Amy Biehl was the privileged blond California bimbo who traveled to South Africa in the early 1990s to help that nation’s poor oppressed blacks, who repaid the favor by brutally stabbing and stoning her to death while yelling antiwhite slogans, laughing at her agonized moans, and toy-toying to her death rattle. Biehl’s wealthy parents traveled to Cape Town to
defend their daughter’s killers, who were spared punishment as part of the postapartheid “truth and reconciliation” con game. The parents practically
adopted the killers, giving them jobs and money, and kissing their asses at every turn. It was a “loving relationship,” according to Biehl’s mother, who walked one of the killers down the aisle in traditional unga-bunga garb at his
wedding.
Although the Biehls had no connection to South Africa prior to Amy’s murder, the parents still felt “responsible” for the plight of blacks in that country, because
all whites owe
all blacks everywhere and for perpetuity. The Biehls decided that the killers were owed the “right” to puree their daughter, and they’ve spent every year since doing everything they can to compensate the murderers for the pain they suffered when their knuckles were tragically bruised against Amy Biehl’s skull.
The Biehls didn’t order a hit on their own daughter, but one could be forgiven for thinking they did, considering the astounding amount of praise they’ve heaped upon her assassins, and how much they’ve crowed about how Amy’s murder made the world a better place by enriching the blacks who offed her.
Now,
that’s allyship. And it’s the only kind BLM allows. “Let us rob and terrorize you, let us murder your children. You owe us the right to commit these crimes; take your losses with humility. Don’t prosecute us;
reward us. Apologize
to us for what we’ve done. Defund the police, and fund
us for the privilege of suffering under our fists.”
There is no other type of allyship that BLM seeks. “Let us kill you. Do not hold us accountable or judge us. Ask
us to forgive
you, and pay us for our troubles.”
As I said at the start of this piece, it takes a rocket scientist (not a urologist). Nick Berry got it, instinctively. He responded to his near-fatal pummeling exactly as whites are supposed to: “I’m terribly sorry my face got in the way of your fists.”
“Thank you, sir, may I have another?”
Welcome to Amy Biehl Nation.
