James W. Meng
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Please Accept My Apologies For Niggers In The Gay Van
I rarely apologize. The issue is simply just that I rarely, if ever, actually do anything that merits an apology. The few times that it's happened over, I don't know, the last decade or so have involved a rather astronomical amount of alcohol, and I always, always specifically make a point to whomever is serving it to me that they have to be conscious of the things I might say if they get me that drunk. One particular such moment that remains vividly etched on my mind forever involves a rather dark, dull, and swarthy Armenian guy I knew in business school, and this was maybe early 2011 or so, who today lives in London on quite a lot of, well, essentially welfare money from the American CIA with his Ukrainian wife and children. He wanted me to drink vodka with him, and I was like, dude, look, I don't mean to be rude but I'm already drinking wine, and if you want me to drink vodka with you, I want to be absolutely clear that I accept no liability for anything that might come out of my mouth, I mean, here I am, visiting a N!gger Nude Beach only because someone insisted, and now everyone expects me to mix booze and be positive about the whole thing and fraternize with the local fauna, and look, I'm just not a pro-Western welfare case from a post-Soviet shithole. Real economy here. No crackpipe. Noooooo crackpipe.
anyway, the West has since moved on, and is now on the crablockpipe
Many people, particularly those readers of mine who are non-native speakers of English, are not aware of the many uses of the preposition "in". So, before we proceed, I want to briefly discuss what it means to be "in" something, in the context I reference. Specifically, the context is that of an investment, and something in which one maintains an active holdings position. I'm in oil. I.e., I know what plastics and rubbers are and how and where and why they're used, and that gasoline is just a relatively inconsequential byproduct of the refining process. If you're Russian and relatively literate in chemistry and you're high right now it probably seems like your country is almost getting half its income from selling compressed air. That's why the West now needs the crablockpipe.
Another thing that some of my readers may have gathered by now, is that while I absolutely adore the "N-word", and in so many different literary ways, I never, ever use it about Black people. Isn't that weird? Everyone always says that's weird. But I want to tell you, dear readers, the same thing I always say about Black people: Black people do not deserve to be abused with this horrible pejorative word. Black people are from a normal line of human evolution that largely does not diverge from that of any other mammal. Africans who are slow and stupid and criminal are killed, early and often. Not just by other Africans, but by other animal species. White-skinned people, however, and particularly white-skinned people in North America, are from an overwhelmingly adverse-selected line of human evolution. White-skinned agripeasants with demonstrably, hereditarily inferior brains and bodies have out-populated better variants of their race to an unmanageable degree since the 19th century, despite several significant attempts by monarchs to cull adverse-selected populations over the same period. It's not that there are no better humans (and other animals) around to kill them off - there definitely are - it's that their legal system enforces worthless adverse-selected behavior at all times, through decision-making that is based on social proof and popular consensus instead of concrete assessment of human behaviors in comparison to laws in force. They're a protected class.
So - what's a Nigger? What's a Gay Van? What does it mean, to be a Nigger in the Gay Van?
This is a serious moment for me, actually, to write about this. Anyone worth anything has probably been asked, extorted and harangued, even, to help and mentor someone incredibly dull and stupid over the years. And so it goes in my own life. That's how the peasants do it to you: they give you a dumb, worthless piece of trash, demand that your personal success depend partially on your ability to get things for them - to build a comfy, prestigious life for a worthless and totally unqualified imbecile - and then they take everything you have and give it to the idiot and maybe even kill you. Eventually.
Want a good example? Vladimir Putin is the single best one I know of.
But first I want to introduce my Gay Van: a 1999 BMW 528iA that I discovered, parked, at my uncle's garage in Huntington, Long Island, New York after briefly returning from political asylum in Canada in 2020. It was just sitting there, taking up space that could have been used for real business; a client had dumped it several years prior upon being told it needed a new transmission. Why? Because the NSA, who had telematics access to the car, said it needed a new transmission. They simply would not allow the car to run with its current transmission. Remember, get enough people to repeat something false and fraudulent enough times to the point that the peasants all repeat it, and if your opinion differs, one of them may come and kill you after awhile depending on how loud you are about it. Do you have clear, complex thoughts usually? You're not exactly popular, are you. So let me explain what you usually do with a Gay Van: you fold the back seats down. Then it'll run. Make it a two-passenger vehicle and the Nigger Shithole Agency will let you drive your car again. Better hope the original owner bought the ski package that lets you do that.
So now you ask why, and here it is: the Gay Van was a fraud from beginning to end. A German brand said, hey, let's put together some steel that rots around even a little bit of beach salt together in the shape of one of our best designs for the stupid Niggers that want to buy the Deutsche Mark for nothing. Give 'em an American hick truck transmission in it just so they understand how badly they shift gears if they want to get paid for that garbage engineering talent of theirs. And I drove the Gay Van, as I liked to call it, for about a week, after rebuilding the lower end of the General Motors automatic transmission in it by myself, with the car on jack stands, during a typical 37 degree (celsius) New York summer. That's right, I actually did it, I know how - but then the Gay Van's inherent tendencies that the Germans put in, ironically, to feed the white trash peasants kicked in - and the car was disabled via telematics. I couldn't fold the back seats down. The original owner didn't ski. And you don't ever buy a used automatic BMW from somebody who doesn't ski.
Rather than just discussing this as a self-fulfilling prophecy sort of situation in a generic sense, I want to actually explain the whole bit now about Niggers and Gay Van in a concrete sense. It gets too ridiculous, otherwise, to try to build an endless number of easily-repeatable, comparative tropes along the lines of stuff that white trash peasants need and love in their lives, the brain fodder they need to understand in order to deal with the world around them. The whole thing is really just about my stupid kid brother, Miles Gavin Meng. Nevertheless, in the interests of accessibility, I want your worthless peasant brain to have all the comparative tropes it needs to understand him and others like him. So you get your Niggers, and you get your Gay Van. There you go. You're now ready for Chapter II.
II. Up The Shithole With Niggers In The Gay Van
Once you – oh glorious mentor, you – have a Nigger, or perhaps a Gay Van, as the case may be, now happily situated and comfortable in the dreamland that he or she was never actually worthy of, you may feel inclined to take it easy. Don't you dare. Step back even one inch from your new life as a Nigger-Builder and Niggers of all stripes will descend upon you. No one new will be approached for assistance; they want you. It's now your responsibility to help the new Niggers in your life to build a massive pyramid scheme out of each other.
Just imagine: a pyramid of useless, effectively illiterate screaming babies all worried that you aren't helping them enough; you aren't anticipating their needs enough; you aren't spending enough time thinking about how to build the next step in their careers for them. All, of course, not performing well, not willing to be at all aware of how little they're worth, transforming your organization into a failed democracy of clueless, worried have-nots with each passing day.
But you still don't understand what's coming next. You, after all, aren't very insightful about people. You can't even fathom how great things will be once the entire place is a Nigger-Pyramid. That's why you can't make decisions, after all. Fortunately, you're really good at selecting and mentoring people. They'll all say that, you see, because they got together as a NiggerNet within their Nigger-Pyramid, and they voted on it and they arrived at a positive Nigger-Consensus immediately. And you're so very lucky to have such a great, big Nigger-Star on your hands. It's really to your credit.
It doesn't stop there, either. It never does. You can't just make a Nigger-Pyramid out of people the way stupid Mitt Romney says you do. “Corporations are people.” Stupid, Mitt, stupid. They're so much more than that, Mitt. You need an edifice for the Nigger-Pyramid to build around itself: some sort of meaningless “digital transition”, perhaps involving migration to a new software package with a slicker user interface; then, maybe, an irrelevant group patent or two, just so the Nigger-Pyramid can distinguish itself with a Nigger-Equality programme for intellectual property that isn't worth anything to anyone anyway; and finally – the capstone: promotions. Weren't the Niggers all excellent? Yes, dear Mittens, they were, of course. And now, having thus built the Nigger-Edifice around the NiggerNet Nigger-Pyramid, making no one any money in the process, the other many Niggers you excluded in the course of living your own life will come for you as manic-depressive jealousy overcomes their little brains.
You didn't help them enough, they said. And in the Nigger-Law, the penalty for that is death.
Now it's time to Up The Shithole. Once you have a NiggerNet Nigger-Pyramid, with a Nigger-Edifice firmly around it, and the Niggers you excluded have killed you, it's got to be worth more money. Not less. Stupid Mitt. It's never worth less, Mitt, because now it's covert government buyout time. Fuck you, Mitt.
I lost focus somewhat with Chapter II. It was just too absurd to try to continue any longer than I did in any sort of literarily-worthwhile style on the topic. I had no motivation for it at all, in fact, not even alcohol was able to push it through for me. Instead I wrote it laughing through an hangover, after an evening of drinking four bottles of Duvel 666 alone in my apartment.
I have to write a personal story about this, though, because the reality is that it's about my idiot brother, about whom it was clear to me from a pretty young age that the inner drive to complain from a useless Nigger-brained male like him was very strong. In “Poo Tan's Kool Gay Bar” I discuss the normative behaviors of these adverse-selected Y chromosome males, but what always strikes me profoundly is how early those traits start to appear in child development. This is why my brother Gay Van is so endlessly amusing for me now. The first “incident” of absurd Nigger-Equality demands from him must have been when I was about six years old, and he around three. I had just outgrown a booster seat for the car and no longer needed to use it to safely ride in our mother's Volvo. Nevertheless, she asked me if I still wanted to sit in the booster seat or not: “What do you think, car seat or no car seat?” to which I enthusiastically replied, “No car seat!” Well, immediately the Gay Van ERUPTS IN RAGE from his car seat in the back, angrily spewing out “YES CAR SEAT!” and begins screaming and crying – truly “throwing his toys out the pram” if you happen to know that British expression – as I climb into the front seat, and then abjectly refusing to even let up for easily the next 20-30 minutes or so. It was the first time in my life that I recall the sort of unease I now always immediately feel at that kind of outburst.
But fairness always continued to be a big deal for the Gay Van. Didn't matter if the reason for the incident was just that I was three years older than him and commensurately larger; he'd just reliably always pitch a goddamned fit. You could set your watch by it. And as he got older, it just got worse. He'd do things like race over to the computer the second I even looked at it just so I couldn't use it, and would purposely monopolize it for hours on end and for no other reason than to prevent me from using it. As I got even older, and started buying my own things with my own money from doing chores and selling eggs from the chickens I was raising on our property by myself, Nigger-Equality became increasingly difficult for Gay Van to maintain. I had an actual cash-flow-positive microbusiness poultry farm at 8-9 years old and this “enormous” amount of money I would get every Sunday upon having sold all my cartons of eggs to people in the neighborhood nearby was, to him, not being spent on chicken feed or more chickens. Those things just materialized out of thin air. As for the money – I was merely hoarding it from him.
Eventually, someone killed all of my chickens over it, the sale of their eggs having brought me a tidy profit to a point that Gay Van's Nigger-Rage would boil over into the Nigger-Verse; and other Nigger-Men would feel his outrage over his lack of money for nothing and chicks for free (get it?) so viscerally through the ether that they abducted all of my chickens one by one in the middle of the night, gutted each one entirely, and left their entrails on the ground, taking the carcasses with them. I was very sad about that. I had great chickens – three Rhode Island Reds, an Ameraucana, and a Bantam hen.
But, life went on and in a few more years my mother remarried and the Gay Van and I changed schools, fortunately for me, the amount of coddling in our new private prep school being sufficient enough to provide total Nigger-Equality for Gay Van at all times that I was mostly left alone by the local community of Nigger-Net people. Provisions for Nigger-Equality, as I recall, increased greatly for Gay Van over the next few years as we grew into adolescence. At 14 at my mother's behest I went off to a public-funded (free) arts high school to study music, playing the viola, and shortly thereafter started another business restoring and dealing in antique violins. This, among other things, got me into a nice late-model Mercedes C-class coupe at 17, something with which there could be no Nigger-Equality programme for Gay Van once again, and so during my senior year of high school the Nigger-Net people began poisoning me with dioxin-based compounds when we went out to restaurants and through other food products that we frequently bought at home also. Gay Van, meanwhile, went off to another private prep school for high school after it became clear after just a few months in the International Baccalaureate programme at a public-funded high school that he was not, in fact, smart enough to be able to actually finish the International Baccalaureate programme.
Much the same thing happened throughout our university years. I graduated summa cum laude from the University of Florida with two bachelor's degrees on a full bursary; the Gay Van spent a year at Florida on the paid plan, nearly flunked out in economics courses immediately after ignoring good advice from virtually every credible person in his life to go into education and then used me to get into a marketing degree at Georgetown University through my uncle Charlie, who had been the university's Vice President once upon a time. I connected him with Charlie and Charlie wrote a letter to the current President in support of the Gay Van and I wrote the Gay Van's admissions essays and boom, sophomore year all the way through his eventual on-time graduation was at Georgetown. My mother still pays his student loan bills herself every month.
Gay Van's Nigger-brained Nigger-Rage and entitlement merely grew, exponentially, from there. Over the years, Gay Van continued to, among other things, build a solid and exceedingly reliable reputation as a marijuana consumer, steal from me (bits and bobs like tuxedo accoutrements and interesting or rare books were the most common items) and assault me under monumentally inappropriate circumstances, e.g., my master's degree graduation party, or even on quiet evenings at home, where Gay Van once emptied an entire clip from a CO2-fired pistol in the direction of my dog and I while drunk and high, missing us both but basically destroying the window blinds behind us. Remember, the Nigger-Men sentence you to death if you don't help them enough. When Gay Van couldn't get a job with his Georgetown bachelor's degree, I helped him get a job at Sotheby's headquarters in New York, to which I had myself more or less been trafficked by Jewish criminal Andrew Likierman in 2012. Over the years, thanks to a bunch of nasty e-mails to people in that company's C-suite around performance review time, I even got him promoted several times, long after I'd quit. It's been amusing for me; last I heard, he was an AVP and had his name on a worthless patent as part of a Nigger-Equality programme intended to provide reciprocity to the Nigger-Net community at Sotheby's for my own, solo-inventor digitally-fabricated violin patent, filed in Russia after I left the company. Up The Shithole, yes indeed.
In that vein, Gay Van also inadvertently collaborated with corrupt police and FBI interests to have felony assault charges falsified against me for nearly three years by showing up from New York at my old house in Seattle at 4am in June 2016 and then, when I repeatedly dragged him out of the house by the neck when he refused to get into the Uber I ordered for him, he called the police and had me arrested, claiming that I had tried to murder him by strangulation. This narrative went on in court – he perjured himself in the process, although the USA's police and courts are such a joke that no one cared. It is pretty difficult to successfully argue in court that someone who has ordered you a car and put your suitcases outside for you when you were tresspassing wanted to strangle you to death in the street, which is what Gay Van told police, and so I was released immediately, but the FBI took the opportunity to leave the charges pending against me for nearly three years so that they could just arrest me illegitimately at any time if they wanted.
Instead of taking that risk, I fled to Russia. Aleksandr Bortnikov, director of the Russian FSB, actually got on a plane and visited Washington D.C. to try to resolve the issue directly with Trump and his band of idiots so I could go home and live a normal life. Very nice of him to have done that for me, but he actually knows someone who witnessed Gay Van assaulting me at my grad school graduation party and I assume it was an easy decision for him to make. But there was no resolution – the Seattle Police and the FBI wouldn't drop any of it until Trump was nearly out of office. So I just stayed in Russia, which believe it or not had quite a lot of serious diplomatic and legal consequences for the USA over the same period. And now you know who to blame for that: you're the Niggers, and you're in the Gay Van.
I haven't spoken to Gay Van since the day I kicked him out of our house in June 2016. Periodically, I send him expletive-laden original poetry via SMS. But I don't go any further than that; he's not worth a serious conversation at all. He's just trash. A lot of people made the mistake of caring about him over the years, but nothing good has ever come of the monumental amounts of effort we made on his behalf and it ain't gonna change now. So please, accept my apologies. And consider yourselves warned. (And hide the silver, too.)