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February 5, 2012

Tag: racist

January 11, 2012

Job-Friendly Updates to My Online Profiles by Sam Weiner

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Hi Friends!

I wanted to update everyone in my address book with my new contact information. From now on, I’ll be using this Gmail address instead of my old email, SexxPhreaker77@hotmail.com (“77” of course refers to my ninth favorite Talking Heads album-–I’m counting some live bootlegs in there, too).

As I reenter the job market, it’s important to have all of my online identities project a professional, ready-to-hire public face, which is why I’ve reverted my personalized Facebook URL to just a string of random characters instead of my prior URL, Facebook.com/MasterCOCK. Let’s face it: I’m getting older, and while MasterCOCK is still a treasured nickname and Gamertag, it’s not the first thing I want to come up when a potential employer Googles me. Which reminds me, my Google+ profile can now be found at /SLWEINER instead of /TaintBuster. It also has been deactivated due to non-use.

For those Second Lifers in my address book, you may be saddened to learn that my avatar, Molesto the Scrote’ With Wheels, has been reimagined as a slacks-wearing, ideal job candidate, but–FEAR NOT!-–my SL Marketplace shop will continue to sell the highest-quality virtual sex-bicycles in the Blacksilk district.

Also, my LiveJournal will remain public, but has been scrubbed of all posts tagged CAPITALISTS DROWN IN HELL and PENIS ROT.

You can still find me online, though. For instance, I have reopened my My_____ account. Changing their name to My and then those spaces got me really excited-–this is a great place to network. If you get a My_____ comment from SamLWeiner, don’t worry, it’s still the same old xxPussyNazi666xx as before, just with a snazzier, more employer-friendly profile name.

Some of you are receiving this email because you commented on my Tumblr, Fuck Yeah Ashley Greene Nip Slips. That site has been deactivated. It now hosts my résumé, so feel free to pass it along. My other Tumblr, What Does Cthulhu’s Penis Look Like?, remains active.

And a big apology to my Brazilian friends-–I have shuttered my orkut profile, Dr. Racist McN-Word.

I look forward to continued correspondence with all my friends, online and IRL, and if you know anyone who’s hiring, go ahead and forward them my attached vCard, just please be sure to mention that 69 Balls Avenue is not my current address.

Regards,
Sam

January 10, 2012

Dendrophila and Other Social Taboos: Eminem Sex Dreams Decoded by Dani Burlison

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In the thick of the 8 Mile era, he appears out of nowhere, rescuing me from a pretentious hipster bar. Lanky twenty-somethings sipping two dollar PBRs in their nicotine-soaked white belt adorned skinny jeans avoid eye contact while slouching over bar stools. The room is a thick dark cloud of off-putting pheromones and swollen egos. I grow increasingly restless. A friend excuses herself, stumbling outside with a shaggy-haired bass player and he approaches, politely asking to sit down.

“My name is…” he mumbles, while the indie rock band whines from the stage.

“I know your name,” I say, welcoming the attention. “Sit down.”

We discuss politics, genetic engineering and needle exchange programs. He invites me to a private screening of a factory farming documentary back at his San Francisco hotel room. Tugging at his baggy trousers, he leads me out of the bar.

Back at the hotel, his passionate rant about dismantling the racist prison industrial complex lures me, without hesitation, into the hotel bed, which is stacked with handmade quilts. “I made those myself,” he says.

Eminem is a closet quilter. I am so putting out.

He’s just aggressive enough to keep me pleased without hurting me in ways that I don’t want to be hurt. His hands are smooth and strong, save for the calluses where the mic is usually firmly grasped. But on this night, my night of an unbridled sexcapade, tangled up in Eminem’s hand-sewn rag quilts, the only thing in his hand is my body. Every single naughty bit of it.

As the sun rises, he serves the best organic orange juice ever and asks if I can stay another night. “I have season four of Sex and the City,” he says, brushing the hair from my eyes. “I love it when Samantha explores her sexuality with that amazing Brazilian artist, Maria. Love should see no boundaries. Let’s hold each other and watch it.”

He rubs my feet with Ayurvedic sesame oil, leading his hands to all sorts of glorious places on my ravaged body. He makes sweet tender love to me—with the expected intermittent Eminem-style stamina and welcomed throw down—over and over and over again. And again.

I leave the following morning to meet a friend for breakfast. As I dash nutmeg atop my steamed chai, I notice that he, Eminem, is standing in the corner of the cafe, smiling. “I miss you already,” he mouths from across the room.

I approach him. He hands over poetry and sketches of boats and hearts he’s scrawled across his napkins. “These are for you. I’ll never forget you.” He looks down, pulls up his drawers and walks away.

I know, Eminem. It feels so empty without me.

He shows up again, repeatedly, over the next ten years. He’s always a gentleman, always an animal—sometimes a kitten, sometimes a tiger—in the sack. We meet at airports, on road trips, at campgrounds, in waiting rooms at the veterinarian office. And once in the parking lot at Whole Foods where he carried so many bottles of so much fresh juice. Ten years of the best sex of my life. With Eminem. While I am asleep. Why not Leonard Cohen or Margaret Cho or Mark Wahlberg’s character in I Heart Huckabees? Eminem is so upset. And isn’t it wrong for a feminist to really, really enjoy sex dreams with some dude who, well, hates everyone, everywhere except his kids and Dr. Dre?

What does it all mean?

After shying away from asking my Certified Dream Analyst for insight, I did some research on my own. Here’s what some of the experts say:

Freud: If the dream had a ton of penis action already, then maybe Eminem has a pipe in his pants and I need that game piece to play Clue. But that’s a different type of pipe. Maybe I should still look in his pants. Also, the rooms where we always have sex symbolize wombs. I should probably ask my mom but maybe Eminem is my brother. If he is, Freud would still want me to have sex with him, I think.

Jung: It’s quite obvious that Slim Shady personifies the shadow archetype. Maybe that’s why I keep having sex with him in dark, shadowy places. Is he my animus? Do I want to have more sex with myself? Maybe Eminem’s shadow side is vegan and shops at Whole Foods. Maybe I just need a glass of fresh juice.

Laura Ingalls Wilder: I have a lot in common with Eminem. And if good friends are hard to find, maybe Eminem and I should enjoy life on a prairie somewhere. All of our kids would love it.

Radical activist view: Internalized sexism. I hate myself and my girly bits. Maybe I don’t care as much about the world as everyone thinks. Maybe deep down I hate women as much as he seems to. Shit. I need to take back the night and challenge oppression. In bed with Eminem. And then cancel my subscription to Ms.

My therapist: What do I think it means?

Power animal: Maybe Eminem is my power animal. I’m not sure what Eminem’s native elders think his power animal is, but since he was born in the Year of the Rat, I say it’s a rat. The rat is the first animal in Chinese astrology. Maybe Eminem is like an angry Adam and I am his sex-crazed Eve and together we can rule the world. Kind of like Wonder Twins. Or maybe it isn’t a rat but a rabbit. Rabbits indicate lots of sex, which leads me back to Freud, and me needing to have sex with Eminem, who might be my brother.

Runes (translated to Norwegian): I thought about my dreams and threw some stones. They read: Marshall elsker du og han ønsker å holde deg varm med hans rage. It’s cold in Norway.

Christian view: He needs to be saved. Maybe my life purpose is to smolder Marshall’s seething anger with a big, fierce, naked hug. Maybe I need to find God and if I do, maybe he’ll lead me to a San Francisco hotel room where I can drink juice. I’m really thirsty.

Annie Lennox: Sweet dreams are indeed, made of these. Maybe Eminem and I want to use and abuse each other. I think we can heal each other. It might be really good for us. Really.

Male friends: You need to stop dating crazy angry guys. You’re gonna end up in a trunk.

Female friends: You date wimps. You need to hit that shit. I bet he’s actually a really nice guy.

Yoda: If the dark side clouds everything then maybe Eminem’s dark public persona just casts a shadow over his sensitive, spiritual side. Maybe I should take him to yoga. And then go out for juice. And watch Star Wars.

Joseph Campbell: If dreamtime leads us to permanent fixtures in our psyches then maybe Eminem is a part of me, like a twin, and contrary to Freud’s wishes, we shouldn’t have sex because that would be incest or something and I’m pretty sure incest is illegal, especially for twins. Also, Campbell says dreams support our conscious lives so maybe Eminem is my sugar daddy and I should just ask him to support me and buy me the house he offered up in my 6th dream about him.

Oprah: If living my best life means that it doesn’t get better than sex dreams about Eminem than maybe I should leave it at that and not have sex with him. Maybe I’d end up on fire. Or in his trunk. With no juice. I wouldn’t like that.

Confucius: “What the superior man seeks is in himself; what the small man seeks is in others.” Maybe Eminem lost something in that first dream and he keeps coming back for sex because he’s trying to find it in my pants. Maybe I need an X-ray so I can find it for him and send it in the mail so the dreams stop.

Wizardry and other assorted magic. Namely, the wisdom of Albus Dumbledore: If it does not do to dwell on dreams and forget to live, then I think that maybe Dumbledore thinks the only way to make sense of the dreams is to live this all out, either through sex with Eminem or with a stand-in or body double or what have you. Dumbledore also says that happiness can be found in the darkest of times, if one only remembers to turn on the light. Slim Shady needs to come to the light, I think. And I think the light is in my pants and in his pants, too. But what does Dumbledore know? He got smoked by Snape. Maybe he don’t know shit.

Eminem: I think he’s reaching out to me, telepathically, and that maybe he’d see this as an opportunity to seize everything he ever wanted and have sex with me. And that I am his portal to show the world that he’s socially conscious and is a really gifted quilter and he needs me to help him set up some quilting classes through an adult education program. Or maybe I’m just more thirsty than I realize and I do, in fact, need some juice.

January 10, 2012

Monologue: Mitt Romneys Haircut Will Not Be Denied by Jesse Adelman

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I know some folks derive a kind of sick enjoyment from the quadrennial pageant of televised intelligence-abatement that is the United States presidential election, but it’s time to stop the charade. There is no primary. There is no general. There is only this: I am Mitt Romney’s haircut. This is my year, and I will not be denied.

Everything about me is presidential. You may not even know why, but you’ve all thought it, and that’s no accident. I’ve been designed precisely for this moment. I’m a hybrid of every classic American presidential hairstyle since the 1930s. Roosevelt’s fatherly gray temples. Kennedy’s insouciant bouffant. Reagan’s lethal, revolutionary amalgam of feathering and pomade. Think about it this way: what if you could trade in your shitty, 8-year-old Ford Probe for a car that somehow combined the classic flair of a ‘59 Cadillac and the raw authority of a ’68 Mustang? Now imagine ramming that Caddi-stang right through the front doors of the fucking White House. Get the picture? That’s pretty much exactly what I’ll be doing on top of Mitt Romney’s face on November 6, 2012.

The yammering simpletons who comprise our political class have busied themselves for the past year or so earnestly handicapping the Republican primaries, as if they’d actually been contested. I’d like to say something magnanimous about my competition, but come the hell on. Newt Gingrich looks like he’s wearing a bowl of boxed mashed potatoes on top of his fat watermelon face. Rick Perry parts his greasy mop in the middle, like a mental patient. Rick Santorum probably walks into his barber shop and says, “Give me the Bob Saget.” I could go on and on. Those hapless losers might as well be completely bald, like Donald fucking Trump.

Sometimes Mitt will do a book signing, or a county fair, or some other mind-numbing germfest where the people stink of pancake batter and try to tell him racist jokes. These are the events where we don’t get to wear a tie, and have to pretend we don’t fly private. Those times, I’ll let a lock fall loose, right in the front, over the right brow. That way, people think, “Hey, Romney’s hanging loose!” Bingo, genius. I’m still in full control. The president needs a human touch.

Now, Barack Obama may be the incumbent, but it’s only fair to point out that he’s at a severe disadvantage. It was a cheap victory, him taking old man John McCain and his pathetic Giuliani comb-over to the woodshed. In 2012 he’s up against the greatest ivy league/pompadour hybrid ever seen in American politics. And for this epic battle, the president has equipped himself with a buzz cut? I understand, his options are limited. But let’s at least make it interesting. Hit me with a fade, a high-and-tight, a flat-top.

Twenty years from now, I’ll be sitting on top of Mitt’s face, delicately sprinkling in a bit more gray as the two of us eyeball the sunset from the porch of our multi-billion dollar retirement estate. As much as I love to win, I’d hate to look back, reflecting on two long terms, and think, “That was too easy.”

December 20, 2011

The Peculiar Arab Chronicles: God is Really Sensitive, You Guys by Nour Ali Youssef

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When I toyed with the idea of writing about the touchiest subject known to man, the holy of holies, God himself, I incurred two types of “advice,” for lack of a better word. There were the tearful appeals for the continuing precious attachment of my crazy head, where I keep my crazy brain, to my body. Then there were the rather strongly asserted warnings about the justifiable separation of my not-so-precious shit-filled head, where I keep my shit brain, from my body.

I was told that I’d have to walk a thin line as not to offend anyone. So naturally I thought it would be a good idea to dismiss the thinner-than-a-cat’s-whisker of a line and stomp on as many feelings as possible… maybe even some cancer kids, just for kicks.

To many people, the biggest difference between Arabs and Westerners is really a plus-sized elephant masturbating to daytime television on your couch, sipping your coffee with his trunk: our religious beliefs. Its Team Jesus vs. Team Mohammed, then there is Team Atheist, but they always get disqualified. (I was going to mention Team Moses, but no one cheers for them)

I, on the other hand, disagree. Both worlds mostly believe in a religion, in prophets, heavens and the works. Both worlds also suffer from arrogance, such as the ability to think wear overalls is attractive. On one side, you have many yellow-haired people who believe Islam signed a sponsorship contract with terrorism. (Yes, this is the belief from which I milk jokes.) And on the other side, you have the olive-skinned hairy people, who think the yellow-haired are a nosy mass of people mislead by an obviously bulimic cartoon drawn on glass (that being Jesus). Granted, these are all valid points. (Offensive Nour 1 – Rest Of the World 0)

Both worlds also share this not-so-humble belief that God went through the trouble of creating an ever-expanding universe, making the planets, stars, galaxies, cosmos and the contents of intergalactic space, just for them.

If all of this is for just one species, then I’d like to nominate crocodiles. They can go without food for two whole years, now that’s something.

I think the real difference between West and Mideast is the ability to discuss religious belief. Talking about religion here is as acceptable as discussing the intimate, yet anaimalistic, sex-toy reliant, love life of your parents in a business meeting. You just don’t do it. You don’t talk about it. You don’t think about talking about it either, you sneaky bastard. Don’t think about it all together, you have a perfectly functioning BlackBerry and an adequate supply of Mars bars at your demand. What more could you possibly ask for?

I once dared to discuss homosexuality and God, two areas where I believe people can believe in and do whatever they like. Unsurprisingly, this was translated to: “I am a victim of abuse, which has led to an unidentified hormonal dysfunction, plaguing me with a serious case of the homos and destabilizing my pysche, making me liable to the temptation of the devil and stripping me of the light of faith.” Then the crazy logic was applied, which is when a crazy person denies being crazy, thus proving they’re cuckoo.

This is how it went down (replace the name peanut with “imbecile”):

PEANUT ONE (in response to the “homosexuality is not a disease” argument): “Gays are not normal, because God said so. And God said so because gays are sick. My neighbor heard if a woman eats a lot of pink jelly when pregnant, she will give birth to a gay ballet dancer. It’s scientifically proven.”

(I chuckle for two minutes, explain the hilarity of her circular reasoning for four minutes, and why one can’t use the equivalent of used toilet paper as scientific proof. Then a group of five peanuts join the conversation and more arguing ensues.)

PEANUT TWO: “Well, I have a gay friend overseas and he admits he is sick.”

(This is a perfect example of the Arab art of persuasion: you claim that you have a foreign friend that belongs to the group of people you’re discriminating against, and BAM! you’re in the clear, because if you were racist, why would they befriend you? Follow the logic? For the next two minutes, Peanut One is praised for her “rightness” and the rest storm off.)

Honestly, I’m just glad my head remained intact. I should note, however, that I was “debating” with upper-middle class people and higher. Anything lower than that, and decapitation would seem likely. This is especially worrisome now that over 50% of the representatives in the newly founded Egyptian parliament are sporting bushy beards and feel rather strongly about this issue.

This inability to talk frankly and honestly extends well beyond religion and includes politics, which is why we will forever live in a literal “hot-zone.” We don’t talk, we yell. And that’s why we’ll probably never invite Israel to the “Join if you live near or in the dessert” private group on Facebook.

This is why I wholeheartedly believe that the Middle East, as a whole, needs to have a heart-to-heart with Oprah. To explore its issues with communication and why these countries are so jealous and hateful of one another. The following depicts the dialogue that would most certainly take place:

PALESTINE: We were all happy, until she [Israel] came along. She won’t keep her paws [tanks] off my boyfriend [metaphor for the land]!

ISRAEL: There we go again, he was never yours. I saw him first; get it through your thick, veiled head!

(Catfight breaks out.)

SAUDI ARABIA: You guys done fighting yet? Good. So Oprah, let’s talk investments.

OPRAH: We’re here to talk about your feelings, Saudi.

SAUDI ARABIA: But what about the oil—

OPRAH: And for the last time, I don’t want an oil barrel named after me.

(Bewilderment prevails over SAUDI’s face… not that you can see it.)

MAURITANIA (lesser known Arab country): May I interrupt? I think what Palestine meant to say—

SYRIA: Quiet, they want real Arabs. What are you doing here again?

MAURITANIA: I have the right to be here, this is a free—

SYRIA: “Hey, we never said we were democratic!” [Real quote from Bashar El-Assad, Syrian President.]

UNITED ARAB EMIRATES: “Shush, you guys! This is such a pivotal moment for the Arab nation. We must honor it. Umm, let’s build the world’s largest… err-Oprah monument. That way we’ll have the first and the biggest! We have a lot of those, Oprah.”

OPRAH: “Will it be like Statue of Liberty big?”

And that’s the end result of most western interventions… that and war, of course.

So I’m dedicating this column to those who refuse to talk and keep an open mind. And to the people who think their god is too sensitive to take a joke and to the atheists who have taken it upon themselves to “enlighten” the blind, mislead masses, I beg you all to be offended. God doesn’t need your petty tantrums, I’m pretty sure he has thicker skin than that.

If you still have a problem with the sight of a veiled woman or that of public affection for instance, then chew on a stress ball. Lost a tooth? Then send your rant to: IKnowBetter@SelfassuredProudThiest/Athiest.com

[The author was in fact decapitated shortly after publishing; her face now looks like a badly-flipped pancake.]

December 2, 2011

This Video Will Totally Go Viral by Jennifer Mendelsohn

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November 16, 2011

Monologue: Paula Cole Still Wonders Where All the Cowboys Have Gone by Luke Kelly-Clyne

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“How deep is your love?”

“Do you remember?”

“Why can’t we be friends?”
 
I get it. Lots of musicians ask really broad questions in their songs, stuff that might be hard to answer definitively. Like, it’d be tough to quantify for Barry Gibb the exact depth of your love and, even if you could, would that even be what he wanted? Is he talking about your ability to love in general, your feelings for him specifically, or does he actually want you to fashion some sort of love-depth measurement instrument and report back. Same with Phil Collins. It’s like, do we remember what, exactly, Phil? And, why can’t we be friends? Um, lots of reasons, War. You, of all people, should be familiar with unresolvable interpersonal conflict. There’s not one clear answer to any of these, right? They’re all pretty gray.
 
You know what’s not gray? "Where have all the cowboys gone?" Not gray at all. Simple and direct. Look, the long and short of it is, Barry and Phil and the guys from War, I don’t think they even expected answers. They were just in it for the art. Not me. I got into this business for one reason and one reason only: to ask a question that I hoped would inspire a large-scale international cowboy search and rescue mission. It’s been fifteen years and I’ve received zero responses. What the hell is taking you all so long?
 
I don’t care about what you think I meant.
 
“She’s talking about chivalry.” Wrong.
 
“It’s a tribute to rugged masculinity of yore.” Also no.
 
“She’s mourning the end of an NFL dynasty.” Couldn’t be farther off.
 
I’m not trying to be bitchy here, but I meant exactly what I asked. No one even called me to say they didn’t know. “Good question, Paula. I’m not sure, but I’ve noticed a cowboy shortage too.”

Commiseration also would’ve been nice. “Hi Paula. I just want to let you know I’ve been looking, and it’s really draining. When are we going to find them, do you think? This stinks.”

Honestly, you didn’t need to give a hard answer at all. I would have settled for follow-up questions. “Paula, my uncle Ron is grabby with waitresses and kind of racist and wears a cowboy hat. Is he one of the ones you’re looking for?”
 
Wait wait, shit. I can’t believe I’m just now thinking of this. Was it because I said “all”? Did you think you had to track down every single cowboy? Oh man, is that it? Because I can see why that would be overwhelming. It’s hard enough to find one missing person, let alone an ill-defined, large band of lost, trigger-happy cowboys who are probably really afraid to be wherever they are and might not be so forthcoming when you present yourself as a rescuer. Geez, I should have been more precise about how many I expected you to discover. Going forward, four’s the magic number. I’ll be happy with anything over four. How many cowboys does a gal really need, right?!
 
You could have asked me, though. If you felt daunted by the task, it shouldn’t have taken you fifteen years to say so. I’m willing to admit my question—worded in a moment of extreme panic about all the missing cowboys—may have been misleading. You should feel just as comfortable about admitting your concerns. If we’re going to find any of these cowboys, it’s going to take clear, consistent communication.
 
Next month, I’ll be opening the nation’s first Cowboy Search Center in Rockport, Massachusetts. It’s going to be a top-flight facility, equipped with the newest cowboy detection software. For rescued cowboys awaiting medical treatment, the Center has a spacious shelter, fully stocked with fresh spurs, lassoes, and belt buckles. Anyway, the CSC will need to be staffed and I need to know if you’re in or out. I’d like as many of you to be involved as possible, but I’m also not going to chase anyone (unless they’re cowboys).
 
Lastly, and I feel like I have to say this, please do not be bashful about asking me for additional resources. If the CSC isn’t meeting your needs or you’re confused about where to start your search, I can help. The song’s rhyme scheme and tempo made it difficult for me to offer my phone number and email address so let me make sure you have those. Phone is: 310-FIND-ALL-THE-COWBOYS-RIGHT-NOW. Once it starts ringing, you can stop dialing. (Again, no need to worry about finding “all” the cowboys. The “FINDTHECOWBOYSRIGHTNOW” extension was already taken when I registered this number.) My email is: LiveLaughLove@aol.com.
 
So glad all this is settled. Happy hunting!

April 29, 2011

One line jokes-Pianist

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Why is a person who plays the piano called a pianist, but a person who drives a race car is not called a racist?

August 13, 2009

The Dumb Racist

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So, a guy came to my hosting site to sign up. He comes on live support and says this:

The Dark Assassin: Hello John
John: Hi! How may I help you?
The Dark Assassin: are you a ~censored~?
John: Hello Dark Assassin.
The Dark Assassin: are you a ~censored~?
John: No I’m not. Thanks and have a great day.

TDA@live.com
xx.70.000.111

Then he comes on this forum and PM’s me.

Excuse me?

I never said that, that was not me, I have just gone to your site to sign up

HOW DARE YOU ACCUSE ME OF RACISM!!!!

So I ban his IP. He replies.

First off, That is not my Email, Second Off, that isn’t my ip address

Please un ban that ip!

Read the last two lines..

Then he cries a bit more.

Well I do because you banned it!!!

Well, if you are going to be a tosspot, and let people do this, then I really hope your site fails

***TIME TO GO TO PROXY***

The last two lines just crack me up. Fail.

Oh and guess what he’s still coming on live support and crying. Sad. Fail.

August 11, 2009

AHS students face discipline for prank racist remarks

by admin — Categories: Practical Jokes — Tags: , , , , , , Comments Off
kkk stupid stuff pranks ideasA number of Anderson High students face discipline for a racial incident. The episode unfolded in the AHS parking lot as students were leaving school Thursday. A couple of students made inappropriate remarks of intentional inflammatory racial remarks shouting “white power”. At least one of them covered his head with a sheet fashioned like a Ku Klux Klan hood according to the Anderson Community Schools officials.

Based from the information received by school officials investigating the incident, the actions appeared to have resulted from a student dare. Some students knew that the racially charged incident was planned, though it’s unclear how many was involved. Anderson High School principal Pat Fassnacht said school officials have been contacting parents of students who were involved or who might have provoked the incident. He said a number of parents have been notified, though he declined to say how many.

On Friday morning, AHS increased police presence and metal detectors at the entrance. Reaction of the other Anderson students were credited by the principal since they took the incident as more of surprise and disbelief rather than get angry with the tightened security. The silly stupid stuff pranks ideas that turned into a serious prank will result in punishment ranging from suspension to possible expulsion according to ACS interim Superintendent Lennon Brown.

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