Did anybody really think something intellectual would appear if you combine this:

With this:

To produce this?

My guess is not, but I’ll let y’all be the judge, jury, and executioner just for the sake of unbiased fairness.

New York Times:

In New York, so much of my life consists of walking in and through crowds. I am, I think, a good walker. I don’t dawdle, and even when walking at high speeds, I’m courteous — always willing to sway to one side, change speed in traffic or even take wide berths around large, lost, child-toting or otherwise compromised gaggles of pedestrians. There are many times in a day when a person is walking toward me and in my path. In these situations, we both generally make minor adjustments upon our approach. Sometimes, and especially with pedestrians who are black, as I am, there’s eye contact or even a nod. Almost always, we shift our bodyweight or otherwise detour to make the pass easier for the other. Walking courteously doesn’t take much, just soupçons of spatial awareness, foresight and empathy. In seven years of living and walking here, I’ve found that most people walk courteously — but that white women, at least when I’m in their path, do not.

Sometimes they’re buried in their phones. Other times, they’re in pairs and groups, and in conversation. But often, they’re looking ahead, through me, if not quite at me. When white women are in my path, they almost always continue straight, forcing me to one side without changing their course. This happens several times a day; and a couple of times a week, white women force me off the sidewalk completely. In these instances, when I’m standing in the street or in the dirt as a white woman strides past, broad-shouldered and blissful, I turn furious. I turn furious because in these instances I feel small. I always get out of the way, because I was taught at a young age not to bodycheck random people. But I also get out of the way because, as a black man, I’ve learned that bodychecking, bumping or even rubbing against a random white woman can be personally hazardous. So I acknowledge other pedestrians, and reroute. White men and all people of color do the same to me. They offer some form of acknowledgment that we are in each other’s path, that I am there at all. After these encounters, I’m always left with questions. Why only and specifically white women? Do they refuse to acknowledge me because they’ve been taught that they should fear black men, and that any acknowledgment of black men can invite danger? Do they refuse to acknowledge me because to alter their route would be to show their fear? Do they not see me? Can they not see me? I wonder, too, why I always get out of the way. Why haven’t I ever just walked headlong into a rude white woman? What lessons tug at me, force me off the sidewalk, tell me that my personal space is not necessarily mine? Because explicit in every white woman’s decision not to get out of my way is the expectation that I’ll get out of theirs. There have always been white women in my life, and I’ve counted them as friends and sisters, mothers and lovers. Whenever I ask white women I know why they don’t reroute for black men, they invariably express ignorance. Whenever that happens, another question always arises: Wait, am I crazy? But then I ask black men. Invariably, they know what I’m talking about. A couple of weeks ago, I asked an Asian friend if he had the same experience of white women not getting out of his way. He said no. For whatever reason, white women see him just fine. The people who don’t, he said, are white men.

Because I have a soft spot for the specific structure and detail of New York Times articles (their international pieces were at one point so complex that only Whites of above-average intelligence could read them), I feel as if we should somehow preserve the newspaper when the time comes – we’re just going to make it one of the signal print beacons of the Alt-Right.

In fact, I would like to make The Times so radically far-right that those from the old days still clinging to life will suffer with incurable nightmares whenever they think of the publication they once contributed to.

It would serve as just revenge for the drivel that now qualifies as news – I’m not even talking about the Trump-Russia hoax that’s dominated coverage for month upon month in the most shrill manner imaginable.

The Russia stuff, to be honest, is worse than the Rhubarb Lady in terms of pure shrillness.