Pink’s 6-year-old gender-confused spawn announces intention to become the nation’s “First Gentleman” in 2030.

December 6th, 2017 by Socially Extinct

 

Pink, aka Alecia Beth Moore, has wasted absolutely no time imparting and corrupting the mind of her 6-year-old daughter, Willow.

 

 

 

 

It’s as if these mentally ill performers seek to immerse themselves, and everyone they know, in the murky sludge of deviancy for the sake of Social Justice one-upsmanship.  Pink, and other freaks of her ilk, continue to lower the bar of human dignity, and apparently, children are fair game.

 

Willow never had a chance.  The brainwashing began before she could speak, undoubtedly.

 

 

Pop superstar Pink says she does not want her kids defined by their gender – and that she thinks of herself as a boy.

 

The singer champions gender neutrality, and reveals her six-year-old daughter Willow has told her she wants marry an African woman when she grows up.

Pink, 38, said: “I was in a school and the bathroom outside the kindergarten said: ‘Gender Neutral – anybody’, and it was a drawing of many different shapes.

 

“I took a picture of it and I wrote: ‘Progress’. I thought that was awesome. I love that kids are having this conversation.”

 

The Get the Party Started ­singer – real name Alecia Beth Moore – does not want traditional gender roles imposed on Willow or 11-month-old son Jameson, her children with motorcycle racer Carey Hart, 42.

 

She told The People : “We are a very label-less household. Last week Willow told me she is going to marry an African woman. I was like: ‘Great, can you teach me how to make African food?’

 

 

Willow, by now “William” in 2030, will slide into the First Bedroom and marry the elder divorcée, President Obama. A match made in heaven, one which William’s mother will laud happily as America’s descent into self-conscious depravity accelerates with a manic frenzy.

 

 

2030, 2017, any difference?

 

 

**archive**

 

 

Diversity, Christmas Market style.

December 4th, 2017 by Socially Extinct

 

This photo was taken at the Cambria Christmas Market.   Modeled after the German holiday celebration leading up to Christmas, Cambria’s infant version of the market is a nighttime bustling event with numerous sales stands where you can buy food, brew, crafts and other seasonal goodies.  It was a brisk 58 degrees;  cold enough for most, tolerably chilly for a few.  Even though it was Sunday night, the narrow paths brimmed with a slow procession of oohing and ahhing visitors as they beheld the extensive light show.

 

 

This exhibit lacked diversity!

 

 

 

The food choices were simple and basic Germanic. Brats, German potato salad, sauerkraut, hot chocolate…and tamales!

 

That’s right. Tamales. Not quite sure how that little deviation from traditional German festival cuisine sneaked its way onto the menu. Or that’s what I thought before I took a spin around the show and walked amongst the crowd and observed its demographic constituents. It occurred to me that it’s not that tamales are emblematic of German food (as far as I know), but the fact that so many of the visitors were Hispanic. I never knew Hispanics were so fond of German Christmas markets…this was the real surprise, perhaps. Everyone else in the Market crowd was what I would expect from a Central California traditional German holiday Christmas festival: White people. I’m not implying there were scores of Hispanics, but the fact there were as many families as I saw, and that the true barometer of Hispanic presence manifested itself with the “tamalian” menu, left me scratching my head.

 

Simultaneously, I was struck by the utter lack of “spare” ethnicities represented. I counted about one or two Black people, maybe 5 or 10 Asians. Zero Muslim garb despite the fact Germany is at least 5% so.  This Christmas market was a very White event and growing up in Los Angeles, the dearth of any ethnic coloring was rather striking and unfamiliar to me. The preponderance of White people (and concomitant lack of melanin) at the Cambria Christmas market endangers its well-being and future success; any event that innately eschews the favored races of the politically expedient moment is in danger of being declared public enemy number one by the purveyors of racial justice and pathological equality.

 

Better not to announce this too loudly, for before long, we’ll read about Christmas markets being declared “racist” by the Colin Kaepernick crowd and the NAACP and every other liberal Jewish Hollywood maven who lasciviously strives to bring modern society to a screeching equilibrium which destroys the standard of living for all people except the most wretched and futile of them all. Because the virtuous quest for equality and suicidal fairness is an end unto itself. They will not allow Christmas markets to continue unabated once their secret gets out.

 

Christmas markets…where diversity is only light-bulb-deep. As it should be.

 

 

 

Garden of Eden

December 3rd, 2017 by Socially Extinct

 

I haven’t been up here since 2013.

 

Say what you will about this Godforsaken Leftwing geographic shitshow, but its Central Coast offers some of the gentlest, dreamiest imagery in the United States.  And like all beautiful coastal areas, the finest people are drawn to live  there.  How do they pay for these houses in the absence of apparent lucrative industry?  I want to know the secret.

 

 

 

December, 2013

 

 

 

Splishing and splashing on the Red Line

November 30th, 2017 by Socially Extinct

 

Now, I’ve been taking the train about 2-3 times per week for my work commute since 2004.

 

During a span of time from January, 2006, through July, 2007, I took it every day due to some, ahem, “alcoholic misadventures” which resulted in my not having a driver’s license at all (as in utterly revoked, bastard), but the rest of the time I’ve elected to use it in lieu of driving my car. Deliberately choosing public transportation as a way of getting around is somewhat a marginalizing activity in this city’s car culture, but there are those of us who simply hate driving in bumper to bumper traffic for hours each day. And look at it this way: public commuting in a big city is a great lab experiment in human nature and has provided me much spectacle which I’ve translated into sporadic bloggery of mine.

 

Yesterday was no exception.

 

As noted, I’ve taken the train for about 13 years. I have yet to encounter an event such as I did yesterday morning. I know it happens, but I’ve never witnessed it, thankfully. It is one of those horrible potential happenings you must consider when taking the train through such populated areas of this city, but you stick your (my) head in the sand a don’t think about such things. With any luck…

 

Yesterday, on the Red Line, heading North, the morning commute. The train is pretty packed by the time I board it upstream so I invariably end up having to stand amid a flock of perfumed and/or sweaty greasy people. I stare down and avoid meeting eyes in the best autist manner possible. I was “blessed” in the respect that I was able to stand against the sliding doors; this is a good thing when you have no choice but to stand. You abut the doors and thus, are not pressed, sardined by other people, and it’s a more “private” manner of standing. So I was having a good commute, standing, staring blankly as one must do during a commute on the Red Line in Los Angeles.

 

Minding my own business, narrowed field of vision, waiting for my exit to creep up in a few minutes. Waiting. Zoning out.

 

Then, at the left corner of my eye, a large patch of white liquid, interspersed with ungodly chunks of sumting, violently tidal waved into my field of vision; it coated the subway floor near the area reserved for bicycles. The emetophobe that I am took only a millisecond to realize that someone had tossed their cookies here in the fucking train. Inside the motherfucking train, vomited all over the floor.

 

I fled like my life was in danger. Fled!

 

I ran far to the middle of the long car, far from the scene of the revulsion. I firmly planted myself at the door and looked out the window, frozen, holding my breath as much as possible, for the the most vile aspect of vomit is the odor. The stench. A group of people who were surrounding me earlier started flocking to my new area as well, but they, most likely not emetophobes, did not feel impelled to literally “run” from the scene, but merely to walk away calmly because really, no one, even those unafflicted by emetophobia, like to be in the vicinity of vomit.

 

Us emetophobes, though: it is the end of the world when something like this happens. Encountering a vomit situation anywhere is horrible, but on a train it is aboslutely a nightmare. There is nowhere to go, nowhere to run. You are in this tin can and now you’re sharing space with a big puddle of stomach hurl. I waited out the rest of the commute affixed to that door, that escape hatch. At each stop, when the doors slid open, I would stick my head out to breathe deeply since I was allowing myself minimal breaths when the door was closed just to avoid having to…smell…that…vomit. Which is a fate worse than death for some of us.

 

 

 

Dinner time!

 

 

 

More than anything, at such moments, an emetophobe fixates on one thing: who did done puke??? The “victim” represents a mesmerizing dark lure, for that is half the phobic adventure.

 

Who puked?

 

I ran away so quickly, I didn’t stick around to note whose mouth that pond of abdominal spew issued from. The only person I could think of was the strange askew Black dude who was walking around the area with his hands arms tucked/hidden inside his t-shirt. He was mental, to be sure; he might have been homeless, maybe not. At one point, he spit on the floor and wiped it down with his foot. Maybe he was the puker.

 

And maybe not.

 

The mystery continues and the image is burned in my mind.

 

 

I’m dreaming of a [any color but White] Christmas…the Left rakes its petty claws across another tradition.

November 28th, 2017 by Socially Extinct

 

What will be left after the Leftist Purge? A brave new world of unprecedented, virgin foolishness. A sterile world, immaculately scrubbed of offense, but despite the cleanliness, untouched by the hideous revulsion of the color white.

 

One by one, traditional motifs tumble, the great liberal putsch enabled by the elitist information gatekeepers.

 

Even Bing Crosby is wrecked.

 

 

Some college students agree radio stations should stop playing “White Christmas,” because the holiday classic is said to be “a racially-charged micro-aggression.”
Media Research Center’s Dan Joseph asked students on a college campus to sign a petition against the song “because the song only focuses on ‘White’ Christmases.”

 

Joseph asks, “We think that the song ‘White Christmas’ is insulting to people of color because it says snow is white and therefore it is good.”

 

Apparently, if this collegiate proposal gathers momentum of legitimacy, we can thus infer that snow is racist.

 

If I piss on snow, does that remain racist?