Would somebody please explain to me exactly what the actual fucking fuck?!?

Another Culture-Enriching Success Story in France
If you follow the European cultural enrichment news closely (which I have been doing for almost twenty years), you’ll notice the frequency of stories about a bizarre and sickening custom practiced by third-world migrants, usually Muslims: the rape of octogenarians, or even nonagenarians. The victims are usually women, but not always: I remember at least one report (I think it was in Germany) of the nursing-home rape of a man in his nineties.

But, hey, it’s just cultural differences, you know? It’s no big deal; no reason for outrage.

Bold mine, because Tarzan on a big red scooter, dude.

We do not need them, we do not want them, our society is completely incompatible with their Stone Age belief system, yet Western governments go right on bringing them in to live among civilized people regardless.

I repeat: explain it to me, please. Assuming there even IS an explanation, beyond just sheer bloody-mindedness and nothing more.

(Via WRSA)

Update! Just had to share with y’all where that weird reference to Tarzan and big red scooters came from. It happens to be one of my all-time favorite lines from one of my all-time favorite Raymond Chandler novels, The Long Goodbye, an insult lobbed by gangster Mendy Menendez at all the world’s most beloved private dick, the formidable Philip Marlowe. A lengthier passage:

He looked me over unhurriedly. “Tarzan on a big red scooter,” he said.

“What?”

“You. Marlowe. Tarzan on a big red scooter. They rough you up much?”

“Here and there. What makes it your business?”

“After Allbright talked to Gregorius?”

“No. Not after that.”

He nodded shortly. “You got a crust asking Allbright to use ammunition on that slob.”

“I asked you what made it your business. Incidentally I don’t know Commissioner Allbright and I didn’t ask him to do anything. Why would he do anything for me?”

He stared at me morosely. He stood up slowly, graceful as a panther. He walked across the room and looked into my office. He jerked his head at me and went in. He was a guy who owned the place where he happened to be. I went in after him and shut the door. He stood by the desk looking around, amused.

“You’re small time,” he said. “Very small time.”

I went behind my desk and waited.

“How much you make in a month, Marlowe?”

I let it ride, and lit my pipe.

“Seven-fifty would be tops,” he said.

I dropped a burnt match into a tray and puffed tobacco smoke.

“You’re a piker, Marlowe. You’re a peanut grifter. You’re so little it takes a magnifying glass to see you.”

I didn’t say anything at all.

“You got cheap emotions. You’re cheap all over. You pal around with a guy, eat a few drinks, talk a few gags, slip him a little dough when he’s strapped, and you’re sold out to him. Just like some school kid that read Frank Merriwell. You got no guts, no brains, no connections, no savvy, so you throw out a phony attitude and expect people to cry over you. Tarzan on a big red scooter.” He smiled a small weary smile. “In my book you’re a nickel’s worth of nothing.”

He leaned across the desk and flicked me across the face back-handed, casually and contemptuously, not meaning to hurt me, and the small smile stayed on his face. Then when I didn’t even move for that he sat down slowly and leaned an elbow on the desk and cupped his brown chin in his brown hand. The bird-bright eyes stared at me without anything in them but brightness.

“Know who I am, cheapie?”

“Your name’s Menendez. The boys call you Mendy. You operate on the Strip.”

“Yeah? How did I get so big?’

“I wouldn’t know. You probably started out as a pimp in a Mexican whorehouse.”

He took a gold cigarette case out of his pocket and lit a brown cigarette with a gold lighter. He blew acrid smoke and nodded. He put the gold cigarette case on the desk and caressed it with his fingertips.

“I’m a big bad man, Marlowe. I make lots of dough. I got to make lots of dough to juice the guys I got to juice in order to make lots of dough to juice the guys I got to juice. I got a place in Bel-Air that cost ninety grand and I already spent more than that to fix it up. I got a lovely platinum-blond wife and two kids in private schools back east. My wife’s got a hundred and fifty grand in rocks and another seventy-five in furs and clothes. I got a butler, two maids, a cook, a chauffeur, not counting the monkey that walks behind me. Everywhere I go I’m a darling. The best of everything, the best food, the best drinks, the best hotel suites. I got a place in Florida and a seagoing yacht with a crew of five men. I got a Bentley, two Cadillacs, a Chrysler station wagon, and an MG for my boy. Couple of years my girl gets one too. What you got?”

“Not much,” I said. “This year I have a house to live in—all to myself.”

“No woman?”

“Just me. In addition to that I have what you see here and twelve hundred dollars in the bank and a few thousand in bonds. That answer your question?”

“What’s the most you ever made on a single job?”

“Eight-fifty.”

“Jesus, how cheap can a guy get?”

“Stop hamming and tell me what you want.”

Good, good stuff, that there is. Interested parties, whether experienced devotees or Chandler virgins, are encouraged to check out this free download of The Collected Raymond Chandler (yes, it does include The Long Goodbye, among other fantastic Chandler works), which is well worth your time and trouble, believe me.