and be amused by this post from a blogger calling herself Common Reader, who was forty-five minutes early for Church in Dunn, North Carolina, and while she was waiting, her husband observed

one of those helpful gentlemen here to do the jobs American won’t do was discovered by the three of his countrywomen whom he’d gotten with child, which delicate condition prevented none of them from beating him, and each other, into the ground.

Driving away, Mr. Common Reader found himself in a neighborhood that didn’t care for his presence and let him know by yelling “honky!” and pelting his car. He told me about this in the church parking lot. I said, “It’s so unfair that I post the things I do about racial relations, and you’re the one who gets pursued by the angry mob.”

It’s a very nice church.

Clayton Cramer writes

How You Can Tell That A Liberal is the President of Your University

He threatens retaliation against College Republicans because he didn’t like a flyer–and apparently fires employees for failing to engage in censorship:

Cramer is referring to this story:Kustra threatens College Republicans and may have terminated BSU staff member Boise State Arbiter Online,Jessica Christensen

Which is about this flyer, in PDF, promoting a speech by Robert Vasquez.

The text of the story refers to “the controversial fliers promoting “America’s Illegal Alien Invasion”. “

Actually, the flyers were promoting a speech about the illegal alien invasion, they were not promoting the invasion itself. For a speech promoting America’s illegal alien invasion, you’d have to go not to the College Republicans, but to certain grown-up Republicans, say Karl Rove, or George W. Bush.

Cramer writes

Look, the flyer was offensive in a playful way. I would not have put together such a flyer. (Even when I was the age of the College Republicans, I think I would laughed loudly and said, “We can’t do this.”) Still, someone does need to remind Kustra that this pesky thing called the First Amendment doesn’t just apply to student groups with pictures of Che Guevara, and student presentations of plays like The Vagina Monologues. It even applies to Republicans!

But who’s offended? The flyer includes pictures of illegal ID, pictures of the famous “Aliens Crossing” highway sign, a picture of Mr. Vasquez himself, the words Celebrate Cesar Chavez week,(Cesar Chavez was strong supporter of immigration enforcement) and this contest suggestion:

Win dinner for two at a local Mexican Restaurant! Climb through the hole in the fence and enter your false ID documents into the food stamp drawing!

You may not want to say “I don’t care who you are, that’s funny right there” like Larry the Cable Guy, but you can’t help noticing that it’s not about stereotyping Hispanic-Americans, it’s about stereotyping illegals.

The only people who should be offended are illegal immigrants, and those who support illegal immigration. And who cares if they get offended? It’s like asking us not to offend bank robbers.

In one of the more memorable passages in Dreams from My Father: A Story of Race and Inheritance, Obama more or less admits that his book’s portrait of Hawaii is a fictionalized projection of his own self-pity and resentment.

On p. 340, he is in his late 20s, visiting Kenya, and on his way to meet his father’s third wife (and second white American wife Ruth) and her son Mark, Obama’s disturbing doppelganger, his half-brother who is home on vacation from Stanford, where he is a physics student.

“Ruth lived in Westlands [in Nairobi], an enclave of expensive homes set off by wide lawns and well-tended hedges, each one with a sentry post manned by brown-uniformed guards. … The coolness reminded me of the streets around Punahou [Obama's Honolulu prep school], Manoa, Tantalus, the streets where some of my wealthier classmates had lived back in Hawaii. Staring out Auma’s car window, I though back to the envy I’d felt toward those classmates whenever they invited me over to play in their big backyards or swim in their swimming pools. And along with that envy, a different impression — the sense of quiet desperation those big, pretty houses seemed to contain. The sound of someone’s sister crying softly behind the door. The sight of a mother sneaking a tumbler of gin in midafternoon. The expression of a father’s face as he sat alone in his den, his features clenched as he flicked between college football games on TV. An impression of loneliness that perhaps wasn’t true, perhaps was just a projection of my own heart, but, that, either way, had made me want to run …”