Local writer faces national backlash after harassing Asian man in bar

On April 8, local freelance writer Thor Benson proudly tweeted: “I just ran into Andy Ngo at a bar in New Orleans. I politely told him he’s a ‘garbage person.’ Lol” Andy Ngo is a journalist from the Pacific Northwest who has gained notoriety from his extensive on-the-ground reporting of antifa protests and riots over the past few years. Mr. Ngo is often a target of verbal and physical abuse from far leftist ideologues.

Mr. Benson was mistaken as to the identity of the individual in a New Orleans bar that he approached and insulted. Mr. Ngo responded to the Benson tweet by stating that he was not even in the country at the time in question. Mr. Benson evidently mistook a random Asian bar customer for the journalist.

In an effort to be fair to Mr. Benson, I’ll attempt to give him some wiggle room. In his defense, I doubt it ever happened. It was probably one of those fantasy “it never happened but I’ll say it did” tweets. The person who will post a fictional self-righteous tale about their virtue for likes and shares from their tribe.

“I was on the bus when a woman got on wearing a TRUMP shirt. I called her out for being an evil racist and bad person. I shamed her so bad she got off of the bus before her stop. All of the people of color stood up and applauded me for being so brave and righteous!”

Or the other spin on fantasy tweets “My 2 year old came up to me and his very first words he ever spoke were ‘Mommy, I’m trans!”

I’ll take “Things that never happened” for $500.

You’re Thor? I’m tho thor can hardly even walk!

I tend to think this is how this started. Thor was sitting in some pretentious hipster bar in the Marigny scrolling through his phone getting pissed Mr. Ngo has more fame and clout than he ever will. As he sipped his pickled herring flavored IPA, he fantasized about what he would say to Andy if he walked in this bar right now.

The professionally trained writer from The Daily Beast carefully and eloquently composed a brilliant and scathing comment for his more established media peer, “You’re a garbage person.” Mark Twain and Oscar Wilde would be envious of making such a burn.

Mr Benson, unaware that he had possibly just insulted a random Asian neighbor, later doubled down with a second tweet. He boasted that the Asian man he called a “Garbage person” had just left punctuated by a “LOL”

If a tobacco chewing redneck went up to the only black patron in a bar placed his hand on his shoulder and told him that he was garbage forcing him to leave the establishment in fear, we would have a name for such an awful person. Especially after the redneck goes back to his buddies bragging about how he bullied out “their kind.”

I won’t claim to be a journalist, but I thought I should investigate a story here in New Orleans before I make a comment on it. Let me connect with my local Asian acquaintances to get feedback. Plus it was an excuse to order take out.

I asked the delivery guy if he had ever heard of Andy Ngo. “SHIT! I had an asshole approach me on a delivery yelling that name at me.” I asked what did he look like as the bag of beef and broccoli was handed to me. “I dunno, just another hipster asshole with a beard. He said he was a writer or something.” I tipped him well for the interview.

Coincidence I am sure.

Coming back from Jackson Square I ran into one of my neighbors that I often say hello to. The asian guy who chain smokes as he scrolls through his phone in front of the Foot Massage Place.

He laughed hard when I asked. “A couple of weeks ago some fucker called me a racist and told me to go back to Portland. He kept calling me Andy. He wouldn’t leave me alone so I made a fake martial art stance with an “EIYEEE!” He backed off and said I couldn’t hit him since he was a journalist or some shit. He ran off down Chartres street like a little bitch.”

“Can you describe him?”
“Pasty ass hipster with a beard. Kind of creepy looking. Tough to say since you know how all hipsters look alike.”

Another coincidence certainly.

Today at my favorite sandwich shop I was almost to inquire the same to the guy at the grill. He turned around to greet me and take my order when I saw his t-shirt with large writing that said “NGO! I AM NOT ANDY”

I pointed to the shirt and asked, “Let me guess, pasty white hipster with a beard?” “Well, yea, he said he was a writer for something. What can I get you?”

Mr. Benson, allow me to lump you into a group. I place you with the white progressives who call Candice Owens a ‘Coon.’ Those who call black conservatives ‘Uncle Toms.’ I have known many hard core conservatives and not one has ever boasted about harassing a random Asian person over Pearl Harbor.

You may be too little to remember this: Back in the 1980s there was a Television minister grifting off of the evangelical crowd. Jimmy Swaggart use to preach about the sin and perversity of pornography. The evils of lust and fornication. He was busted with a skanky hooker in a Baton Rouge motel.

You are the hypocritical minister, and that tweet was your skanky hooker.

Someone is Thor.

You are just so Punk

So did you go down and get the COVID jab? Did the needle go through your “BORN TO DIE” tattoo? I bet you were wearing your favorite “SUICIDAL TENDENCIES” sleeveless T-shirt too. You look so anti-establishment with that anarchy symbol on your state-mandated face mask.

Nothing to do Nowhere to go
I wanna be vax’nated
I can’t go to the airport

And I can’t get on a plane
Worry worry worry
now here I go insane
I like to point my fingers
Fauci controls my brain

Oh no oh ho oh oh

Please don’t try to come across as a tough rock and roller who is a rebelliousness and fearless individual while simultaneously lecturing others on the importance of being vaccinated and wearing a mask. “Because our government and mainstream media says we have to. I don’t want to die!”

You’re not being very Punk, you’re being very very Karen.

I hung out with a few punks back in the early 1990’s. I was drawn to the “anti-establishment” narrative of the culture, but soon saw through the facade. A group of rebels is an oxymoron. “We’re rebels, you can tell because we all dress like this and listen to this music.” Rejecting establishment norms of status and conformity by creating their own society of status and conformity. Explain to me again how you are different to the YUPPIES?

While I’m at it, let me go off on the smelly hippies too. For nearly six goddamned decades, I have been getting lectured by all of you concerning healthy living. Healthy eating and meditation boosts your immune system. Then the vegans go off on how they are healthier than mere mortals because they don’t consume animals. Meat and dairy are bad for the immune system, so you should be OK then.

You’re all about organic foods and holistic medicine, so I bet you wouldn’t take the jab in a million years. Big pharmaceuticals are the bad guys, correct? Price fixing, price gouging, dangerous side effects, addiction to products, high profits, lab animal research, CEOs earning tens of millions and pulling strings in Washington D.C. Just such evil men controlling the industry.

But wait, did someone say FREE vaccine?

Let’s scroll down your social media posts, “capitalism bad,”tax the rich,” “Fuck Trump,” a kitten meme, oh look here! “I just got my first shot from Pfizer, I feel safer already!” Virtue signaling, propaganda and an endorsement of a billion dollar corporation all in the same post. Facebook is so proud of you. By the way hippy, I’m wearing a mask and staying six feet away from you not because of COVID, but because you smell.

I’m not saying that all of you are a bunch of pussies, but the vaccine really should come in a douche version too. Just saying.

Word of the day…

I have a bad gut feeling about this storm.
Given the “looks intentional” cluster fuck still unfolding in Afghanistan, I sure the hell hope we don’t need any Federal help after the storm. I don’t think anyone in Washington DC have any American’s best interest at heart. I mean, they wouldn’t leave us stranded, would they?

“But why would they intentionally not come to New Orleans’ aid after the storm?”

DISTRACTION. This storm is a stroke of luck for anyone in power who wanted to distract from one cluster fuck to another. This time they can blame climate change for a disaster instead of being blamed for it. It would be a welcomed change to the headlines and trending topics. Americans stuck on roofs plays better than Americans stuck in Kabul.

Mayor Latoya Cantrell announced on Friday that there was no time for evacuations and we need to shelter in place.

I know that no matter what happens or how this turns out, Joe Biden won’t let us down.

Pop Tarts are racist

(Art by Eric T. Styles)
Breakfast pastries have been a symbol of White supremacy and colonialism since honkies first learned to bake. Brought to America by imperialistic Europeans and forced upon itndigenous Americans early in the morning.

Just look at the names of breakfast baked goods: the Danish, the English muffin, French croissant and toast, Belgian waffles. The names reek of the stench from these European invaders.

The contemporary morning toaster pastry that has come to symbolize “American systematic racism and white supremacy” is the incarnation of the suburban atrocity we call “Pop Tarts.”

First off: The word “tart” is offensive to sex workers and should not be allowed. Combined with the word “POP” it implies indifference to violence against sex workers. Just educate yourself and be a better person.

A spokesman from the “French Quarter Think Tank on Stuff” points out the inherent racism that is baked into Pop Tarts. In a condescending tone of virtue he states the following:

“The blatant and overt racism of Pop Tarts has to be addressed. Look at the flavors, only white people would like the bland selection of flavors. vanilla creme and blueberry? No non-White person would eat that. If the Pop Tart people really wanted to bring equity to breakfast, they would offer flavors like barbecue and hot sauce. That would go a long way to bringing healing to this nation.”

The spokesperson really cranked cringe up to eleven by continuing:
“It’s also wrong to assume that minority communities have access to toasters, many don’t. If they do, their electric may have been shut off from non payment and they are forced to eat the Pop Tart cold.”

We hung up on him at that point.

I am literally shaking right now.

How everyone in the French Quarter could die

(Art by Eric T. Styles)
There are hundreds of ways that any one of us could die in the French Quarter. Let’s take a look at one way we could all die together.

Solar flares or an electromagnetic pulse. It’s estimated a large scale event could kill millions in the months following a massive solar flare and mass ejection towards the Earth. The large loss of life would occur in every major city effected. A large solar flare such as the one that took place in 1856 known as the Carrington Event would devastate our modern electronic dependent modern world.

Similarly, an electromagnetic pulse (EMP) could be produced by a massive nuclear explosion high in the atmosphere above the continental United States by such nations as China or Russia. Such a blast would be delivered by new hyper-sonic weapons that the U.S. currently have no defense system to prevent. Given global tensions today, this is not so far fetched.

Either event would result in our electrical grid being shut down not for days, but possibly years. Replacing large transformers without an operating infrastructure would be near impossible. A strong enough blast would have the ability to fry nearly every electronic device. Everything from transportation to communication devices would instantly become useless.

Cities would take the brunt of the disaster. No electric means no fuel, no transportation for food deliveries or water distribution. You thought Katrina was bad? There won’t be any hope for outside assistance since every major city and town will be in the same situation. What little government and military still functioning will be looking after their own.

Let’s imagine the event’s effect on the French Quarter. To make it even more interesting we’ll have it happen on a busy holiday weekend like Labor Day. Every hotel booked, Bourbon Street filled with drunken tourists in the middle of the day.

There won’t be any warning. Just a “boop” as power goes out and all trucks and cars stall in their place. Most all vehicles made after 1990 have a computer in them. The worst part for all of us will be the total absence of any information. No TV or radio broadcasts, no Emergency alerts on our devices, just darkness literally and figuratively. People today flip out if they can’t get a wi-fi signal or their device runs out of battery life. Imagine if every device just turned off and wouldn’t even power on.

Crowded bars and restaurants go dark, the music stops and a collective panic sets in when we all look down at our blank screens. If caused by man in an upper atmosphere blast, we might hear a distant rumble a few minutes after when the sound wave reaches us. Any critical thinker would realize that this isn’t a simple power outage that may resume operation in a few hours. Battery powered devices turning off and all traffic stalling in place would be the ominous sign something bigger has happened.

Imagine being a manager of a crowded club. Both guests and employees would become increasingly panicked. Forget closing out the tabs, no registers, no ATMs, no credit card machines. Push the guests out and lock the doors. Employees will want to go home, let them. They will be worried about their loved ones and you will be too. It will be a long hot walk home, grab some water for the journey.

Where will the tourist go? Back to their dark and excessively hot hotel rooms? Loiter in the streets nursing their last drinks? Gather and spread rumors? Was it was China? Russia? UFOs? If you think that they are demanding and high maintenance in the best of times, imagine them all in an emergency. The looting will start before it’s even nighttime. Tourists and locals alike will push themselves into Rouses, the drug stores and any shop with food and liquor. The collapse of order will happen with in hours.

It’s possible that New Orleans city government may have a communication system hardened and protected enough from such a event to stay in contact with state government, which in turn would have lines to the federal agencies. It would still take hours before the full scale of the disaster would become apparent. The only reliable transportation available to NOPD would their horses. Inter-departmental communications would probably not be sophisticated enough to function after the blast.

It would be optimistic to expect the police to place their own personal concerns for family after that of the city. Is it reasonable to expect the law enforcement to maintain order without vehicles, communication in complete and total darkness while they are thinking about their own families in other parts of the city? If any remain on duty, they will be used to protect the wealthy areas and important institutions like the banks and casino.

Don’t expect to see the National Guard riding in to save the day anytime soon. Those who do actually report for duty will be put to work in Baton Rouge. No trucks with MREs and water, no crowd control, no relief.

By midnight most every shutter has been pried open and every bar and restaurant has been ransacked by tourists and a few locals. Don’t be an idiot by sitting out on your balcony with a warm beer and your last bag of chips rubber-necking at the unfolding chaos below you. You will be seen as a “have” by the “have-nots.”

Were you a big fan of ridiculous zombie apocalypse films? Always fantasized about how cool the anarchy would be? Good news, it’s here, the bad news is that you will be one of the zombies soon. Remember those AR-15s with a 30-round magazine that “No one needs?” I bet you wish you had a couple of them now.

Before dawn of the next day, someone will start a fire. Forget NOFD, their trucks don’t run and most went home to protect their families. After a night of smashing of windows, periodic gunfire and constant yelling the smell of smoke will drift across the French Quarter. Unlike previous fires that ravaged the Quarter in the past, there will be no bucket brigades or effort to extinguish the flames. Large swaths will burn for days with the slightest breeze from the river.

Other parts of the city are not fairing much better. The collapse was hastened in the French Quarter by the presence of thousands of tourists. Uptown where all of the highly educated elites live they too are suffering. Most probably don’t have more than two days worth of food in their large homes. The university professor with a doctorate in political theory is outraged that Uber Eats isn’t delivering during The Battle of Armageddon.

Perhaps it’s time to get out of the French Quarter. You and your friends gather up what little supplies that you have left and hop on your bicycles. You have to pedal through a few neighborhoods to find the promised land. Without cars operating, suddenly bicycles are a very valuable possession. You will head north. Without a phone with GPS it’s next to impossible for you to tell directions, you’ll follow the road signs. You bicycled across the Netherlands, Louisiana will be a piece of cake.

You have a Glock, so you are not concerned. You fired it a couple of times at the firing range and have watched all of the John Wick films so you have a few tricks up your sleeve. Confronted by a group of men, you pull your gun and before you can utter a clever threat you get shot in the back a few times. As you bleed out you get to watch your girlfriend being gang raped. How’s that action hero fantasy working out for you?

If you are fortunate enough to escape the city limits, a long hot ride through the suburbs awaits for you. You come across a looted supermarket. Unsurprisingly all of the vegetarian and soy products are untouched. You gather what you can carry and pedal on until you find a spot to camp for the night. Those hundreds of hours playing the video game “Fallout” have paid off, you got the skills. Perhaps you should have grabbed a can opener and bug spray back at the store.

All of you talk about finding a farm where you can start a commune. None of you have any farming experience, never hunted or fished and really don’t like physical labor. The farmers that are there can do all of that. You have other talents to lend to the new community. One of you has a college degree in women’s studies. They will be the school teacher for the farmer’s kids. They’ll teach the kids reading, math and critical race theory.

You can play the guitar. With no electronic media, the farmers with love you as you sit under a tree playing the few songs you know but they don’t while they work in the hot sun for 12 hours a day to feed everyone. The rural farmers will be so thankful that you sophisticated city folk have arrived to make their lives better.

You spot the first farm house, it’s huge. A barn, large vegetable garden, corn field and chickens. This will be your new home. As you pedal up the long dirt driveway, two men armed with long guns greet you. They seem a little scary, but with your superior intellect you can manipulate them into taking all of you in as one of their own. Perhaps you may even become the leader of the community like Mao.

The farmer who is unsure what has happened, with the loss of all electricity and electronics and only wild speculation as to what the outside world is going through. He sees a group of oily, dirty 20-somethings with purple hair, face piercings and tattoos trespass onto his property. His family nervously wait inside and are also heavily armed as he and his brother go outside to speak to the strangers.

Before you can finish your well-thought-out speech about fairness and entitlement, they point the barrels in your faces and tell you to turn around. Maybe if you start crying it will soften them up, it always worked with your parents. Or maybe not. You threaten to call the cops but stop mid sentence and turn around to pedal on to the next farm up the road. Perhaps the next farm won’t be Trump supporters.

All of you stop along the country road for a good cry and plot to come back that night to steal vegetables that you are so rightfully entitled to. The next day your dead bodies are fed to the hogs.

The End.