Director Zliplitt: Merkans, in truth, "in thrall" to fat jackasses

Yes, Saint Michael, you're all stupid

[From the oaken rolltop of Director Anatole Zliplitt]

Aeons ago (for "Urthers" only, yet a mere three swiftly passed years for the memory unimpaired and un-ADD-ed) the Merkan media dolt, presumed "film-maker," and spluttering fumarole, Michael the Moor, offered this ungenerous appraisal of his fellow Lap-top-landers--"They [Merkans] are possibly the dumbest people on the planet ... in thrall to conniving, thieving, smug pricks [...&tc. ad nauseum]" We here at the Institute found this a laughably obvious yet thoroughly plausible argument for non-resumption of free elections in that Wotan-accursed smudge. The folk there are transparently incapable of self-government (small surprise to Erdens!) and some manner of proper adult supervision should be ladled upon the entire dancing dervish of dither known as "da Urth," and not merely into the salacious helle-hole denoted Merka. Provided Michael excluded none contained within that broadest of categories--Merkans, and he being one, too--from his Judgement from on High, there was, on cursory examination of this predictable plume of puffery, no big news here.

Curiously, though, this jabbing judgement against fellow morons emanated from a booby well-prized by those same citizens who burble and croak endlessly about "communities" and "the Volk" and--odds bodkins--"democracy"! Their standard for good citizenship, no doubt, is acting in such a manner as to support their hobbyhorses (and it is--merely interrogate any "Blue-Stater" and be greeted with a cavalcade of presumptive arrogance in this regard). Their guiding principle is stated thusly: If you do not concur uncritically with our own high-grade blend of Tomfoolery and Ignorance you are clearly a moron, but we--being kind and caring i.e. nice smug pricks--will at least grant that you may be salvageable and worthy of conversion if you accept that your thoughts are not your own; you are an imbecile in helpless thrall to soulless hobgoblins." Based on this easy interpretation of the evidence, Erden psycho-analysts are convinced that Mr. Moor is autistic, terminally linear, bulbous with ego no less than with lard, and incapable of auspicious self-alert. The mental diseases of his followers may prove more elusive to nail.

The truthful evidence, however, is well-buttressed far beyond his initial self-serving platitude--our assuming he erroneously intended the Moor clan be exempted from condemnation. Knowledge of anything whatsoever, and good sense, are in catastrophic decline uniformly throughout Mr. D'Amour's waste/home-land. A graduate of fairly any Liberal (now Leftist) Arts collegium in the Blue States--a possessor no doubt of all the triple-chinned wonder's DVD and bookish marketing spoor--is as stone ignorant of history, geography, the sciences, and other "irrelevancies" (the fantastical romances of Herr Chomsky excepted) as the most inebriated Appalachian Australopithecine fast asleep on his tick-upholstered porch. This topsy-turvy state of affairs--where the "educated" are often the ignorant--has been present in Merka since the 60's Hippoid era when the over-fondled brat-ery of the 40's/50's Connubial Bonanza Times confronted their tenured overlords on the campuses and made it clear--in no uncertain temper tamtrum/potty training terms--that the "enlightened" poopy-pantsed babies (diaper-changing now revealed as further evidence of a most "naughty socio-political system") would now impose, by threat and fiat, curriculum upon the experienced adult elect. Within a decade, these self-same kiddies now "captained the school-transport" so-to-say, and vast portions of those enduring the educational system have had their unwashed noses buried in politically correct Golden Books and ethno-cultural Pat-the-Bunny ever since!

An insane notion, but Michael's much-abused common "Red-State," drawling, ring-wormed, idiot-savants may, in fact, be one-full-up on his self-satisfied bi-coastal cousins, as he or she will probably be neuro-connected enough to, at least, hoe a field, shoe a horse, mend a fence, or handily overhaul the "Tin Lizzy's" carburetor. Many bumpkins even possess--gasp--humility--a concept wholly unfamiliar to the New Unintelligentsia. Meanwhile, a matriculant (in the bladder-relief sense we've all dimly espied in that odd term) of most enlightened diploma-vending-machines cum brain-wash-clinics confronts any of life's non-virtual dilemmas with barely a worse-than-empty toolbox, and a gas inflated noggin congenitally directed up his or her posterior digestive egress! Abandoned to fate with a dead cellular telephone, a degree in Multicultural Pomposity, a plethora of cheap thought-free slogans of the uncontestable War is Helle variety, and a limitless capacity for blame-seeking and calling-for-yet-avoiding most urgent revolution!, the average Moor fan is as helpless as a newly aborted fetus before nature, physics, mechanics, a good stiff breeze, and Wotan's teasing whims.

The Moor scores invertedly and shortsightedly again with his mis-assertion that Merkans exceed the remainder of the world's populations in undiluted "dumb"-ness. The insult is a matter of perspective and does his own followers no small injustice. Question any street waif in Lesotho for the monickers of the major global aqueous bodies, or a brief on the particulars of the sub-atomica theory, or even a thorough run-down on the pragmatic goings-on within Lesotho's own governing body, and not only (as with the bulk of Left-leaning Merkan "college grads") will they be incapable of summoning up cogent answers, they will also not be able to fill the inevitable dead air with lofty smoke-screen belches about "corporations," "imperialism," "Haliburton," or Le Grande Cure-All for the knowledge-stressed--"relevancy." If all is content within that burdoned realm's tattered napkin-corner, democracy is a word cloaked in be-Greek-to-them, tin-pot dictatorships triumph, and Mr. Moor's ultimate secret goal is attained, that being: stupid people can then do no harm when denied the vote. The Moor's Übermenschen aristocracy, many solid micro-millimeter's below their worst national peers in upward-yearning knuckleheadedness, trump nearly every Sabu, Hassam, and Ting-Ling on that dreary planet by simply playing the know-it-all Politically Correct card! Once again, Merka is victorious by a hair's width via fantabulous displays of pure Bullscheiß--the House Specialty!

Ultimately, Mr. D'Moor and his de-humbled tag-alongs should sponsor a new Voting Rights act within the national parliamentary assemblage. Tests would be mandated for voting-age citizens determining their attitudes and opinions regarding major points-of-reference ringing the self-evidently correct agenda of The Moor and his own be-thralled horde of Saracens. Failure to score, um, correctly in this evaluation would be prima facie proof of debilitating hydrocephaly (or whatever--Lefties are nonpareil at fabricating labels and defining new categories of things as suits their political fad-of-the-hour--words equalling reality to most) much as failure to support Bolshevism was once proof of mental aberration in another defunct Dummy's Paradise. One more potentially wrongheaded vote would no longer be up for grabs between Senator Sluggo and Governor Bluto during the next national electoral farce; Sluggo would vanquish Satan (Bluto, this bout), rapture would sweep through the campus centers and coffee houses of Merka, and that nation would be awash in peace, prosperity, and multilingual signage, with a previous Bluto administration (and plenty of others) conveniently available to blame when none of the Golden Age spontaneously materialized. Merka would continue on its perpetually self-hobbled, self-absorbed journey through the fun-house of "da Urth's" history as it, and every other tribe and nation--despite assertions by the anthro-apologists--always has.

One may finish with this childe-like observation: If "The Moor" thinks his nation is moribund and its populace wholly "dumb" (his brilliant friends--MENSA supermodels and polymath cinema players--once again excepted, natürlich), then why does he fret and fume at all? Shouldn't he and his followers pay tribute to sinking-ship rationality and express their groaning displeasures with relocative geographical emphasis (wish and hope)? Cuba--a veritable Paradise for the frontal-lobe engorged--is ever in need of sugar-cane workers; the Sudan--a Garden of Eden of progressive thinking--could use assistance in eradicating "dumb" unbelievers; the League of Nations office in Geneva, it is rumored, is hiring a few more "maintenance staff." Or, if it's all as horrid as depicted, shouldn't Mr. the Moor and his comrades acquire firearms and man the battlements? Image V. I. Lenin publishing a tome titled "Stupid White Russians," collecting his cut of the profits, and heading home for ample lunch, mission accomplished, tyranny sort-of-overturned in his mind at least. Our guess is that since St. Michael's talent is in turning whine into sparklingly lucrative water that's sold--in a most "corporate" manner coincidentally--to baptize his own choir, he dares not abandon the golden-egg-laying-goose he daily protests he intends (some distant day) to cook and devour whole.

Lest I forget, the other zoomorphically miscegenated bovine-jackass that holds the rosier half of the snake-pit "in thrall"--the salt-in-wound to Mike's hot peppa--is of course that blustering Rush-to-Limbo fellow. We leave him where we find him, and choose not to apply corporal punishment to this deceased (and bloated) form of equine transport. Any adult merely steps around; he is a danger and impediment only so much in that he is an immovable blockage to self-righteous crybabies peddling kiddie-cars.