As most of my readers know, I used to live in Oakland, California. The hills of Oakland, to be exact, near Berkeley. The hills of Oakland, for those who don't know, is a pit of the worst of the left...the bleeding heart, wealthy white liberals. More on this area can be found
here.
I still am on an email list from the old neighborhood (their website can be found at
www.nhphoenix.org) for reasons that are not important (mainly, schadenfreude) and this morning I got one of the greatest examples of the liberal mind rot I've ever read.
As background, there was a home invasion robbery in the old neighborhood a few days ago. You'll be shocked to hear this, but three negroes went to the white part of Oakland to commit a crime. They grabbed a homeowner off the street at knifepoint (remember that it was knifepoint), took him back to his house, tied him and his wife up and then went through the house. The son of the homeowner was present as well. The full story can be read
here.
The people on the neighborhood email list, those good liberal residents of Oakland who applaud every tax proposed, scream about right wing conspiracies and demand that all guns be banned, were shocked that crime could happen in their bucolic corner of a city that has some of the worst crime problems in the country. This should be the first sign of reality detachment...
Emails went back and forth about what to do, how the wealth of the whites in the hills was an affront to the poor negroes and, thus, the crime was really the fault of the whites in the hills, and, of course, how gun control is the cure to all of the problems. None of it made sense, but since I am used to the nonsensical bleating of liberals and their reliance on illogical slogans, I barely noticed what they were saying.
Until the following letter arrived. It was written by the son of the homeowner, an adult who lives with his parents, and it is the ultimate in bedwetting, hysterical liberal self loathing.
The son, a pathetic creature by the name of Scott (we'll refer to him as "Little Scotty" from this point on), pulled out every liberal cliche and stereotype, then he created a few new ones.
Here's the letter (my commentary will follow):
Dear friends,
I'll start the story by saying that we are all physically ok.
My Father, Mother and I were the victims of an armed assault and robbery in our house this past Sunday morning. The intent of this email is to present a clear story, to help prevent potential rumors.
My parents had some friends over for dinner Saturday night. The guests had already left when I returned home around 12:30. My dad was just finishing cleaning the kitchen. Pops usually goes for a walk in the evenings after doing the dishes, and he invited me along to smoke a stogie with him. I declined as I was going to wake up early and watch the World Cup.
I was rudely awoken sometime later with two 'young black males' standing over me, one with a gun pointed at my face. I had no idea what was happening, and in my somnolent state couldn't discern reality from dream. They took all the electronics and more from my room, including bags of change, and my wallet. They made me explain the contents of my wallet and give them my pin number to the ATM. Before the words left their lips, I had already penned '1960' on a yellow sticky back.
How did these men get into my house, our house, my dad's house, my mom's house?
My dad built the home, literally drew and with his own hands built it. I knew that it was dear to him. He had risked his life once already, in the Oakland hills fire of 1991 to protect it.
How did they get in?
With the gun adding emphasis I was lead upstairs to my parents bedroom, where I saw my dad with his hands tied behind his back laying face down and motionless on the bed.
To the right, through the opening to the bathroom, I saw my mom kneeling, her forehead on the rug, her hands and feet bound.
My parents' bed was built by my dad. It stands two feet above the floor, supported by metal columns. I was told to crawl under the bed and be a 'good fucking son.' From where I was able to see my mom, and hear my pops' voice.
A third, older black male, seemed to be the boss of the group. He was the most gruff of the three, and he too carried a gun. The 'number two guy,' the one who had woken me up at gun point, was actually more humane with us. At one point he gave my dad a glass of water, he gave me a blanket as I shivered from the evening chill and shock, and he brought a pillow for my mom to rest her head on.
They made my mom show them where all her jewelry was. I watched helplessly grandma's pearls gone, wedding ring, gone... pieces of here life - gone. I heard the
bracelets and necklaces clink into the pillow case...
For what seemed alternately an eternity and a flash, the three intruders interrogated, psychologically tortured us, and threatened us. They wanted cash, 'where's the fucking stash of cash?... don't lie to me I know you got cash in here.' They thought we might have a safe... 'Bob where's the fucking safe? ... Ahh blood, if he don't tell us where the safe is at...' They wanted weapons, finding play guns we'd had since kids... 'what's this, Scott you like guns? I got one that looks like this... you got any fucking guns in the house, Scott?'
We of course don't have a stash of cash, we don't have a safe... but my dad does
have a shotgun. An eight-seventy Remington pump action shotgun was hidden in the back room. A relic from duck hunting, long nights alone with a shovel after the police said they couldn't protect against post-fire looters - the gun hadn't been touched in at least five years. But my dad didn't want to let them have it. I don't know his motivation for not telling them, maybe he couldn't give up the piece that would protect the house, maybe he wanted to test them - and himself...
They spent what seemed a long time ransacking the house. At one point they found the shotgun. They seemed pissed... 'now you dun fuckt up, you lied to us' ... 'no, maan, bluuud, he lieeed to us...'yeah he just pissed me the fuck off...' But there was a trigger lock on the gun. 'Where's the fuckin key...'
This was the tensest part of the night. They told me to stick my hand out from under the bed so they could 'pop a shot you nevah gonna foget' ... 'I'm gonna punish yo son, bob... where's the fucking key?' The big dude, his raspy voice a permanent stain in my head, cocked back his gun and held it a foot from my hand. In the deepest, most honest and present voice - 'I have never even seen the key to the trigger lock.'
My dad still wasn't going to give it over, but he told them there was a key on the back of the wine rack he made, on the shelf he made. They stood him up, put a 'fuckin pillowcase ova da head' and walked him into the back room.
There was a bottle of champagne there and I could hear them asking 'dood you got any kristal, you got any dom pergnon...?'
Meanwhile my mom and I are still in the room, the 'nicer guy' stays in to watch over us.
He is kind of nervous, talking about how 'this is ridiculous, how we's normahlly out in like ten minuhts.' I sense the gravity of the situation and begin to tell him about green buildings, I begin to tell him about how I think they can be a small step in making the world a better place. I tell him how I stay up at night thinking about the fucked up things in the world, how I can't sleep thinking about all the things we need to be working on.
He mumbles something about how fucked up this situation is, about how fucked something's just are. My mom asked him at some point what his mother thought of all this, to which he sheepishly replied that he had a two year old son at home, that he could tell stories sofucked up we wouldn't believe it...
We began to make our presence as human beings, we let them know again that they were human beings. I remember saying numerous times 'we are peaceful people...'
They continued to ransack the house, you could hear drawers opening and closing.
They'd come back, 'you got an x-box, a 360... where yo i-pod at'... 'I kno you got a safe, where the safe at...'
They were pissed, we're a technophobic household, our TV must weigh a hundred pounds, the first new TV we'd ever owned - bought in 1996. We don't have stacks of cash laying around, we don't have a safe...
Then, with out warning they walked upstairs, beeped the doors locked, unlocked, locked, unlocked, set off the car alarm and then fled in my mom's car.
After a moment we checked in with each other, we got up. They had told us that if we called the cops, if we canceled the cards before they could get money they'd be back.
They'd whisper, 'we may not be back this week, we may be back in a month, a year... we'll be back, so keep yo fuckin mouth shut and take the loss... the cops can't catch us.'
After running over and untying my mom we decided we had to call the cops immediately.
They came very quickly and we spent almost three hours with the cops at our house.
During this time we began to learn each other's story. How had they entered our house?
My pops had been out walking when a black, late 80's American V-8 with tinted
windows and chrome wheels came by. He had a gut feeling that this was no good, but continued his walk. The car came by again, but this time three men jumped out of the car and two of them stuck their guns in his face.
They took his wallet, his watch, his keys and his Swiss army knife. They tossed him in the bushes and then put the blade of his knife to his ear, 'I'll cut your fuckin eehr off if you don'take us to yo haus...' They led him, the cold steal digging in behind his ear, another gun gouging his ribs, to our front door.
Wife and son in the house, asleep. 'Yo son gonna do somethin stoopid?'
They woke my mom up first, my dad telling her what was happening... and then they came into my room. I was rudely awoken...
All told they were in the house for about two hours.
Tons of thoughts have poured through my head since that evening.
It was the most zen-like moment of my life. I have never thought more clearly about the present, not more than a drift towards speculating. I have never spoken with such conviction and honesty.
Afterward I was scared, I was frightened, I was pissed, I was sad, I was confused, I was enraged, I was compassionate, I was guilty...
There are moments when I convince myself that I should have gone on the walk with my dad, maybe they wouldn't have stopped?
I saw their despair. I lament the economic disparity.
I see the gun-control issue with new eys. I was for gun control before, but we are fools if we don't start now.
At times I feel a deep rage and infuriating ferocity sweep over me. Don't get in my
fucking way, fuck them, kill them all. Fuck those savage motherfuckers.
I feel sad for them, sad for us, sad for humanity. I feel disgusted that we could let our world stoop to these levels. I feel the fabric of our community rip, I feel forlorn that our communities are no longer bastions of compassion, righteousness, education, empowerment and self-moderated justice.
I see stereotypes in a new light.
My stomach clenches and my muscles spring into attention when I see someone resembling the attackers.
I always thought that the violent video game debate was an unnecessary uproar, can't humans separate dream from reality? But wasn't this Grand Theft Auto in reality?
I will try to learn as much from this as possible.
I think it's ok to be pissed at them, to be outraged to want revenge to want retribution.
We were violated in the more sacred place. We were rendered utterly powerless and with out any control for two terrifying hours in our own home. I have lived here all but for the first 6 months of my life, my brother his whole life, my parents built the place...
I think it's ok to have compassion for them, to want to help them. We showed them we were human, they showed us human elements. I remember a story from the Michael Nagler work, "Is There No Other Way" where a nurse consoles a murderer and gets him to give up his gun and turn himself in. Later they asked her what she did. She responded that she saw a sick patient, and she wanted to cure him. She saw a wounded human, she wanted to make him whole. God bless her.
I think it's ok to have both feelings, to be torn between the two emotions.
We are OK.
We are so lucky.
I count our blessings everyday.
Where can I start?
Dear Little Scotty, you pathetic little coward, first of all, let's call a spade a spade.
You were robbed by N's*.
They deserve no compassion, they are not criminals because of anything that white people or white society has done.
They are predators and they prey primarily on spinless little fucks like you.
Why, Little Scotty, are you so afraid of acknowledging that you peed your little pants when the N's took advantage of your spinelessness?
N's aren't stupid, Little Scotty. They're like any predator and they focus on the weaknesses of the prey.
They know that the dumbshit white liberals' weakness is their preference to blame themselves rather than to blame the culpable.
By the way, Little Scotty, you spend far too much time thinking about a world that doesn't and didn't exist. To wit,
I feel sad for them, sad for us, sad for humanity. I feel disgusted that we could let our world stoop to these levels. I feel the fabric of our community rip, I feel forlorn that our communities are no longer bastions of compassion, righteousness, education, empowerment and self-moderated justice.
Little Scotty, I am in my 40s and in this country, during my lifetime, communities were never as you described, especially with regard to "self-moderated justice". What the fuck is "self-moderated justice"? Is this yet another liberal slogan that has no meaning but sounds enlightened? I did an internet search and the damn phrase is NOWHERE else on the internet. Is "self-moderated justice" really just lynching, Little Scotty? Cause that's the only self-moderated justice this country has ever had. And, Little Scotty, I assure you that your beloved N's would not like a return to the days of self-moderated justice, you fucking moron.
Let's start from the beginning. Your worthless piece of shit father should have stood his ground at the git go and refused to tell the N's where he lived. For all he knew, they were going to rape his wife and kill her, then kill his son, dear Little Scotty.
Your dad was a coward. Rather than fight off the criminals who had already employed a vicious semi-automatic assault knife against him, proving that they were not concerned with the law, and protect his family he let them into his house.
No, wait...he ESCORTED them in with nary a warning and allowed them to violate his house and his family.
Face it, Little Scotty, you are ashamed that your father was willing to hand over his family to bloodthirsty animals without even a fight. You're not ashamed of society, community or anyone else, dude...you just can't believe that "pops" didn't do the only thing a man is ever expected to do-protect his family.
Really, Little Scotty, none of this is about gun control or even racial divides. This is about Little Scotty needing therapy so he can stop transferring disgust, loathing and hate for his father to safer objects of hate, like guns.
Your father led what was, for all he knew, the killers of his wife and son right to his wife and son.
Had your worthless father fought back at the time that the horrific semi-automatic assault knife had been employed against him and made enough noise, you, Little Scotty, had you had enough courage, would have taken that shotgun and met the N's at the door with a blast of 4 shot.
There would have been no robbery, no mother bound and gagged, no Little Scotty threatened...You would have done the job that your worthless father should have done.
The next thing to remember, Little Scotty, is that this all started with a KNIFE. Not a gun. A KNIFE. A bloodthirsty, semi-automatic assault knife, no less. [Note: since the MSM will refer to weapons used in crimes as "assault weapons" even though that term rarely, if ever, actually is appropriate, I will follow suit. And since a knife is not automatic in operation, I will also use the charged phrase].
Why aren't you calling for knife control, bitch?
In fact, why aren't you calling for expensive alcohol control, since the N's who terrorized you were more interested in your "dom pergnon" and "kristal" collection. Don't you think, based on your logic, that anyone who buys those alcohol products is taunting the N's into a life of crime?
Why are you even bringing up gun control, you piece of shit?
Was anyone shot? Would you have fought back had they only been armed with swords of crossbows or knives or baseball bats or even tire irons?
Or just fists?
Little Scotty, from what you write, you wouldn't have fought back even if they had no weapons, so I have no idea why you think this has anything to do with gun control.
Actually, you turd, had you been a real man, you would have had a gun in an easily reached place, you wouldn't have had a gun lock on it (as there are no actual children in the house, just little maggots who are as helpless as babies) and you would have blasted those N's without a second thought.
Where were the police, Little Scotty? They were far away. Gun control wasn't going to help you one bit, any more than the laws against kidnapping, robbery, assault or burglary stopped you from being kidnapped, robbed, assaulted and burgled by these N's.
What gun control DID do, though, is give these fucking parasites the courage to prey on the white liberals in the hills, as they knew that there was no way you were going to use a gun to protect yourself.
Little Scotty, these N's aren't criminals because of video games, injustice, racism or any of your other bleeding heart theories.
They're criminals because they want to be criminals.
They want the easy way and the enablers like you, the liberals who give them a pass and excuse the most disgusting, anti-social behavior because of the skin color of the actor, allow them to be criminals.
You said you want to learn something from this experience. Here are the three lessons:
(1) You father is a coward and was willing to watch his family die rather than take action to risk his own life.
(2) There is only one thing that will protect you in the circumstances you experienced and it's neither liberal blatherings nor the police. It's a firearm, loaded and ready for use, hidden in a place that is easily accessible to you but not obvious to someone who is looking for it. It could have been hidden under the bed, inside a shoebox in a closet, above the fridge in a cookie jar, etc.
(3) Criminals have always existed and they always will exist. They aren't created by society, they aren't a product of this social injustice that you imagine. They are predators and no matter what you do to try to correct the "social injustices" they will always exist. The only thing your brand of compassion will bring is more
crime.
And by the way, Little Scotty, heed what the N's told you when they said:
They had told us that if we called the cops, if we canceled the cards
before they could get money they'd be back. They'd whisper, 'we may not be back
this week, we may be back in a month, a year...we'll be back, so keep yo fuckin
mouth shut and take the loss... the cops can't catch us.'
Go to the Oakland Police Department and ask them for an armed patrol to protect you. When they say no, submit an application to carry a firearm. If the application is rejected, carry the firearm anyway. All the time. Everywhere. Round in the chamber. Don't be the coward that your father was.
The N's will be back. They promised. Take them at their word. Be ready next time.
Little Scotty, you are a disgrace to your family, to your community and to mankind.
Next time, Little Scotty, be a man and protect your family.
Obviously, you father is too cowardly to do the job.
* I couldn't give a crap whether anyone thinks I'm racist for using this letter, though out of deference to Affepundit, I did reduce it to just the first letter, initial cap. Just to be clear, though, when I use the word N, I'm using it to point out the hypocrisy of liberalism, how they are so loathe to call something by its obvious description. So just as Little Scotty avoids the word that starts with N, even though we all know he was thinking it, I use that letter judiciously. Read through Little Scotty's "quotes" ...the way he wouldn't even accurately spell the words spoken by the criminals, even though Little Scotty doesn't make spelling errors when he writes in the first person. I am doing no more than saying the word that is DRIPPING from every word that Little Scotty writes. He's afraid to say it and I will say it for him.
