Endless Bullshit for the Braindead

As published at SubStack, 4/21/23:

 

After the Boston Marathon Bombing in 2013, Tamerlan Tsarnaev was shot on the street while his brother, Dzhokhar, miraculously survived though hundreds of bullets were fired at the boat in which he was hiding. If the purpose was to uncover a terror network, why did Uncle Sam want to murder both? Unarmed, injured and trapped, Dzhokhar Tsarnaev wasn’t going anywhere. They could have starved him out.

It’s OK to ask questions. Consider also a famous photo from this incident. Sitting in a wheelchair, a man is so severely injured, bones are sticking out of his legs, yet he’s conscious and calm. Posting this at my blog, I asked, “Is there anything odd about this image?”

Biff, “The injured guy in the wheelchair looks less traumatized than the non-injured.”

No less perplexed, I suggest, “He's thinking about having a Bud Lite. When you have your bones sticking out and your nuts blown off, it's time for a cold one.”

Of course, I’m just a conspiracy theorist nutcase. Here’s a much saner account, New York Post on 3/5/15:

A man who lost both his legs in the Boston Marathon bombing testified Thursday that he locked eyes with one of the killers moments before twin blasts tore through the crowd.

“He was alone. He wasn’t watching the race,” Jeff Bauman said of Tamerlan Tsarnaev in the second day of the federal trial of Tsarnaev’s younger brother, Dzhokhar.

“I looked at him, and he just kind of looked down at me,” Bauman said of Tamerlan, who was later killed by cops.

“Two seconds later, I saw a flash, heard three pops, and a second later, I was on the ground,” said Bauman, who was waiting for his girlfriend to cross the finish line when he was felled by the explosion from one of two homemade pressure cooker bombs.

“I looked down, and I saw my legs, and it was just pure carnage,” Bauman said. “I could see my bones and my flesh sticking out.”

Jeff Bauman had two years to rehearse his lines, so he locked eyes with the terrorist, saw a flash, heard three pops, found himself on the ground then looked down to see bones and flesh sticking out. Not long after this “carnage,” he was lifted onto a wheelchair then rolled away by an Oriental lady and some cool white guy in a cowboy hat. Tougher than steel, he didn’t even wince, much less pass out.

There’s also a guy with his clothes shredded but not bleeding. A photographer was there to capture his super cool stance. The makeup guy didn’t quite do his job. Must have run out of ketchup.

Whatever cut through his pants stopped at his flesh. His steel balls stayed intact.

If you know anyone who’s been in a firefight in a war, ask him if any of the above makes sense.

Now, consider this passage:

Apart from Jorgeson, the only other American putting out any fire was Second Lieutenant Milton, also a fairly new guy, a “cherry,” who was down on one knee firing his .45, an exercise in almost complete futility. I assumed that Milton’s 16 had jammed, like mine, and watched as AK-47 rounds, having penetrated his flak jacket and then his chest, ripped through the back of his field pack and buzzed into the jungle beyond like a deadly swarm of bees. A few seconds later, I heard the swoosh of an RPG rocket, a dud round that dinged the lieu­tenant’s left shoulder before it flew off in the bush behind him. It took off his whole arm, and for an instant I could see the white bone and ligaments of his shoulder, and then red flesh of muscle tissue, looking very much like fresh prime beef, well marbled and encased in a thin layer of yellowish-white adipose tissue that quickly became saturated with dark-red blood. What a lot of blood there was. Still, Milton continued to fire his .45. When he emptied his clip, I watched him remove a fresh one from his web gear and attempt to load the pistol with one hand. He seemed to fumble with the fresh clip for a long time, until at last he dropped it, along with his .45. The lieu­tenant’s head slowly sagged forward, but he stayed up on one knee with his remaining arm extended out to the enemy, palm upward in the soulful, heartrending gesture of Al Jolson doing a rendition of “Mammy.”

It’s by Thom Jones, from his short story collection, The Pugilist at Rest. On the back cover, it says Jones was in the Marines so, naturally, you assume his accounts of war are derived from actual experiences, except Jones was never in Vietnam or any war. So detailed, the above is bullshit. Show it to any war veteran to see him keel over in laughter.

Library bound and nearly blind Borges described knife fights, but he did it with a light touch, sans deceptions. Plus, in fiction or poetry, you can bullshit away, to arrive at hidden truths.

When Lori Lightfoot said she had the biggest dick in Chicago, it was unspeakably crass but also poetic, for it was basically true. With her huge schlong, she’s pissing all over Chicago, if not reaming it up the ass. Chicagoans voted for this lady.

When bullshit is presented as incontestable truths, we have deadly problems even. We must believe that six millions Jews were killed, mostly by gas, lampshades were made from Jewish skin and mattress were filled with Jewish hair, 47-story-tall WTC7 collapsed into its own footprint in seconds because of a minor fire and the 77-foot-tall Pentagon was hit in the side by an airliner piloted by an amateur flying at full speed.

There are so many more examples from the Jewjacked USA, the world leader of bullshit.

Now, I ask you to consider the transcript of Betty Ong’s call from American Airlines Flight 11 on 9/11/01. Some excerpts:

[…] The cockpit's not answering. Somebody's stabbed in business class and—I think there's mace—that we can't breathe. I don't know, I think we're getting hijacked.

[…]

I'm sitting in the back. Somebody's coming back from business. If you can hold on for one second, they're coming back.

Our number 1 got stabbed. Our purser is stabbed. Nobody knows who stabbed who, and we can't even get up to business class right now 'cause nobody can breathe.

[…]

I think the guys are up there. They might have gone there—jammed the way up there, or something. Nobody can call the cockpit. We can’t even get inside.

Now, listen to her:

If you think there’s nothing odd about this audio, then I’m the troubled one, but don’t worry, I’m as far away from your shining city on the hill as possible. There’s no need to kick me out.

If America is such a sinister nuthouse, why do so many foreigners yearn to get in? To this, we can cite the house nigger/field nigger dichotomy.

If you must live on a plantation, it’s better to be a house nigger, for you will eat and dress better, and this choice is even easier if the massa has just bombed your fuckin' shack, even way out in some hidden corner of his vast estate.

If the massa has clearly lost control of his mind, speech and bowels, and if smoke or even fire can be seen in different rooms, and if your fellow house niggers are causing all sorts of problems, it’s actually better to be a field nigger, however.

[Swakopmund, Namibia on 2/13/22]

[Cape Town, South Africa on 10/31/21]