Bondi has been a bit of a let-down so far, at least to me. Happily though, along with Our Tulsi, Kash Patel is really delivering the goods. To date I have yet to be disappointed by the way both of them interpret their job responsibilities. Nor can I find fault with their work ethic; their embrace of the underlying principles which define the uniquely American concept of public service; their obvious competence; their likewise obvious disinclination to pull their rhetorical punches; their eagerness to attack, attack, and attack again, keeping the skeer on his/our/America’s adversaries until the enemy’s fighting spirit, as well as his will to resist, have been well and truly crushed.

Kash Patel slams ‘corrupt’ sanctuary sheriff indicted for cannabis company extortion
Tompkins faces up to 20 years in prison on each count after allegedly exploiting dispensary partnership for personal gain

Boston’s sanctuary sheriff was arrested Friday on federal charges after allegedly leveraging his elected position to extort $50,000 from a cannabis executive who was seeking state approval to open a dispensary—a scheme FBI Director Kash Patel called a betrayal of public trust.

Suffolk County Sheriff Steven Tompkins, 67, who oversees more than 1,000 employees in the Boston-area, was handcuffed Friday morning in the Southern District of Florida after a federal grand jury indicted him on two counts of extortion under color of official right, according to a statement from the U.S. Attorney’s Office for the District of Massachusetts.

“When someone entrusted with enforcing the law is accused of breaking it for personal gain, it undermines the public’s trust in every honest officer who wears the badge,” Patel told Fox News Digital. “The FBI will pursue corruption at every level, because no one is above the law. The people of Suffolk County, and the country, deserve leaders who serve them, not themselves.”

Tompkins was appointed sheriff of the Suffolk County Sheriff’s Department (SCSD) in 2013, elected in a 2014 special election, and later re-elected to serve successive six-year terms. 

He made headlines in 2019 after booting Immigration and Customs Enforcement (ICE) agents out of the county jail, signing an eviction notice that required hundreds of illegal immigrant detainees to be moved out within 60 days, according to a report from the Boston Herald.

This grifting, grafting shitlick looks about like you’d probably expect he would. Exhibit A for the prosecution:

Gee whiz, color me shocked…NOT. Color him, y’know, colored. Or blaque, on the dark(ie) side, melanin-enhanced, whatevs. Below the fold, I’ll tuck some highly offensive song lyrics from USDA certified odd duck Johnny Rebel, from a CD resto of an early/mid-60s single. The CD, titled For Segregationists Only, was given me by one of my closest NYC friends—an outside the lines catch so far underground nobody would suspect a hipster Manhattanite to know about it, much less own a copy himself.

If blue-collar racist slurs make your skin crawl, your gorge rise, and your blood boil, you’ll definitely want to shine this one on and act as if it doesn’t exist—which, in practical terms, for you it doesn’t. Trust me, we’ll all be better off for it. For less sensitive scoundrels, scalawags, and scapegraces who are made of sterner stuff, y’all reprobates will probably find this as rib-tickling as I do.

Here t’is:

There ain’t much difference ‘tween a nigger and a donkey
‘Bout as much between an ape and a monkey
Ones a little bigger, but you gotta agree
There’s not very much more that you can see

But the mule earns his livin’ by the sweat of his neck
While the nigger sits down for the government check
The nigger should be smarter as a general rule
But in a smelling contest, I’ll take the mule

The above is the last of three verses total. Yes, the first stanza reproduced above is quite as funny as the second, although the first verse might well be the funniest of the lot.

Basically, what we have here is just some shopworn White Cracker jocularity re-imagined as song lyrics, given a bouncy, danceable beat and lines which rhyme in the rewrite. The end result of all this skull sweat was then set to some catchy, tuneful country/pop/rockabilly music, and HEY PRESTO! In the palm of your hand sits the whole megilla: an unlikely upward surge from bog-standard, stale nigger-bashing humor which falls on the ear with a dull thud to a truly inspired musical confection that in reality…

Awright, awright, awright already! Jeezus tapdancin’ Christ, quit flopping around on the floor like a fish, willya? I’ll just come right out and say the words you want to hear: it’s still offensive. Dress it nice and try to prettify the sentiment all you like; distort, deny, dissemble to your heart’s content. Doesn’t make a dime’s worth of difference. The cold, implacable fact remains that these lyrics will never NOT be offensive. Maybe 50, 70 years ago you could possibly have pulled it off.

Sorry, not anymore. Opinions, values, morals, and behavior have shifted so dramatically over the intervening decades that in all likelihood, novelty songs poking fun at jigaboos and their mostly amusing antics—pushing all the old familiar buttons in all the old familiar ways—will be considered offensive and well beyond the bounds of propriety; simple decency; human empathy and compassion for his fellows; and acceptable thought forever and ever.

I’d confidently bet next month’s rent money that the vast majority of Normal Americans will take this way past simply thinking Coontown Comedy offensive. Oh no; they’ll race straight off to the not-inescapable conclusion that no decent, respectable person could possibly NOT think it offensive—that, when you come right down to brass tacks, not being offended by races/ethnic/other jokes is in fact proof positive that this person is and of right out to be shunned by society entire for obvious racism, for being an irredeemable bigot and a disgusting Dark Ages throwback whose misanthropic hatred presents an too-credible threat to the health, safety, even the very lives of his self-proclaimed Betters.

If it helps any, we can cut this down to a more manageable size with an easy-to-grasp parable: putting lipstick on a pig is a waste of time, effort, and pricey cosmetics. Lipstick isn’t gonna make some smelly oinker more attractive, appealing, or better company for dinner in a five-star restaurant. Ultimately, the pig is still just a pig, lipstick notwithstanding. This pointless squandering of resources, energy, and makeup calls to mind another first-order aphorism: Don’t ever try to teach a pig to sing; it wastes your time, and annoys the pig.

Different words expressing the same idea, itself a glorious testimony to the marvelous adaptability of what well-educated, eloquent types used to call the Mother Tongue. Have neither heard nor seen that dual-word combo being put to good use in a long while, I can only assume this useful if not particularly glamorous or imposing term had come to be unfashionable at some point, eventually lapsing into near-total disuse owing to an ever-swelling stigmata indicative of disfavor, disgrace, and the concomitant reek of impending ruin. Ah well, being injudiciously expelled from the lexicon by All The Right People, Dahling© only makes me like the term more than ever, thereby blasting my determination to use it often right out of Earth’s gravity-well and halfway to Mars.

Yet more apt in this particular case would be my Harley-shop colleague, mentor, and dear friend Goose’s rough-hewn truism: you can’t polish a turd. None but a seriously off-plumb goofball would think of attempting to polish this turd, that’s for sure.

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