Once Aryan Skynet Goes Live It Doesn't Matter Who Pulled The Switch
Blogging and tweeting about politics, a person is prone to run into occasional cretins; but for the most part this is a constellation of internet subcultures selecting for some level of education. Even the idiots tend to be more or less well-informed – though the quality of the information, not to mention its interpretation, varies considerably from sphere to sphere. Most of us know, too, that the standard run of humanity, whites included, is pretty unremarkable. Again, working in a cubicle job as so many of us do, one understands that the average citizen out there – even the average white citizen – is, let’s be honest, not very smart; but even this unenviable sample set selects for unrepresentative merit. Only when one steps away from the computer and, say, stops into a Wendy’s for a baked potato, as I did this afternoon, is the awe-inspiring chasm separating the internet cognoscenti from the typical American man or woman made absolutely and painfully apparent.
I’d been to the store to pick up a few snacks and decided to stop at Wendy’s on the way home for something hot. Ordinarily I wouldn’t have sat so close to a table full of undesirables; but this not being the best neighborhood, I looked for a seat where I’d be able to keep an eye on my car, full as it was of grocery bags, and sat a few feet from another table where two blacks, an elderly dude and a pudgy woman, were joined by a hard-faced old wiggeress using a walker. Fox News was droning from the TV over my table, and the three of them were watching with interest, commenting on the weather and the early birds already congregating in Times Square for the New Year’s Eve celebration. After a while – after making the prediction that “they gonna blow somethin’ up” – the old black guy got up and excused himself to go have a smoke outside.
The TV, as mentioned, was tuned to Fox News, so it wasn’t long before Neil Cavuto was talking about ISIS terrorism and doing his best to keep a straight face. Another plot, it would seem, was foiled today in Rochester, New York, where some black doofus was apprehended before carrying out his intention to perpetrate “a New Year’s Eve machete attack on diners at a local restaurant on behalf of the Islamic State”. ISIS “brother” Emanuel Lutchman was allegedly dumb and gullible enough to have “sent an audio recording to an undercover informant [i.e., handler] who he thought would advance his plot in which he swore an oath of allegiance to the Islamic State leader [i.e., fictitious character], Abu Bakr al-Baghdadi.”
The women perked up at the terror news. Even the Wendy’s manager – a good-looking blonde in an ugly scarf – spoke up to commiserate and immediately gave herself away as a hopeless patriotard. “It’s sad, isn’t it,” she said, “that we, as American citizens, have to be afraid!” No doubt she was the one who had made sure beforehand that the TV was tuned correctly – tuned into her favorite fair-and-balanced “news” channel, that is. What really seemed to tingle the spines of the two biddies at the table was how nondescript, how chameleonic, the diabolical ISIS jihadis could be. They could be anybody. “He could be ISIS,” said the wiggeress, suddenly pointing at me. Stony-faced and earnest – I assume she detected my stifled mirth – she observed that my pocket was “bulging”. I reassured her by producing a pair of ragged but non-lethal gloves from the pocket in question, but this left their need to be titillated by something – anything – on this spooky New Year’s Eve unsatisfied.
It was scary, too, that the terror plot had centered around a restaurant, of all places. It wasn’t even safe to go out to eat anymore – even to Wendy’s! The black woman rambled on and on about how ISIS had popped up in Minnesota – “the same state where I was!” – just a few months back, and how this story had been “on the news and everything.” Young men all around the country – men who could look like anybody and be anybody – even me – were being recruited into the ranks of radicalized Islamic terrorist cells. It became increasingly apparent that these women were not really frightened out of any genuine conviction that something terrible was going to happen to them at Wendy’s; it was just that they wanted desperately to believe that they had something to fear. It was more of a Halloween feeling I got from all of these gobblers, actually. Silly little children in fat old bodies, still scaring each other with campfire stories about mysterious drifters with hooks for hands, or perhaps scimitars, who could jump out of the darkness at any moment and give them a fleeting jolt of excitement on the saddest, most inebriated night of the year.