Daily Stormer The Most Censored Publication in History
I used to assume that old people hated blacks because of a lifetime of accumulated experience.
But then this study taps me on the shoulder and says, “nope, it’s because old people don’t want to die,” and I’m like, “fuck, that explains why my hospital-bound grandfather lol’d at the Trayvon shooting.”
Older people are more racist – but it’s not because they are ‘from a different time’.
We become more prejudiced as we age because we feel increasingly insecure and anxious about death, psychologists claim.
Scientists said hating a group can bring a sense of belonging and identity to those facing their own mortality because they are able to share that prejudice with others.
Yes. Hatred because of the color of the skin is one of those pastimes that brings old folks together.
Bingo on Monday, backgammon on Tuesday, skin-hatred on Wednesday.
There’s no other reason for this prejudice, you understand. One day some old guy announced “I really hate blacks,” then his friend perked up and said, “hey, I hate blacks too!” and then some other old guy in the room said “I’m part black, you know.”
But then added: “And I hate myself.”
All three of them cheered and patted each other on the back and, before you know it, word had spread that racism was the best way for elderly gentlemen to bond during their final years.
‘The theory is when you think of death it creates a fear, and one way of reacting to that anxiety is to cling to identity, to try and gain a sense of belonging, or even a sense of protection,’ Dr Steve Taylor, a psychologist at Leeds Beckett University, told Business Insider.
…
In some, the insecurities brought about by ageing lead to self-hatred that is then directed at minority groups, according to psychotherapist Dr Allison Abrams.
Abrams… there’s something about that name that rings a certain bell.
What could it be?
Hmm… nothing out of the ordinary here.
Looking closer, I think I can see something weird going on with the eyes…
I knew it! She’s a (((shapeshifting reptilian)))!
Has this guy ever been wrong about anything?
Dr Abrams point out that research has shown people who grew up with racist attitudes have the capacity to learn to overcome them.
Instead, racist remarks made by older citizens may be due to a shrinking of certain parts of their brain, she said.
Research from the University of Queensland, Australia, showed the frontal lobe – which is involved in regulating our thoughts – gets smaller as we age.
This means elderly people may lose their ability to censor inappropriate thoughts, making them more likely to vocalise offensive viewpoints.
‘They may have said them anyway, depending on their personality when they were younger,’ said Dr Abrams.
Sheeeit. Not only do older folks use racism as a coping mechanism against death, but their shrinking brains prevent them from suppressing such thoughts in the first place.
These pensioners just can’t get a break. No wonder they’re always so grumpy.
At least I finally understand the real reason why Bill Bryson’s grandmother just dgaf. It wasn’t because she was raised in an era when watching blacks get lynched was an adolescent rite of passage, but because her frontal lobe had shrunk to the size of a pea!
The Life and Times of the Thunderbolt Kid:
At Bishop’s, where they had a large and highly regarded assortment of penny candies by the cash register, you could also get a comparatively delicious licorice treat known, with exquisite sensitivity, as nigger babies — though no one actually used that term anymore except my grandmother. Occasionally, when visiting from her hometown of Winfield and dining with us at Bishop’s, she would slip me a quarter and tell me to go and get some candy for the two of us to share later.
“And don’t forget to get some NIGGER BABIES!” she would shout, to my intense mortification, across half an acre of crowded dining room, causing a hundred or so diners to look up.
Five minutes later as I returned with the purchase, pressed furtively to outside walls in a vain attempt to escape detection, she would spy me and cry out: “Oh, there you are, Billy. Did you remember to get some NIGGER BABIES? Because I sure do love those… NIGGER BABIES!”
“Grandma,” I would whisper fiercely, “you shouldn’t say that.”
“Shouldn’t say what— NIGGER BABIES?”
“Yes. They’re called ‘licorice babies.'”
“‘Nigger baby’ is a bit offensive,” my mom would explain.
“Oh, sorry,” my grandmother would say, marveling at the delicacy of city people. Then the next time we went to Bishop’s, she would say, “Billy, here’s a quarter. Go and get us some of those — whaddaya call ’em— LICORICE NIGGERS!”
