Mary Alice Altorfer
Mary Alice Altorfer is a paranoid Texan who hosted a visit from her two grandchildren, whose father is a nigger. The children swam at the River Tree subdivision pool every day for about a week before someone posted a flier on the pool gate bearing a picture of a black man with a large afro haircut, his arms folded across his chest and the words "POOL'S CLOSED" superimposed.
She has mistaken an internet meme for a racist attack and she wants to bring the police in - OMFG - to investigate the matter.
Latest rumors have it that Mary, egocentric, egomaniacal, strongly religious and always feeling persecuted and at the center of all attacks, is merely attention-whoring. Oh wonder! Who is to say for sure she didn't stick the lulzy "Pools Closed" (...due to AIDS and Stingrays) poster on the fence herself ? Time will tell.
The original raid took place as Anon's crusade against racism, sparked by a little black American boy who was denied access to his local pool because he was apparently HIV positive. Hence the "Pool's Closed due to AIDS" phrase. Little does Mary know that she is hindering anon in helping remember this great injustice. In fact, she cries racism instead.
—In early July 2008, Racism was used instead of chlorine, for great justice!. | ||
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Lulz quotes
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Pool's Open
A second poster, saying "Pool's Open", appeared Wednesday at the River Tree subdivision pool gate. Put up by an older man with a beard, the sign was removed by the Police for fingerprints and ruining everybody's fun like usual.
Contact details
Details moved to pastebin to avoid party van- Guide to Black Fax pool's closed to the Herald Zeitung (newspaper that reported on the story).
- Herald Zeitung staff contact info
- KENS-TV 5 Contact Info
POOL'S CLOSED: REPERCUSSIONS OF EVIL
Mary Alice Altorfer waited. The lights above her blinked and sparked out of the air. There were racists in the subdivision. She didn't see them, but had expected them now for years. Her warnings to Cernel Joson were not listened to and now it was too late. Far too late for now, anyway.
Mary Alice Altorfer was President of the Homeowner's Association for fourteen years. When she was young she watched the swimmers and she said to dad "I want to swim in the pool daddy." Dad said "No! You will BE KILL BY RACISTS"
There was a time when she believed him. Then as she got oldered she stopped. But now in the River Tree subdivision of the New Braunfels she knew there were racists.
"This is Joson" the radio crackered. "You must fight the racists!"
So Mary Alice Altorfer gotted her plasma rifle and blew up the wall.
"SHE GOING TO KILL US" said the racists
"I will shoot at her" said the cyberracist and he fired the rocket missiles.
Mary Alice Altorfer plasmaed at him and tried to blew him up. But then the ceiling fell and they were trapped and not able to kill.
"No! I must kill the racists" she shouted
The radio said "No, Mary Alice Altorfer. You are the racists"
And then Mary Alice Altorfer was a klansman.
Teh End.
Gallery
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This image offended Mary Alice Altorfer. -
This is Mary Alice Altorfer offended. -
Call to arms -
No! but we are!! lulz
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Anonymous suggests Mary Alice Buy A Dog. -
POOL'S CLOSED sign with Actual Racism, not Nutrasweet. -
Messing with the wrong granny -
You just shouldn't have -
Wrong grandma is wrong -
GOT IT BITCHES ? EVEN THE POOL'S CLOSED ! -
Altorfer chargin her lazer -
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Mary's power level. -
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I totally understand... -
ALERT TROLL!! -
Anonymous about to send some mail, who to? lulz -
This is a typical full frontal attack from grandmothers -
Pool's Closed but Mary Alice is Open. -
Mary gets rid of the p0rn on CraigsList -
A (I think) complete list of Mary's neighbors...Not so important but still raid! -
POOL CLOSED? FILM AT 10. -
lol -
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Mary hits frontpage of her local newspaper, so lol -
Possible suspect in the pool closing - use caution - suspect could be armed and racist. -
When rule 34 goes wrong. -
Leave racism to her.
Mary on her personal reform on racism
A Refrain of Echoes from the Reflecting Pool
by Mary Alice Altorfer
http://rudypompa.tripod.com/favorite.htm
When I was a young girl, I thought he was crazy. Growing up in rural North Carolina had shaped my viewpoint of right and wrong into a very narrow scope of black or white. Martin Luther King Jr. was a colored man, foolish enough to call himself my brother, and uppity enough to think white folks like me cared. "Ain't no dumb nigger gonna change what goes on in these towns or back roads," I used to think.
I can still visualize Alabama's Governor Wallace standing on those school steps, vehemently attempting to block desegregation; defiant to his president but faithful to his constituents. Even as a child, I knew that the man was not unique. Verbalizing what the South thought, Wallace was just another good ol' white boy with a degree of respectability because of his elected office. Federal troops may have brought Alabama to her knees, opening a lot of eyes to an ugly side of life in moss-draped Magnolialand, but the heart of Old Dixie still beat with a steady rhythm of hatred and bigotry.
Tired of newsreels with civil rights marchers being attacked, maimed, or killed, tired of watching some crazy black guy get his ass ripped by Cujo-like police dogs, and more tired still of watching even crazier white folks (Northerners, I used to tell myself) getting their heads cracked open with billy clubs, my attention waned. My life at that time had changed, and in my teenage list of priorities, Martin Luther King and all he stood for was quickly forgotten. Highlights those years for me in the early '60's was my move from North Carolina to Southern California, and my discovery of boys.
My daddy used to say, "You can take a girl out of the South, but you can't take the South out of the girl." I think he meant country, but South works much better for me. Either way, it did come back, shadowing my life and its decisions.
One day in 1967, more broke than bigoted, I applied for a job at a cannery in West Oakland. Hired, I found myself working in an enormous food processing plant at a great salary, a white speck in a blue-collar, predominately black workforce that, during the packing season, numbered in the thousands. A generous paycheck squelched my initial apprehension. Although overwhelmed at first, eventually and hesitantly "they" became my friends, and I learned "they" had families. Before too long, I became one of "them". My skin color didn't change, but my heart did. There were now faces on the expletives I had once used. Faces that did not look alike, and faces that I looked forward to seeing every day. My new friends, to my joyful gastronomic discovery, ate my kind of food or, depending how you looked at it, I ate theirs. Too many years in North Carolina had left me with a culinary taste for ribs, cobbler, greens, and cornbread, and West Oakland restaurants generously obliged me.
Then Martin Luther King was assassinated, which prompted me for the first time in my life to draw back and take a long hard look at the man. He and I were still young when he was killed. I suddenly realized, hell, he didn't change just the South, he was the catalyst for change regarding race relations for the entire world! It was years after he originally delivered his "I Have a Dream" speech that I actually sat down, watched and listened to it on television.
I was dumbstruck not only by what he said, but how: It was spoken in the cadence of a Southern Baptist preacher man; not only a speech but a true deliverance; not just eloquence but words turned into gospel. Both man and speech were unforgettable, and they gave me goose bumps. Martyred for what I took for granted, the Reverend King managed a celluloid "laying on of the hands" for me, because I changed. Some could argue (with my Catholic background) that the prayers of many nuns had been answered.
Change was difficult, but it was a challenge that I took. To quote Rev. King, I began to pick my friends and associates "not for the color of their skin, but for the content of their character."
I live by a simple code espoused in writing by Thomas Jefferson in the Declaration of Independence. It states, "All men are created equal, and they are endowed by the Creator with certain inalienable rights, that among these are life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness." The Rev. Martin Luther King put meaning into those words for me. Once a person I ridiculed, he would later in my life become a role model.
More than four decades and 3,000 miles have distanced me from the very defined racial barriers and hatreds that I knew as a child. "No Colored Allowed" was a sign that symbolized that negative era of human rights from which Martin Luther King emerged. A black man who broke stride, stepped out, and stood up to what must have seemed an impregnable wall of discrimination and indifference. To have been there, and to have known the opposition that he faced, makes me gasp at his raw courage.
I am not black, therefore, I cannot say "I know how it feels" because I do not, but there are some things I do understand. Posted signs reading "Whites Only" or "No Colored Allowed' are no longer allowed, but the actions and hearts of many still bear their imprimatur.
Confederate symbolism is to the American South what the swastika was to Nazi Germany. Both represent the tears and toil of a specific race of people, and Mississippi's vote last year to retain its century-old flag with the Confederate battle cross emblazoned on it, was an affirmation of malice not a nostalgic link to the past.
For the new South to cling to such a divisive representation of a bygone era when slavery and lynchings were acceptable, demeans half their citizenry and taunts the ghosts of Martin Luther King, Medgar Evers, four little girls in their Sunday best, and the lifeless body of every black man, woman, and child to ever swing from a Southern tree limb.
Mississippi's resistance to change should have opened a lot of eyes, both blue and brown, to an anachronous place caught yet in a warp of hate, and remind an otherwise ignorant nation, that such values still exist in America.
History can placate hate. Often, it is written according to the bent of the author, and often it is learned according to the bent of the teacher. Slavery did not begin in America, nor is it confined to the white man's exploitation of the African slave; any good pupil of history knows this. But enslavement is not limited to coerced and free labor, it is also the loss of human dignity--the latter perpetuated in this country long after Lincoln signed the Emancipation Proclamation. Issues stemming from slavery inspired restricted neighborhoods and clubs, segregation, voting inequalities, and much to the regret of the people who maintained these lines, and readied the tree limbs for the poor souls who crossed them, inspiration also went out to the civil rights leaders who sought to change these limitations: Martin Luther King being one of them. The Song of the South did not lull him into forgetting his place in a society that found order in the subtle, and not so subtle, denigration of an entire race of people. He was a pupil who read beyond the written word and knew the real history of the region.
The anti-bellum mansions that trail their legacy of mint juleps and cool verandas throughout the southern part of the United States still represent for many a sweeping vista of genteel living. Their enduring white-columned porches, gracious reminders of a time before northerners and abolitionists, when the Negro knew his place, and the plantation was a realm unto itself. However, the history and heritage of the South have never totally integrated with the truth. Behind the mystique and the mansions, are the slave cabins and the sharecroppers' shacks; the bent backs of a people, whose free and cheap labor, created an arbitrary landscape of beauty, refined as the sugar it produced, and coarse as the bestial manner in which it operated.
The shadow of Martin Luther King looms large. He understood that our future depends on how we remedy the sins of the past, but his invocation for justice and equality did not advocate restitution or level demands. Simplicity is its strength. Evangelists don't go quiet, and the bullet that snuffed his life did not stifle his voice. I heard it.
Along with Presidents Washington and Lincoln, the Reverend Martin Luther King has earned a commemorative day off. Too bad, it was not more candles on his birthday cake because there is still so much work to do. Hate never takes a holiday.
I believe racism has been a hot topic on her mind since she was young (and racist), when she joined the workforce she was made to work with black people that made her change her beliefs and understandings, hense most probably is the reason why she has a batshit insane tendency to assume the Pool's Closed sign was Racist and nothing more than a racist attack on her (what better!) half-black grandkids.
After reading this story, she probably wants to promote herself as a person fighting racism and saw this sign as a way to get attention doing so, taking advantage of the situation - she alerted police & news media to attempt to make herself the hero of the news.
Unfortunately Mary didn't realize the Pool's Closed poster was a part of an internet meme and known to millions online.
TL;DR - And then Mary Alice was the racists
News Articles
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See Also
External Links
- God bless Santa Claus (some shit typed up by Mary, some time ago)
- Neighbors Offended By Sign at New Braunfels Pool
- Alleged racism attracts online attention
- Net users insist 'racist' sign is joke
- Harassing calls more sinister than pool flyer
- Virtual Attack
- Web-initiated harassment of grandma continues
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