Get Cynical

During the 1960s, black women and black men were in TOTAL HARMONY and were showing the world that black is beautiful.

Then, in the 1990s a musical group called Destinie’s Child made a song called: Independent Woman, and this song summarized the mood and the “attitude” of the “modern” black Feminist women and how the felt about everything: SELFISH!!!

Blacktown.net is devoted to exposing and mocking this selfish attitude that black women learned from listening to white lesbian, male bashing Feminists.

We declare that there is Nothing Feminine About Feminism. And the very term is an oxymoron and is indicative of how sneaky and treacherous lebian Feminism is. IT IS WITCHCRAFT!!!

The ownership of the island is disputed as it is claimed by both Canada and Denmark. They failed to settle the issue when borders were drawn between Canada and Greenland in 1973. The border is established in the delimitation treaty about the Continental Shelf between Greenland and Canada, ratified by the United Nations on December 17, 1973, and in force since March 13, 1974. At that time, it was the longest shelf boundary treaty ever negotiated and may have been the first ever continental shelf boundary developed by a computer program.

A new development came to light after Canadian Defence Minster Bill Graham visited the island on July 20, 2005. Peter Taksoe-Jensen, the head of the International Law department at Denmark’s foreign ministry, said the following in an interview with Reuters on July 25 in response to the event:

We consider Hans Island to be part of Danish territory and will therefore hand over a complaint about the Canadian minister’s unannounced visit.[4]

This is the first time a Danish government official has claimed the island is solely Danish territory and is not in dispute. A reaction from the Canadian government is to be expected.

I was kneeling down and working the drill slowly into the wall at the time. I had my ear plugs in, my safety glasses on, and was lost in my own thoughts. Suddenly, over the squeal of the drill wearing down the rock, I heard a strange noise. It was loud. I could hear it over the noise of the drill, even though I had the ear plugs in. At first I thought it was just the drill bit doing its job on the cave. It would frequently complain by screeching and whining as we forced it into the wall. But this was different. It took me several full seconds to comprehend that this was coming from inside the hole, and not the bit. I stopped drilling and yanked my earplugs out just in time to hear the most terrible scream I have ever heard trail off and echo into the darkness of the cavern. I stared wide-eyed at the hole. For several moments I didn’t move, nor did I breathe. I turned to look at B. Moments earlier he had been lying on the rope bag catching a nap. Now, he was standing upright, mouth open, with a look of concern on his face! I turned and looked into the hole again, half expecting to see a demon face staring back at me.

“Those of our troops who were not wax-gray with seasickness,” Hemingway wrote, “were watching the Texas with looks of surprise and happiness. Under the steel helmets they looked like pikemen of the Middle Ages to whose aid in battle had suddenly come some strange and unbelievable monster.” To Hemingway, the big guns “sounded as though they were throwing whole railway trains across the sky.”

“The details of my life are quite inconsequential…. very well, where do I begin? My father was a relentlessly self-improving boulangerie owner from Belgium with a low grade narcolepsy and a penchant for buggery. My mother was a fifteen year old French prostitute named Chloe with webbed feet. My father would womanize, he would drink. He would make outrageous claims like he invented the question mark. Sometimes he would accuse chestnuts of being lazy. The sort of general malaise that only the genius possess and the insane lament. My childhood was typical. Summers in Rangoon, luge lessons. In the spring we’d make meat helmets. When I was insolent I was placed in a burlap bag and beaten with reeds- pretty standard really. At the age of twelve I received my first scribe. At the age of fourteen a Zoroastrian named Vilma ritualistically shaved my testicles. There really is nothing like a shorn scrotum… it’s breathtaking- I suggest you try it.”

This site features what has been described by the New York Times as “The Greatest Dirty Joke Ever Told” – The Aristocrats. Inspired by the forthcoming film from Paul Provenza and Penn Jillette which features 100 comics talking about and telling their versions of the joke, this site is a home for filth virtuosos everywhere. Submit your version of the Aristocrats joke to the database and enjoy others.