Someone Left The Cake Out In The Rain

Indiana is a deeply stupid state. We know this from the sort of people born there. Dan Quayle. Jimmy Hoffa. Michael Jackson. Jim Jones. Put them together, and what do you get? An illiterate thug who sleeps with a monkey and poisons people with Kool-Aid. The typical Indianan.

Except they don’t call themselves Indianans. Instead, they refer to themselves yeehawas “hoosiers.” Which sounds like a form of special-needs person.

I consulted a Science Paper, as to the Nature and Meaning of this “hoosier” name, and learned the following:

The residents, they are known as “hoosiers.” What’s a hoosier? Nobody knows, or, if they do, don’t expect a straight answer. It could be an early form of “hoosier daddy?” Some scholars maintain it means inbreeder, others insist it means blockheaded.

Various different-one Science Men have advanced other Theories:

 . . . the word refer[s] to woodsmen, yokels, and rough people. [Science Man Jacob] Dunn traced the word back to the Cumbrian hoozer, meaning anything unusually large . . . One account traces the word to the necessary caution of approaching houses on the frontier. In order to avoid being shot, a traveler would call out from afar to let themselves be known. The inhabitants of the cabin would then reply “Who’s here?” which—in the Appalachian English of the early settlers—slurred into “Who’sh ‘ere?” and thence into “Hoosier.” A variant of this account had the Indiana pioneers calling out “Who’sh ‘ere?” as a general greeting and warning when hearing someone in the bushes and tall grass, to avoid shooting a relative or friend in error. The poet James Whitcomb Riley suggested that the fierce brawling that took place in Indiana involved enough biting that the expression “Whose ear?” became notable . . . “To hoosier” is sometimes still encountered as a verb meaning “to trick” or “to swindle.”

The Ku Klux Klan has never been more popular, anywhere, than it was in Indiana in the 1920s, when more than one-third of the state’s white males were publicly enrolled in the organization. So the typical “hoosier,” then, is an illiterate one-eared thug who sleeps with a monkey and poisons people with Kool-Aid and goes out nights looking to lynch “darkies.”

An undercover report of life today in Indiana offers the following:

People here are very conservative and are likely to be nice or polite not because they like you but because they think they have to. Deep down they probably resent you, maybe even hate you. if you come from somewhere else, they wonder, “why?” ballsAnything or anyone new, or different from their regularly scheduled drudgery, freaks them out.

BALLS ! A lot of people have them.

They look like big glass yard balls and people like to put their balls on pedestals. They must think their balls look classy that way. Originally I thought the balls were there to suck the creativity and culture out of the residents. But apparently these “gazing balls” originated in the 13th Century and are supposed to bring prosperity and ward off evil spirits, especially witches. What century are we in now??? I bet if you ask anyone what the balls mean, you are likely to be told “they just make the yard look nice.” But in reality, they have balls because their neighbors do and you got to conform. Or be shunned.

Never have I lived in a place of such stupidity.

Many people live in homes which contain a driveway or a garage and in some cases both; however they park in the street, creating an obstacle course. Then they wonder why their side mirrors are gone.

People wear helmets to ride their bikes; they do not wear helmets to ride motorcycles.

For some good Clean Fun, how about acornhole rousing game of cornhole?

Yes, this stimulating game involves tossing a bag of corn, or reasonable substitute for the aforementioned bag, into a hole made in a board. If you get really good at it, you can enter a tournament and have the chance to be a Cornhole Champ!

Currently the state Cornhole Champ is Mike Pence, who is the governor. This is a human of such scarifying stupidity he terrifies his own hair, which has turned corpse-white from fear and loathing of him.

Pence is one of 656,789 scrapings from the bottom of the gene pool that in 2016 shall seek to become the Republican nominee for President of the United States.

His particular Path to Victory involves positioning himself as more of a numbnuts cornhole yeehaw than any of his many competitors.

And so Pence recently soberly signed into law a bill that permits retrovert hoosiers to decline to bake pizza cakes to be served at gay weddings.

The bill Pence signed is known as the Religious Freedom Restoration Act, but what it is really about is Hating Homos. It permits business-owners to decline to offer services to patrons if to do so would offend said owners’ “religious beliefs.” It is of the same sort of legislation that some states and localities passed in the wake of the various civil rights laws and court decisions of the 1950s and ’60s, my hair is scaredwhich at last legally codified the basic notion that black people are human beings. Such legislation constituted the last throes of dead-enders, and died like dogs once submitted before courts staffed by Sane People. Now, apparently, we are going to have to go through the same thing again—eternal recurrence, march yea verily on—with the last throes of dead-enders whose brains explode at the notion that gay people are human beings.

And so we have this female hoosier person, named after methamphetamine, Crystal O’Connor, of Memories Pizza in Walkerton, Indiana, intoning to all and sundry:

“If a gay couple came in and wanted us to provide pizzas for their wedding, we would have to say no.

“We are a Christian establishment,” says O’Connor.

“We’re not discriminating against anyone, that’s just our belief and anyonedarn diggy has the right to believe in anything,” says O’Connor. “I do not think it’s targeting gays. I don’t think it’s discrimination. It’s supposed to help people that have a religious belief.”

It is believed that Walkerton, the hoosier burg where Ms. Meth O’Connor lives and works, is so named because the people who reside there are too knee-crawlingly stupid to drive, or even pilot a bicycle, and thus are allowed only to walk.

So what do we learn, other than that Indianans remain dumber than dirt?

That apparently Indianans serve pizza cake at their weddings.

Who knew?

To close this ditty we must needs embed “MacArthur Park,” the state song of Indiana. With a cautionary note that, to endure it, one may need to rely upon the state drug of Indiana, which is heroin.


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