Dowdy Dickie gets dissed!

Ahem. Just a little theme music to get you in the mood for what’s to come, folkies. I’m a bit under the weather (read: sore and stiff from all the cold and damp), but I’m always in the mood to be amused. And when I stumbled upon this piece from Julie Hill yesterday, I just knew I was in for a real treat. Because there is more than one way to punch the shit out of Dowdy Dickie Spencer and his stupid haircut, you know.

So please enjoy these highlights, with occasional commentary from me:

In über-hipster Berlin, Richard Spencer stood out like a poo in a punchbowl. He was the embodiment of preppy: his hair rigidly gelled to one side, his clothing perma-pressed and immaculate. But he was, initially at least, friendly and charming, and handsome in a big-faced Buzz Lightyear kind of way. And it pains me to say it, but his German was excellent, although his accent was diabolical.

Oh honey, NO. I don’t beg to differ, I straight-up DEMAND to. Dickie’s German is terrible, and his accent is the worst. The man can’t even umlaut his way out of a wet paper bag. Take it from this native speaker whose first language IS German: Anyone who says “LOOGENpresse” when he’s trying to paint the mainstream media as liars is not only a liar himself, but an unconvincing German speaker to boot. Don’t let his “charm” fool you, Dickie cannot speak German any more than I can speak Bullshit. (Which I’m pretty sure is Dickie’s native tongue.)

That night, we met at a Vietnamese restaurant

IRONY ALERT. IRONY ALERT. Mr. White Ethnostate himself is not above eating at a non-white ethnic restaurant, one of the same that are “deconstructing European culture”, to quote his own pustulent words.

We chatted about our backgrounds. He told me he and some of his other family members owned a bunch of “farms” somewhere in the South. Said “farms” turned out to be a vast swath of cotton plantations in Louisiana, the kind African slaves were forced to work on for free. But we’ll get to that.

What’s this? A sly and subtle dig at how Dickie came by all his unearned wealth, as well as his white-supremacist leanings? Yum!

By the end of our meal Spencer still had a tiny bit of food on his plate, and he asked the waiter if he could have it to take away. The waiter frowned and said “really?” because it was such a small amount, but Spencer wasn’t embarrassed. I later learned that he couldn’t cook so much as a piece of toast, seemingly because he was too posh, so taking away tiny morsels of food from restaurants was the only way he could stay alive.

Ladies and gentlemen, observe this prime specimen of the Master Race™, who can’t even fucking make his own toast without setting off a smoke alarm. No wonder he and his ilk need subservient women to look after them, and no wonder no self-respecting woman will volunteer for the job.

The apartment was owned by a businessman in his seventies. It what I imagine a Masonic lodge might look like, with dark wooden panelling and a moose’s head hanging in the hallway. Spencer showed me photos of the man in his youth, chatting up an array of foxy ladies. It was clear that Spencer aspired to become this old German guy some day.

Well, a dick can dream, I suppose. But no, Dickie, trust me, German women like their men to be competent, not just confident. Last time they fell for a schmuck who could only schmooze, they wound up with World War II and the 12-Year Reich, remember?

We sat at a table in the kitchen, where Spencer told me about a game he liked to play called “Lesbian or just German?”, the idea being that German women were so hairy and asexual that one couldn’t tell the difference. I was beginning to think this guy might be a bit of an arsehole.

Beginning? A bit? I do believe we have a contender for Understatement of the Year here, folks.

Later, he confirmed my suspicions by going on an unprompted rant about why Mexicans shouldn’t be let into the United States.

Oh yeah, that’s why: Because Mexican chicas won’t have Dickie, either.

In the middle of the night, the door opened. Spencer was standing there wearing only his grey fitted boxer shorts. Evidently, he’d thoroughly misinterpreted my burning desire to improve my grammar. He said “hi”. I said “fuck off”. Thankfully, he did.

And there you have it, folks. Tricky Dickie’s ineffable seduction technique. This is why German women all grew out their body hair and lost their libidos the instant they spotted his lacquered fashy cut bobbling along in their general direction.

There is a German word that applies well to Spencer: Backpfeifengesicht. It means “a face that is crying out for a slap”. In class, he would go off on lengthy, tedious monologues that had even our teacher rolling his eyes. On one occasion, he and I ended up in a stand-up shouting match, during which I had to switch to English because there aren’t enough good swear words in German. Our class was composed of people of all ages, from all walks of life, and from all parts of the planet, but if there was one thing that united us, it was that we hated Richard Spencer’s guts.

Gee, I wonder why.

Also, pro tip for all you students of German: There is no insult in the language that can’t be improved by tacking Nazi- and/or Scheiß- onto the front of it. So there’s no need for as many swear-words in German as there are in English. You can convert any ordinary word into a cussword just by sticking an obscenity on as a prefix. Example: Richard Spencer ist eine doofe Nazi-Scheißposaune.

(Yes, that’s right, I literally called him a stupid trombone full of Nazi shit. Waa, waa, waa, waaaaaaa.)

At the time, Spencer was a PhD student at Duke University in North Carolina. During one of his unprompted tirades, he told us about a case going on there in which a stripper had accused three lacrosse players of rape. She was black, they were white, and it was being viewed as a hate crime. I remember the room falling silent when Spencer suggested that the lacrosse players (who were later found innocent) couldn’t have done it, because why would they want to have sex with a black woman?

Why indeed, Dickie? Surely not for the same reason your plantation-owning ancestors raped their slave women, eh?

There was something tragic about Spencer. He knew people despised him, but seemed kind of used to it. I remember him telling me wistfully that this was his third summer learning German abroad, but he still hadn’t met a nice girl.

Oh, Dickie, I hate to break this to you, but you DID meet nice German girls. They just all rejected you for the same reasons any self-respecting woman who has learned the lessons of history would! The problem isn’t us, it’s YOU. And it could be solved easily enough by just waking the fuck up to yourself and rotating all your political views 180 degrees, instead of trying to bend the world to your pathetic will.

The year after our course, Spencer quit Duke to, in his own words, “pursue a life of thought crime”. He became assistant editor at The American Conservative magazine, but was fired because his views were too extreme. In 2010, he founded, advocating for a “white ethno-state on the North American continent” and giving up “the false dreams of equality and democracy”.

See, Dickie, this is why no nice girls want you, and why everybody who looks at your Backpfeifengesicht just instantly goes off. You couldn’t have picked a more losing political viewpoint if you tried!

On our last day of term, my German class staged a mutiny. Our teacher had encouraged us to make speeches to each other improve our spoken German, an offer no one had so far taken up. Spencer was a huge fan of the German philosopher Friedrich Nietzsche, whose writing he had interpreted to mean that there was simply no point bothering with morality. (“A little bit of Nietzsche in the wrong hands can be fatal,” quipped my Parisian classmate Pascal.)

The thought of spending the last hour of class, on a day that was hot as holy hell, listening to Spencer rant about Nietschze was simply unbearable, so after the kleine Pause, everyone but Richard walked out of school and went over the road for a beer. Later, our teacher admitted he saw us crossing the road from his office window, and silently cheered.

I can’t imagine why. I mean, wasn’t he in awe of Dickie’s misinterpretation of Nietzsche? Weren’t you all?

All kidding aside, though: Julie Hill, my hat’s off to you. You’re probably going to receive all kinds of hate mail and death threats from the Freeze Peach Nazis, but I have to admit, it’s very satisfying to see my opinions confirmed. Dickie, even before his supposed “Road to Damascus” decision to pursue “a life of thought crime”, was already an insufferable ass, and his political leanings are just a logical outgrowth of that. Thanks for taking a major one for the team, sis. Stay safe, stay well, and just know that you are much appreciated for your honesty.

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This entry was posted in Confessions of a Bad German, Fascism WITH Swastikas, Fascism Without Swastikas, Filthy Stinking Rich, Heroes for Today, Isn't It Ironic?, Isn't That Racist?, Men Who Just Don't Get It, Mexican Standoffs, Not So Compassionate Conservatism, The United States of Amnesia, Uppity Wimmin. Bookmark the permalink.