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Fred Reed — The Unz Reviw Aug 5, 2018

By now I suppose that everybody and his dog knows (well, actually, I haven’t asked my dog) that the New York Times has hired, and defended, one Sarah Jeong, an avowedly racist, sexist, mouthy, and apparently kinky twitess as tech writer. “Kinky” is the polite term for people who enjoy cruelty. Which, she says, she does. Anyhow, among her eructations:
“Dumbass f****** white people marking up the internet like dogs pissing on fire hydrants.”
And:
“Oh man it’s kind of sick how much joy I get out of being cruel to old white men.”
Wow! What are her rates, I wonder? Does guttersnipe language cost more? She is right, though, it is at least kind of sick. And astonishing that the Times would be so candid about its politics by hiring her. Even David Duke has never said that he wanted to hurt blacks. Sez me, the foul-mouthed little monster doesn’t need a job. She needs a psychiatrist or an internship with Gina Haspel. Or a spanking.
Ever genteel, Sarah also opined, “White men are bullshit.” The latter is boilerplate Left, the normal yowling of the sexually disturbed and racially hostile. Sarah is not exactly an argument for diversity and makes white nationalism look reasonable.
If in my newspapering days I had written, “Gook women are bullshit”–unlikely since, when I lived in various Asian countries, I really liked the women, as white men usually do–I would have been fired. The Times is perfectly happy with her though. Different rules for different people.
But suppose that she had said, “black men are bullshit,” or that she “enjoyed hurting old Jewish men” (presumably not a career-enhancing move at a Jewish paper). She would have been hove out the door on her delicate round sit-down, thump, the door perhaps not having been opened beforehand Which would make sense. When you live in a country where everyone hates everybody else like poison, arguably a newspaper should not publish name-callinglikely to inflame the hatreds for no reason. Or, worse, take sides with some groups against others. Which the Times did: Enjoying the suffering of whites is fine.
So why did the Times, the national school marm, bloated with goodness, give her a pass? Me, I figure it’s because she is a protected twofer, a feminist, and “of color.” (Every time I see that phrase, I want to load my Strunk and White with hollow point and let fly, but never mind.) I guess that if she were found to be grinding white orphans into dog food, the Times would say something about her legacy of colonialism and how getting a job at the Times showed discrimination against women and that she was oppressed and making a political statement and anyway it was only a few orphans. Well, unless they were orphans of color. That would be genocide.
I believe I might say to her as follows regarding old white men:, which I happen to be one of:
Now see here, Sweet Potato. I’ve got nothing against bile and bitchiness and bad manners and ill-breeding, though I suspect they could be cured by application of a baseball bat. Maybe you should see somebody about this. Sort of, you know, therapy. I understand that we can’t all be ladies (though I get the impression that a lot of men in New York are), and feminists traditionally have the the appeal of the underside of a theater seat. This is usual and as the Good Lord intended. I cannot complain. What bothers me, Sweet Pea, is your lack of gratitude.
Look around you, Thistle Down. Take your time. Get some binoculars and look out the window. Unscrew the lid on your computer, if you can find a screwdriver with the instructions on the handle. Contemplate at leisure. Reflect. And tell me:
Do you see anything invented by a Korean feminist?
Now, Buckwheat, I don’t want to seem other than gallant and gracious. That’s just how I am. Urbane and mannered. No one can doubt it. So I would never suggest–even think of suggesting–that old white men have provided everything that keeps you fed and comfortable while you piss and moan.
I would never say that. My mother taught me to be considerate to women, or approximations. But in a minor vein–a capillary, so to speak–I will note that if it weren’t for us old white men, vile though we be, and patriarchal, and probably cannibals, you and the sisterhood would be in grass huts, picking lice out of each other’s hair.
You are welcome.
Further, Moonflower, if I were a curmudgeon–which I assuredly am not–I might say rude, uncouth things such as that you seem to be a confection of mass-market drivel, elegant as a truss ad, and could be replaced by a DO-loop .This is true, but I won’t say it. It wouldn’t be gentlemanly.
But just out of curiosity: Have you ever flushed a toilet in plumbing that was not designed, built, and maintained by men? Been in a building that wasn’t built by men? Yes, yes, we guys are a sorry lot, and dim, and sinners all, but when your car makes a funny sort of, you know, chinalank and then a grinding noise, and the light on the thingamajig starts flashing, who do you take it too? Gloria Steinem?
Just asking.
What I think, Maple Syrup, is live and let live. There’s a place in this big world for everybody. This may be a design flaw, but it is what we have. Since consistency is a virtue, the New York Times would seem about right for you. Soul mates, sort of. Still, since you are a tech writer, I wonder what, without the inventions of men, mostly white, you would have to write about? Buffalo hides? Pointed sticks?
But here we come to deep philosophical waters, specifically relations between the sexes. The truth is that most men like women. You may find this offensive, but I assure you that it is true. I hope you will not hold this affection against us. Our mothers were women. Also our sisters, wives, grandmothers, daughters and girlfriends. We even have female friends. We think women are peaches, often being smart and funny and feminine–I’m sure the Times has an online dictionary–and really good at neat stuff like biochemiswtry. There are no substitutes. Most women are slightly crazy, yes, but then they don’t get into bar fights.
So, Marmalade, when we run tinto what seems to be a woman but with the personality of a menopausing rattlesnake, we are taken aback. It jangles our neves because it isn’t what we are used to, or weren’t until recently, and we don’t know what to do. Remedial drowning comes to mind. Often, though, we are not near a body of water. (Why am I thinking of the East River?)
Tell you what, Sugar Beet, I just don’t know what to think. I live in Mexico, which is sexually dimorphic, so you can understand my confusion in the US. Here women manage to do things without becoming venomous. Up North, I guess, this would be a whole new idea. Mexicanas go into law, medicine, dentistry in volume–it is hard to find a male dentist, here assuming one had a reason for looking–and nobody seems to give a damn.
These women are civil, (try the dictionary again), good at what they do, and of exceedingly muted crocodilian impulses. (My theory is that Mexicans have never interbred with reptiles and so do not act like them. No year of the Dragon and all that.) When a Mexican woman becomes a doctor, she thinks she is a Mexican doctor. She is not full of snot and bile and racial animosity and misandry and kinky urges. You, Sweet Pea, are. That the New York Times fronts for you says something about how far gone the US is.
(Republished from Fred on Everything by permission of author or representative)

 

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