You Call This Propaganda?
The crush-Israel website Electronic Intifada is always good for the latest fashions in that long-running pastime called "Delegitimizing the Hated Zionist Entity." The exaggerated "demographic nightmare"? You read it there first. The nonexistent "Jenin massacre"? You read the phony-baloney dispatches right there. But the piece that ran today left me scratching my head. You call this propaganda?
The writer was from Mississippi, and her main problem with the hated Zionist Entity appears to be that it inconveniences her tremendously. All those teenage soldiers with guns. Her frustration with that is denoted in the title. How uncouth! Shouldn't they be doing something more constructive, like being blown up in suicide bombings by the heroic, dispossessed Palestinians?
Everything in Israel is racist, and her fantasy life conjurs up images of apartheid-era South Africa and the good old days when grandpa lynched nigras. "My cell phone is racist" because it cannot call into the West Bank. But she fixes that by paying "600 shekles" (the correct spelling being racist, so she doesn't use it). On the bus to Jerusalem (those emails about being blown up by so-called "terrorists" on the bus were so annoying) she spies all those teenagers with guns she finds so obnoxious. All so well-dressed. And then, golly, she sees someone "gaunt, somewhat anemic with a patchy beard and frowsy hair - the type you might find on the L train to Brooklyn."
Oh no! A Jew!
After recording this horror, our correspondent arrives in Jerusalem and sees a dispute in an Internet cafe between an Israeli soldier and a "Palestinian"-- she having not been in Israel long enough, apparently, to know that a couple of million Sephardi make snap judgments like that hazardous. She cannot understand the language, but that does not keep her from giving it the requisite spin. Apparently the "Palestinian" "had been anti-Semitic enough to sit at the workstation that another teenage soldier, who had just arrived, really liked."
That's all. Some soldiers with guns, an unkempt Jew on the bus, and an dispute in an Internet cafe in which she imagines the details. That's it. No, not all. She also finds obnoxious "the Israeli proclivity to call everything 'Israeli,'" as in "Israeli Italian" cuisine. (I'll admit, that occasionally makes me want to strap on a suicide belt myself.)
Most of this riff goes on in the writer's mind, but at one point she meets an "Israeli friend" named Phoebe. The latter is annoyed when the writer expresses her revolutionary zeal by ordering "some Israeli tap water in an Israeli glass and another Israeli napkin." Poor Phoebe. When Phoebe expresses PC disagreement with her government's policies, this Mississippi Moonbat replies, "Why do you still believe in all of this?" Yes, why, Phoebe? Why don't you just walk into the sea until it covers your head?
The story ends with an exasperated Phoebe taking a walk. (Memo to Phoebe: Under such circumstances, a crack across the mouth is not considered poor etiquette.)
You really have to wonder how even the most bloodthirsty Israel-hating type could find any solace from this kind of naive rubbish. You'd think that the author could at least have made up something a little more convincing than her own fantasies--which say a lot more about the prejudices of a small-minded Mississippian than they do about Israel.
The writer was from Mississippi, and her main problem with the hated Zionist Entity appears to be that it inconveniences her tremendously. All those teenage soldiers with guns. Her frustration with that is denoted in the title. How uncouth! Shouldn't they be doing something more constructive, like being blown up in suicide bombings by the heroic, dispossessed Palestinians?
Everything in Israel is racist, and her fantasy life conjurs up images of apartheid-era South Africa and the good old days when grandpa lynched nigras. "My cell phone is racist" because it cannot call into the West Bank. But she fixes that by paying "600 shekles" (the correct spelling being racist, so she doesn't use it). On the bus to Jerusalem (those emails about being blown up by so-called "terrorists" on the bus were so annoying) she spies all those teenagers with guns she finds so obnoxious. All so well-dressed. And then, golly, she sees someone "gaunt, somewhat anemic with a patchy beard and frowsy hair - the type you might find on the L train to Brooklyn."
Oh no! A Jew!
After recording this horror, our correspondent arrives in Jerusalem and sees a dispute in an Internet cafe between an Israeli soldier and a "Palestinian"-- she having not been in Israel long enough, apparently, to know that a couple of million Sephardi make snap judgments like that hazardous. She cannot understand the language, but that does not keep her from giving it the requisite spin. Apparently the "Palestinian" "had been anti-Semitic enough to sit at the workstation that another teenage soldier, who had just arrived, really liked."
That's all. Some soldiers with guns, an unkempt Jew on the bus, and an dispute in an Internet cafe in which she imagines the details. That's it. No, not all. She also finds obnoxious "the Israeli proclivity to call everything 'Israeli,'" as in "Israeli Italian" cuisine. (I'll admit, that occasionally makes me want to strap on a suicide belt myself.)
Most of this riff goes on in the writer's mind, but at one point she meets an "Israeli friend" named Phoebe. The latter is annoyed when the writer expresses her revolutionary zeal by ordering "some Israeli tap water in an Israeli glass and another Israeli napkin." Poor Phoebe. When Phoebe expresses PC disagreement with her government's policies, this Mississippi Moonbat replies, "Why do you still believe in all of this?" Yes, why, Phoebe? Why don't you just walk into the sea until it covers your head?
The story ends with an exasperated Phoebe taking a walk. (Memo to Phoebe: Under such circumstances, a crack across the mouth is not considered poor etiquette.)
You really have to wonder how even the most bloodthirsty Israel-hating type could find any solace from this kind of naive rubbish. You'd think that the author could at least have made up something a little more convincing than her own fantasies--which say a lot more about the prejudices of a small-minded Mississippian than they do about Israel.
posted by Mediacrity at 5:31 PM
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