George Floyd's Banana was Rotten

About a week ago I published Thomas Manwise’s article on Alexander Dugin’s real plans. It’s satire, and I quite enjoyed it.

My story begins with me scrolling through my feed on Gab, which you can find @Thuletide, and I suggest you look it up. I had been in a bad mood for a couple days because the New World Order agents who monitor my every move through advanced surveillance had been telling all the women on Tinder to swipe left on my profile. The only thing that was comforting me at the moment was my Gab profile pic, which is set to a fanart of my waifu Megumin smiling at me.

“Megumin-chan,” I said, touching the screen as tears rolled down my face. “Why can’t I find a girl like you? I want to suckle on your feet so bad.”

Now you may be wondering why I am so opposed to Dugin’s theories on Eurasianism and witchcraft when my profile pic on Gab is of a loli witch waifu from a Japanese cartoon, but you see that’s because Megumin-chan is from an anime called Kono Subarashii Sekai ni Shukufuku Wo! which is set in a medieval setting, making it an expression of implicit White identity, and I will hunt you down and slay you with my Aryan katana if you don’t agree with me.

It’s pretty great, albeit very long. You can find the robot voice video he made of the whole thing here.

I do have to say, for some reason I loved this one line.

Because of the plumpness of my body, I can’t run and have to fast walk instead.

“plumpness of my body.”

What does this have to do with George Floyd? Well, he also runs, or at least contributes to the George Floyd Creepypasta telegram account, and I need to explain where I stole all the George Floyd memes you’re going to see in the next few days.

For now we’re focused on this… thing that the Washington Post has dedicated to George Floyd.

It’s one of those things where the background stays the same, as the text scrolls.

So we find out that he met up with his friend and walked into a corner store.

No really, that’s it. This is the entire text.

On Memorial Day 2020, Floyd left this house in Minneapolis to buy grilling supplies.

He met up with his friend.

Then they walked into a corner store.

There’s nothing else. He left his house, met a friend, and walked into a corner store. I’m barely even summarizing, that’s literally all that they wrote. And this is the prefix to an article that is almost seven thousand words long.

It’s like the two Basketball-Americans who wrote this piece thought they were being poignant and poetic. Which they almost would have been if they added something like “thirty minutes later, he was dead.” Except they never wrote that. They just described some random things that happened instead.

Washington Post:

It’s Memorial Day. Y’all wanna grill?”

George Perry Floyd Jr. wasn’t particularly skilled at flipping burgers, but he was glad when his friend Sylvia Jackson suggested the diversion. The coronavirus pandemic had left him jobless and listless, a shadow of the gregarious man his friends and family once knew. He had been trying to avoid spending more time in the darkness, feeding the addiction he could not seem to escape.

Okay, who wrote this?

Apparently Toluse Olorunnipa, above, and Robert Samuels, below. In case you think I intentionally made these guys look like dorks, these are their Washington Post profile pics.

Imagine being the catlady jew who has to edit what these two retards put together. If you think it’s bad now, imagine how terrible it was before they got their hands on it.

Well I’m going to go ahead and re-write this opening paragraph, to show you how it’s done.

The Covid-19 pandemic had left George Floyd unemployed and in a dark place, retreating into an old drug habit. So he was glad when his friend Sylvia Jackson suggested a memorial day cookout with him.

This took me about two minutes and it’s no longer offensively bad.

One of the things that was never taught to me in English class is that the material is far more important than the writing. If two characters are sitting down not doing anything, you could be the best writer in the World and it’s going to be boring. On the other hand, if they’re in the middle of a heist that’s slowly going wrong, we’ve got something to work with.

How interesting the subject matter is determines how many words you spend on it. Or at least it should. You can also do what these two Unsportsmanlike-American’s did and just shove a bunch of highfalutin language in there to extend a story that should be a couple paragraphs into a Beowulf length epic.

One of these makes for quality writing, the other does not. I don’t feel like subjecting myself to seven thousand words of this, so I’m just going to steal from Manwise and jump around to the best bits.

Floyd made his way through the aisles, passing display shelves that offered Oreo cookies and Little Debbie snacks. He then grabbed a half-rotten banana and said something to a teenage cashier, before bending over in a fit of laughter. The cashier, whose father was one of the store’s owners, looked puzzled but shrugged it off and pointed his finger with a get-a-load-of-this-guy smirk.

Get-a-load-of-this-dusted-up-nigger. Ain’t he and his rotten banana wacky? And I’m not making an STD joke, although knowing what Mr. Floyd was up to all bets are off.

It’s crucially important for the audience to know that the banana George Floyd was dancing with was half rotten. Not all the way rotten. No, if the banana was full rotten then none of this would have happened. Adding in crucial details like these are what separate the good writers from the great. Fantastic world building.

“He let me cry, let me snap,” Hill recalled. “He was there for me.” But their reunion was brief. Despite their chemistry, Floyd did not seek Hill’s emotional support or talk about his own inner struggles. And so when Floyd needed comfort after he lost his truck-driving job because he fell asleep at the wheel, he called Ross with a familiar refrain, “Old Floyd’s done it again.” And Ross welcomed him back into her life — until they had a falling out over him hanging out with Maurice Hall so much. The next day was Memorial Day.

I thought it was Covid-19 that lead to his unemployment. But now we find out that he got fired because he fell asleep at the wheel.

No, no, don’t feel like you need to explain this discrepancy at all. There will be plot holes in all works of fiction.

CUP Foods, which stands for “Chicago Unbeatable Prices” –

No, it really doesn’t. CUP Foods doesn’t stand for anything. CUP stands for Chicago Unbeatable Prices. You moron.

– and was a play on the established chain of local grocery stores called Cub Foods, was the kind of everything depot that had become a staple in the community as it expanded its services over three decades. A wraparound awning above the entrance documented its diverse offerings in bold white lettering: Stamps, Keys, Phones & Accessories, Bus Cards, Organic Milk, T-shirts, Mexican Food, Halal Meat. The store buzzed from morning to evening with people coming in to buy snacks, grab a quick meal of wings or sandwiches, get checks cashed, send money via Western Union, pay bills. The city had largely restricted the sale of menthol cigarettes in 2017, but they were still available for purchase there — which neighbors contended could attract an unscrupulous crowd.

Sure seems that way.

But there was one peculiar hang-up about living with Floyd: He always needed to keep the bathroom door open when he was inside;

Did he do this in public as well?

he never told her that his claustrophobia stemmed from his time in prison.

Well did he tell you or did you just divine this from the ether? I’m reading this piece and nowhere is it established that Floyd was ever not-claustrophobic at some point, but then he was infected with this in prison. That’s just flat out not established.

This reads like a piece where the author has the great idea that it would be cool for some plot point to have the main character develop claustrophobia in prison somewhere in their backstory. But then they forget to establish this earlier, so it comes out of nowhere.

Hill’s bathroom was small and had a door that would sometimes jam if it wasn’t closed the right way. One time, Floyd accidentally locked himself inside. His breathing became heavy as he tried to break down the door from within. “That boy almost died in there,” Hill recalled. “He got real bad anxiety, claustrophobia. He was a big ol’ man crying like a little baby.”

Let me out! Let me out I’ve just left the nastiest chocolate mud baby in your toilet and it’s not flushing properly. Let me out nigga let me out! HEEEEEELLLLLLPPPPPP! *Bangs door repeatedly.* *is also on meth*.

This next part is a cutup of various parts of the article.

One night in Minneapolis around 2018, [drug dealer Maurice Hall] brought out a cup of green drank that harked back to their days using down south. Floyd, who had been trying to keep clean, sneaked a taste. And then another. Before they knew it, getting high became a part of their hangout plans. But living in the Midwest, where syrup was hard to come by, Hall said the two found themselves following a common path to chasing a similar high, one that led to synthetic opioids like fentanyl, which was disproportionately taking root in Minnesota’s Black community.

“We used to once drink syrup,” Hall said. “So once you used to drink syrup and you’re not getting syrup, you take a pill … and now — bam — you’re struggling with your addiction again. You do as the Romans do, so they do pills up here. They do a bunch of opiates and fentanyl and heroin.”

Hall also had to deliver drugs to buyers in different parts of the city, which was another reason he was happy to have Big Floyd around. Hall had become increasingly paranoid about driving himself to drug deals and thought Floyd could take the wheel. They made their way to another hotel 20 miles south, in Bloomington, where they ate sandwiches and drank Minute Maid Tropical Punch. Hall remembered Floyd smoking pot, snorting powdered fentanyl and taking Tylenol.

They ate Cheetos as Hall waited for some buyers to pick up drugs. After someone came to pick up pills, Hall wanted to show off how successful he had become. He pulled out $2,000 in cash, telling Floyd he had made that much money in a single night. The display was more than a simple flex; Hall thought he might have a solution to Floyd’s lingering malaise and hoped Floyd could use his connections in Houston to help boost Hall’s drug business. He said he believed he was offering Floyd a great opportunity. Floyd wasn’t working; Hall had a bustling clientele, ready to pay.

Maurice Hall, who these journalists contend was Floyd’s best friend, is scum who should be executed. That’s the level of person we’re dealing with here. And George Floyd never did drugs because he got prescribed them because of some greedy doctor getting paid off by Big Pharma corporations. No, he just felt like doing drugs, because he was a lowlife loser career criminal. And he helped this guy sell this poison to plenty of other people.

This website wasn’t around in 2020, but the Real George Floyd story is pretty simple and straightforward. He was a scumbag, and he killed himself by ingesting his own stash in an attempt to hide it from the cops. That’s it, that’s how long the George Floyd story should be. There’s nothing else to say.