In a stunning development, the world’s richest man, Jeff Bezos, has vowed to give his entire $150 billion fortune to African-Americans to, in his words, “give a little back when so much was taken from them.”  The pay-out will equal roughly $3,500 for every African-American man, woman and child in the U.S.

Just kidding.  Jeff Bezos is a selfish prick who would rather throw around empty platitudes while literally working his employees to death on one of his warehouse floors.  Like he said, he wants them to wake up every morning terrified. 

Rich frauds like Seth Rogan (estimated net worth, $50 million) love to hide in their gated mansions and take brave moral stands.  Even richer frauds like Nancy Pelosi (estimated net worth of $160 million) will even pander super hard in African garb while pretending to do something while actually doing nothing.

That’s why I came up with “The Taking Pledge.”  If elected president, I will force the rich to do that thing they really, really want to do, but gosh darn it, just can’t seem to find a way to follow through on.

I pledge reparations for African-Americans, and it will be funded solely by people with over $10 million in assets.  The first $10 to $15 million will get taxed at 75%, $15 to $20 million at 80%, $20 to $25 million at 90%, and everything over that goes straight into Uncle Sam’s pocket.

I can’t imagine these assholes will have any problem with my completely reasonable plan.  Heck, I think I can even hear the sweet swishy sounds of their fancy hats and Louis Vuitton handbags as they line up to get onboard.

If there’s one thing on God’s green earth I hate, it’s someone thrusting their shit-encrusted hand at me and expecting me to shake it.

I get it. This moronic custom started thousands of years ago as a way for primitive savages to prove to each other they didn’t have any weapons. But flash forward a few millennia, and we now have an understanding of things like bacteria and communicable diseases.

And ironically, the microbes covering your hands are probably more dangerous than a palmed dagger. And if you doubt me, feel free to ask any one of the dead Indians who used to inhabit this fair land.

Our government has spent billions on campaigns to fight disease, but peer pressure forces us all to do one thing that’s practically guaranteed to make us ill at some point. That’s why we should all agree that starting tomorrow; this moronic custom is finally going to be put to bed.

And to really drive the point home, the feds should produce a bunch of cheesy 70s style Public Service Announcements to reinforce the message.

And I don’t want them to get too complicated. Every single one should show some derelict grabbing his balls, picking his nose or scratching his ass before attempting to shake your hand. Just like in the real world.

When my kids were little, I used to keep all of the dangerous cleaning chemicals out of reach on a tall shelf. And when they got old enough to stop eating random shit off the floor like a dog, I moved everything back under the kitchen sink.

Now it seems that teens and young adults alike are consuming Tide Pods as part of some stupid Internet challenge, and Proctor & Gamble, the company that makes them, was shamed into releasing public service announcements telling people not to eat the goddamn things.

Wrong!

I’m a firm believer in the evolutionary process, and if you’re an adult who has to be brow-beaten into not eating a caustic chemical packet that causes burns to your mouth, esophagus and stomach, no amount of PSAs and public interest handholding is going to help you.

You’re a moron and your genes should not pass into the next generation.

Instead of adding a foul-tasting substance to these pods to make people spit them out after putting them in their mouth, they should add something in them that just renders people sterile after ingesting them, like the manufacturers do with tofu.

A few months ago a chick had a meltdown and was drug off a Southwest flight at BWI because there were two dogs on it.  She said she had a life-threatening pet allergy, and that’s probably bullshit, but this whole “service animal” loophole has gotten way out of hand.

One of the dogs on the flight was an emotional support animal, and that somehow entitled it to be brought on the plane, yet the very same airline and airport made me throw my twelve-pack of emotional support Coors Banquet beers in the trash because they were more than 3.4 ounces.

Props to the TSA agent for casually mentioning that I could go drink them in the bathroom, but that’s beside the point.

Unless you’re blind, and you need a goddamned dog to keep you from walking into traffic or falling down empty elevator shafts, you don’t need a service animal.  I guess we can also let on the dogs that detect seizures, but that’s it.

The whole emotional support animal nonsense needs to end today, and I don’t want to be trapped in a narrow metal tube with your stupid dog when I had to leave mine with my idiot brother-in-law.

 

I don’t really get what these things are. As my wife and I were flipping through some pictures from last Christmas, we saw one of them in a snap we took of the kids’ Christmas play.

It looks malevolent enough, but what kind of masochistic creature would willingly watch a bunch of toddlers warble through Christmas songs? I almost wonder if it wasn’t an entity at all, but maybe a projection of us all dying a little inside.

Some people claim these things are demons, some say evil aliens, and few think they are the souls of particularly vile humans who refused to pass over to the other side.

I’m not sure about that, but we did have a mean-spirited apparition on the farm where I grew up, and we all just sort of accepted it. It could mimic the shape and mannerisms of specific people from behind, but for some reason it couldn’t do their faces.

It also had an off-putting habit of knocking a picture of Jesus off the wall every time somebody died. And after doing that, it would drag an old trunk from one end of the room to another.

Eventually one of my uncles got drunk and pissed off enough to burn that house down, but the thing just moved over to another old house on the property, and now we’re letting that one rot because no one will live in it, and we’re afraid to knock it down.

On the plus side, most of us don’t have to worry about this stuff too much longer. A priest once told me the Catholic Church knows the anti-Christ is real, and he was born during the pontificate of John Paul II.

That means this guy is anywhere from 12 years old to 39. He is also supposed to have blue eyes, if that helps.

If you ever had any doubt that a DC sports curse existed, the fifth inning of last night’s NLDS game between the Nationals and Cubs should have erased all doubts.

National’s manager Dusty Baker made the right decision to walk a patient batter for one who swings at nearly every pitch, and like clockwork, Nationals ace Max Scherzer struck him out. Except he didn’t.

An almost improbable series of events then transpired. There was a passed ball, a throwing error, catcher’s interference, and a hitter was struck with the bases loaded. I’ve never seen anything like it, but in context, it made perfect sense.

Washington DC sports are cursed, and the cause of that curse is Washington Redskin’s owner Daniel Marc Snyder.

Daniel Snyder was not born. He congealed in a pit deep in the bowels of hell. And on the fateful night of November 23, 1964, a demon stuffed him fully formed into his mother’s womb.

DC sports have always been the great unifier in a city gripped by division. It didn’t matter if you were a greedy Republican, an effeminate Democrat or a noble Whig, you cheered for the home teams, and you were rewarded with success.

The Bullets and Redskins combined for four championships in 15 years, but Satan knows that division and discord are the key to his conquest of the earth, and you have to give it Old Scratch, he isn’t in any hurry.

Like all great servants of darkness from Genghis Khan, Hitler, Stalin, to Pol Pot, Snyder has described his life as if he was sleepwalking. It’s almost as if a dark hand has guided him and steered him upon his path, and he was put upon this earth for only one purpose – to spread his dark shadow across the DC sports landscape and doom all who fall within it,

And until that hell-spawn is removed, DC sports will remain damned.

In the first known attack of its kind, Islamic militants used driverless cars fitted with explosives to carry out a series of bomb attacks across the city of San Diego yesterday.

The targets ranged from busy pedestrian areas to a small park where office workers enjoyed their lunches, and the death toll from the attacks stands at twenty, but it is expected to rise.

Mexican drug cartels are suspected of renting their smuggling tunnels to Islamic terrorists, and these tunnels were utilized to import the nearly 900 pounds of explosives that were used.

According to reports, the plot was originally planned to be twice as large, but the arrest of one of the group’s leaders caused them to speed up their timetable and launch their assault prematurely.

A pre-dawn raid in City Heights revealed the true extent of the original attack plan and how lucky we are this second phase wasn’t implemented.

A sophisticated laboratory was being used to combine gasoline and gelling agents into a Napalm-like substance. It appears this material was intended to be sprayed from five additional cars which had been outfitted with 150 gallon tanks and sprayer systems.

According to one of the investigators, this would have allowed them to launch this flammable mixture onto buildings, bridges and other flammable targets, causing the largest fire in the city’s history.

Though they believe the imminent threat has been eliminated, local government officials are still asking the public to be vigilant. According to information found in the City Heights location, the terrorists who carried out this attack discovered a software exploit that would have allowed them to take control of many other driverless cars.

Until this software is fixed, any driverless car on the road could potentially be used as a weapon.

Not all heroes wear capes, and nowhere was that more evident than on a sidewalk in Nashville, TN in the early morning hours of a Saturday last month.

At the time, Katie Quackenbush was sitting in her finely tuned German automobile and sharing tunes from her sound system with other music aficionados on Nashville’s Music Row.

Unfortunately, a local transient, Gerald Melton, was sleeping on the sidewalk nearby, and he became angry that the smell of exhaust and the sound of loud music interrupted his sweet dreams of fortified wines and big rock candy mountains.

Unwilling to simply pick up his bindle and move his box down a block, Mr. Melton instead accosted Ms. Quackenbush. Details are sketchy, but it appears a verbal argument ensued, and Ms. Quackenbush said she felt threatened and fired two shots at Mr. Melton, one of which hit him in his gin-soaked belly.

Since Ms Quackenbush didn’t report the incident for nearly a week, and because her booking photo might as well be labeled “Disinterested hand-job,” the liberal media was quick to jump on this story and vilify her.

But my question is, why?

Correct me if I’m wrong, but when in the history of the goddamned world has a hobo ever done anything positive for anybody?

There’s a solid chance if you shit in the bushes next to a street, and you’re not on a leash, you’re not a contributing member of society and you should be counting your lucky stars I don’t whack you in the nuts with a car antenna every time I walk by.

I’m not saying vagrants should be hunted for sport, but if one of them comes at me at 3:00 AM on a dark street, I’m going to do whatever I can to prevent being bitten and turned into one of them.  I’ve seen enough movies to know their bites are infected, and that’s how the contagion spreads.

North Korean leader Kim Jong-Un reminds me a lot of drunk me. After a dozen or so cocktails, I come up with stupid ideas that never seem to hold up under the harsh glare of sobriety.

And while the flame thrower I built with the propane tank from my gas grill was awesome, the fact that I duct-taped a garden hose to a gas tank probably means I was once again precariously close to a Darwin award.

Kim Jong Un often threatens to destroy America or South Korea, but his military is antiquated, his missile technology sucks and his head looks a fat little pumpkin. He can talk the talk, but he definitely can’t walk the walk.

That’s why I was surprised last week when he threatened to weaponize a hurricane. At first the threat made no sense. Hurricanes are already remorseless agents of death and mayhem. How could you make that worse?

Then I thought about it, and the idea was brilliant. What’s scarier than a hurricane? Why a nuclear hurricane, that’s what.

If radioactive material was pumped into a hurricane, it would spew fallout over an enormous area and contaminate vast swathes of multiple states. It would turn a natural disaster into a national disaster, and there’s not much you can do to stop it.

Proving that modern American society has lost both its sense of humor and its goddamned mind, few people even raised an eyebrow yesterday when Antifa spokesman Chuck Brown demanded that Egypt “bulldoze the pyramids because they were built by slaves.”

In an hour long monologue that saw him pause only briefly to babble incoherently about socialism and oppression, Mr. Brown went on to demand that China remove its Great Wall, India the Taj Mahal and Rome the Colosseum, because they were all built by forced labor.

Predictably, Democratic and Republican politicians tripped over themselves to get on Twitter and voice their support for Mr. Brown’s imbecilic plan.

Congresswoman Maxine Waters also tweeted “Don’t forget about the Eiffel Tower” before eagle-eyed staffers deleted the post and found her a new coloring book and crayons to keep her occupied for the rest of the day.

South Carolina Senator Lindsey Graham was contacted by the Washington Post for his opinion, but he was unavailable.

According to rumors, he was posting anonymously on message boards that even though Lindsey Graham is in his fifties, never married and sounds like a slightly gayer version of Snagglepuss, he “only likes banging hot snatch and 100% never hooks up with strange men on Grindr.”