How Did it Happen?

On Saturday night, my boys and I were watching the Mets defeat the Minnesota Twins at Citifield in Queens. It was a typically patriotic event that opened with “The Star-Spangled Banner” and included the Veteran of the Game moment where a player presents a war vet with an American flag and we all stand at attention. My eldest got on the Jumbotron with a Mr. Met costume he made and I was beaming with pride; then I got an alert on my phone saying there was an explosion in Chelsea ten miles away. We were concerned because there had been an explosion that morning in New Jersey right where the Marines do their annual run for charity. De Blasio was quick to quell our fears, however, with the promise that there was “no credible terror threat against NYC.” We watched the game go into overtime and I carried the kids to bed from the car late that night.

The next day, we learned there were actually two bombs in Manhattan that night. One didn’t go off because thieves accidentally disarmed it while trying to steal the suitcase it was in (not quite as heroic as Glasgow’s “set about ye”). The news also reluctantly conceded that while New York was reeling from the blast, a Somalian Muslim in Minnesota stabbed nine people in the name of Allah. Later Sunday night, another bomb went off in Jersey. This time, it was the Elizabeth train station. That’s five major attacks in one weekend, but thank God (our God) nobody was killed.

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Now, obviously, we’re angry at the Muslims responsible. Dahir Adan was the Somalian who did the stabbings in Minnesota, while Afghan Ahmad Khan Rahami appears to be responsible for the ten bombs surrounding NYC. They were both immigrants who became even more radical after moving here, and their shitty culture is what drove them to attack ours. I’ve hated their kind since 9/11, but I have a new enemy: us. We keep inviting this terror by pretending it’s not there. While we were at the game, infantile ethnomasochists in London were holding a parade to welcome refugees. They danced to babysitter music, chanting “I really, really, really like you” while hideously twerking sideways and pointing to a crowd of refugees holding the Syrian flag. To call the footage of this cringefest the gayest thing imaginable is an insult to gays everywhere. It is miles below faggoty. It is willfully naive virtue-signaling that haplessly gyrates through the victims of Britain’s numerous child prostitution rings, honor killings, genital mutilation, and Sharia horror. Despite this, London elected a Muslim mayor with ties to radicalism and David Cameron committed to 20,000 more refugees (a number the castrated dancers claim is way too low). Let’s reserve some of our hatred for the Westerners who enable Middle Eastern violence.

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