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Posts Tagged ‘Silly’

It’s that time of the month again — no, not that time, the good time: time for Unamusement Park’s three-month anniversary spectacular! Hurray! Or should I say… Unamusement Park’s three-month anniversary slut-tacular. Hurray again! Hurray for sluts!

We like sluts!

You thought I’d forgotten, didn’t you? You silly goose.

I feel the need... the need for sluts.

This is a day I’ll remember forever, like the first time I lied to get sex (“I love you too”), or the first time I took advantage of a drunk girl (“close your eyes, open your mouth, and take off your top — there’s something I want to tell you”).

April is the sluttiest month, and the last nine days of March are pretty slutty too

Tonight we commemorate the founding of Unamusement Park, surely a pivotal moment in women’s history. Bigger than Roe v. Wade. Bigger than suffrage. Bigger than the invention of the push-up bra. Bigger even than the first time a man said: “Hey, you know what would be great? If only there was some way we could oppress all women forever… with our dicks.” So put on some clothes, wipe off your face, and take my hand, as we look back on some of the slut-tastic hate-erosexual experiences we’ve shared and you’ve later regretted, you dirty little girl.

  • As part of the previous anniversary celebration here at Unamusement Park, I dispatched my crack squad of Research Assistants into the field to collect data on a disturbing cultural trend: stupidity levels, already unsustainably high since the late 90s, are still rising.
  • There’s a whole new world of psychology research, a new fantastic point of view on race differences in intelligence. No one can tell us no, or where to go, or say we’re only dreaming. I’m like a shooting star: I’ve come so far, I can’t go back to where I used to be. With respect to behavior genetics, that is.
  • Colorlines: offering solutions to whatever mythical problems today’s minorities are whining about, especially if it’s something white people are doing, like staying in school, getting good grades, not doing drugs, keeping out of jail, or succeeding in life without government handouts.
  • Poor sportsmanship? It’s a reactionary musical extravaganza!
  • One of the peculiarities of our decadent age is the ongoing undeclared War on Hate, which is being waged by the most hateful and malicious elements of our society. Hatred is a five-part documentary on their struggle. Their stupid, useless, confused, evil struggle.
  • Race denialists really don’t think about race. They will do anything to avoid it.
  • They also display a tendency to shoot themselves in the foot. “African blacks don’t have an average IQ of 70,” they crow. “It’s actually 81! That’s only nineteen points (1.3 standard deviations) below the white average!”
  • It’s funny how many people accuse me of being hateful, bigoted, crazy, stupid, or ignorant. Every time they do, I remember the immortal words of Inigo Montoya: “You killed my father. Prepare to die.” Wait, no, that’s not right.
  • Since this is my very first post wholly devoted to the dreadful subject of feminism, I’m going to treat it like spaghetti: throw a bunch of angry sex-conscious women at a wall and see if they stick. No, that’s not quite right. Let’s just say I’m going to strip down my rhetoric, whip out my toolbox of reactionary politics, and shoot my hateful ideas right in their faces. There’s got to be a better metaphor for that…
  • Every time a feminist lies that rape is about power, not sex, and every time she meets useful information with victim-blaming hysteria, she is making the world a little less safe for women. Thanks to feminists, no rape victim will ever forget it wasn’t her fault she was assaulted as she walked home at 3 am, alone, drunk, and wearing her awesome new miniskirt. The man who attacked her was clearly seeking power and control over women. Next week, he’ll probably rape an 80-year-old grandmother at lunch time.
  • You wouldn’t ask a shark to respect your right not to get eaten, would you? Don’t ask rapists to respect your right not to get raped. They don’t care. That’s what makes them rapists. Just stay away from them.
  • You can determine race with 99.86 percent accuracy by looking at gene clusters. You can also determine race by looking at bones. That’s forensic anthropology, or as I like to call it, CSI Serengeti.
  • The truth is, statistically speaking, there is no bias against blacks inherent in the justice system. All the anecdotal evidence in the world won’t change that.
  • “When a true genius appears in the world, you may know him by this sign, that the dunces are all in confederacy against him” (Jonathan Swift).
  • It’s a genetic epic: an Hispanic panic! Are they ethnic or organic? That third rail (of rape responsibility) was galvanic. (I’m manic.)
  • Human Biological Variationa race denialist favorite, “used in virtually every physical anthropology class for undergraduate students in America” — has the following to say about race differences in intelligence: “There is little debate over the average 15-point difference [in IQ] between American blacks and whites…” Research is hard!
  • Madness? THIS. IS. SFORZA.
  • “Fuck this shit,” I hear you say. “Fuck the war, fuck the economy, fuck global warming, and fuck the price of gas. Fuck the Democrats and fuck the Republicans, but especially the fucking Democrats, and especially the fucking Republicans. Fuck Obama, fuck Biden, fuck Boehner ’til he cries. Fuck the radicals liberally. Fuck the libertarians freely. Fuck the socialists according to your needs, and fuck them again according to their abilities.” Anyway, I came up with this thing. I call it compassionate reactionism.
  • I’ve actually been thinking about that a lot lately. Not the fact that I’m a frantic schizoid bum — I came to terms with that long ago. No, I mean I’ve been thinking about ways to take these wonderfully hateful ideas off the Internet, out of my fortified bunker complex in Vermont, and into the light of day. Or rather, into the twilight of Western Civilization.
  • This is not what racism looks like: a scientist gives intelligence tests to some people, then announces he’s found a difference in their average IQs. This is what racism looks like: a high-school dropout shoots some beer bottles with an air rifle, then announces “I hate all the niggers, they like to eat watermelon, and I wish they would just go back to Africa sometime very soon.”

Was it good for you? ‘Cause it was fucking spectacular for me.

The first annual Most Retarded Race Denialist award

Unamusement Park would not be possible — actually, it would be possible, but a whole lot less fun for me, if not for the generous contributions of random Internet losers, who have donated their ignorant, inconsistent, idiotic opinions to fuel my white-hot white rage and give me something to make fun of when I can’t think of anything substantial to write. Which is nearly always.

On this day, these men shall be honored for their generosity in the only truly appropriate way: by first insulting, then ignoring them.

Wise words. But this past month, some of those random Internet losers have been so stupefyingly ignorant, so consistently inconsistent, and so unbelievably idiotic that they’ve earned some individual recognition. To that end, I am introducing Unamusement Park’s first award, to be presented annually to the most retarded race denialist: the annual Most Retarded Race Denialist award!

The nominees are: anyone, absolutely anyone, who believes at least one of the following retarded things:

  1. Race is a social construct.
  2. Race is not biological.
  3. Race is only skin deep.
  4. Diversity is a strength.
  5. Black people are just as smart as white people (and Asians).

Without further ado, I proudly present the first annual Most Retarded Race Denialist award to… all of them! They’re all the most retarded! Hurray!

By popular demand: a slutty slut acting slutty!

We turn now to a slutty slut acting slutty, to hear her slutty thoughts on Unamusement Park’s three-month anniversary slut-tacular, or as I like to call it, “International Touch-a-Sleeping-Girl’s-Boobs Day.”

I miss my gratuitous French girl, but she has far too much self-respect to appear in the slut-tacular.

Take it away, you slutty slut.

“Oh my God, I haven’t been fucked in hours. I can’t think straight. I can’t even see straight. Someone, anyone, please stick your cock in me. You!”

Me?

“Yeah, you: the blurry guy with the turnips, wearing the ‘I Hate Black People’ t-shirt. I need you to fuck me. Now.”

… Seriously?

“Do I look like I’m kidding? This is a medical emergency! I. Need. Cock.”

Uh… wow. Hehe, are you at least going to buy me dinner f—

“Shut the fuck up. Take off your pants.”

Hey, what are you — those are my — oh fuck. Guys, stop the tape. Get out of here.

“No, it’s cool. They can stay.”

No, seriously, stop the —

We close on the satisfied moaning and gentle slurping noises of a slutty slut an empowered, sex-positive woman doing what she does best.

“Stop narrating.”

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Repent.

My opinion of the modern world is best illustrated by these words.

Turning and turning in the widening gyre
The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
The best lack all conviction, while the worst
Are full of passionate intensity.

Yeats, “The Second Coming”

My opinion of the modern world is second best illustrated by these words.

A man is lying on the street, some punk has chopped off his head,
And I’m the only one who stops to see if he’s dead.
Turns out he’s dead.
That’s why I’m singing:
Oooooo, what is wrong with the world today?
(What’s wrong with the world today?
<mumble mumble mumble mumble mumble>)

Flight of the Conchords, “Issues (Think About It)”

With all these gyres widening, innocence ceremonies drowning, and blood-dimmed tides on the loose, it is easy to become disheartened, bitter, homicidal, or glum.

“Fuck this shit,” I hear you say. “Fuck the war, fuck the economy, fuck global warming, and fuck the price of gas. Fuck the Democrats and fuck the Republicans, but especially the fucking Democrats, and especially the fucking Republicans. Fuck Obama, fuck Biden, fuck Boehner ’til he cries. Fuck the radicals liberally. Fuck the libertarians freely. Fuck the socialists according to your needs, and fuck them again according to their abilities. Fuck the birthers in Hawaii or fuck them in Kenya, it’s all the same to me. Fuck the truthers with an iron-rich sphere. Fuck the relativists and tell them it’s traditional in your country. Fuck the haters, I fucking hate those fucks. Fuck Iraq, fuck Iran; fuck Egypt and Afghanistan. Take a fifteen minute break, then fuck Libya. You know what, fuck every other Middle Eastern shit-hole sand pile, too. Fuck the terrorists. Fuck all the Muslims. Fuck the Arabs and fuck the Jews. Fuck Rachel Corrie with a bulldozer. Fuck the blacks and fuck the Mexicans. Fuck the Asians in the library. Fuck South Africa until they bring back apartheid. Fuck the feminists and make them call you ‘daddy.’ Fuck the Conscious Men, and hey, Dear Woman: Fuck You Too. Fuck the sluts, they’re asking for it. Fuck the betas. (Someone’s got to do it.) Fuck the lesbians straight and fuck the straight girls bi. Fuck the bi girls, they’re crazy in the sack. And while you’re at it, fuck the crazy girls too. Fuck the rapists before they fuck you. Fuck cancer, fuck AIDS, fuck herpes, and fuck swine flu. Fuck the criminals and fuck the police. Fuck mom and dad, they don’t fucking understand you anyway. Fuck Bristol Palin and get her pregnant with another retarded baby. (Or was it Sarah? Ah, fuck it.) Fuck Rebecca Black. Fuck her on Thursday, Thursday. Fuck her again on Friday, Friday. Tomorrow is fucking Saturday, and fucking Sunday comes afterward. You know what? Fuck ’em all. Fuck me, fuck you, fuck the whole entire world. Go fuck yourself.”

I understand your frustration, and I respect your enthusiasm (even as I fear your psychotic babbling). But I am here to tell you: fucking is not the answer! We cannot fuck our way out of this predicament. Our generation’s Berlin Walls will not be brought down by our collective jackhammer thrusting, despite the apparent aptness of the metaphor.

I'm paraphrasing.

Anyway, I came up with this thing. I call it compassionate reactionism. It’s like ordinary reactionism, only… slightly less hateful. It’s reactionism you can talk about over tea with Grandma. Over the next few days, I will attempt to explain the concept by examples. Hey, it’s not like I’ve got three other series going on already…

The Compassionate Reactionary on… Feminism

So you’ve decided women are just as good as men. Maybe better.

No, definitely better.

I happen to agree. Girls are soft and they smell nice. That alone guarantees their superiority. Oh, you meant something different. Equality and shit, right? But you’ve already got that.

Well anyway, I’m happy you’re so strong and empowered and independent and you don’t need a man and your vagina delivers monologues. Why you keep asking for special treatment is a bit of a mystery, but… whatever. We can put that aside for now. I really hope your Ph.D. in Gender Studies is six prime reproductive years well spent. (See how compassionate I am?) However:

Don’t come crying to me when your feminism meets reality, and reality kicks the shit out of you. This is the kind of thing I’m talking about. (I feel like we’ve been over this before, albeit in an altogether less compassionate way.)

If you drink and drug yourself into a stupor and wake up in a strange bed with a hangover, a tattoo, a bad case of crabs, and a whole lot of regret, you don’t get to wash away your culpability (or your crabs) by declaring yourself a rape victim. Light all the candles you want. That’s one night you can’t take back.

You say you have a right to not get raped. At first glance, this appears to be a true statement. However, your behavior has lead me to believe you have confused “right to not get raped” with “indestructible barrier protecting your vagina (etc.) at all times and in all places, allowing you to do exactly as you please without any consequences.”

The thing about rapists is: they don't need an invitation.

You say there’s a sexual double standard. I believe you. You’re still a slut, and I still don’t respect you. I’m sorry if I’m not sufficiently empowering you, but you just aren’t relationship material. Now flip over.

No, I don’t have a condom. That’s why we gave you abortion rights, isn’t it?

The Compassionate Reactionary on… Gender

So you’re dissatisfied your genitals. Hey, who isn’t?

But you… you take it further than most. You’ve decided you’re a woman in a man’s body, or a man in a woman’s body, or maybe even a gay man in a straight woman’s body. Something crazy like that. Sorry, I didn’t mean to imply you were mentally ill.

mental disorder (noun): a mental or bodily condition marked primarily by sufficient disorganization of personality, mind, and emotions to seriously impair the normal psychological functioning of the individual

Anyway, you’re not happy with how nature identified you, meaning what’s between your legs, so you’re self-identifying as something else. That’s nice. I hope your decision makes you happy. (See how supportive I’m being?) However:

You can’t tell me what you are. This is the kind of thing I’m talking about.

Well, you can tell me, but that doesn’t mean I have to believe you. I’m going to identify you however I like. Probably by how you look. If you don’t like it, don’t talk to me. Definitely don’t try to date me. Because if you look like a guy and talk like a guy but you say you’re a pretty little girl on the inside, well… I’m not going inside to check, if you know what I mean. Maybe your dick self-identifies as pussy, but mine doesn’t buy it.

Natalie Portman: 100 percent irrelevant. If you had just Googled "transgender," you would understand why I need this image right now.

You’ve got your freedom of association, so don’t associate with me — by which I mean, don’t try to fuck me. But I’ve got my freedom of thought and freedom of speech, so don’t try to fuck with me either.

Don’t worry. I’m just getting started.

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Today the Internet’s #1 source for racial blasphemy and incitement to genocide turns two months old. You can’t see it from where you’re sitting, but I just set off three thousand fireworks —

— in the general direction of a black orphanage.

Hooray!

Sadly, one of those months was February, the shortest and therefore gayest month. Why do you think we let black people have it? Twenty-eight days of black history is enough, thank you. And don’t even get me started on leap years. Last time I swear they tried to come up with a new civil rights hero to fill in the extra day. Her name was Posa Rarks and she refused to sit on the back of a tandem bicycle.

I feel somewhat like a cat who’s just had his birthday cake confiscated. The only thing that could make me feel better would be a picture of exactly that, but where would I possibly —

ALL BETTER!

I feel for you, Birthday lol-Cat. I really do.

Birth of a Blog: The First Two Glorious Months: A Retrospective

Let us now commemorate this monumental event in the history of race relations — bigger than I have a dream; bigger than the Emancipation Proclamation; bigger even than the first time someone said: “Hey, you know what would be great? If black people did our jobs for free.” Here are some of the good times we’ve shared and fond memories we’ve made together, you ungrateful shitheads.

  • Welcome to the Politics of Equality. It’s not science, and it’s ruining everybody’s shit.
  • Savage beating, torture, rape, and murder — or, as the black defendant puts it, “rough fantasy sex.”
  • I hear there’s a bunch of crazies living in caves, sticking bombs in their underwear in between jerking off to 72 wide-eyed, non-menstruating virgins. Oh yeah, and they want to take over the world.
  • If my mother were starving, I would care enough to do something about it. If her mother were starving, I would still do something about it, but I’d complain a lot and make her feel guilty. If my mother’s cat were starving, I’d be all over that situation — shit would get done.
  • Your horoscope: while pondering a Zen koan, you will become disoriented and aroused, and fall down an open manhole. On the way down, your engorged member will ensnare a ripe strawberry, which will taste unusually good.
  • Turns out there’s no reproductive advantage to getting mad about a little girl-on-girl action. God bless you, science.
  • If I were a racist, I wouldn’t stand here debating with you. I’d just call you a “nigger-lover” and get on with my day.
  • Fighting the national epidemic of rabid woodchucks mauling picnickers.
  • This conversation doesn’t end with me saying “and so you see, that’s why Hitler was so cool.” I don’t get my statistics from a little-known appendix to The Turner Diaries.
  • A black woman has been convicted of tampering with records, for doing nothing more than tampering with records? It’s the next Posa Rarks!
  • Your emotional response to an idea tells us nothing about that idea’s validity — unless of course the idea was that people never get offended by ideas.
  • Yes, yes. Your awed silence and slack-jawed dribbling are quite appropriate for the magnitude of my genius.
  • The NBA is obviously discriminating against Asians, who as everyone knows are just as athletically gifted as — oh, wait. It sounds incredibly stupid when I put it that way.
  • Fanatical anti-white bigot Tim Wise makes his first (but sadly not last) appearance.
  • “Oh Unamused, you sexy devil. I bet you’re just trying to steal all the mayonnaise sandwiches in the world and seal them up in a giant climate-controlled mayonnaise sandwich vault under Lake Michigan where no one can get at them.”
  • White people are smart, responsible, polite, peaceful, and law abiding, beautiful, inventive, artistic, and nice to all the other races! Why not be nice back?
  • People are like noodles: they both stick together, they both taste delicious, and they’re both racist.
  • Happy Valentine’s Day! Go fuck your hot cousin!
  • I’m such a sucker for French girls and their je ne sais quoi’s and their voulez-vous couchez avec moi’s and their penchant pour les blowjobs.
  • Sluts and players, feminists and faggots, shrieking harpies and supplicating eunuchs. Oh, my!
  • If you want to really cash in on the diversity sweepstakes, you should say your child is a black/black/black/gay/crippled/black hermaphrodite. Kid’s gonna get teased some, though.
  • The “logic” of gun control would make Aristotle weep. Apparently, soooo many criminals are using guns against defenseless victims that we, uh — we can’t allow citizens to carry guns.
  • Unamusement Park is your source for all French things, including hot girls, typical and ordinary girls, hot “fuks,” sexy “grels,” women’s faces, traditional dresses, ethnic heritage, and of course… boobs.
  • “I demanded to be transferred at once to an exotic particle physics research facility in a cooler climate where I would not be subjected to a continuous barrage of monsoons, tidal waves, sunstroke, tropical skin diseases, and the incursions of those abominable monkeys.” (Not Japan.)
  • Maybe whites won’t need that race war after all! Awwwwww. Now I’m a sad panda bear — the least racist of all bears!
  • Tonight: poor, helpless racial minorities and the good, liberal whites who fuck them.
  • A rather unfortunate catastrophic total failure of the reactor’s containment shields. (Not Japan.)
  • Bullshit nonsense gibberish like “critical race theory” and “critical white studies” are now considered legitimate fields of research.
  • It’s all pointless. Everything is pointless. Fuck it. [kills self]
  • Isn’t it time the Crusaders Against Racism left their ziggurats and wrenched open some poor woman’s mouth to see if it’s full of racism?
  • We support your right to rainbows and sunshine and kittens, and ice cream for dinner every day!
  • Bowling, speed skating, and the luge: it’s a black-on-white showdown!
  • Your unique environment includes getting in a freak zeppelin accident after winning the lottery.
  • “It’ll lick the salt from my cerebral cortex! Dangle my genitals for Christmas decorations!” (Possibly Japan…)
  • Today’s race-conscious African-American male seeks to overcome historical barriers to inter-racial unions, as well as discriminatory female consent practices.
  • Minorities are our friends with special benefits.
  • If you are a black person arguing for the cognitive superiority of your race, it helps your case if you (a) support your claim with scientific data and coherent argumentation, rather than a plagiarized compilation of remarks by 2,000-year-old architects and 1,300-year-old grammarians; and (b) are capable of spelling three-syllable words correctly.
  • I’m too hateful for your blog, too hateful for your blog, your blog’s going to leave me./I’m too hateful for my shirt, too hateful for my shirt, so hateful it hurts. (Don’t watch this.)

What glorious months they were! The dizzying highs! The terrifying lows! The creamy middles! The overuse of punctuation! Especially! Exclamation! Marks!

Who was I arguing with then?

Unamusement Park would not be possible — actually, it would be possible, but a whole lot less fun for me, if not for the generous contributions of random Internet losers, who have donated their ignorant, inconsistent, idiotic opinions to fuel my white-hot white rage and give me something to make fun of when I can’t think of anything substantial to write. Which is nearly always.

On this day, these men shall be honored for their generosity in the only truly appropriate way: by first insulting, then ignoring them.

By popular demand: a gratuitous French girl

What do you think, gratuitous French girl? Please, share with us your thoughts on Unamusement Park’s two-month anniversary, or as I like to call it, “International Call-a-Random-Black-Person-‘Nigger’ Day.”

Very gratuitous and extremely French.

Je pense que — oh, I am so sorry. En Anglais, oui? I believe zat zere is nothing sexier zan a man who can rebut a socioeconomic theory of race differences in intelligence. I would love to give him several hours of — er, you do not have zis word in your language. It is a special secret French sexy thing zat is taught to all our sexiest young girls. It is to regular sex what regular sex is to hammering nails into your face. I will particularly enjoy zis because Unamused has such a huge —”

Alright, thank you, that’s plenty.

“But I was just about to tell zem about your enormous —”

THANK YOU, gratuitous French girl. You can go now.

“But… you promised me a croissant. May I please have my croissant now?”

We close on the gentle sounds of a gratuitous French girl nibbling happily on her delicious croissant.

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As relevant now as it was in 1986. Via The Market Ticker, here’s a video of Jesse Jackson, Jr., son of famous race-baiting demagogue Jesse Jackson, and U.S. representative for Illinois’ 2nd congressional district, which is majority black, favored Obama over McCain by nine to one, and hasn’t elected a Republican to Congress since 1950.

In the video, the younger Jackson calls for adding the following “basic rights” to the Constitution of the United States:

  • “the right to a family to have a decent home. . . . What would that do for home construction in this nation?”
  • “the right to medical care. . . . How many doctors would such a right create?”
  • “the right to a decent education for every American. . . . How many people would be put to work . . . providing every student with an iPod and a laptop?”

Well, I think the problem with his idea is clear: it doesn’t go nearly far enough. Imagine what else we could achieve, if we could only insert more fake rights into the Constitution. What about these basic rights:

  • the right to have a million dollars: how many hobos would be living in luxury?
  • the right to not have cancer: how many tumors would be eradicated?
  • the right to live to a hundred: how many unfairly dead Americans would be resurrected, assuming it applied retroactively?
  • the right to not be a victim of violent crime: how many murderers and robbers and rapists would hang up their guns and knives and . . . whatever special equipment rapists use?
  • the right to not be a victim of racism: how many black people’s problems would be instantly solved?
  • the right to rainbows and sunshine and kittens (and ice cream for dinner every day): how many sad little boys and girls would brush off the clouds and cheer up, put on a happy face?

The answer to all of these questions is, of course, you’re an idiot.

Addendum: It’s because he’s black. The child porn had nothing to do with it.

Jesse Jackson, Jr. has been in office since 1995, when he replaced another black Democrat, Mel Reynolds. How did Reynolds’ career end?

In August 1994, Reynolds was indicted for sexual assault and criminal sexual abuse for engaging in a sexual relationship with a 16-year-old campaign volunteer that began during the 1992 campaign. Despite the charges, he continued his campaign and was re-elected that November; he had no opposition. Reynolds initially denied the charges, which he claimed were racially motivated.

Big surprise. However:

On August 22, 1995, he was convicted on 12 counts of sexual assault [statutory rape], obstruction of justice and solicitation of child pornography.

And later, bank fraud, wire fraud and perjury, not that it matters to some people.

He resigned his seat on October 1 of that year.

But apparently he’s still sore about it:

Reynolds is still angry that he was mistreated and held to a higher standard because he is black when he was investigated and convicted for sleeping with a teenage campaign worker.

I can only sigh.

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Everybody’s looking for me

Recent search engine terms leading to Unamusement Park:

  • white pride: it’s fun for all ages!
  • “achievement gap” iq: you came to the right place.
  • debate tactics of the ignorant: you came to the wrong place.
  • unamused hot girls: part of me hopes this is just a young man (or lady) who’s really into unamused girls. (Nothing gets me harder than a look of disdain.)
  • france hot girls: this might be one of my searches, actually.
  • hot french girl: oh yeah, definitely me.
  • typical french girl: why bother when you could have a hot one? (Most popular search?!)
  • ordinary french girl: I don’t understand you people.
  • hot french fuk: also me.
  • grels france sexy: the sexiest grels come from France.
  • draw me like your french girls: looking for either this or this, I suppose.
  • french woman’s face: just the face? What about the boobs?
  • traditional french dress or dresses: you definitely came to the right place!
  • french women ethnic heritage: honestly, still kinda turns me on.
  • french things: Unamusement Park is your source for all French things, including hot girls, typical and ordinary girls, hot fuks, sexy grels, women’s faces, traditional dresses, ethnic heritage, and of course . . . boobs.
  • sweden hot girl: psh. Sweden.
  • blowjob practice: keep at it honey, you’ll get there soon. Watch the teeth.
  • women give bj: I like to think it’s a question. Posed by a nine-year-old.
  • female soldier blowjob: so . . . this is a thing now.
  • girl on girl uncensored action: exactly twice as popular as jared taylor on jim crow laws (uncensored action).
  • hot girl fucked very hard: you don’t always have to fuck her hard. In fact, sometimes, that’s not right to do.
  • live fucking with hot girls: I’m basically running a porn site now. It’s time I learned to live with it.
  • x hoot fuck sex: I, too, often hoot while I fuck sex.
  • sexy hot anal no: there’s nothing more sexy hot than anal—NO.
  • hot female pussy: the best kind.
  • sexy fuck girls hard cock: a sexy fuck from a girl’s hard cock—wait a minute . . .
  • irish fuck girl: the best kind of Irish girl is an Irish fuck girl—although I suppose the best kind of Irish fuck is an Irish fuck girl, too.
  • india girl beauty fuck: the best kind of India girl fuck is a—never mind.
  • indiagirlfuck: short and to the point.
  • do white girls like indian men: no. They don’t.
  • mauritania girls: I don’t recommend you try this search yourself . . . shudder.
  • thin girls hight 5.6: can only get off with a thin, 5’6″ girl. Join the club, bro.
  • white girl vs asian girl: ah, the ancient rivalry—although, with as many keystrokes, he could have had “white girl on asian girl.” Unamusement Park is your source for search optimization!
  • black girls fucking white men: er . . . to each his own. Different strokes, as they say.
  • femboi: your kind isn’t welcome here.

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It’s announcements day.

Unamusement Park is now uncensored for coarse language and nudity (not that there’s any of that). So you can say “fuck” and “shit” all you like, you fucking shitheads. However, use of the word “nigger” is still prohibited.

You n*ggers.

Along those lines, for those of you who missed it, this week’s theme was: Happy Valentine’s Day! Go fuck your hot cousin!

A record number of hits today, almost half of them on one particular post. And a record number of clicks, on one particular French honey. The things I would do to that jolie fille, you cannot imagine.

Hint: they are sex.

So what have we learned?

  1. Call your post “Hot white girls.”
  2. Link a hot French girl.
  3. Profit.

Also make sure Ferdinand Bardamu links you. Thanks, you magnificent bastard.

Speaking of unspeakable things, the little girl with pink hair makes me feel funny. Not in a bad way, I guess . . . just in a weird way. “It’s a piece of cake to bake a pretty cake”—yeah, I know what she really means, but that kind of consent won’t hold up in a court of law, will it? (Dual H/T: Riding with the King and In Mala Fide—you sick fucks.)

Pyrrhic victory: is there any other kind?

Finally, seriously, commenter DKH has some insights on affirmative action:

My company is a consulting engineering firm in Pennsylvania. We are highly qualified in the area of our expertise. We are locked out of nearly all City of Philadelphia work and a significant amount of state work because of the unfair Affirmative Action requirements.

. . . Affirmative Action is being abused today. It is a form of patronage not a form of positive training for minority and women business owners. Look at the statistics in Philadelphia and I suspect you will find that a few companies have become rich in the name of Affirmative Action but only a few have learned to compete in the real business world, moved on and opened a position for the next [Minority Business Enterprise/Woman Business Enterprise] company to have a chance.

As a citizen of this great country and a business owner who employs people in Pennsylvania, I feel it is about time all people and the companies they own are treated equally under the law – even white people!

What can be done? Or am I going to spend my entire working life in a racially outcast class unable to participate in the programs my tax dollars fund?

It’s time to end race-based affirmative action.

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The meaning of life

If you came to read about race and other serious things, go ahead and skip this.

Good evening, and welcome. I, Professor Unamused of the Unamusement Park Institute for Comparative Ethics (UPICE), have achieved what no other man has dared to dream: I have discovered the meaning of life and the ultimate purpose of our universe!

Yes, yes . . . your awed silence and slack-jawed dribbling are quite appropriate for the magnitude of my genius.

However! Before we embark upon our journey of enlightenment—which necessarily begins in the vast and metaphorical jungle of moral philosophy, in which we shall fend off the ravenous crocodile, the shadowy leopard, and the pinchy crab of its applied, normative, and meta-ethical considerations, respectively—before that, I must disclose a certain personal bias.

I, Professor Unamused of UPICE, am a profoundly evil man. Everybody knows it—everybody except you, apparently. It is true beyond all doubt and a matter of public record.

I have broken the laws of God and man. I have lied, fabricated, and wildly embellished on some twenty million different occasions—for money; for prestige; sometimes merely for the satisfaction of knowing that I have led an honest man astray. Like a wellspring of deceit, I am the source of a thousand slanderous rumors. Given the opportunity, I never fail to take credit for the labors of a better man.

With sly words I have impugned the honor of virtuous women fallen on hard times. I have been spectacularly and repeatedly unfaithful to each and every one of my sexual partners. From anyone foolish enough to call me friend, I have pilfered and pawned his most cherished personal treasure, merely to punish his trusting nature. In my long and horrifying career as a mischief maker, I have swindled a church, a circus, a children’s hospital charity, a grade school bake sale, a diabetic, a beggar, and an innocent dog.

They call me a lewd savage. They call me a lecher. I say this to you now: they underestimate me!

Those who know me best like me least. Indeed, the more you learn of my misdeeds, the more legitimate cause you will have to do me harm. Therefore I am resolved to destroy you first. I may even now be crouching outside your bedroom window with a poleaxe or hanging, bat-like, within your chimney with a poison dart. Know this and hate me all the more for it, even as you fear me.

I have subscribed more than two hundred innocent victims to unwanted pornographic magazines. I have deliberately served rotten shellfish to veterans of the Gulf War. I have refused to give up my bus seat to a blind, pregnant, arthritic grandmother. Days later, recalling that callous act, I chuckled heartily and rewarded myself with a chocolate snack, making sure to discard the empty wrapper into a duck pond, which gave me an erection, which I used to frighten a young woman, which gave me an even more turgid erection, which I used to defile a mailbox. “There is more evil in my penis than there was in Hitler’s entire body” is my personal motto; I tattoo it on the lower backs of sleeping hobos.

I was the inspiration for six children’s book villains. I broke up the Beatles. I cut Marc Bolan’s brake line.

I protest against a woman’s right to choose, yet I bully every pregnant woman I meet to abort, whipping them about the shoulders and thighs with a bent coat hanger if I deem it necessary or pleasurable, which I always do. I have confused and humiliated a Golden Retriever in front of its peers. I have urinated into a kitchen sink that was not my own. I once replaced a schizophrenic woman’s medication with breath mints, then terrorized her for several hours with dire proclamations, dressed all the while as a wood nymph.

On Christmas Day 2006, I decorated a Santa Claus parade float with fecal graffiti from a third-story balcony. On national days of mourning, I sing obscene songs from dawn to dusk, boisterous and completely nude. I once convinced an autistic child that his trusted elderly neighbor had hidden “a gold coin of great worth” in a secret place between her legs—an utter lie. Evil deeds are my art form; my palette is the full range of human suffering.

With seductive heresy, I convert men and women to my perverse and capricious cult of moon worship, whose only tenet is surprise sodomy. I have blasphemed against every God and defiled eleven shrines. I once set fire to a sleeping man’s beard.

My semen is a weapon of mass destruction. I have spilled my seed on holy ground and from the roofs of tall buildings. I have stained each face of Mt. Rushmore with my precious bodily fluid. Each week I pollute the local public swimming pool with my genetic legacy of evil, then at the sperm bank I inflict similar insult upon the gene pool. I have shaken hands with men, women, and children—including the daughter of a prominent congressman—immediately after masturbating and without washing my hands.

My words and deeds have corrupted a generation of women. I once obliquely taunted a young woman about her weight, failing to produce the desired effect—a lifetime of self-esteem issues—but nevertheless instilling in her a lifelong fear of strange men with littering-induced erections who leap from bushes to obliquely taunt passersby. I have gorged myself on the menstrual blood of virgins, obtained through base trickery. I bottle my own flatulence, concentrate it, then unleash it on unsuspecting strangers—a rancid gift! All of my most gratifying erotic fantasies involve beloved children’s television characters being coerced into lives of sexual slavery. I deliberately miss the bowl in public washrooms and spray my golden stream on wall, floor, and ceiling indiscriminately. It is the only circumstance under which I fail to be discriminatory.

My crimes against nature are too numerous to list, but thinking about them arouses me greatly.

I have interrupted important moments in a man’s life—his wedding, his funeral, the birth of his first child—with unnecessary public service announcements about the dangers of common plants, and also by shouting the word “nigger” as loudly as possible. I once saw a child admiring a flower, and stepped on it. Then I stepped on the flower, cursing its beauty. I distribute firecrackers, pocket knives, and automatic weapons to inner city youths. Hungry or not, I kill and devour every endangered animal I see. Do you recall the Spotted Antarctic Manatee, or perhaps the legendary Wild Golden Oyster of Pan-Dran-Min? No, you do not, for I have eaten them all and erased their entries from the encyclopedia.

I spend an hour each day devising new ways to bewilder and offend the mentally challenged with my genitals. I am sworn to commit three acts of spontaneous cruelty each day until I die, and I exercise regularly to prolong my evil life. Through all of this, I have never felt even the briefest twinge of remorse for the human, animal, and vegetative suffering I have caused and surely will continue to cause. No man can stop me, for evil as pure as mine is as ineradicable as it is absolute!

. . . I seem to have lost my train of thought.

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The future, now!

If you came to read about race and other serious things, go ahead and skip this.

In a world of uncertainty where often the only constant is change, we are indeed fortunate that astrology—the science of predicting one’s personal future from the relative positions of the planets—was perfected over two thousand years ago by Mesopotamian dirt farmers, whose encyclopedic ignorance of natural law included the belief that the soul of an animal was in its liver; that the Earth was the center of the universe; and that there were only six planets in the solar system. It is truly incredible that these minor errors have not affected astrology’s power of divination. Therefore I insist that you base all your life decisions on these startlingly precise omens and auguries.

Aries (March 21 to April 19): The planets align for maximum pain and misery, culminating in a midair zeppelin collision that will claim both your thumbs.

Your sign is an angry goat, representing your love of barnyard squalor and the two small horns on your forehead.

Taurus (April 20 to May 20): You will achieve great fame as the discoverer and first victim of a mysterious tropical disease affecting the nose, mouth, and genitals. After your death, your reputation will diminish when an autopsy of your bloated, oozing body reveals that the disease is sexually transmitted and originated among bats.

Your sign is a bull, representing your arena battles against gaily-dressed Spaniards.

Popsicle (Witches’ Sabbath and the vernal equinox): After weeks of introspection and meditation at a secluded mountaintop retreat, you will finally come to a profound realization about the nature of the universe; namely, that nobody likes you enough to notice you’ve been stranded for weeks at the top of this mountain, and hey, “Popsicle” isn’t even a real zodiacal sign.

Your sign is a gullible child tumbling into a grain thresher, representing your childlike sense of wonder and your fondness for threshed grains.

Gemini (May 21 to June 21): I see it now. Your future is weird and terrifying. You will stare into the abyss but you will not die. You will see things no man has seen. You will hear amphibians perform live music. You will brew liqueur from your own urine.

That was odd. Well, your sign is a couple of cool dudes who look pretty much the same, representing your secret desire to get it on with a more experienced future version of yourself in what can only be described as “freaky relativistic masturbation.” Then two copies of your mom walk in on you.

Cancer (June 22 to July 22): You will get cancer.

Your sign is a crab. The crab also has cancer.

Leo (July 23 to August 22): Do not despair. All your problems can be solved by squatting on a quartz pyramid for one hour, every day, for the rest of your miserable life.

Your sign is a lion, representing your lush, golden mane of pubic hair and the way you sometimes eat African children.

Virgo (August 23 to September 22): Men: while pondering a Zen koan, you will become disoriented and aroused, and fall down an open manhole. On the way down, your engorged member will ensnare a ripe strawberry, which will taste unusually good. Women: while planting unusually good strawberries in a manhole, you will achieve enlightenment and total spiritual fulfillment seconds before being crushed by a falling man with a strawberry-flavored erection.

Your sign is a virgin, representing your continued failure to achieve vaginal intercourse with a consenting, living human being.

Libra (September 23 to October 23): You and your evil twin—easily identifiable by his goatee and eyepatch—will become painfully aware that wearing two pairs of underpants is not sufficient protection against attack by vicious cancer-crabs.

Your sign is a set of scales, representing your life’s perfect balance between emotion and reason, between career and relationships, and between male and female genitalia.

Libré (Octember 222 to Septober -8): Be forewarned. Despite what they may tell you, mysterious hobos are either unwilling or unable to grant three wishes to those that enter the “magic alley” at midnight—unless of course all your wishes are “please molest me with a rusty eggbeater.”

Your sign is a small sack of assorted nuts, representing your small sack of assorted nuts.

Scorpio (October 24 to November 22): Contrary to tomorrow’s resolution by the United Nations, you are probably not the sole cause of “date rape, spousal abuse, amphetamine addiction, AIDS, obesity, zeppelin fatalities, seductive bats, fraudulent zodiacal signs, the dire proclamations of ersatz wood nymphs, these constantly attacking cancer-crabs, and a plague of hobo rapists of Biblical proportions.” Nor will your prompt hanging and dismemberment do anything to allay them.

Your sign is a bad-ass scorpion, and everyone is envious of you, so you sting them with your venomous barbs.

Sagittarius (November 23 to December 21): Your future has been stolen by roving time bandits!

Your true sign has been replaced by a stupid arrow, an obvious fake. To find the True Sign of Sagittarius is to find pure awesomeness in its most distilled form. Here, take this sword—and take a free shirt while you’re at it. Good luck on your quest!

Capricorn (December 22 to January 19): While dodging the draft for the First Intergalactic War, a sarcastic answer to a rhetorical question will cause you to become trapped for hours in a vat of olive oil with a gorgeous redhead—neither of them in any way “extra virgin.” Unfortunately, you will get only halfway to third base, with two strikes and one ball, before you are discovered and conscripted into . . . the Rocket Marines!

Here come the Rocket Marines,
Hooray! Hooray!
Flying in their Rocket Ships,
To save! The day!
Rocket, Rocket, Rocket Marines,
Dangerous, sexy killing machines,
Conscripted from convicts whose brains are wiped cleeeeeeeean,
Here come the Rocket Marines!
Death to the alien hive-mind!

Your sign is a sea-goat, representing—wait, what the hell is a sea-goat?

Aquarius (January 20 to February 18): Something marginally out of the ordinary will happen to you, possibly involving the number 77 or the color blue. You will take this to be a sign from God and crown yourself Emperor of Earth, sparking a thousand years of holy wars. Many centuries later, your best-selling memoir will inspire the conquest of space by, uh . . . the Rocket Marines. Sure, why not.

Your sign is a couple of wavy lines, I guess they’re supposed to be water, probably representing the impending sea-goat attack that topples your reign. (Look, astrology is not an exact science, and your negative vibrations are not making my job any easier. Jerk-face.)

Pisces (February 19 to March 20): As a Pisces, you are remarkably stubborn, so it is unlikely that I will be able to change your mind—especially since that would contradict my infallible predictive powers. However, I am obliged to point out that—whatever the park ranger tells you—the common brown bear is not “undead,” let alone “an abominable lich controlling our minds, pilfering our precious honey reserves, and preventing me from getting a prom date,” and thus it will be quite immune to your formidable collection of garlic bread and crucifixes.

Your sign is a bunch of dead fish, representing the bait you will inevitably use in your ill-fated expedition to “smoke out that mind-reading, honey-stealing devil-bear.”

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