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June 2021

Beneath The Planet Of The Bedlamites

This is the cost of talking to white people at all. The cost of your own life, as they suck you dry. There are no good apples out there. White people make my blood boil… I had fantasies of unloading a revolver into the head of any white person that got in my way, burying their body, and wiping my bloody hands as I walked away relatively guiltless with a bounce in my step. Like I did the world a fucking favour.

A dementedly racist woman, Aruna Khilanani, a woman who happily shares her fantasies of killing random white people, is invited to Yale to lecture the young and credulous

She’s a psychiatrist, by the way, presumably with paying patients

Note that if you challenge Ms Khilanani’s incoherent rambling, or her wildly arrogant generalisations, or her evasiveness and disregard for actual evidence, this is because you are “defensive,” being white, and are therefore “unable” to process her deep and radical wisdom. Including her conviction that “white people don’t eat bread.”  

Her talk, we’re assured, was “very well received.”

Update, via the comments:

Ms Khilanani is eager for the world to understand that she is a thinker, an intellectual. In large, bold letters, we’re told that,  

I may be one of the only [sic] psychiatrists in the country that has a Masters level body of knowledge in theory on marginalised identities… I majored in English at the University of Michigan, and completed a Masters of Humanities at the University of Chicago focusing [sic] gender theory, race theory, African American Studies, Embodiment, Post Colonialism, Sexuality, queer theory, Culture, South Asian Studies, and Marxism.

Grammar and proof-reading are not, one assumes, among Ms Khilanani’s many, many areas of focus and expertise. And curiously, the result of all this fierce rumination is a woman who struggles to support, or sustain, any kind of argument, and who appears unable to think in straight lines, such that one thing follows from another. Evidence is reliably absent, as is logical connective tissue. Instead, we get a series of bald assertions, quite a lot of blathering and deflection, and unrelated fragments of what can only be described as a bizarre conspiracy theory. We’re told, for instance, that expectations of racial reciprocity, mutual civility, would be a “false equivalence,” though why remains unclear, beyond the claim that white people are inherently defective, are “psychologically dependent on black rage,” and “have five holes in their brain.”

Friday Ephemera

Notice of note. (h/t, Holborn) || I am the night. || Gracious in victory. || The inventor of karaoke. || Vibrant diversity in street and park. || Place your bets - will advocaat carbonate? (h/t, Elephants Gerald) || Quick and tasty snacks, plus patting. (h/t, Elephants Gerald) || Interloper. || Portals. || One pack or two? || Today’s word is parasites. || She calls it prayer rape. Because of course she does. || Cleavage detected. || A labour of love. || When you really channel that bad mood. || Jam session of note. || Jigsaw puzzle. || Just like normal people. || “You have to, you do.” || Woke art, woke artist. || Woke blathering level 9: “Fat-phobia is a direct result of anti-blackness.” || And finally, you want to and you know it.

Reheated (63)

For newcomers and the nostalgic, more items from the archives:

The Sound Of Wringing (2).

The Guardian’s Theo Hobson sticks pins into his eyes, rhetorically.

Despite Mr Hobson’s claims, rejecting “liberal guilt,” as manifest all but daily in the pages of the Guardian, doesn’t require an indifference to, or denial of, real injustice, merely a dislike of pretension and dishonesty. As, for instance, when Mr Hobson’s colleague Guy Dammann looked at the stars and howled, “Am I fit to breed?” Or when Alex Renton told us, “Fewer British babies would mean a fairer planet.” Some Guardian regulars declared their plans to make us “better people” by making us poorer and freeing us from the “dispensable accoutrements of middle-class life,” including “cars, holidays, electronic equipment and multiple items of clothing.” While others chose to agonise over peanut butter residue.

And then there’s Decca Aitkenhead’s classic piece, Their Homophobia is Our Fault, in which she insisted that the “precarious, over-exaggerated masculinity” and murderous homophobia of some Jamaican reggae stars are products of the “sodomy of male slaves by their white owners.” And that the “vilification of Jamaican homophobia implies… a failure to accept post-colonial politics.” Thus, readers could feel guilty not only for “vilifying” the homicidal sentiments of some Jamaican musicians, but also for the culpability of their own collective ancestors. One wonders how those gripped by this fiendish dilemma could even begin to resolve their twofold feelings of shame.

Apocalypse Averted With Collective Juddering.

Just another day at the Guardian.

The paper’s leader writer, Susanna Rustin, is very much troubled by thoughts of impending catastrophe and is keen for your routine shopping - for groceries and maybe a pair of shoes - to be replaced, “painlessly,” with forms of “artistic expression and creativity.” Like dance lessons. It would, of course, be “a reordering of society.”

Passionate Attachments

The strange, tearful world of “water-bottle separation anxiety.”

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