careers were engraved in stone are now finding that the stone is just sand, and that the sand is being eroded by a sea of bloggers and internet performers.
There is a lot of talent out there in cyberspace that never before had a chance to emerge because it was too far from the center of power, or because the talent never took the trouble to claw itself up the corporate ladder.
It takes a different type of talent than just being a good performer or writer to emerge in the publishing or entertainment industry, in fact most people on TV or in publishing media are the exact opposite of artistic talent. They are corporate bureaucrats who are losing their stranglehold on media diffusion, and they are starting to stink from the stench of fear that they are emitting.
In his weekly column for The New York Post, syndicated columnist George Will, a useless appendage if ever one existed, inveighs bitterly against internet bloggers as essentially being non-authoritative and polluting people’s mind with worthless chaff that will render readers incapable of discerning commentary of real value, presumably his.
George Will has been around for a long time, making a good living writing pointless, unintelligible swill. The man might be authoritative (if he says so), but nothing he has ever written has ever made an impact on me, even if I could understand it. George Will is the perfect example of corporatist rubble just waiting to be swept into the dustbin of contemporary culture. Right along with him are the whole Op-ed page of The New York Times, which is itself an endangered species; Christopher Hitchens, who freely admits that he has never had a job in his entire life since he graduated from college except for posing as an authoritative expert – at what, I’d like to know! Tina Brown, that so-called brilliant media expert, is putting the finishing touches on just what the world needs least – another book about Princess Di, who was already stale copy when she was still alive. Talk about beating a dead horse!
The whole literary world as it is presently configured is eminently ready for a Big Bang of cataclysmic magnitude (cataclysmic for the jokers who are working there now), and as the Bible predicts, the first shall be last and the last shall be first, the walls will come tumbling down and the freaks shall inherit the earth.
As the old saying goes, How you going to keep the boy down on the farm after he’s seen Paree? No way are people going to sit still for business as usual after being exposed to a steady diet of lunacy on the internet. It’s going to take a whole new skill set to ride this baby!
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Posted on 12/25/2006
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December 23, 2006
Sean Timoney just got off with an 18 months sentence after undercover cops caught him putting down a $200,000 payment on 400 lbs. of marijuana. Presumably he and his partner were not planning on smoking all that reefer themselves, so it is a reasonable assumption that they were planning on generating a little side income.
Eighteen months! Contrast this with the guy in Florida in a wheelchair who hoarded a few grams of painkiller in his house because he couldn’t bear the spinal pain he suffered from a car accident. The law said anything over a minimal amount invokes the presumption of intention to traffic, so he drew a 25-year sentence. Now that he is incarcerated they give him all the morphine he wants.
Right now there are people in New York who are serving open-ended sentences ranging from 14 years to life to 25 years to life for infractions ranging from transporting a few ounces of cocaine to just being in the wrong place at the wrong time when the cops showed up.
I mean, there is no accounting for taste, and while I might prefer a night at the Met seeing Figaro outsmart the Duke, there are people in Washington Heights for whom nothing is sweeter than to drop by the local crack factory and shoot the neighborhood gossip with the people working there. Then, when the cops show up, that woman, whose only crime is at worst cadging a free sample, and the idiots working in the crack den get hit with the wrecking ball of New York criminal justice. People who previously had a clean record end up doing life.
Now, the fastest way to incur the wrath of Americans is to remind them of the relatively more humane social policies of the Europeans. A drug offense that gets you life in this country generally does not carry a punishment of more than eight years in Europe, and that is quite enough, European jails not being such lovely places either! But the Europeans, having lived millennia of barbarity, have quite lost the sense of it.
Citizens of our fair Republic have a variety of stock responses to this, the paramount being, “They don’t have our social problems.” Translated into everyday language, this means, “The Europeans don’t have our colored people with their jungle behaviour (being a Spanish-speaking Francophile Jew, I don’t feel the compulsion to buttress the white race).
When you remind people that the European have more or less the same racial composition that we do, percentage wise, without having reverted to capital punishment or draconian prison sentences, Defenders of American Justice fall back to their firewall position, which is basically that the Europeans are a bunch of cowardly Marxist wimps whose policies of appeasement and capitulation will inevitably lead to the green crescent of Islam being raised over the Eiffel Tower.
Whatever Sean Timoney was smoking, he has nothing on these bowtie-neck newspaper columnist who theorize like they were editing The New York Post out of a rubber room at Bellevue Hospital.
I don’t happen to believe marijuana should be illegal at all, and a lot of states agree with me. Reefer is good for you. And I should know. I’ve certainly smoked enough of it in my life. To paraphrase the great American poet and philosopher Howlin’ Wolf, if I had all the reefer I’ve smoked in my life I’d be a millionaire. Well, maybe not a millionaire, but a fuckin’ happy person!
But as long as the hardass pricks who currently are deciding our lives for us, to our endless detriment and for the benefit of their convenience, are determined to make a federal case out of pot smoking, then the Irish guy who conspires to traffic 400 pounds of it should be held up to the same insane standard as the Dominican nurse’s assistant who is suckered by her boyfriend into transporting five ounces of cocaine up to Albany on a Greyhound bus.
Or vise-versa. She should be able to count on the same indulgence offered to him. Unfortunately, justice as it is practiced in New York, in addition to being blind, has no olfactory sense, otherwise the stench would drive her out of the courtroom. The Roman satirist Petronius wrote many millennia ago:
The court is a market where justice is bought and sold
The judge who presides bangs a gavel of gold
If Petronius was scandalized at the prospect of Roman judges selling justice for gold 2,000 years ago, what would he say about modern New York, where justice is on sale for peanuts, and I’m not kidding. One of my career lows in a career that has been scraping the rind for several years now was a job that required me to manage a retail bagel store on the weekends. Whatever you have to do, stay out of the food business. Anyway, judges used to send their spouses in to the store to cadge free or discount bagels.
“Hi, I’m Judge Schwartz’s husband. Your boss always gives me a dozen bagels when I come in.”
Back in the bad old days, when the police were blatantly on the take, it used to be the cops who behaved like that. Now they have cleaned up the police, and it’s the judges who do it. What kind of justice are you going to get from a judge who is such a slimebag that he doesn’t even want to pay for freakin’ bagels? God Forbid you have to go to court against the baker who’s been feeding him all these years!
Somehow, when I see those British judges with their wigs, I find it impossible to believe that they would chisel for a bagel. Or the judges in France. Those judges are naturally responsive to pressure from above, and they may even be corrupt in their day-to-day lives, but I absolutely refuse to believe that they would scrounge bagels or bend justice for a bagel as I have seen to be the case in New York. Maybe I’m naïve. Maybe there are judges in France who will render a dishonest verdict for a piece of stinky cheese or, more likely, a meal in a good restaurant with a hooker for dessert. But a bagel?!! Get th’ fuck outta’ here!
These judgeships must be worth a considerable amount of money, because politically connected lawyers fight like cats and dogs over them. It can’t be the salary, which is in the low $100,000s, so it stands to reason that the take from grafting and inside deals must be substantial. The Clarence Norman scandal in Brooklyn shed some light on the mechanics of running for judge, and it wasn’t a pretty picture, with payoffs to party bosses and so-called “consultants.”
Frankly, it has to be more fun for me to write about it than it is for these chiseling hack attorneys to have to endure on a daily basis.
Then, on top of everything else, and here we get to the point I’m trying to arrive at, although there was no way to get around the buildup, is the torturous tribalism of electing judges, where each ethnic group gets its own allotment of crooked judges so they can buy their way out of a mess.
At the top of the mess are the black judges, especially the female ones, like the one in Queens who was thrown off the bench for having a black kid escorted out the back of the courthouse to avoid the cops who were waiting to arrest him in front. And the one in the Bronx who drunkenly smashed her car in Loehmann’s parking lot and then accused the black cops who arrested her of racism.
Right behind them are the sleazy, crooked Jewish judges like the one in Brooklyn, who was selling child custody decisions and who was filmed and taped accepting cash bribes and gifts right in his judge’s chambers.
Generally speaking, a lot of these decisions can be bought cheaply enough. A few years ago, when I got into a scrape with a wise guy on the train, whom I punched out for insulting and threatening me, my boss at the time offered to get the case thrown out for $1,000.00. I should have taken him up on it, because my attorney, Ron Kuby, who, after seeing photos of how I had so artfully redecorated the “victim’s” face, determined that he should have charged me a lot more money and did not fight the case hard enough, and I ended up taking a misdemeanor conviction and barely escaping a sixty-day sentence at Riker’s Island. As the old joke goes, I should have “paid the $2.00.”
The defendant in the case involving the 400 pounds of pot, Sean Timoney, is an Irish-American whose father, John Timoney, is Miami Chief of Police. He had his case heard in Albany Federal Court by an Irish judge, John McEvoy, who at the sentence admonished observers against saying that Sean Timoney was receiving prejudicial consideration. Then he handed down a sentence of eighteen months.
The reason I keep going back to the ethnic character of this case is that the defendant’s attorney, Edward Hayes, himself raised it as a mitigating factor. He told the court that as an Irish-American, Timoney had a “genetic predisposition” to substance abuse.
Now this defense, which has about as much scientific basis as the nineteenth century vogue of phrenology, or judging a person’s disposition by the shape of the bumps on his head, which a lot of “scientific” people believed in until it was finally debunked as a bunch of bullshit, opens the floodgates for ethnic-based defenses, presumably aimed at sympathetic judges who share the same ethnic background as the defendant.
This is where I get to explain my new drinking game. Let’s say a Jewish attorney is charged with stealing money that was entrusted to him by a client. He could conceivably raise a genetic disposition defense of being genetically inclined toward greed and thievery and buttress it by quoting Shylock from Shakespeare’s “Merchant of Venice.” A compliant Jewish judge hearing the case might be sympathetic to such a defense.
That’s the game – assigning genetic predispositions to match various racial stereotypes. Here are a few examples:
Irish have a genetic predisposition for substance abuse and drunkenness.
Jews have a genetic predisposition for thieving greed and witless moralizing.
Latins have a genetic predisposition for evading child support and operating automobile chop shops.
Asiatics have a genetic predisposition for cooking and eating household pets.
Italians have a genetic predisposition for composing sappy music.
French have a genetic predisposition for avoiding baths.
Mexicans have a genetic predisposition for jumping over fences.
You get the picture. Have fun!
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Posted on 12/23/2006
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December 16, 2006
I want to take the opportunity to wish my readers a Merry Christmas, Happy Hanukkah and Happy and Prosperous New Year.
Je voudrais souhaiter a tous mes lecteurs en France et partout dans le monde francophone, qui j’éstime particulièrement, un Joyeux Noël et Bonne Année.
I had a rough year. I got my arm broken in a bus accident in April and I had to undergo an operation to connect the bone. I spent a good part of the year with my arm in a cast, and when the cast finally came off, I couldn’t even do one push-up. So I am still dragging my ass back to where I used to be.
In addition, I’m working at a job I hate and my girlfriend, Magpie, is taking all my money. Most of the time when I come home exhausted and demoralized from my dorky job in a law firm, she is dead drunk, and she can’t understand why I don’t want to party.
In addition, I have got to spend Christmas with her family. Now, even though the Jews can’t stand me because I remind them too much of a gentile, that doesn’t even begin to compare with how much the gentiles hate me for being a Jew, and Magpie’s family is an exquisite little piece of hell for me. She had a brother who used to get dead drunk and scream “Fuck the Jews!” like Mel Gibson, but, thankfully, he died. What’s left is a bunch of reformed alcoholics who are all in AA, and when I get loaded and try to amuse myself, they look at me like I am a fucking cockroach.
I tried to get out of going to this fantastic Christmas, but Magpie threw a fit with crying and screaming. They don’t want me and I don’t want them, but I’m going anyway, God Help Me!
Anyway, this is the point: the world should be getting smarter with all the information technology and computers, iPods, what-have-you, but it’s getting stupider, if that’s possible. Mutherfuckers today are so fucking stupid, they don’t know how much a whole bunch of nines are.
So rather than fight the trend, I’ve made it my mission to help the world along toward its goal of mental flat-line incoherence, and I’m doing my part.
Last night at The Comic Strip, among other things, I fucked Mel Gibson in the ass, pulled a rubber spider out of my pants and shot whipped cream up my nose. If that isn’t stupid, I don’t know what is!
So when you read these blogs, just remember, I am not trying to improve your mind, I’m trying to destroy it. We used to live in a world of Frank Zappa, Jimi Hendrix, Janis Joplin and The Doors. Now we got Donald Trump, Brittany Spears and Paris Hilton. If I can destroy your mind, I will be clearing away all the detritus and garbage and leaving a clean slate for something new, more approaching culture, to take hold.
Remember, in order to be a real moron it takes real talent like The Three Stooges and The Marx Brothers used to have. So in destroying your minds, I am doing you a big favor. Love, 200motels.
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December 11, 2006
Haven’t we had enough of so-called “artists” getting up in public circumstances and saying vile and nauseating insults about Jews and Black people?
Artists are supposed to be a little more universal than ordinary suckers, a little more tuned in to the cosmic vibration of life, or whatever it is.
I believe that comedy is supposed to be about LOVE.
LOVE LOVE LOVE. All you need is love.
That’s why I invented the Mel Gibson Inflatable Sex Doll. You pull the string and it shouts “Fuck me, rabbi, fuck me!”
Now, when I heard Mel Gibson pleading to get fucked by a rabbi, it tore at my heart’s emotions. Am I not an Ordained Rabbi, with a degree from The Mel Brooks College of Rabbinical College? As a rabbi, the happiness of even vile, rubbishy scumbags like Mel Gibson is my paramount concern. For this reason, I donned my priestly vestments, greased my rabbinical staff with kosher lubricant and plunged my erect, equine member into Mel Gibson’s rectal cavity.
As the minutes passed, I felt the pressure build up in my loins. The air in the room began to steam up with my perspiration as I hammered away at Mel Gibson’s butt. Soon his ass started filling up with flies, who were lapping all the perspiration and lubricant as I thrust away at him. The only sound in the room was his desperate pleading for me to “Fuck me, rabbi, fuck me!”
I became so enthralled by the act of love I was performing on Mel Gibson’s butt that even when the friction of my screaming member against the latex walls of his rectum produced a cloud of thick black smoke to engulf the room, I could not bear to stop grinding deeper and deeper into the burning, fly-infested chamber of his ass.
All of a sudden, I heard a loud BANG! The mechanical, piston-like motion of my throbbing member had burned a hole in the walls of Mel Gibson’s rectum, causing an explosion which had stunned the flies feeding on the sweat and the lubricant, causing them to fall dead to the floor. An eruption of gas and hot air blasted through the burnt-out walls of his ass, propelling latex solar Mel from my grasp and causing him to fly about the room, banging into walls and knocking over lamps and furniture.
I tried to grab him, but he flew about the room in such a frenzy as to evade my grasp, destroying the room’s furnishings. I realized to my horror that my girlfriend, Magpie, was due to return any moment, and she would be enraged to find the whole room destroyed, the floor covered with the corpses of dead flies.
As Mel Gibson careened through the air, ruining paintings, shredding upholstery, shattering crystal ware, the gas from his ass shattering my senses like the scream of a jet engine, I realized that the only thing that would stop this madness would be to shoot him with blasts from Dick Cheney’s shotgun, which I had procured earlier that day. I grabbed the shotgun, pointed the muzzle at Mel Gibson, who was momentarily stuck in a corner of the wall, and pulled the trigger.
The ensuing explosion caused a blast that blew out the windows of the room and ripped the clothes from my body. But at least Mel Gibson was dead.
Or so I thought. This week his latest movie came out. Like a ghoul who refuses to die, the only thing that will keep this cocksucker in his grave seems to be for a wooden stake to be driven through his heart.
Who can forget his last little valentine to the Jewish people that portrayed us as crooked demonic torturers of an eminently gentile Jesus? What charming bouquets of affection would he toss in our direction this go-round?
As it turns out, he has directed his gentle attentions toward the indigenous peoples of Mexico, portraying the Mayans as ghastly, barbaric torturers who dispatch each other in the most hideous ways imaginable.
Thanks again, Mel, for contributing to world civilization in the only way you know how, another manifestation of white, Christian culture sprung whole from the tortured rat’s maze of your cranial interior! Nowhere in Gibson’s latest epic is there a scintilla of anything approaching the universal truth of the Mayan empire as a golden age of architecture, astronomy, mathematics and literature that lasted for centuries and built hundreds of majestic cities throughout Central America. Or the fact that they left behind a rich literary heritage in the form of books and manuscripts that were immediately obliterated at the arrival of Mel’s heroes, the Jesuits. In Mel Gibson’s world view the Mayans, like the Jews before them, are reduced to the level of subhuman cretins and bloodthirsty imbeciles. It seems to me that there is an psychiatric element of projection going on in Gibson’s twisted psychology.
Admittedly, I haven’t seen this masterpiece. I’ve been visiting the Yucatan for several decades. I’ve seen for myself the actual remains of the Mayan civilization and spent many pleasurable hours conversing with the charming descendants of this noble race, in addition to reading books about their achievements and philosophy. I don’t need to have them portrayed to me by a burnt-out, degenerate drunken scumbag of a nazi prick. Fuck you, Mel, and the horse you rode in on.
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Posted on 12/11/2006
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