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.
(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.”
Bourbon Street’s most beloved entertainer is still spreading her wings and taking on challenges. The famous live performer is turning her talents to film. Ms. Owens is eager to commence filming her movie debut. “When I saw the photos of that handsome all male chorus line, I couldn’t wait for them to pick me up and spin me!”
Asked about the production company, “I had never heard of the company before. I believe it’s a Chinese movie production. The producers are two brothers named Bang.” Her reason for starting a film career at this point her already noteworthy life, “I think the older you get, the more you need to stretch yourself as a performer. I’ve been bending over backward to be the best performer I can be my entire life.”
A number of years ago I was working nights as a dishwasher at Little Vic’s on Toulouse. I can’t remember exactly when it was, it might have been around Mardi Gras because we were slammed. Every seat full inside and out, the counter had a line going out the door. Customers wall to wall, a long line for the restroom, drunks pissing in the courtyard next to others who were dining. A situation both profitable and volatile.
The head cook was pissy and slamming shit around, the wait staff frantic with the demands placed on them. I was elbow deep in suds for hours as well as bussing the tables and trying to police the bathrooms. It was a single use bathroom and groups would go in, one would use the toilet while others would piss in the sink and in the drain on the floor.
By ten o’clock we were all ready to choke one another. I had turned a deaf ear to the complaints of the raging cooks. Suddenly I heard a commotion in the front of the house. Was there a fight? Did someone pass out? Did someone puke on the bar? I went out front to see what chore awaited me. Almost the entire restaurant was standing by the front door gawking. “What da fuck now?” i asked myself. As I pushed through the crowd I spotted a black car on the sidewalk. The two left wheels inches from both of our stoops. Great, an auto accident I thought. I pushed closer.
There it was, a stretch limo parked on the sidewalk blocking our doors. I see some idiot standing up through the sunroof waving to the gathering crowd like he was the fucking Pope or something. “What da fuck?” I blurted out. A random guy grabbed my arm and exclaimed like a screeching teen age girl “IT’S NICOLAS CAGE! IT’S NICOLAS CAGE!”
I was about ten feet away from the limo when he turned our way with that goofy fucking face of his shaking as many clambering hands as he could. “I don’t give a shit who it is, get the fuck off of my sidewalk!” I screamed and returned to the kitchen. The raging chef asked me what was going on in the front. I told him that evidently Nic Cage thinks we have a fucking drive thru window or some shit.
He screamed “NIC CAGE?” and dropped everything and bolted to the front of the house to see for himself. I just started throwing pans into the sink mumbling about how much I hated every soul in the Quarter right now.
“Celebrities” there’s not a goddamned one I would shake hands with.
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