Being Progressive for Fun and Profit

For another St. Valentine’s Day treat, here’s an entertaining story (three stories, actually) from our Dutch correspondent H. Numan.

Being progressive for fun and profit

by H. Numan

Last week something funny happened. I’d like to share this chuckle with you. What happened? A bakery in the village of Monster in South Holland announced it had been harassed by extreme right-wing villagers. Consequently the baker closed his business, for safety reasons. Why was this baker harassed? He didn’t want to sell the highly racist ‘moorkoppen’ (Moorish heads) anymore. He had renamed them roomkoppen (cream puffs). Enraged villagers threatened him with violence. Hence he had to close his business. The media lapped it up as if were it moorkoppen. The same evening he was interviewed on TV. ‘Beware of extreme right-wing violence’ was the message. But not all is as it appears to be…

What’s a moorkop? Delicious, of course! It is a profiterole covered with chocolate. The name Moorish head isn’t centuries old, but quite old. According to Wikipedia it dates back to about 1920. Racist? Well, anything you want can be racist. Beauty Racism is in the eye of the beholder.

The media loved this act of racist Dutch violence. See? We were right all along. That sort of thing. So they didn’t do their homework. A progressive journalist doing fact-checking first? That’s for dummies. We bring you the real truth! Not all the media are progressive, so pretty soon the truth came out.

The baker was a vegan. Vegans are not necessarily extreme left-wing, missionary and obnoxious. Though I have yet to meet one that isn’t. This one was no exception. Being a vegan bakery is pretty much a political statement. He probably knows a lot about progressive politics, but not much about running a business. The poor harassed vegan baker was poor indeed, as he was near bankruptcy. He didn’t have any money for advertising. So he resorted to a clever trick. He renamed his moorkoppen as roomkoppen. Announced to the press he was harassed over his decision, and consequently closed his shop for safety reasons. That gave him a moment of prime time on national TV.

The journalists who did investigate quickly found out that only one or two (no more) customers told him they didn’t like his name change. That was all. Nothing more. On TV he wasn’t asked anything inquisitive at all; he was a poor oppressed victim of right-wing extremism. So they changed the one or two less satisfied customers in hordes of extreme right-wing activists.

What’s the end of the story? Well, nothing much, of course. The police now protect his bakery. They installed a video camera. The baker didn’t apologize for his blatant lie. Nor did the media. I doubt very much if he gained anything out of it. Monster is a tiny village. I lived nearby; it’s close to The Hague, within easy cycling distance. I’m not sure if the villagers like to be called extreme right-wing hooligans. Even if they frequent vegan bakeries. The Dutch FDA did forbid our progressive baker to call his moorkoppen roomkoppen, as they don’t contain any cream. That was all. On the very next day HEMA, a large store with lots of branches, announced they no longer will sell moorkoppen. From now on, they call them chocolate balls.

The HEMA is a large store that sells almost everything. Their strength is low price and fairly reasonable to decent quality. The abbreviation stands for Hollandse Eenheidsprijzen Maatschappij or Dutch single price company. If any company is Dutch, they are. And they are deeply ashamed of it. They want to be young, hip, and progressive. So their marketing department got to work on it. They launched a campaign in 2007-8, El HEMA, in which they went 100% mohammedan. Literally everything possible — up to being ridiculous — was changed into something promoting or resembling islam. For example, the Dutch love to give/eat letters made out of chocolate on Sinterklaas. So the HEMA added Arab letters to their collection. And made sure everything was clearly marked halal. Clothing was developed along this line with Arabic symbols, letters and much more.

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Will U B My Sex Slave?

Every February the religious authorities in Islamic countries warn the faithful not to observe any of the customs of the infidels’ Saint Valentine’s Day (I know the word “Saint” is generally omitted these days, but Dymphna was a stickler for the correct name, and I’m continuing it in her honor). Michael Copeland has composed a little ditty in honor of the occasion:

No Valentine’s Day in Islam

by Michael Copeland

No Valentine’s Day in Islam:
It’s decried as a Western invention.
No loving, no kissing, no charm,
No allowance for choice or intention.

A girl is quite owned by her father,
And has to submit to his vision.
It matters not what she would rather,
She’ll be traded or sold: his decision.

Should she object or refuse,
Then violence will greet her defiance.
The mosque will help force him to choose
What method to use for compliance.

Impeachment Meets Sennacherib

We are currently in the midst of the most insane political season that I can remember. It’s not just the USA, but the impeachment circus is the Greatest Show on Earth at this point, so that’s what JLH has spotlighted in his latest pastiche.

Impeachment Meets Sennacherib

by JLH, with apologies to the shade of Lord Byron

The Democrats came down like lemmings in heat,
And the might of their anger would brook no retreat;
And the glare of their fury was like fire in the brush,
And the heat of their hate turned their minds into mush.

Like ants in an anthill when summer is warm,
Like termites mindlessly forming a swarm;
Like hyenas circling what they think is half dead.
They carelessly created their own end instead.

For the Spirit of Truth and the obvious facts
Blew through the lies and inventions so fast,
That the troika of traitors who’d chosen this task
Stood forth in the klieg lights, unaware and unmasked.

The Fatman, the Pipe Cleaner, Cruella Deville,
Who wished no one good and everyone ill,
Intoned and squeaked and flew ‘round on a broom,
Mindlessly causing their own allies’ doom.

And the iceberg of treason to sink the ship of state
Passed through Hurricane Donald to a well-deserved fate.
Its melting portends a political tsunami
To wash away the corrupt, the banal and the commie.

Durka Durka Mohammed Jihad!

The following video shows a devotee of the Religion of Peace expressing his ire at a kafir who evidently said something derogatory about Mohammed Pbuh. I don’t know anything further, except that the fellow is probably in Germany, since he is speaking in German.

The most entertaining part is when the offended believer beats his chest with his fists like a gorilla. Miss Piggy calls this act the “Full Durka Retard”.

Many thanks to MissPiggy for the translation, and to Vlad Tepes for the subtitling:

Video transcript:

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To Our Cloying Mistresses

For a change of pace, here’s a riff by JLH on a well-known poem by the great Metaphysical poet Andrew Marvell.

To:   Nancy forever-the-Speaker Pelosi, A I-despise-my-constituents OC, “truly Illegal” Omar, Rash and-then-some Tlaib, Alyssa my-bottom-is my-best-known-feature Milano, Jane if-I-can’t-be-a world-class-beauty-I-can-be-a-world-class-jerk Fonda, and honorary “mean girls” Adam my-pencil-neck-constricts-my-thinking Schiff and Gerald they-sucked-out-my-fat-and-some-of-my-brain Nadler
 

To Our Cloying Mistresses

by JLH, with apologies to Andrew Marvell

Had we but world enough and time,
This nonsense, ladies, were less a crime.
We could leisurely propose a bill,
That just might heal the nation’s ills.
And tarry by Potomac’s rush
To declaim the nation’s debt to us.
Non-partisan, we’d find a way
To pass the tardy USMCA.
We’d debate in principle, friendship and calm
Until the conversion of all Islam.
We’d reduce our pay and also our pension
And never again give “pork” a mention.
We’d praise our nation, which is like no other
And greet new citizens as sister and brother.
We’d praise each of us of any race or station
Who freely chooses to love this nation.

But at your back you too must hear
The next election hurrying near.
Your power, as all power must,
Will shrivel up and turn to dust,
And as an hourglass’s sands,
Will trickle through your nerveless hands.
Consider, as you greatly dare:
Defeat is something no one shares.

While capable still of reasoned thought,
Compare what you “may” to what you “ought”.
And think while in the light of day,
Unlike nocturnal birds of prey,
How to squeeze yourself, if you are quick
Through the iron gate of politics.
And seek relief by setting free
Again this land of liberty.

Pardon Me — Is This My Bathroom?

Our German translator JLH, never one to shrink from controversy, wades into the culture wars with his new essay.

Pardon me — is this my bathroom?

by JLH

All right, people, let’s get serious. Some of us know what’s important, and we cannot be diverted by so-called “common sense”. For instance, the illiterate claim that “only women can have babies”. Please! Has no one ever read Brave New World? A little bit of education can go a long way.

The world is changing and we have to change with it. Parents used to find it titillating to tell their children about “the birds and the bees”, and imply somehow that this was an analogy for male-female sexual congress leading to progeneration and the continuation of the human race. And they reinforced this dogma by pointing out the physical differences between those they insisted on calling “girls” and “boys”, forcing their interpretation of reality on these poor defenseless, mindless mites who had only their elders’ word and the feeble evidence of their own eyes to support it. Fortunately there are now public school teachers who offer wise guidance to these slaves of tradition.

How great, really, is the difference between biological males and females? Each one eats, digests and eliminates in the same way. Each body reacts to exercise or physical stress by producing sweat and lactose.

We are on a path to something better than ourselves. The ACLU — its scientific branch I think — has informed us that men can menstruate. If it’s all the same to everyone else, I have known a few women who suffered through their “monthlies”, and I’d rather not. Same for being pregnant and giving birth. Ouch!

On the other hand, it’s OK with me if someone discovers how to implant a prostate in a willing female subject. I am not so body-proud that I would resent someone else experiencing night-time with regular trips to the bathroom. It is clear that we are only at the beginning of new paths in the understanding of gender.

People who blindly object to parents or teachers explaining to children that they may have been living in the wrong body for their five or six years are denying that sex change is as important as climate change, and we all know what to think of that. It is no more important to kill the use of coal and petroleum than to finally admit that there are as many genders as there are those who can identify them.

There has been such a furor over the use of bathrooms. Just because someone stands 6 feet 4 inches and weighs 250 pounds, that does not mean that hethey cannot identify as a woman, or a girl as the case may be. They would be a wonderful goalie for the USA women’s soccer team. And has anyone considered that removing artificial boundaries between so-called “men’s” and “women’s” locker rooms might lead to a dramatic decline in “peeping” and render the use of spy cameras obsolete?

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I Do Not Like That Ham-I-Am

Our German translator JLH has a few things to say about the latest “News of the Weird” story from South Africa.

One of the many things you can learn by reading the news at Gates of Vienna

by JLH

Let’s see if I understand this. Burger King is removing the syllable “ham” from “hamburger” in South Africa so as not to offend anyone. The best statistic I can uncover is that Islam accounts for 1.5% of the ca. 56 million South Africans. The largest single religious group is Protestant Christianity. In second place are those who profess no religion. It makes you wonder whom Burger King consulted (or was directed by). Certainly not the local Jewish lobby. When is the last time you ever heard the owner of a Jewish deli complain to the ADL about the BBQ bar and grill next door advertising spareribs?

This is a pioneering alteration to the language. The word for a type of sausage originally named after its city of origin is reduced to a severed trunk (-burg) that means “fort.” In US English, at any rate, calling somewhere a “burg” is not particularly flattering. I know because I come from a state with a lot of burgs. If I were a citizen of one of the largest cities in Germany — an international port, a center of trade, and an original member of the Hanseatic League — I would not like to be told that I was living in -burg.

This presents a whole new vista of linguistic change, calling up fond memories of the Hitlerian desire to expunge foreign words and phrases from the German language.

Where else in English, for instance, can we find this insidious infidel word “ham”? Perhaps in the Broadway musical about one of the Founding Fathers — you know, Alexander -ilton. Or in the name of a cute little rodent — the -ster — that is so fond of treadmills. Or, if you don’t want to call a small town a burg, you could call it a -let. And if you damage that place down in the back of your leg, you could say that you hurt your -string. This could lead to some confusion, so it may be better to take the high road and say that you pulled one of the tendons that laterally and medially border the depression in the popliteal fossa. That’s a little clumsy, but there are no infidel words in it. (Unless some really picky Muslim scholar objects to the use of the language of the Roman Church.)

And what if we can’t just remove the offensive syllable? What if that’s all there is? Like “Don’t ham it up.” We just have to substitute, and tell show-offs “Don’t steak it up!” “Don’t be such a steak!”

Just to be safe, we should also do away with the term we use for that crispy stuff we often eat in the morning. The morning special might be called “two eggs any style, with choice of ground infidel meat or infidel crispy stuff.” Alternatively “Canadian infidel crispy stuff and eggs.”

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The Strangulation of Democracy

For the a change of pace, here’s a new pastiche from JLH, who has a knack for this sort of thing.

The Strangulation of Democracy

by JLH
(In memoriam Sam McGee, and thanks to Robert Service)

There are strange things done in the Silicon sun
By the men who spin the gold,
And the cyber trails hold their secret tales
That could make your blood run cold.
The city lights have seen bad sights.
But the worst they ever will see:
Is not far away from San Francisco Bay,
Where they’re strangling democracy.

Now the men gathered there are from everywhere —
But they are here, we all know why.
They all play the game and their goal is the same —
A slice of the American Pie.
Oh, the wages of sin! They are raking it in.
The billions come rolling along.
To the wealthy comes power, and now is their hour
To buy the world for a song.

But it’s not simply greed, there’s also the need
To determine what’s good and what’s bad.
If you’re not in their group, then you’re out of the loop,
You’re as old as yesterday’s fad.
Join the crowd, show your face, tell us what you embrace,
Give a glimpse of your shy little soul.
This service is free, no psychiatrist’s fee,
Since you’re telling the world as a whole.

It’s a magical realm with no one at the helm.
Your entrails exposed on the ground
Attract the trolls first, and they’re not the worst;
Carrion-eaters in this place abound.
And so you’ve been shilled, your guts have been spilled,
And the vermin crept into your life.
There’s no magic spell to conquer this hell.
Just chill out and witness the strife.

Sit back and relax, pursue some fun facts,
But be careful what questions you ask.
Algorithmically speaking, the answer you’re seeking
May incite a tortuous task.
Seek President Trump, and you may soon be jumped
To trumps in the game of Whist.
Should you next try to reach for freedom of speech,
You may find yourself on a list.

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Greta Fights Cultural Enrichment

Update: Greta’s spelling has been corrected.


“School strike for the repatriation of foreigners”

Our Swedish correspondent LN tipped me to the photo above*. I had always thought Greta Thunberg — the Nordic Joan of Arc — was an agitator against climate change, but apparently she has become a xenophobe and adopted a new cause: Skolstrejk för hemsändandet av utlänningar, or “School strike for the repatriation of foreigners”.

A shorter slogan: Nej! Ut! = “No! Out!”

*   Yes, the photo of Greta has been digitally altered.
 

We Were Socialists Once… and Young

The Deplorable Wing of the Internet — which is where I usually hang out — has been convulsing itself with mirth for the past couple of days over the shenanigans at the Democratic Socialists of America convention that was held last weekend in Atlanta.

If you watch enough footage from the event, it becomes clear that there is only one commandment in the Socialist catechism: “Thou shalt not trigger a comrade.” All other policies are simply elaborations on, extensions of, and footnotes to this woke mantra. Social justice stuff is what doesn’t trigger them, so that’s what they do. Anything that runs counter to it triggers the comrades to varying degrees, making them hightail it to their safe spaces to recover their composure.

It’s not surprising that the non-canonical use of gendered pronouns was a central preoccupation of the convention. See this Fox News report for more on this important topic.

Below are three videos with highlights and commentary on last weekend’s events in Atlanta. The first includes a selection of brief excerpts that provide an overview of what the policy wonks at the DSA consider really, really important:

The second clip contains an exhortation by a moderator about triggering, and how not to do it. Notice that just before the end he inadvertently uses the word “trump”, and then realizes the gravity of his error. That must have been a Category 5 triggering event for his audience:

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“Bless Her Heart”

This “greatest hit” from Dymphna did not actually appear at Gates of Vienna, but at Dymphna’s other blog, “The Neighborhood of God”. She set up TNoG not long after we started Gates of Vienna because she needed a place to post things that weren’t about the Counterjihad or politics. She sometimes jocularly referred to it as “my real blog”.

The future Baron suggested this selection for the Greatest Hits. It’s one of his favorites.

“Bless Her Heart”

by Dymphna

Originally published on September 6, 2012

Over at the other place I’d been discussing the latest liberal meme, one more artificial — but no less hateful — than usual. I’d mentioned Michelle Malkin’s recent essay at Townhall, “The Condensed Liberal Handbook of Racial Codewords”.

As often happens, my thoughts diverged from the main subject; in this case, the subject being quite ugly accusations against candidate Mitt Romney, claiming he used coded messages in speeches to tell purported insiders — i.e., white people — what was really going on.

I began with a great video from Bob Parks and went on to talk about Ms. Malkin’s essay and those “SEEKRIT” words.

Every single group or culture, or sub-culture within a larger one, has code words. It’s simply human nature. What makes the process poisonous is when one group is falsely accused of publicly using code to say vicious things about another group as though the second group were too stupid to catch on.

The tipping point of paper-thin-skinned black grievance neurosis may have finally been reached. I certainly hope so. By now the accusations of — as Ms. Malkin puts it so well — RAAAAAACISM!- have been done to death. For the most part, average people find the whole rage and pity-pot victimhood simply tedious. It has become like trying to reassure a child who stubbornly hangs on to his giant refusal of reassurance because he needs his anger more than he needs justice or harmony.

At any rate, that essay led me far afield, into pondering the kinds of social dog-whistle talk that exists among all groups. I often found myself in social hot water in New England because I didn’t know the rules — rules that others had long learned by heart.

However, being raised in the South, I knew most of the Byzantine rules and moves of Southern social intercourse — without even knowing I knew them until I moved back here and found myself moving within in a more familiar milieu. A fish back in her own lily-padded pond once more.

In order to truly understand it so that it’s part of your being, you have to have lived immersed in a local culture from before you could think. Being a first-generation American, I missed some of the finer points. On the other hand, being a not-quite-outsider makes one a kind of participant observer; thus you notice more than the born-and-bred folks, the people who ask, “Bless your heart, you’re not from around here, are you?”. When I studied Anthropological Methods in college, I was surprised to discover I’d been living those methods all my life. I called what I did “standing in the doorway”… less academic, perhaps, yet more evocative for born outsiders.

But I want to relate it back to the so-called dog-whistle political talk of that earlier essay, and to make the broader point that group talk always partakes of some dog-whistle undertow. Those currents are meant to carry the stuff at the bottom swiftly along without every little detail having to be brought to the surface for discussion.

*   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *

Here’s an example from my own experience.

American Southern women (black and white) have a number of expressions that sound for all the world like innocuous fluff. To insiders, though, these phrases convey volumes without ever having to say anything that smells bad. It’s difficult to pick a favorite, but since one in particular has been exposed of late, let use it for the purposes of demonstrating social dog-whistle.

This one was perhaps my favorite of all until some Miz Big Lips had to go blab it to the world just to get a laugh. Some folk are desperate for attention, as I’m sure you’ve noticed: anything for a laugh, including betrayal of your own. Now it has become harder to employ this useful filler while maintaining a straight face or, more importantly, a polite fiction.

I’m talking about this all-purpose expression, used for generations by Southern women to cover a multitude of social emergencies: “bless her heart”.

I’ll give you a hypothetical situation, sans much context. The setting is a kitchen table around which three women are seated. Two of them are talking, the third is simply observing. There is a fourth woman, not present, who is the focus of this snippet of conversation:

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