Maybe making fun of him will make Bono go away, eh? If wars were fought with pompous know-it-all celebrity dopes the West would certainly have exterminated the Muslim terrorism years ago.
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“Surely this is the stupidest shit I’ve ever said….
“If you can’t grab public attention by standing up before the U.S. Senate and saying that Chris Rock, Amy Schumer, and Sacha Baron Cohen should go to the Middle East to battle ISIS, then I give up.”
Am I really alone among all the writers making fun of Bono this week (see above) to note that, were satire really the industrial-strength stupidity solvent he thinks it is, the U2 singer himself would have been reduced to a small, stubborn carpet stain ages ago?
This 2002 bit about Bono in The Onion, for instance—“Vowing to lobby Congress for African aid on progressively larger Jumbotrons until demands are met”—could have been written yesterday. South Park subjected him to scatological (for me, bile-rising) abuse almost ten years ago, portraying him as a sentient chunk of fecal matter, a turd who’d cracked the Turing test.
“Dear Bono: You have everyone’s permission to stop doing this crap. We’ve been telling you to let it go for decades.”
There’s no reason any of this stuff—“Rest of U2 Perfectly Fine With Africans Starving,” “African leaders advise Bono on reform of U2”—should still be as funny as it is. (I chuckled a lot while writing this column.) But Bono is blue-chip, the Berkshire Hathaway (Class A) of comedy.
Like another Irish immigrant–cum—public menace, the former Paul David Hewson is bolshily resistant to the particular diseases he spreads—in his case: counterproductive zillion-dollar “humanitarianism”; standard-issue “climate change” verbal smog; and now, the toxic myth that humorous ridicule is chemo, not shark cartilage, when administered to scoundrels. Call him Typhoid Bono.
His properties include a whopping pile back in Ireland and a huge unit in the San Remo, a.k.a. the building inGhostbusters, down the street from the equally exclusive Dakota and across from Central Park, within, according to Charles Murray’s calculations, “the most socially insulated zip code in America.”
(By the way: Does anyone know if the creators of Ghostbusters picked the San Remo as a wink at the Dakota’s reputation as cursed...?)
“Carbon footprints”? Maybe you don’t leave ’em when you walk on water, cuz here’s Bono’s yacht, christened Kingdom Come.
He’s gotten this rich not through record and ticket sales, but thanks to a 2009 investment in Facebook. The same Facebook that (among many other misdemeanors against free speech) is cooperating with Germany to punish users critical of…Muslims. The same Germany that’s happily exposing one of its citizens, a comedian, to a possible five-year stint in a Turkish prison for mocking a powerful…Muslim.
As Mark Steyn quipped (while he still can): “If introducing comedy to Raqqa sounds a bit of a long shot, maybe Bono could try Germany first.”
I guess Bono hasn’t heard about all this unpleasantness. (See “insulated,” above.) After all, like every progressive, he lives in the past, laboring under the misimpression that ISIS “goose steps,” for instance. And obviously, word still hasn’t reached the 10023 that Chaplin eventually disavowed The Great Dictator, albeit far too late to save who knows how many lives.
If the claims Bono and other twats (right and left) make for satire were sound, the offices of Charlie Hebdo would have been awash with Muslim blood rather than their own. And note the three comedians Bono proffered to nuke the Middle East with joke power: Old and tired? Fat Man and Little Boy. New hotness? Fat Girl Amy Schumer and Little Boys Sacha Baron Cohen and Chris Rock—three “edgy” comedians who, as I’ve complained here before, are just craven liberals who cannily conceal their conventionally leftoid messages beneath a veneer of “brave,” “politically incorrect” raunch.
Right, Bono: two Jews and a black guy. Guaranteed to win the hearts and minds of the planet’s biggest black-hating anti-Semites!
Except…I actually watched Bono’s “testimony” after reading about it. And despite his repeated insistence to the contrary, I got the feeling he was, well, joking. The way he fairly spits out his “send in the clowns” flourish at the end—especially his hurried, smirking “thank you”—reminded me of every bratty boy I’d ever seen squirming at the front of the classroom like a bug pinned to a board, who clearly hadn’t read the book he was “reporting” on and just wanted to be anywhere else butthere, as soon as possible.
So… Dear Bono: You have everyone’s permission to stop doing this crap. We’ve been telling you to let it go for decades.
Alas, I don’t think he’ll ever get that message, either. As for going away, the bad news is that Bono may actually be—if not really a Eurocratic human/poop hybrid or a Central Park Illuminati—nevertheless an immortal of sorts. He’s recently survived not only a catastrophic bicycle accident but also a near miss in his Learjet.
All of which, naturally, inspired more—but of course—satire:
He’s too short for snipers, he’s too pious for a drug overdose, and he should have been crushed under the weight of his own ego years ago but somehow it only makes him stronger.
“Fate apologizes,” the Daily Mash “reported,” “for letting Bono live.”
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