Uhhhh, Guys...Reality Check.
The following comment was posted this evening on a recent post here:
"This kid gets it! All you have to do is find three Whites who think like we do. Then they find three Whites, who find three Whites, etc. How difficult is that? Well, if you throw a Northwest Volunteer Army recruiting poster at him/her as his first exposure, it's a no go. "THERE'S ONE OF THOSE RACISTS! GET HIM! But if you show a NAR flag sticker, somebody will ask what country's flag that is. And then you can take that first step of the thousand mile journey to awakening and saving a fellow White..."
Whoa, there, hoss. Let's back up to the part about "recruiting poster for the Northwest Volunteer Army..."
Uh, guys...we do all understand, do we not, that the Northwest Volunteer Army is fiction? That it does not exist? We do all understand this, don't we? Please tell me you understand this.
My novels are just that. They are fiction. They are the cover of the box of a jigsaw puzzle, telling you what the completed puzzle is supposed to look like, if and when you ever decide you want to assemble it. But at the rate we're going, that's not going to be until long after I am dead and ground up into dog food, when the local morgue sells my body out the back door to the Alpo corporation, along with all the other paupers. Nothing of the kind is going to happen any time within a future sufficiently foreseeable to have any meaning in the real world.
If you guys want to make my novels into reality, you can do it. By all means, knock yourself out. But to be blunt, there is thus far no sign that anyone else is serious about any of this. Oh, sure, we'd all like to see it done. Yet my repeated invitations to folks to get your pale asses up here and help me with the heavy lifting are invariably met with heads hanging down, shuffling feet, and furtive glances around for the exits, as well as with long, abstruse excuses as to why you can't possibly Come Home now, oh, no no no, of course maybe in a couple of years (read once Harold gets the heavy lifting done and the picnic tables set up and the cakes and ale set out...)
Well, that's another subject, and we won't get into it. But the fact remains that all I've been hearing for the past five years, since the first Northwest independence novel was published, is the tap tap tap tap tap of anonymous individuals, most of whom probably resemble the Comic Book Guy from The Simpsons, tapping on their computer keyboards. If anyone was really serious about this, we wouldn't be hearing tap tap tap tap, we'd be hearing rat-a-tat-tat and badda-bing, badda-boom.
If anyone wants to emulate anything in my novels, here's how: A) Read them and study them; and then B) Just do it. You don't need my approval or input. In these books I have said pretty much all I've got to say that needs saying. The rest you'll have to play by ear, if ever you decide to pick up the necessary instruments to play ZOG this little serenade. Yours will be the risk, and yours will be the glory of either victory or defeat. I am only one man. I am not a magician, I have no magic beans, and I cannot create something out of nothing. Bluntly put, I've pretty much done what I come here to do, as they say back home.
Ever since I completed The Brigade I have been approached by a series of very strange people who claim to have somehow gotten the impression that I, myself, personally, a 54 year old man whose military experience is 30 years behind him, who has a serious medical condition, and no resources or backup of any kind, am going to personally, (me, myself, now) go out and lead the charge against the barricades, an M-60 blazing in each hand and belts of ammo across my no doubt hairy and rippling chest. (Torn shirt and bandana optional.)
These people are apparently so convinced of this that they are very anxious for me to tell them all about it. They keep sending me their telephone numbers (never asking for mine) so that phone records will show that I placed the call, when I call them and then talk to total strangers on an unsecured telephone line about committing serious Federal felonies.
I am not making this up, you know. These turkeys seriously expect me to do this. I haven't yet figured out whether these are seriously incompetent police informers or else whether they're just plain kooks. Most likely a little of both. [Sigh...] I usually e-mail them back and ask them to call, and give them the number of the local mental health clinic.
But they just keep coming, and I have to admit, it's starting to get a little unnerving.
Our Revolution will be made by serious, adult people who are willing to make a serious and lifelong commitment to a transcendent cause beyond their own egos and their own lives. God will send us such people, some day, after He has punished us sufficiently for the unspeakable crime we committed in going to war against our own brothers in Europe twice during the last century, for insulting His creation with our breathtaking stupidity in believing black-skinned anthropoids to somehow be "equal," and for our laziness and cowardice in allowing the sick perversion of sodomy amongst us.
The Revolution will not be accomplished by dysfunctional and deranged weirdos who hear voices in their heads, like Buford Furrow, or who are seemingly incapable of getting it and who cannot even distinguish between fiction and reality.
I think I can honestly say that with my age and deteriorating health, I am not afraid of ZOG any more. ZOG can't take my youth any more. I've already misspent it, and every year there is less and less they can do to me. A case can even be made that a prison cell might be a more comfortable final destination for me than under whatever bridge Amurrican society will be consigning White males of my age to, in a few years' time. No, I think I can honestly say I'm no longer afraid of our lords and masters.
But some of these fruit loops who claim to be on our own side? Now they scare me shitless.