Editor\'s Essays Articles

Not far from my front door, grown black men in short pants are running up and down a cement basketball court. Gleefully, they call out to each other, “Hey, nigger,” emulating their big brothers in the NBA. Never mind that they don’t know the distinction between Benghazi and Ben Franklin. Too busy to learn, they are clutching in their angrily inflamed but largely unused minds the …

They attracted a horde of poorly dressed reporters at a busy downtown bus station this morning when Davan Maharaj, editor of the Los Angeles Titanic, and Mr. Jenkins, president of the Los Angeles chapter of the NAACP, luggage in hand, boarded a Greyhound for the Liberal Fakers and Shakers Convention that opens tomorrow in New Orleans. Both men said were making the long journey to Confederate country the old-fashioned way as a sort of penance for their sins against colorless people, occasionally against people of color and, in the case of the NAACP, against colored people.

Thank you, God, for giving liberal racists to us – such as comedians over at the National Assn. for the Advancement of Colored (are you kidding?) People – to sprinkle fairy-dust particles of humor into our drab daily lives. It all depends, kids, on who is calling whom “colored.”

Seventeen years ago tonight, I walked into the saddest moment of my life. Even now, on occasional evenings when I am driving home, I think about dialing up my brother to relate something funny or unusual that happened, wondering how he would react. No, I don’t truly wonder about his response. He would react with stoicism. In an extremely loquacious family of seven children and three strongly outgoing adults (including Grandma, who lived with us), my brother, the No. 2 child, was our single mystery member. Except for Mom, no one else knew what …

Short of Swish Obama’s kidnapping by illegal aliens, the best news to emerge from the East this morning was the Jew-loathing President’s hints that the convicted spy Jonathan Pollard may be released. Not that honorable intentions are not at the bottom of the latest Obama sewer. It is political ulterior motive time for the most dishonest President in our history.

As one of a birdseed box full of non-black constituents of state Sen. Holly Mitchell (D-Culver City), my breast was fairly bursting with strange pride this morning when she swerved back into the news in her typically peculiar way. Always sensitive to serving the prudent interests of the majority of her constituents, Sen. Mitchell was bellowing about how some of her fellow left-wingers have jumped off the yahoo-backed legislation to restore affirmative action in higher education.

As a wounded veteran of the divorce courts, I am sharp enough to espy a vendetta when a grunting, hairy-faced, stoop-shouldered bully clambers up the steps of City Hall sporting a gigantic sandwich board that reads “I Am a Vendetta.” This partially explains City Hall’s hamhanded bullying of landlord Michael Karagozian and the Culver City Ice Arena for the past five weeks.

I wonder if any American boys and girls genuinely enjoy being gay. They and their mirrors invest so darned much energy in scolding the 320 million non-gay Americans for making them victims that the several million who genuinely are gay do not have time to savor their peanut butter sandwiches.

Now what? Since 15 days remain before the excited Richie and Barbara Takahashi family are scheduled to take over operation of the Culver City Ice Arena for at least the next six months, the ground is too rocky, the past is too volatile, and the time-frame is too broad to predict what will happen to the rink beyond the end of this essay.

Lacking contradicting proof, we must accept City Hall’s most recent changed stance – the cleanup of the Culver City Ice Arena that they told us on Monday was so urgent, today is, well, not so urgent. If not urgent, what is it?