The darkness drops again; but now I know That twenty centuries of stony sleep Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle, And what rough beast, its hour come round at last, Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born? - Some Dead Honky (18whatever)
I come as a bearer of bad tidings, for an old friend of mine. Okay, not a friend, but an acquaintance.
Okay, okay, not an acquaintance, but an associate.
Is “associopath” a word?
Trishton of Cornhole
One of the few upsides to living in Clown World is its entertainment factor. I’m a big fan of the horror-comedy genre, for instance, and 🤡🌎 will often deliver that sweet, sweet mash-up in spades. It’s not that I’m a fan of Clown World itself, exactly. The
You know how I feel about the guy. He was the swine cast before pearls, the roughness in the diamond. The undisputed anti-GOAT of Clowndom (complete with mindless bleating).
But it must be said. And by me, no less.
Jordon Trishton Walker has a contender on his hands.
I know. I can’t believe it either.
When he yeeted Jussie Smollett out the latrine door early last year, it seemed like his job of Offical Clownworld Mascot might prove secure for decades. But the trouble with clowns is they keep coming and coming, endlessly vomited forth from their TARDIS-like vehicles. The portal to the Clown Dimension has become a gaping wound in the fabric of reality, guaranteeing we’ll never run short on diverse comedy and inclusive horror (and in more or less equitable amounts).
But while most of these invading harlequins are of the lowest quality imaginable…
…every so often, that cosmic gash spews forth a champion. A Clown Prince of Crime.
Or, in this case, a YassSlayQween of Crime named Fani Taifa Willis.
Let’s start with the name.
As I’ve noted, a clownie mascot in good standing should answer to at least one misspelled version of a traditional name. Our girl passes this initial test with flying colors. Fannie (or Fanny, or Estefany) is reduced to a word which seems like it should be dotted with a smiley face or heart. To be fair, her folks might have pilfered the Urdu boy’s name that means “perishable.” Based on her morphology and probable diet, an expiration date may indeed loom large.
Of course, the more obvious connection is to genitals and glutes, and the ongoing Anglo-American dispute therein. In short: the Brits think she’s a cunt, the Yanks think she’s an ass.
Let’s call it a draw, shall we?
While her Christened name could potentially do the trick on its own, at least one other oddity or error would score bonus points. Lucky for us, one or both of Fani’s parents happened to be historically illiterate racists. “Taifa”, as you may or may not know, isn’t a name typically given to human beings but yet another borrowed Arabic term, which medieval Islamic conquerors used to describe their colonies in the West. It’s akin to middle-naming your kid “Theocratic Ethno-Rape Plantation.”
If you’re very young (or very foreign), you might be wondering: How in the hell was such a pair of weirdass pseudo-Islamic names ever issued to a faithful Methodist and Southern Belle(nd) like our dear, sweet Fani?
See, back in the 60’s and 70’s, a whole bunch of Pan-Africanist shit went down, bewildering multiple generations of black parents and maternity ward nurses as one consequence. Essentially, Muhammed Ali and Malcom X cast a magic spell that convinced a sizable fraction of black Americans that they were descended from Muslims in Arabia.
Yes: those same Muslims who ruthlessly enslaved, maimed, tortured and slaughtered their ancestors for more than thirteen centuries on the African continent. What can I say? It was a weird time, dude.
What about “Willis”?
Too vanilla, you claim?
First, let me remind you that “Walker” was no less quotidian and banal (i.e. “white”, according to Clownworld’s Thesaurus). As weird as black naming conventions got, it was probably still beyond the pale — and perhaps the pocketbook — to start sprinkling random letters and other nonsense into surnames.
Second: I think this young gentleman would like to have a word:
Whatchoo talkin about, indeed.
But enough with the name games.
Behold her Hot-Pink Mountain Majesty, as she thunders to the witness stand on thunderous thighs. Tremble, perishable mortals! Like the floorboards that tremble beneath her voluminous and weirdly lumpy derriere.
Normally, I wouldn’t be caught dead watching five minutes of this civilizational gardyloo. But my life hasn’t been too normal, as of late. I’ve found myself repeatedly trapped in situations like hospital rooms and domestic Skinner boxes, where I have no control over what transpires on the screen. So, I wound up listening to this cretin speak for over an hour.
The first five minutes would have been enough.
Like Jordon and Jussie, Fani simply oozes entitlement from every pore. In fact, forget everything I mentioned about this Hip-Hop-Hippo’s gelatinous physique. Her sanctimonious self-regard is her most unattractive feature by a mile. For all I know, she might actually look like a prime Tyra Banks, and what I see is the result of some kind of cockamamie, smugness-based anti-glamor. She might already have Jordon beat on this count. While watching him enter Panic Mode was hysterically loathsome, there’s nothing funnier or uglier than some vapid egomaniac who thinks she’s been rightfully put in charge of something important.
But the details are even more instructive. Note how this smirking, smoothbrained ogress deploys the word “substantive” over and over again — sometimes twice in the same halting, barely coherent sentence. It’s like she practiced chanting this magic word in the mirror all morning, perhaps while gluing those six-inch caterpillars to her eyelids.
Meanwhile, the word that kept echoing in my own head was “substantial.”
Substantial, like her planet sized dumper that looks like it got hit by a meteor shower. Substantial, like her five-star dinners on the public dime. If it sounds like I’m too focused on her looks, it’s only because the looks write the books in her case. Her sagging, bloated, dented form strikes me as the visual apotheosis of those who pretend to rule us from afar. She looks every bit as arrogant and lazy as the nationwide lawfare movement her prosecution exemplifies. Jussie and Jordon certainly had their bases covered when it came to Lust and Envy, but Fani could teach them a thing or two about Greed, Gluttony and Sloth.
She could also teach them a thing or two about catchin’ dick. Turns out you just gotta pay for it, you dumb fanooks! Preferably with taxpayer money. And — pay attention, Jussie — remember to pay in cash, whenever possible. Don’t go writing checks to co-conspirators in your latest wacky schemes. Cash is king, baby! Just ask the Fulton County District Attorney.
Speaking of wacky schemes, it seems possible — even likely — that DA Willis accidentally confessed to a bunch of crimes under oath. At the very least she blew the doors open for an avalanche of potential criminal investigations, bribery and tax fraud probably chief among them. Of course, that would presume the IRS and Justice Department aren’t ethically blinder than Stevie Wonder in a snowstorm at midnight, but whatever.
The point is this person of substance, this veteran agent of The Law, described to the entire world a lifestyle whereupon she used cash to pay for… well, just about everything, really. Like any common gangbanger, bank robber or politician, she claimed to be absolutely swimming in the green stuff, just stumbling across random piles of it in her house. She even claimed she didn’t remember the provenance of many funds. Maybe some of it was leftover “from my first campaign,” she playfully theorized.
Yes, she said that. On the stand, in open court. Televised across the known universe.
Eat your heart out, Jordon.
She also said the following, when asked how she calculated the cash to pay her po-faced, two-timing gigolo Nathan Wade:
“He tells me how much it is and I gives him da money back… I don’t do my friends like dat. So if you tell me it’s a G, then you gon’ get a thousan’ dollahs.”
No, really. I mean it.
Dat’s whut dis bitch sayed. Jus’ like dat.
The same bitch who be attemptin’ to jail a former (and likely future) president, whose instrumental backers would gladly burn the Constitution — and perhaps the entire free world — to make that happen. When describing her high-rolling, cash-business, receipt-free lifestyle, this person, on whom so many evil hopes rested, decided the best approach was to speak in the gutter patois of urban America. She might as well have been some welfare princess, mouthing off to Judge Judy about all the “pain an’ suffrayin” she’s clearly owed.
As I listened, I remember thinking to myself:
Shit, man. Even John Gotti tried to “act white” for the cameras, on occasion.
Whut da hell dis crazy bitch think she doon?
The answer, as always, can be found in the cyclothymic physics of the Clown Dimension. She does it because it’s the inverse of expectation, the opposite of propriety. Theatrics are ethics there, and frivolity is gravity. She mirrors these upside-down maths, incarnates and broadcasts them. She shows us that anyone could be a clown, anyone could misinterpret RICO as meaning, “Fuck you! I do what I want!”
She does it for the fans, in other words.
Is she stupid? Phenomenally so. Like her predecessors, stupidity is an ironclad prerequisite. But ponder this next statement carefully, all you faithful Jussinnians and Jordonites. Tell me whether you could ever imagine something similar pouring from their oddly well-lubricated throats
(clipped from
’s latest).When asked by a Defendant’s lawyer how many continents she’d traveled to, Fani struggled to comprehend what a continent is. I am not making that up. She said:
“Where's Belize? What continent? I'm not being funny. I don't know. I been to Belize with him. I been to the Bahamas with him. I been to Aruba with him. Don't embarrass me. I'm not sure what continents those are on.”
Look.
I love Jordon. You love Jordon. But let’s get real.
This chick is fucking formidable.
All that said, I realize Ms. Willis’s CV is lacking in certain departments. Team Clown mascot is a demanding job, open to attacks from all angles. Suitable candidates typically have a broad assortment of acronyms, pronouns and boutique sexual categories to fall back on, when the going gets tough. These serve as a kind of tactical body armor; a taut, silicon carbide webbing of -isms and -phobias. The more intersectional threads, the merrier.
For example, our last viable female contender, Rachel Dolezal Nkechi Amare Diallo, recently identified as bisexual — meaning that at least two sexes can now explore their self-hatred fetish in her Blackface Boudoir. I have yet to confirm this by checking out Ms. Dolezal’s Diallo’s OnlyFans site, because I have yet to completely lose my mind. But the year is young.
By contrast, Willis is just a woman1.
A horribly evil, stupid and ghastly woman, maybe — a Fat Lady singing at the End of the World. But that’s all she is, as far as I can tell. She’s not smuggling any trouser snakes in those XXXL panties, and her sexual appetites seem limited to dudes with the R.B.F. of a photo-negative Emmett Kelly.
She’s also technically an elected politician; a category which is usually disqualifying. Yes, she is a small fish in a small pond, a person whose name you’ve never heard before (and will likely soon forget). A true Clownie mascot doesn’t play on the field, however. The whole point is play to the stands, to the crowd alone. In this aspect, our candidate seems to have fundamentally removed herself from that fetid hiring pool.
But consider this:
Fani “Black Power Plantation” Willis has sass.
Not just any sass, mind you.
I’m talkin’ Black Girl Magic Sass. Backstage Oprah Sass. The Sistahs-Is-Doin-It-For-They-Selves kind of sass.
It’s a weapon Jussie could only dream of wielding, a tactic no amount of Jordon’s shrieking and squeaking could possibly evoke. Her confidence is obviously phony, of course; a paper sword flapping in high wind. And yet, this D-plus brain with an A-minus salary soldiers on, flailing away at interlocutors with those overly animated eyebrows and pursed, hissing lips.
And that doesn’t even mark her highest qualification.
What may put her over the top, the ultimate trump card in her hand, is… well…
You know who…
Ah, the righteous spectacle of it all!
Even Jussie’s “MAGA country” rebrand of downtown Chicago can’t compete with Fulton County’s kangaroo court, the designs of which threaten to bulldoze whatever’s left of our constitutional republic.
Think about it. It’s genius.
How perfectly Clownish a result would it be, if this incompetent, lying, thieving, bloated combo of whore, pimp and john was the one to light the fuse on a second American civil war? Our future history books would be funnier than an old Eddie Murphy routine, before he sold his soul to a cartoon rat.
Oh, Eddie.
How utterly regressive of you. Didn’t you get the memo?
Not only can women have J-O-Bs of their own, but they even pay for OUR services, now, muhuhahahah. The shoe is on the other foot, my nigga! These high-powered bitches will rent dick by the inch-or-mile, because that’s what empowered women do these days. Especially when you look like Fani Willis. When you’re not substantive, but substantial.
As for the servicemen themselves:
Hate the game, not the player.
(Just kidding. You can hate this motherfucker too)
Again, that’s not to say Willis is without her weaknesses. The publicity itself is probably the biggest at the moment. Jordon’s greatest superpower is his invisibility, involuntary though it was. Even his brief moment in the spotlight was barely covered by the cabal news. When the storm passed he slithered off into the forever shadows, like some Grindr-swiping, pole-smoking Keyser Söze. No matter what he chooses to call himself in exile these days, “Jordon Who?” is his proper name. By contrast, Fani’s name is on every pair of lips.
My answer to this?
Give it time.
No matter how this ludicrous trial commences (if it does at all), my guess is we’re watching the Swan Song of Ms. Willis, as far as the media’s fickle attention goes.
As far as your attention goes too, dear reader. I predict that 2024 will be a very, very long year. Chances are, the name won’t ring a bell in a few months time. July at the latest, God willing.
But I shall remember you, my darling Hip-Hopopotamus. I shall be the tender of the unholy ledger, the keeper of the retarded flame.
Welcome to the Clownworld clubhouse, Fani “My Parents Hate Honkies” Willis.
Just don’t get too comfortable.
Confwoosus Say:
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Whatever in God’s name that is.
Sheer madness. The perfect emblem of the age, a profoundly corrupt, fabulously self-righteous, morally, ethically and spiritually void female black power boss bitch. Feminism and postmodern critical theory made a love child cum demon. Breathless...
She also has that dress on backwards. That takes talent....of a sort.