There are wackos, and even a few normal people, on every political site from the far right to the far left and everything in between, Breitbart being no exception. I’ve cruised through a variety of comment sections on that site, and saved the best and brightest (or worst and darkest, depending on your view of reality).
Here, copy-and-pasted (names omitted), are some things that people decided to type and send out into Breitbartia:
REPEAL Odildocare! <——‘Odildocare’ is a play on ‘Obamacare.’ The commenter is likening former president Barack Obama to a dildo, a phallic simulacrum used by men and women the world over in place of a real, live penis. –Editor
Just nuke the entire Middle East and be done with this nonsense! <—–Wouldn’t be able to get oil out of a nuclear wasteland. Oh, and also, innocent people live over there too. –Editor
Saint Bannon, not Trump, is the heart and soul and mind of the Trump Administration. <—-Steve hasn’t been canonized. Yet. –Editor
Just think, if Hillary had campaigned in blackface, she might’ve won. <——Probably not. –Editor
Facebook should be known as Gay Facebook.
(on Scarlett Johansson) She’s not even attractive anymore. She’ll be doing hard core porno in two years with Ashley Judd. <—–Save that one for Gay Facebook. –Editor
Stop ALL immigration!
I would happily go back to Europe if all the Muslims will go back to Mecca and all the blacks will go back to Africa. <—–It’s also possible for you to go back to Europe without anyone else leaving. –Editor
That’s why colleges have become retard dens for men: The EFFECTS of Feminism on MEN. <—–A MAN wrote that comment. –Editor
Trump is reminding me a bit of what was great about Nixon. <——Richard Nixon was the only president to resign from office. –Editor
And of course, the anti-Jewish comments:
Those two NY liberal jew rat bastards are nothing but out to destroy old man Trump.
Well, he’s a Jew….what do you expect?
More and more people are coming to the truth about Jews. After all the Bible says even the disciples spoke in whispers for fear of the Jews.
It was the Jews who were chosen as a foil to show the weakness of humanity.
There is only one race and religion causing the entire worlds problems right now and since it seems the entire history of man and it is NOT Islam but Jews as the entire internet and every book on the planet proves. <—-That’s as good a place as any to wrap this up. –Editor
The Corned Beef Conspiracy: Ireland Doesn’t Exist And St. Patrick Is The Meaty Equivalent Of Mrs. Butterworth
Just as Hallmark created Valentine’s Day so they could sell cards and De Beers invented the concept of marriage in order to give false value to diamonds, March seventeenth has forever become entwined with this strange salted meat, despite said meat having no basis in traditional Irish cuisine, because there is no such thing as Ireland, and therefore no such thing as traditional Irish cuisine, as we will soon see.
Oh, and also this: Colorado Premium, a company specializing in meat processing solutions, created Ireland and the myth of St. Patrick in order to sell corned beef. It’s not crazy at all. Think real hard. Do you know anyone who’s been to Ireland? Do you know anyone who’s met St. Patrick? Didn’t think so. Let’s have a look.
Colorado Premium happens to be one of the world’s largest producers of corned beef, and they also happen to have a picture of a guy wearing a hard hat on their ‘About Us’ page.
Why in the name of fictional St. Patrick’s sheleighleigh would anyone dealing with meat need a hard hat? Meat, and generally any solutions pertaining to it, involve softness. A hard hat seems like something someone who is anticipating a visit to a construction site would wear. Since construction sites aren’t necessary to meat, that means this whole thing is an Illuminati conspiracy. You see, Colorado Premium is run by Kevin LaFluer. LaFluer is a French name. France touches Germany. The Illuminati was founded in 1776 in………….Germany.
Moving right along: a quick scan of Colorado Premium’s ‘Partners‘ page shows standard industry meat alliances—Tyson Foods, Cargill Meat Solutions, Smithfield Beef Group, etc.—except for one: Tapatio Hot Sauce?
What are Tapatio Hot Sauce and a prolific corned beef producer doing in bed together?
Why, they are both shadowy victual fronts veiling the sinister plot intended to further screw the clueless herd of sheep that is the American people, of course.
In what way? Well the guy in the hard hat is obviously building something, and Tapatio Hot Sauce just isn’t that good. So we have an industrious producer of corned beef partnering with a company that makes inferior salsa picante. That means something. Corned beef. Hot sauce. Hot sauce. Corned beef. Corned sauce. Hot beef. Corned hot beef sauce.
Colorado Premium is taking that salsa picante partnership cash and using it to build a moat filled with disgusting Tapatio Hot Sauce around the United States in order to keep us
from leaving. Why do ‘They’ (Colorado Premium, Tapatio, and the Illuminati) want to keep us in? It’s pretty obvious. If the lie about Ireland is exposed, the corned beef gravy train comes grinding to a halt. Since the Earth is flat, you should be able to look out from the east coast and see the Emerald Isle. One glance and you’ll notice it’s simply not there. ‘St. Patrick’ is just the meaty equivalent of Mrs. Butterworth. Guinness is Michelob Golden tinted with discarded beef drippings.
So there you go. Hallmark, De Beers, Colorado Premium, Taptio, and the Illuminati all want you to keep buying things because they created a way for you to buy them.
Wake up America.
I recently read on the internet that all lives matter. Read: since only things with lives matter, that automatically means that anything without life, any object lacking that essential élan vital, is second class scum and not worthy of our time. All of this pleases me, ‘cuz I’ve got this dead guy.
This dead guy does not matter one bit. It’s right there in the hashtag. That gives me the go-ahead to really go to town on this corpse. Sex. I didn’t say it. You were thinking it. Anyways, there are a lot of non-sexual things you can do with a worthless body that just wouldn’t fly with a live person. I plan to stab it first. After that, I’m going to throw it off my balcony and see if it explodes on the concrete below.
That’s it. That’s all I want to do with the dead guy.
*caution: the following post mentions bodily functions. why? i don’t know. perhaps they are being used symbolically as a way to say that we all need to find some sort of common denominator in these divided times. or they’re a metaphor shining light on the crumbling infrastructure of…..something. but maybe, just maybe, if you highlight every fourth letter of this post, it will reveal a hidden message.
We all have annoying Facebook friends that shellac us with political posts, gym selfies, and pics of their butt-ugly babies—nothing new to talk about there.
Personally, I like to stay away from ‘putting myself out there’ on the internet. I have boundaries. I don’t need people to know everything about me.
When it comes to social media, my movements are few and far between. Every now and then, I guess, I’ll crowdsource a question that seems important to me. Like lately, for instance, I’ve had this thing going on with my bowels. Without getting too deep into the problem, here’s the gist: I will go about three days without defecating, and then BOOYA—like a warm and cold front colliding, a frenzied twelve hour period ensues in which a torrential downpour produces up to twenty four inches of excrement (to put that in scale: one inch of excrement is equivalent to 36 inches of snow, and 72 inches of rain). If someone knows what would cause this, by all means, pipe up. Yes, you there. What’s that? Who am I going to vote for in the upcoming election? Your mom. Did you not just hear, a moment ago, that I prefer not to share those things on the internet?
Anyways, after this purge, my intestines will lay dormant for another 72 hours. Sure, they’ll bubble, they’ll gurgle, and sometimes even squeak, but there will be absolutely no productive action. Nada. Pardon? Where do I stand on people using the pubic bathroom that they identify with? I’m not going to comment on that, but if I happen to be in one of my violent defecation cycles and a women’s restroom is the only one available, let’s just say I’m going to start feeling very womanish for a brief period of time. I’m not going to sit over here and apologize if some little girl has to listen to that.
This brings us to the color of my pee. For example, I drink a lot of water, so normally my urine is pretty clear, like a mountain creek, or saran wrap. In the morning though, it’s more yellow, probably because I am not able to take in as much water while I am asleep, which results in a deeper urinary shade. Hmmm? Repeat that please. Ah yes, the Confederate flag and free speech. This is similar to the restroom situation above. If I were in dire need of bath tissue and a Confederate flag were the only thing lying around, I suppose I would use it to wipe. I would use any flag to clean myself if that was all that was available.
So back to my pee. Sometimes I have trouble going, and OH GOD WHAT NOW? Fine. You want me to share something personal? Here goes. I’m going to hand you a filthy, dirty secret. I try to use public bathrooms as much as possible. I do. It’s gross, and it’s part of my life. It slashes my toilet paper budget, and if the thing clogs, hey, not my problem. Some teenager named Ashton or Aiden or Sean’Trell gets to clean it up, and it’ll probably learn some sort of valuable life lesson in the process, like the fact that a guy with a spinach-rich diet who only poops every three days will produce thick tubes of green feces capable of clogging a jet-flush public toilet. That’s something you just don’t learn sitting in a government-funded classroom. There. I said something about the government. Now I suppose you want me to click ‘love’ on the picture of your fat, stupid baby. Not gonna happen.
And by the way, sometimes, when I’m in the public restroom, I’ll unwind a little extra toilet paper and take it home with me. Is that a crime? It is a public bathroom. The things inside belong to the public. I am part of the public. Now you probably think I’m some uber-liberal Hillary supporter. Yes, I’m going to vote for her, provided she delivers a solution to my mysterious bowel thing. If Trump can figure it out, then I’m in his corner. Maybe I’ll be in the Dollar Tree bathroom one day and a friendly woman dressed like a man will recognize my symptoms and help me out. There’s no way of knowing.
Next year, instead of dealing with the whole Christmas gift racket, I’m doing this:
<Tell anyone that might be considering me as a gift recipient to instead write down what they would have bought for me
<I’ll do the same for them
<After sifting through the lists, both sides can decide if they would like any of the potential gifts, and go buy them if they want
<I don’t want stuff and I don’t like to shop, so I will end up buying nothing
<I will save a lot of time and money
<Others will save time and money too, unless they want to buy themselves a bunch of stuff that I wrote down
“We cannot ban guns in this country because of a few bad apples. But we can ban an entire religion.” —The actor currently portraying Donald Trump
August 6, 2015—A Republican presidential debate occurs the same night as Jon Stewart’s final Daily Show. Backstage after the debate in Cleveland, Chris Christie, turning his nose up at the provided fruit trays, pulls a hoagie from his pocket. The toppings accidentally spill onto the floor. Christie lures Donald Trump to a dark corner and places him inside the hoagie.
Chris Christie eats a Donald Trump hoagie as the rest of the candidates watch. No one intervenes.
August 7-present—Donald Trump continues his presidential campaign. How is this possible if he was eaten and turned into fecal matter by Chris Christie?
August 6, moments after Chris Christie has licked the last drops of Trump juice from his fingers—Realizing they are all accomplices, the candidates settle on the following plan: they will hire Jon Stewart, who now has free time galore, to play Donald Trump. If there is one thing they all agree on, it is that Trump should be out of the race. Stewart will alienate voters by simply doing and saying things that Donald Trump would say and do, and as his popularity in the polls inevitably declines, he’ll drop out of his candidacy, eventually fading from public memory.
The present—Jon Stewart, in his Trump disguise, is the most popular Republican candidate.
This is just a conspiracy theory. It might not be true.
Minnesota is a place that celebrates itself, and for good reason. The humble folks here work hard, and they will not hesitate to fling insults at you, after you’ve left, if you say otherwise. One small town here, Austin, produced both Spam and John Madden. We’re influencers in the arts, too—one DJ on local station The Current (an entity that transcends the greatness of Minnesota itself, according to The Current) went so far as to take credit for Arcade Fire’s 2011 Grammy win because he quote, “played their music on The Current.”
Now, The North Star State has earned yet another feather in its already dangerously over-plumed cap, and Minnesotans are absolutely loving the mentions their state is receiving in the national press.
Musician Scott Weiland was recently found dead on his tour bus in Bloomington, right by the biggest and best mall in America, The Mall of America. After some obligatory somber Facebook posts commemorating the fallen star, Minnesotans cheered right up after hearing the word ‘Minnesota’ on multiple nationwide news outlets.
I recently hit the streets to ask one question to these pasty, lake-loving folk: What do you think of Scott Weiland’s passing? Here are their responses.
“I think it adds to the rich history of this state. Great things happen here, like when Larry Craig tried to solicit gay sex in the Minneapolis-St. Paul airport bathroom. And just last summer, Walter Palmer, a Minnesotan dentist, killed Cecil the lion. Now we’ve got this.”
“Scott has always loved Minnesota; he’s been coming here for over twenty years, fer chrissakes. At the end of an STP show back in ’95, he said, and I quote, “I love you, Minneapolis! You guys are the best!” The show was actually in St. Paul, but Scott always had a quirky sense of humor. Think about that for a minute. Scott Weiland, a man who has travelled the globe, said that he loves us, and that we are the best. Wow. It’s humbling.”
“I wonder what Prince has to say about this. Prince is from Minnesota. That’s why I’m wondering what Prince thinks. Because he’s from Minnesota. If Prince wasn’t from Minnesota, I wouldn’t give a runny dump what he thought. But because Prince is from Minnesota, I love everything about him. Did I mention that Prince is from Minnesota, and that if he wasn’t from Minnesota, his music would suck?”
“Oh god, this is tragic. I hope someone was there to hear his last words. I bet they were about Minnesota.”
“The deaths of Philip Seymour Hoffman and Robin Williams really tore me up, because they didn’t die in Minnesota. It’s so cliché to die in New York or LA. What was the question?”
“Scott Weiland? I’m not familiar, but I did hear you mention Minnesota. If I could say some things about Minnesota: it has everything, the arts, good schools, steady economy. Also, some of the most racist people I’ve ever met live here.”
“Yeah, I’ll give Weiland credit for being something of a rock legend, but nothing will ever top the Replacements or Hüsker Dü. Now those were bands. They were all drunken assholes and I couldn’t name one of their songs, but they’re from Minnesota, so I love ’em.”
“The Rolling Stones were here over the summer, and I was hoping and praying one of them would kick the bucket before they left town, maybe from heat stroke, plain old age, or cardiac arrest attributed to an espresso blast from one of our esteemed independent coffee shops. That would’ve been huge for Minnesota. I think Slayer is coming to town soon. Those guys have got to be getting pretty old, right?”
There you have it. You can’t beat Minnesota. But don’t move here, unless you’re already a Minnesotan.