Close your eyes. Breathe.
Oh shit. Okay, now open them back up and read the rest of this article.
Imagine a serene lake, gilded by lily pads, and lush evergreens, painted with the verdant brush of a deep forest against a crisp, azure sky. There you sit, on a blanket beneath you, with a basket of your favorite snacks: roast lamb, rosemary potatoes, strawberry pigs feet, and banana caviar for dessert. Your love sits next to you and you notice that the rise and fall of their breathing perfectly matches your own: slow, deep, steady. You’ve never felt so calm, peaceful, and connected. You’re in love and you are loved. The grass beneath your blanket is soft and gently keeps your shape while you sit, as if it too remembers you. The sky shimmers like sapphires and diamonds, glittering, sparkling, as reflected on the lake. The sun is warm. The wind plays with your hair. Everything is right… until you hear it.
A buzz, an angry buzz, scratches your ear. It’s a sound, a whining sound, a pissy sound. You turn your head, and swat mindlessly at your ear, for small nuisances deserve little attention.
You settle back, squeeze the hand of your loved one, reaffirm your love, their presence, and that in this connection all is right in the world. You breathe and close your eyes.
Fuck, did it again. Okay, open them back up and keep reading.
And breathe, deep… and relax.
There it is again. Fuck…
Quickly the buzz becomes a droning, a merciless, noisome, swarm of static that nips your ears and clouds your eyes. Your eyes water as the dust and static grow around your head. The distraction is too much. Your heart races.
It’s hard to see. It’s hard to hear.
Your breathing quickens and goes shallow. You drop the hand of the one you love. Anger and frenzy grab your nerves, and ride the lightning from your soul to your spine.
What is happening? Who is making this horrible racket?
It sounds like… like, what? Wait… no.
It can’t be.
It. Can’t. Be.
Ding Dong, Bitches! It’s Fucking Nazis.
Like flies, rising from the carrion of good intentions and out-sized hubris of a brazen nation that never settled its own multiple-personality disorder of slavery and hope, Nazis are returning to the American public in a very real, and very dangerous way. Their presence is the intrusion in a peaceful & productive life. Like every hateful, annoyance in this world, the purpose of the Nazi is not improvement, not innovation, culture, art, community, nor environment. The Nazi exists purely to steal peace from progress.
And we fucking hate Nazis, with a fire to impress even Hephaestus.
But hate isn’t funny, and Nazis sure as shit aren’t funny… or fun at parties. They even make book burnings awkward and cringe with their over-reliance on rules and drab fashion sense. Ugh. It’s like, “Umm yes, I will wear that Hawaiian shirt with this flamingo-themed monocle when burning copies of ‘The Art of the Deal’, thank you very much.”
As the commanders of galactic satire assault forces, it’s up to us to somehow turn this pestilence into comedy, preferably something high-brow, learned and academic, while maintaining enough moxie to get a chuckle or a guffaw. Maybe even…
a chortle.
Thank goodness for poop jokes.
Target Locked. Satire When Ready
Somewhere in Jackson, MS is a radio announcer. With a podcast. His content is racist as all H-E-Double Hockey Sticks, that cretinous fuck. He’s exactly what one would expect to see as the front-line cannon fodder in a race war. He’s as white as slavery, and as dumb as a sharecropper on slave patrol. Think about him like this:
- In the Almanac of North American Crackers (2026 ed.), this guy shows up between the sections on “Now Listen Up Fella” and “Hoo-wee! It’s Cross Burnin’ Day!”
- Visually, he’s described as: wardrobe from Chester Cheetah, breath by Mr. Pringles, a face from KFC, dating by Burger King, and blood sugar by the Jolly Rancher.
- His 23&Me reports 51% mayonnaise, 23% Velveeta, 14% boiled chicken, with the rest coming from old Granddaddy Klux and Grandmammy Klan. But 0% clue.
- He’s not just dumb, he’s dumber than the South rising up again.
- He’s so dumb he thinks the warning beeps of a truck in reverse is Morse code, talking about Groupons for cross burnings.
- He’s so racist he removed the black pieces from his chess set, and so stupid he still loses.
- When God invented dumb, this guy stared God in the face and said, “Hold my beer, ya doink.”
- When he gives change for his Waffle House dumpster bjs he loses money.
- At night, he dreams of the land of milk. Honey was too ethnic for him.
- His doctors still think he’ll die by drowning in dehydrated water.
- He’s so white, instead of eating Count Chocula cereal, he eats Viscount of Vanilla Yogurt.
- His favorite sexual position is crying in the corner of a haunted house’s dirt basement.
- His brain is so small when they measured his IQ, they only needed the letter I.
- He’s so racist, that when saying the word “racist” he uses the hard “r.”
- They say he has a face for radio, but we think he has a voice for silent movies, and a mouth for the night shift at the morgue or Waffle House glory holes.
- When you look at him, you wonder which season of SVU was based on him. It was probably the ones about clowns, and vans, and assholes.
- He’s so dumb, he stopped wearing cotton shirts and jeans because he hates muslins.
- Don’t even get him started on the juice.
- He’s so ugly, he’s sponsored by mouth cancer and chewing tobacco.
- He’s so desperate it’s said that his hatchback Ford Mustang has a restraining order against him and a tail pipe swab waiting for the sheriff to test.
- Even his anal snails have infectious syphilis.
- When asked if he was still an asshole, his colleagues asked if it was fun to punch Nazis.
We Almost Didn’t Write This
The truth is, this guy is definitely racist, but he’s small potatoes, and we hesitated for a long time writing this piece about this guy. Generally, attacking people with limited reach and very little going for them feels like we’re punching down, even if he’s a racist douche bag. So it took some careful consideration before continuing.
Reasons to Write This:
- The front lines of racism aren’t in the White House or the steps of Capital Hill. They are invisibly laid across the nation at every church, or klan group, or podcaster, that promotes separation and belittlement, that dehumanizes and erases. It’s dipshits like this that promote hurtful ideas and normalize alienation of our respected brothers and sisters all over the nation, regardless of origin, religion, color, ethnicity, gender, ability, or age.
- If John Oliver can do it… we gotta give it a try, right? That dough-faced sex-machine sporting English stilts and coke-bottle glasses gets us wetter than an ocean of KY Jelly, more tickled than all the octopuses in that ocean, and harder than Lindsey Graham in rigor mortis. Meee-owww baby!!!
- It’s never too early or late to say “Fuck Nazis” and “Punch Nazis.”
- It’s acceptable and right to call out bad behavior.
- Black Lives Matter. POC Lives Matter. Crackers are tasty.
- We never know which fires burn brightest in someone else’s heart, and maybe it’s about the sea of fires instead of just the one.
Reasons to Not Write This:
- This guy is a no-one. It feels gross to be punching down. Now mocking Elon, Trump, etc.? That’s a goal big enough for our tiny dicks–and sweet, sweet vagines–to aim for. Like sperm to an egg, we will crack those nuts.
- It’s easy to paint with brushes of absolutism, and “us against them.” It’s hard to accept nuance and humanity when shrouded in shittery.
- Are we calling out bad behavior in a way that will actually make a difference? Or are pushing someone further into shitty behavior? Or, are we helping someone else find a voice and reason to laugh at systemic fuckery? We hope we’re helping…
- Have we given up on the ability of people to change for the better? We hope not.
And then?
We wrote it. Staying silent is no way to live. No person is too big, or too small, to make change.
Life After Hate
So, we leave you with this, a link. This is proof that people can heal from hate. It’s important work.