"To the future or to the past, to a time when thought is free...to a time when truth exists, and what is done cannot be undone...From the age of uniformity, from the age of solitude, from the age of Big Brother, from the age of doublethink--greetings!" - George Orwell, 1984
Saturday, May 31, 2008
Friday, May 30, 2008
Burmese Refugee Dumping
Letter to Editor
Republican American, Waterbury, CT
Burmese Refugee Dumping
The International Institute of Connecticut claims on its website, "we have assisted over 7000 people each year integrate into American life. We have paved the way for them to find a place to live, to find employment, to learn English and to generally improve their lives and be happy and adjusted in their new country." These are for profit organizations engaged in trafficking human cargo, paid for by the U.S. State Department. They bring over hapless people to Waterbury, dump them in roach invested apartments, and then abandon them after ninety days to local welfare. What great humanitarians!!
27,000 Hmong "refugees" have settled Minnesota and they just keep coming from Laos, decades after the Vietnam War. One Hmong deer hunter shot eight White hunters and killed six of them. This was followed by a white hunter killing a Hmong. Such are the multicultural pleasantries.
In schools, Hmong children turn up pregnant at the age of thirteen and have their second child in high school. Needless to say, this is all paid for by the local taxpayers.
Lewiston, Maine has 2,000 Somalis, with about 13,000 in the United States. The problems of the world are dumped on unsuspecting towns and cities across the United States. Welfare, fights in schools, endless charges of racism, xenophobia, etc.
The Burmese represent a new group the U.S. State Department and the Institute can mine for refugees. A few thousand in Waterbury? Don’t think it is not possible.
Senator Christopher Dodd’s involvement in this is laughable. He receives an "F" for his voting record on immigration and has done everything possible to have unlimited immigration into the United States and amnesty for the illegals already here.
Rep. Christopher Murphy’s response, "this agency is one of the few outlets that we have for refugee resettlement." Does Rep. Murphy want more resettlement? Does he want 27,000 Hmong coming to stay, or 27,000 Burmese in the State of Connecticut?
Neither Christopher Dodd nor Christopher Murphy give any thought that these "refugees" should be returned home. Their comments lead one to believe they would welcome thousands more. There are seven billion people in the world, most of which would love to be in the United States to "to escape the tyranny in the native country." How many can the U.S. hold? We may find out.
Refugee laws were set up on the model of European wars where refugees would return to their countries at the end of a war. What this has turned into is massive air-lift from third world, from every spot on the globe into the United States, from which the "refugees" never return.
The best solution to this problem is to return the Burmese, Somalis and Hmong. Pay them off and set them up in their own countries. They would be better off and so would citizens of the United States.
CT Citizens for Immigration Control
Paul Streitz, email@example.com
Thursday, May 29, 2008
Keep A Straight Face, Or Else.
"He did not know how long she had been looking at him, but perhaps for as much as five minutes, and it was possible that his features had not been perfectly under control. It was terribly dangerous to let your thoughts wander when you were in any public place or within range of a telescreen. The smallest thing could give you away. A nervous tic, an unconscious look of anxiety, a habit of muttering to yourself—anything that carried with it the suggestion of abnormality, of having something to hide. In any case, to wear an improper expression on your face (to look incredulous when a victory was announced, for example) was itself a punishable offence. There was even a word for it in Newspeak: facecrime, it was called." - George Orwell, 1984
You know, the similarities between the real 2008 and the fictional 1984 are really starting to creep me out.
Most countries now have the equivalent of thoughtcrime laws, even in the United States with its hatecrime statutes that punish wicked thoughts with "enhanced sentences" so that smacking some monkoid in a bar fight can now bring you life imprisonment. In Britain and increasingly in this country, closed-circuit television cameras monitor citizens' every move, and in England some of them can even shout you down and bully you like Orwell's telescreens.
Now we've got facecrime.
According to Daily Kos: "Transportation Security Administration (TSA) screeners are learning to recognize a special set of forbidden facial expressions. If your face slips into one of these during a TSA inspection, you will be taken aside and given a more detailed screening: Travelers at Sea-Tac and dozens of other major airports across America are being scrutinized by teams of TSA behavior-detection officers specially trained to discern the subtlest suspicious behaviors."
How subtle and suspicious is your behavior, eh? Are there any guidelines to help you figure out how you can avoid such dangerous subtlety? Apparently not.
"TSA officials will not reveal specific behaviors identified by the program--called SPOT (Screening Passengers by Observation Technique)--that are considered indicators of possible terrorist intent. But a central task is to recognize microfacial expressions--a flash of feelings that in a fraction of a second reflects emotions such as fear, anger, surprise or contempt, said Carl Maccario, who helped start the program for TSA."
Mmmm...I guess that means that before you get onto an airplane you need to spend a long time sitting in the departure lounge (which you'll do anyway these days) sitting in the lotus position and going "oooohhhhmmmmm...." lest the five hour delay in your flight cause your face to register unpleasant thoughts. One wouldn't want to be dragged into a cubicle and strip-searched by airport security goons who seem to be mostly non-whites of various sorts for having a forbidden face now, would one?
I mean, Jeez, Louise, getting busted because of the expression on your face? It's like some cosmic joke, only it's dead serious.
You think it's bad now after eight years of Jug-Ears? What do you think things will be like after eight years of the Sea Hag or BO?
Wednesday, May 28, 2008
What Really Happened On 9/11?
I received an offline question: what do I, myself, believe happened on 9/11?
My answer is simple. I don't know. I don't believe anyone does, at least no one outside the inner circles of our ruling elite. 9/11 is like Oklahoma City writ large. In both cases, we do not know what happened, and given the nature of the society we live in and given the fact that we are ruled with treachery and deceit by wicked and contemptible men who are capable of any abomination in order to preserve their wealth and their power, I frankly doubt that we will ever in our lifetimes receive any kind of honest and factual accounting of either of these events.
There is no question, none at all, that the bandit state of Israel, and George W. Bush and his little Jewish neocon friends, are entirely capable of committing such an act in order to frighten America into handing over even more wealth and power. Israel, the necons, and the tub-thumping Christian Late Great Planet Earth crowd who are also in there in the mix are all bad people who are utterly without moral scruple. They have no regard whatsoever for law, truth, justice, or basic common decency if these things get in the way of their agendas.
But did they do this? I'm not a big 9/11 conspiracy buff and I can't recite all this data and all these contradictory bits of evidence, so forth and so on. I have looked at some of these web sites on the subject, and I think there is some material on there which, while it is not conclusive, is at least suggestive of government and Israeli involvement. But like I said, we'll never know for sure.
Remember two things: first off, any time a crime is committed, the first question to ask is cui bono? Who benefits?
Certainly not the Muslim world, who have now suffered the serial invasion of several Muslim countries and the mass slaughter of hundreds of thousands of their people. On the other hand, Israel's chestnuts were pulled out of the fire quite nicely though, weren't they? No one beefed after 9/11 when Israel used the same methods to suppress the Second Intifada that got Yugoslavia bombed and invaded and Milosevic dragged away in chains when he tried the same thing not two years before.
Secondly, always remember the words of Franklin Delano Roosevelt: "In politics, nothing is ever accidental." FDR of all people should know, in view of his lifetime of skulduggery.
Basically, it is now obvious that every word uttered by George W. Bush and everyone connected with his administration is a lie. Therefore, we can take the official government version of the events of 9/11 as a good benchmark of what did not happen.
Beyond that, it's anyone's guess.
Monday, May 26, 2008
A Poem For Memorial Day
[In view of the date, and this debate about whether or not we should be good Amurricans and go kill "sand niggers" at the behest of the Jews, like good little goyim, I present the following I found today. - HAC]
W. K. Enwer - 1917
I was a peasant of the Polish plain.
I left my plow because the message ran,
Russia in danger needed every man
To save her from the Teuton. I was slain.
I gave my life for freedom--this I know
For those who bade me fight had told me so.
I was a Tyrolese, a mountaineer;
I gladly left my mountain home to fight
Against the brutal, treacherous Muscovite;
And died in Poland on a Cossack spear.
I gave my life for freedom--this I know
For those who bade me fight had told me so.
I worked in Lyons at my weaver's loom
When suddenly the Prussian despot hurled
His felon blow at France and at the world;
Then I went forth to Belgium and my doom.
I gave my life for freedom--this I know
For those who bade me fight had told me so.
I owned a vinyard by the wooded Main
Until the Fatherland, beset by foes
Lusting her downfall called me, and I rose
Swift to the call, and died in fair Lorraine.
I gave my life for freedom--this I know
For those who bade me fight had told me so.
I worked in a great shipyard on the Clyde;
There came a sudden word of war declared,
Of Belgium peaceful, helpless, unprepared
Asking our aid. I joined the ranks and died.
I gave my life for freedom--this I know
For those who bade me fight had told me so.
I worked upon a farm in Illinois.
The squad appeared; with them I marched away.
Somewhere in France, amid the trenches gray
I met grim death with many other boys.
I gave my life for freedom--this I know
For those who bade me fight had told me so.
A Brigade Fan Writes
I have finished reading The Brigade for the second time, the first being online as it was being written. It was every bit as good the second time as the first, very possibly the best book I have read, and I am a reader of much. The last twenty pages had me in tears, of pride and of rage.
Goddamn, why does this not happen? It is truly the only acceptable direction open to us now. Every where else lies destruction of the only race on this planet worth a damn, except the very members of that race don't seem to think so. Agony.
I also finished Fire And Rain and Slow Coming Dark, both magnificent novels that you sent me, many thanks. I will have to see what else you have written and may yet have a copy of. There is one about the Wars of the Roses?
Sunday, May 25, 2008
The Last Forbidden Topic
A blog for the discussion of the Last Forbidden Topic:
No, I haven’t lost my mind. No more so than usual, anyway. Don’t worry, guys, there’s method in my madness. (Or possibly madness in my method.) I will explain later.
Saturday, May 24, 2008
Friday, May 23, 2008
[From Chapter XII of THE BRIGADE. A young couple is being initiated into the NVA.]
Schumaker must have been satisfied with what he saw and heard from the pair of them in their subsequent meetings, because two weeks later, on a chilly night, Annette and Eric found themselves seated on a sofa in an apartment above an organic health food store in Portland’s ritzy downtown Pearl District. They were sipping on big mugs of steaming herbal tea when the door opened and three men came into the apartment from the hall outside. The two young people stood up, not knowing whether they should snap to attention, or what.
“Good evening, comrades,” said the big man in the lead, in a genuinely welcoming tone. He was Gary Bresler, battalion adjutant, a tall and beefy man with receding gray hair and big hands. Annette and Eric could see the shoulder-holstered automatic beneath the light sports jacket he wore, sans tie. He waved them back to their seats. “For your purposes, my name is Walter. I will introduce these other two comrades in due course. You’re here on time. That’s good. One of the things I will be emphasizing to you today is the absolute requirement for punctuality. When you are told to be somewhere at seventeen minutes past 3 p.m. exactly, you will be given a time check to set your watch by, and you will be there at 3:17. Not 3:15. Not 3:19. Being two minutes late, or sometimes two minutes early, can very often mean the margin of difference between a successfully completed military operation and your own torture, death, or lifelong imprisonment in the closest approximation to hell on earth that human beings have yet devised. And on that cheerful note, we’ll begin.”
Bresler and Lieutenant Wayne Hill, the Third Section intelligence officer, sat down. The third man, Billy Jackson, went over and sat down by the window, his eyes half on the rest of the group and half on the street outside. He took off his light jacket and his tweed golf cap, and they could see that over his maroon polo shirt he also was wearing an automatic pistol in a shoulder holster. Annette and Eric both recognized him with a slight start, but said nothing. Both of them wondered when they would be given guns and shoulder holsters to wear.
Bresler started in. “Right. You two are now members of A Company, Second Battalion, First Portland Brigade, Northwest Volunteer Army. You are under military discipline as much as any other army in the world, and that means you do what you’re told, when you’re told to do it, and how you’re told to do it. There are four other members of that battalion besides yourselves in this building, including myself, these two comrades, and one other who is on sentry duty outside and whom you will not meet. This is probably the most of us you will ever see gathered under the same roof, for a long time to come. It will be some years before any of you will even be able to swear from personal experience that more than maybe a dozen of us exist at all, except that your daily viewing of the news will demonstrate the NVA’s presence throughout the Northwest in the form of dead bodies. Some of ours, mostly theirs.
“You will very seldom if ever know us by our real names. For example, I am the Second Battalion executive officer, but you have no need to know my identity, and so you will refer to me today as Walter, and later by a variety of code names as needed.” Bresler indicated Hill. “This scholarly-looking gentleman here you may call Oscar. I am authorized to tell you he is an operative of the NVA’s Third Section, which would probably cause you both to shit in your pants if you fully understood what that means. Oscar is presently attached to the Portland command, and he is here to brief you on some things that we want you to do for us having to do with your school. It is possible that you will never meet either Oscar or myself again. Lieutenant Billy Jackson here is an obvious exception to the pseudonym rule. He’s been all over the TV, including his stunning debut on America’s Most Wanted, and his face is prominently displayed on all the DT reward posters, so it would be pointless to give him an alias for this meeting.
"Lieutenant Jackson is A Company commander, and so he will be your immediate superior. The three of us are going to teach you new comrades what you need to know about how the NVA operates as an organization and fights as a team. This is going to be your crash course in survival in an underground revolutionary movement, so pay attention. You will only be told all this once, and if you fuck it up then not only you but maybe some of your friends and comrades will pay the price in blood and agony. A few questions first. I gather you two are personally involved, and this is known around your campus?”
“Uh, yes, uh, Walter sir,” said Eric.
Bresler nodded. “Okay, that will give you a valid reason for hanging out and being seen together a lot. Wade Schumaker is actually not assigned to A Company, but because you already know him we will preserve that contact and use him to transmit and receive instructions. You both have him for your faculty advisor now, I believe?”
“Yes,” said Annette. “And he’s faculty advisor to the Chess Club, which Eric is in.”
“All right, so he has reason to deal with you in the framework of your school environment, but outside class I don’t want you fraternizing with Wade or being seen with him in any non-academic situation. Ideally companies are supposed to be completely compartmentalized, but sometimes, as in this case, that doesn’t work out in practice.”
“What company is Shoe in?” asked Eric.
“You have no need to know that, so you will not be told,” said Bresler. “The very first rule of underground operation is that everything has to be run on a strict need to know basis, and I do mean strict. As a corollary to that, you must never display any curiosity or ask questions about any other comrades you deal with, about specific events or people that have nothing to do with your own immediate work. I know that curiosity is a natural human impulse, but you have to learn to restrain it. It’s not only dangerous to others, it’s dangerous to you, because when a Volunteer starts asking too many questions, guys like Oscar here start to think about you. You don’t want Oscar thinking about you. Trust me on this, you don’t.”
Annette quietly gulped. “We get it, sir.”
“Don’t get the idea that we’re paranoid,” said Bresler. “Paranoia is an unfounded and irrational fear that people are out to get you. In the case of the NVA, a lot of very bad people really are out to get us. And don’t confuse security consciousness with paranoia. You have to learn to tell the difference.”
“Uh, what exactly is the difference, sir?” asked Eric.
“A good rule of thumb is that security consciousness helps you survive and carry out your mission. Paranoia prevents you from carrying out your mission. Don’t worry, once it hits home to you that your lives really are in danger, you’ll develop that third eye in the back of your head you need. You’ll have to, because if it fails you, you’re dead. But we have found that once white people break free of the American bubble and get back into the proactive ways of our ancestors, all the old instincts re-assert themselves pretty quick. Aryans are natural warriors and a mere 80 years of refined sugar, MTV and political correctness can’t dismantle thousands of years of racial memory. But enough of that. Like I’ve said, from now on you take your orders from Billy here, or from Wade.”
“Orders to do what?” asked Eric.
“We’ll get into that in a bit,” replied Bresler. “Right now we need to get some basic information. Do either or both of you have transportation?”
“We’ve both got cars, both late-model,” said Annette. “Mine’s a Lexus, Eric has a Volvo. Rich kids, you know.”
“That’s good to know,” said Bresler. “Both registered in your names?”
“Our parents’ names,” said Eric.
“All right. We may need those vehicles for operations, since sometimes a Lexus looks less out of place in a certain area than a pickup truck, but if we do we’ll put on false plates. Not stolen ones, phony plates we make ourselves that will actually come up with a dead end name and address if the cops run them.”
“You guys hacked into the DMV computer system?” asked Annette, astonished. “Oh, sorry sir, I know, you said we’re not supposed to ask questions.”
“We have a vast reserve of geeky white computer nerds who are absolutely brilliant, and whose lives were made pure torment by the niggers and spic gang-bangers in what passes for public school in this society,” chuckled Hill. “Payback is turning out to be a bitch.”
“Second question,” said Bresler. “Do either of you have a gun?”
“No, sir, we destroyed the one that—the one we used on Lucius Flammus,” said Eric. “I cut it up on my dad’s laser press and I scattered the bits and pieces all over the city.”
“Good thinking,” said Bresler. By the window Jackson nodded silently.
“Will you give us guns?” asked Annette.
“Not now,” said Bresler. “In the first place, you won’t need them for the moment. In the second place, you’d have to conceal them somewhere. You can’t walk around the campus at Ashdown strapped, because someone might see the weapons, plus Wade tells me there are metal detectors everywhere and security spot checks and searches all the time.”
“Yeah, that’s right,” said Eric. “I mean, yes sir.”
“When the time comes that you need to be armed for active service, you’ll be armed,” said Bresler. “In anticipation of that time, Billy will arrange several weapons training sessions for you where you will be familiarized with the M-16, the AK-47 and 74, pump shotguns and several handguns. Plus maybe an Uzi or two. Situations may arise wherein you have to be armed quickly, and we won’t have time to show you how to load a magazine or clear a stoppage.”
“It’s not that hard,” Jackson assured them. “Unless you’re training for specialist work like long-range sniping or covert shit with silencers, anyone of normal intelligence can learn everything they need to know about the care and handling of firearms in order to do the kind of operations we do in a few hours. Like Samuel Colt once said, a gun is just a machine for throwing balls. It’s not that complicated a tool. It’s what’s in your head and in your heart that takes real development.”
“Okay, now I’m going to give you a rundown on general underground procedures,” said Bresler. “Basically we have two kinds of Volunteers. There are those who are on the bounce like Billy here—that means that he is known as a Volunteer by the federals, and he lives on the run as an outlaw. We call these Volunteers U-Boats, because they must remain submerged and concealed. But there are many people who are secretly members of the Army, who are still in place in society and who still live outwardly normal lives doing normal things, blending in. We need to keep you two on the surface as long as we can, because that is where you will be of the most value to us.”
“Kind of like secret agents behind enemy lines?” suggested Annette.
“That is exactly what you will be, yes,” agreed Bresler. “And you two need to get out of your heads right now any idea that there will be anything romantic or exciting about it. It is a frightening, nerve-wracking, stress-filled way to live, and it will make you sick in every sense of the word.” Bresler paused, and looked at them hard. “I have already told you that the first rule of underground operation is the strictest need to know. The second rule is that no one must know or so much as suspect that you are Volunteers. Not your parents, not your friends, not your priest, nobody. Kids—sorry, comrades I should say, I know you’ve already made your bones—your adolescence ended the moment you capped that monkoid, but you have to make sure it’s dead. I have to emphasize to you that this is not some kind of cool secret club or chic little extreme hobby that you can let anybody in on in conspiratorial whispers, to awe and impress your friends with how daring and swashbuckling you are. You won’t impress anybody, you’ll get arrested and destroy your own lives and maybe some others as well. This doesn’t just mean keeping your lip zipped about the NVA. It means that you have to blend in perfectly with your surroundings. You must live a life of total deception. You must become actors on a level that would win you an Academy Award in Hollywood.
"You must say and do all the right things. You must be properly liberal, politically correct, diverse, tolerant, inclusive, and whatever else they call white people eating shit and grinning while they do it these days, in your particular grove of Academe. You must hug a nigger every day and sing Havah Nagilah every night. You must react with shock and horror at the latest evil atrocity perpetrated by the NVA, and participate in every required Two Minute Hate against your comrades and wicked white racism in general, and you must shout louder than anyone else. You must never express even the slightest politically incorrect opinion in class and hold your Jewish teachers in that goo-goo-eyed reverential awe the kikes love and expect from us. You must wear a mask hiding your true face from all the world, and in time that grows harder and harder to do. It can drive you insane, and I mean that literally. It’s happened. But you must never let the mask slip. You have taken on a burden that you cannot, must not, dare not share with anyone outside the Army. No one must know. No one must suspect!”
Jackson spoke up from his seat by the window. “Comrades, don’t take this wrong. But the fact is that you grew up right at the top of this shit heap, in the penthouse, with all the light and the color and the new paint job, windows open to the warm summer breeze and such. Most of us, including me, grew up in trailer parks and renter houses and crummy Section 8 apartments and a lot of us, including me, have done time in prison. You simply can’t have any idea what it is like to be locked in with a lot of black and brown beasts, worse than beasts. And the prisoners are even worse. Clearly you’re both brave enough to risk it. You’ve proved that. But if you have to go into that place, the worst weight you can have pressing down on your soul night after night is to know that you put yourself there by some mistake you could have avoided.”
“We know enough to be afraid, Lieutenant,” Eric assured him. “We understand what Walter is saying.”
“Good,” said Bresler. “Moving along here, the next thing you need to be drilled in is communications. You both have personal cell phones?”
“Yes,” they both said with a nod.
“Give Billy and Schumaker the numbers, but those are for emergencies only,” Bresler told them. “All your personal calls go on your bill and leave a paper trail. You will need to buy throwaway Mighty Mart or some other cheapo phone of the kind which are used for most Army business, mostly via text messaging since that way the enemy can’t pick up anyone’s voice through a cell site and do a voice print match. You will have to memorize the numbers we will give you for Billy and Wade. Do not put those numbers into the phone’s memory or speed dial. Never have more than one of these extra phones on you. If you’re searched and someone finds the extra phone, you can say you bought it when you lost your regular phone but then you found it again, or you bought it to keep in your car, or something of that kind. But if the feds find six or seven extra phones on you or in your room, they’ll realize they’ve got a live one. We change phones every few weeks, and if we feel something has been compromised somewhere along the line, you’ll be instructed to get rid of your special phone and get a new one.
"On the phone you will use codes, sometimes simple, sometimes complex. We have found that the simplest and easiest to remember are words and phrases having to do with junk food and booze, Burger Barn, Pizza Express, Taco Shack, beer brand names, and so on. We tried some dealing with niggerball, but a lot of the assholes who are listening to us actually follow that crap, and sometimes our messages didn’t make sports sense and so they stood out. You are going to have to memorize these codes, and I warn you, they change as often as the phones."
Thursday, May 22, 2008
Today, for the first time, I paid over $4.00 per gallon for gas. I might have found some still at $3 something, by a couple of cents maybe, but I just didn't feel like driving all over town on fumes looking for it. So I may have bought my last $3-something per gallon gasoline. I may not ever see it again under $4.00, anywhere.
I read one prediction that says in a couple of years it will be up to $12.00 per gallon.
Sounds good to me, you assholes. You have spent your entire lives winding up this particular clock. Now you can damned well hear it strike.
The Roman orator and statesman Cicero once said, "All that is necessary for the triumph of evil is for good men to do nothing." You have spent your entire lives avoiding the whole issue of the nature of the world we live in, who is responsible for what is happening in that world, and what must be done about it. Not before time, you are about to begin a long course of schooling on the punishment involved for doing nothing.
In time to come you are going to pay for every hour of your life you wasted playing some stupid online computer game, for every day you fucked off in school, for every triple cheeseburger you stuffed into your gob, every corner you cut, every responsibility you evaded, and every time you turned and walked away to avoid "trouble," pretending you didn't see or hear. And your loved ones will pay a good chunk of your bill as well.
Have a nice life, paleface.
Wednesday, May 21, 2008
Confessions of a Bigot
Ten years ago I was a firm believer in racial equality. I lived in Chicago, in a White locality of good homes and handsome apartment buildings. When blacks began moving into the neighborhood I almost welcomed them. Willy-nilly, I watched integration happen before my very eyes.
Six months later, the nice buildings were wrecks, the Whites were gone, and the area was a social and physical shambles. Filth, garbage, drugs and crime were rampant. White skins were the target of vicious, blatant, organized black racism. When it became totally unsafe to live in the neighborhood because of roving trigger-happy gangs, I moved my family to another part of the city two miles distant.
Again, it was an excellent neighborhood, with handsome single-family homes in the $100,000 to $125,000 class, near the South Shore Country Club, dotted with luxury apartment buildings. There I lived through precisely the same experiences I had moved to escape. It was like seeing a movie for the second time. Once again the black tide came rolling in on waves of drugs and crime. Once again roving gangs of heroin addicts and vandals made the night hideous with catcalls, boomboxes, smashing glass and gunshots. I saw blacks copulating behind hedges, standing in doorways, in cars parked along the curb, totally indifferent to public decency. I saw people mugged and autos being stripped. I saw crimes that deserved shooting on the spot. I saw theft in grocery stores. I found piles of human feces in the foyer, without benefit of toilet paper, and our janitor informed us this was a common occurrence in Negro apartment buildings.
In our three-story apartment building, containing 120 apartments, it was a nightly occurrence to see men urinating from upper floor windows. Daylight would reveal the dripping, reeking stains down the building's walls. Bloody, screaming fights to the accompaniment of smashing glass and splintering furniture were regular events. Not once did I ever see blacks clean up their mess. Garbage disposal consisted of tenants dumping trash out of windows, breaking every glass bottle in sight, throwing old furniture into the gutter, stuffing rags into broken windows and casting plastic containers and old paper to the four winds.
So I moved again, this time three miles further south to another decent neighborhood. Again I endured the same scenario, line for line, cue for cue. I left Chicago finally with a profound racial prejudice. I came from a background of White poverty every bit as pervasive and humiliating as that of a black slum, but instead of turning to crime or welfare I went to work. I didn't go around whining with my hand outstretched for alms and charity. Even in the midst of grinding poverty my home and the homes of our White neighbors were clean. No filth, no drugs, no public immorality, no illegitimate children, and no physical danger to our persons or our property. We slept with unlocked doors and open windows.
Liberals mouth the myth that the black population is the victim, not the cause, of the deplorable condition of the inner cities. They are wrong. Wholly, completely, entirely, absolutely 100% wrong. They do not know what they are talking about. If they were to undergo the experiences that I and every other White who has lived in a black neighborhood has had, they would not make this palpably ludicrous claim.
Blacks want handed to them on a silver platter what Whites have worked hard for generations to achieve. Blacks try to excuse their rioting, looting, burning and killing on the grounds that they are "oppressed" by the White establishment. They weep tears the size of golf balls because they have been "deprived of their self-esteem." They would cheerfully destroy this nation in a racial holocaust beyond imagining. All the White racism in the United States and throughout the world cannot equal the insane, hate-filled racism of blacks.
Intimate contact with blacks proves that there is an unbridgeable gulf between the two races. To perpetuate this lunatic idea of "equality" is to drive further into the heart of this nation the stake of racial conflict. Only when it is understood and accepted as a fact of life that there are fundamental physical and mental differences between blacks and Whites, with new legal, social, and economic policies based on this recognition---only then will there ever be any kind of tranquility. Present-day equalitarianism is a tocsin of doom for America. How anyone can deny this, after what has happened in recent times, is incredible. Yet the government and the media continue to encourage and perpetuate the status quo.
Tuesday, May 20, 2008
Global Cooling On The Way?
by John de Nugent
Two things stunned me a few weeks ago, on April 30th, and I am still digesting them now. We had two hours of snow falling here in western Pennsylvania outside my home office window, and the same day I received by email a series of very ominous scientific articles about a coming mini-ice age. Since then we have had two solid weeks of cold rain here, very little springtime, and I get similar reports from Boston and elsewhere -- of rain, wind and low temperatures.
Yesterday the network news showed farmers predicting a terrible corn crop this year due to no sun and constant cold rain out in Iowa. Going back to January, American GIs and Iraqis alike were stunned to see snow falling in downtown Baghdad. Then Athens, Greece -- on February 19 -- and after that Johannesburg in South Africa saw the white stuff tumbling down into usually sun-baked cities. Embarrass, Minnesota saw the mercury plunge to minus 40, an the Upper Peninsula of Michigan had the greatest snowfalls in its recorded history. Parts of northern China were smothered in snow.
From 1400-1800, Europe was much colder than now, and especially so in the 1600s. Massachusetts Bay, Narragansett Bay (in Rhode Island), Long Island Sound, the Hudson and East Rivers in NY State and the Chesapeake Bay in Maryland all froze regularly solid. Of course, our hardy white pioneer forefathers (and resolute foremothers) still learned how to adapt and thrive. (By contrast, the North American Indian population was stagnating for millennia. It is estimated that there were only three million Indians in all of what is now the USA and Canada in 1600, where now over 360 million reside in a white-founded culture.)
There may have been some "global warming" and we have indeed seen glaciers melt and other signs, but something else, and much bigger seems afoot, the exact opposite: constant rain and a sharp global cooling. If these scientists I am reading are correct, then whatever puny effects we humans may have had on the climate with our cars and coal power plants are over. The sun itself has turned down the Big Thermostat, that is, the sun spots that show the sun running on "hot" have virtually vanished, and the recent global warming will be totally overwhelmed by the opposite – global chilling.
Phil Chapman, a geophysicist and astronautical engineer (now living in San Francisco) who was the first Australian to become a NASA astronaut, wrote on April 23, 2008: "The scariest photo I have seen on the internet is www.spaceweather. com, where you will find a real-time image of the sun from the Solar and Heliospheric Observatory, located in deep space at the equilibrium point between solar and terrestrial gravity. What is scary about the picture is that there is only one tiny sunspot. Disconcerting as it may be to true believers in global warming, the average temperature on Earth has remained steady or slowly declined during the past decade, despite the continued increase in the atmospheric concentration of carbon dioxide, and now the global temperature is falling precipitously.
"All four agencies that track Earth's temperature (the Hadley Climate Research Unit in Britain, the NASA Goddard Institute for Space Studies in New York, the Christy group at the University of Alabama, and Remote Sensing Systems Inc in California) report that it cooled by about 0.7C in 2007 [almost one whole degree Fahrenheit in just one year—Ed.]. This is the fastest temperature change in the instrumental record and it puts us back where we were in 1930. If the temperature does not soon recover, we will have to conclude that global warming is over.
The temperature plunged last year by almost one full degree Fahrenheit. The Big Thermostat on the sun was turned down, and sun spots virtually vanished.
"Kenneth Tapping of our own National Research Council, who oversees a giant radio telescope focused on the sun, is convinced we are in for a long period of severely cold weather if sunspot activity does not pick up soon."
The result could be dire food shortages from a much shorter and often sunless growing season, skyrocketing heating bills five long months a year -- and even the danger of another full-blown Ice Age. (Yes indeed, "ice age" as in something covering Europe, Canada and the northern U.S. with a mile of ice. We northern hemispherians are actually due for another ice age at any time after 11,000 relatively warm years. While Americans are falling behind in learning the sciences, the fact remains that ice ages are the norm in the upper northern hemisphere, not warmth. Balmy periods such as we have known – tellingly called by climate scientists "interglaciations" -- are the exception. What we call Canada, Scandinavia and the British Isles are usually buried under a mile-thick pile of ice like Greenland.
Says one popular-science website: "During the most recent Ice Age, which began 1.5 million years ago, and may not have actually ended, the glaciers extended three times their size, to cover nearly a third of the land area of the Earth's land surface, as you can see from this diagram. One thing to note from the diagram, too, is the sea level consideration. During the Ice Ages, since so much of the planet's water is locked up in these ice sheets, sea level is lower than it is today. Thus, that nice beachfront property you have on Long Island today was far inland 18,000 years ago."
The Great Famine of 1315-1317 in northern Europe was just such a time of cold and rain, when nothing sprouted or grew or ripened. Starving villagers ate the seed corn and slaughtered the milk cows. Some starving parents even abandoned their children in the forest – which is the opening scenario of Grimm's fairy tale "Hansel and Gretel."
King Edward II and his whole royal court, visiting a town, themselves went absolutely hungry along with all the inhabitants. Millions of northern Europeans finally died from years of crop failures, and a population that had grown rapidly – such as in today's bulging world -- shrank quickly. A Poem on the Evil Times of Edward II, from around 1321, told the story:
"When God saw that the world was so over-proud,
He sent a dearth on earth, and made it full hard.
A bushel of wheat was at four shillings or more,
Of which men might have had a quarter before....
And then they turned pale who had laughed so loud,
And they became all docile who before were so proud.
A man's heart might bleed for to hear the cry
Of poor men who called out, "Alas! For hunger I die ...!"
One Afrikaner called me after hearing of my reading, and said all this reminded her of the prophesies of Nicolas "Siener" Van Rensburg (1862-1926), an Afrikaner visionary 100 years ago who fought in the Anglo-Boer War. Even a neutral encyclopedia reports: "His seemingly accurate predictions of future events were typically wrapped in religious patriotism." (How terrible!) Some of them actually aided Boer military forces, which made the man instantly famous.
Van Rensburg foretold, among other things, that black power, shockingly, would some day come over white-founded and white-ruled South Africa. But when in that sunny country "snow was on the ground" (quoth Van Rensburg) -- whites would rise up – and they are now outraged by crime and AIDS epidemics, electric power outages and chaotic corruption -- and then storm back to full power over the country they had once made orderly, rich and great, and restore it to white rule.
That was just a vision, but the fact is this: snow is indeed falling heavier and heavier worldwide, the mercury is dropping sharply, and the sun is vanishing during the critical planting and growing seasons. Will this climate change also continue into harvest season 2008?
Obviously, if anyone studies the winter, it is the Russians. In March, Oleg Sorokhtin, a fellow of the Russian Academy of Natural Sciences, shrugged off man-made climate change as "a drop in the bucket." Demonstrating scientifically that solar activity has entered an inactive phase, Prof. Sorokhtin then advised journalists:"Tell people to stock up on fur coats."
Monday, May 19, 2008
A Word On Comments
First off, thank you, whoever is circulating this blog's web address. We're getting a noticeable increase in readership.
Secondly, if you want your comments to be taken a bit more seriously, you might want to consider either just plain signing them or using a recognized nom de plume. We've got a couple of real fruit loops who are starting to flood the comments section of both blogs, anonymously, of course. If they're funny I'll approve them, occasionally, but usually they're just abusive and obscene. Nonetheless, my sense of irony sometimes gets blunted.
Sunday, May 18, 2008
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.
Saturday, May 17, 2008
Thoughtcrime Readers, Please Note
We're starting to get an increase in readership, and it is probably inevitable that at some point "my attitude will be noted," as they said in Dr. Zhivago. Some screaming hebe or diseased faggot or burr-headed monkoid is going to shriek and holler and wail to Google about this blog. I already have to "authenticate" all the time on my other one at Northwest Homeland.
In the event that this blog is pulled down by Google, I will of course immediately kick in one of my already established backups. But you will need to know which ones. I would like all among you from my growing fan base to make a note of these two e-mail addresses:
Please make a note of these somewhere you won't forget.
If this blog ever disappears, or you click on it and get a big gloopy like notice from Google about how I am such a politically incorrect and naughty chelloveck and I am making poor little politically protected minorities go boo hoo hoo with like anguish and beat their bruised and krovvy rookers against like Bog in His Heaven against the wickedness of Horrible Harold..anyway, if those assholes at Google ever pull this site, contact me at one of the addresses above for the new one.
Don't Ride The Bus In Baltimore
Black crime. It never seems to go away, does it?
Any time news on this web site gets a bit slow, one can always dig up a nice horrifying, sickening black crime story to let us know that nothing has really changed since the first racial integration 50 years ago. The black beasts are still feasting on our carcasses.
WBAL-TV station reports: "There has apparently been another bus beating on an MTA bus in Baltimore. WBAL-TV reports that two men aboard the #64 bus in Brooklyn claim they were attacked by a group of seven black teens. The two men say they were attacked because they were white. They also claim the bus driver refused to call police for them. The two men suffered cuts and bruises. The MTA says it is investigating the claim."
I'm sure the fact that the black-run Baltimore transit authority is "investigating" black hatecrimes against white people is just no end encouraging to the victims.
"Patrick Green and Robert Rothe told WBAL TV 11 News that they were antagonized and attacked after boarding the No. 64 bus late Monday night in south Baltimore. The men, who are white, said the attackers yelled racial slurs and that no one on board, including the driver, stepped in to stop the attack."
"Green and Rothe said they believe other passengers were afraid to help and that the driver refused to call for help.'We were saying the whole time to the driver, You need to help us, call the police,' Green told 11 News reporter Kerry Cavanaugh. 'He said, I can't. I'll get in trouble.'"
Get in trouble with whom? The black management of Maryland Transit Authority for interfering with the homeys' recreational activities?
"MTA officials said they're not currently classifying the incident as a hate crime. They said they're simply calling it a common assault. Green and Rothe said they're mad it took MTA officials three days to release photos of the suspects."
"This comes less than a week after a white woman was beaten on a bus. 9 black middle school students have been arrested in that case."
Middle school. Junior high school niglets are attacking white people in packs. Groovy.
We all know what needs to be done about this.
Why aren't we doing it?
Friday, May 16, 2008
The Cult of Nigger-Worship
The Barack Obama phenomenon has reached the point where it is no longer political; it is a cult.
America as a nation has become insane, a long time ago, and the Obamanation is simply the final expression of that terminal sickness of the national soul.
How one can bring on the Brave New World by electing a nigger who seems to have no program of any kind other than his baby-shit brown skin is unclear, but perhaps it makes sense to Obama's cult votaries, who were raised on MTV and whose political sophistication is roughly one cut below that of a cheeseburger. Okay, granted, sheer disgust with Jug-Ears and his little Jewish friends can explain quite a bit about the desire for change, any change, even when it is demented and divorced from any rational basis.
But just who and what is behind this? It's irrational. Look, I've heard this monkoid speak, and half-white or not, he simply doesn't have the intelligence to put together a sophisticated operation like this. That "handsome" [sic] coffee-colored head has virtually nothing in it. So who is running this zoo?
BO's audiences respond to his booming bloviations like mindless robots. It's called mind control. Probably a larger version of whatever they used in Jonestown to get all those niggers and fools to drink the poisoned Kool-Aid.
What is going to happen when this monkoid walks into the Oval Office in January 2009, and all of a sudden everyone discovers he's a total incompetent with a room-temperature IQ even more luke-warm than George W. Bush? What, exactly is he going to do about the endless war in Iraq, immigration, the massive collapse of the economy, skyrocketing gas prices, skyrocketing food prices, massive home foreclosure, the disappearance of affordable housing, medical care, and the American middle class? Does anyone actually know what this bubble-lipped baboon is going to do? Does he even know? No one has heard a peep out of him on that topic that makes any sense.
I didn't pay too much attention to Obama up until now, because I always figured he was just a silly stalking horse some pissed-off Democrats put up to this to rattle Hillary Clinton's cage. It never occurred to me that Americans could possibly have become so degraded in their nigger-worship that they would actually consider voting in an affirmative action President. (All of this is predicated on the idea that the votes are being counted honestly, remember, which may not be the case. Also, bear in mind that most of Hussein's primary "victories" are either predominantly black Democratic voter rolls in Southern States or caucuses, which are much easier to rig than an actual election.)
But if Hussein really does blow the Sea Hag out of the water, we may have gone from the catastrophic and cosmically evil to the ridiculous. "Cult" doesn't seem to be a bad word to describe Hussein and his weirded-out Generation X votaries. Who is behind the scenes on all this?
Slowly, The Chickens Drift Down To Roost
Travel is only a small part of a much greater pattern.
Take a moment to contemplate a salad. A nice salad, with lettuce, and green peppers, some carrots and a slice of cucumber or two. Don't forget the tomatoes! And how about some cheese, along with a good dressing. What the heck, let's have some rolls with butter.
That salad has a lot of crude oil in it. The lettuce came from some distance away, as did every other component. I've seen calculations that suggest that every calorie of food we eat is supported by 10 calories of crude oil. This has implications for food prices and availability.
This suggests that the pressure on most people will increase. The stock market may improve from here, at least for a time; that does not mean that getting a well paying job with full benefits will get easier.
There are implications to all this. Right now, most people are well fed, they are comfortable, and they have positive expectations. When that condition changes to something worse, they will feel deep anger. And the one who speaks to that anger, who harnesses it wisely, who directs it...will have quite a significant force. Economic travail occurred in Germany; and it lead to political change.
I think, Harold, that change is at hand. People may vote for change; I suspect they will get far more than they bargained for. Which, as I suggested above, represents opportunity.
[Opportunity we have in plenty, and if we didn't have we could make it. We just won't take it when we get it, because we are too weak, lame, bone-idle lazy and fearful of physical pain and danger. The problem is not opportunity or lack of it; the problem is our rabbit's courage. It doesn't matter how "deeply angry" our people get if all they are going to do about it is call Rush Limbaugh and bitch, or go into a ridiculous little booth and pull a lever to choose which treacherous reptile they want betraying us all for the next four years. - HAC]
Thursday, May 15, 2008
Fast Times At Ridgemont High
Several weeks ago I was just getting settled in at my 8th period psychology class. We usually study nothing at all, so I pulled out my copy of A Mighty Fortress and began reading it. About 10 minutes later, my friend and class mate Matt, spoke something which totally caught me off guard: "Northwest Republic, eh? Like the flag."
I was blown away! He had heard of the Northwest migration, and was a secret supporter. After trying, but unsuccessfully to get him more involved, we came to the conclusion to share propaganda and techniques.
He, like myself, has seen the various orgs come and go, but he isn't willing to try unless something concrete is here. I said fine. He also asked if the Tricolor propaganda at the Forked River rest stop was mine, and I said the obvious. What was interesting, is that he was leaving his there too! Talk about coincidence.
I see him as a valuable asset, since he is a highly intelligent man, and yet not a geeky sort. His knowledge of the NPA was rather good, and he liked what I said. We'll see. We are both going to the same community college next fall, so we may develop a good strong friendship, and hence maybe form a unit out there. He's heading out there too, eventually.
He reminds me of a "Founding Father" sort.
-Name Withheld for Obvious Reasons
Wednesday, May 14, 2008
[Whining article from the mainstream media. My own commentary in red. - HAC] http://www.msnbc.msn.com/id/24588813/
WASHINGTON - Danielle Ross was alone in an empty room at the Obama campaign headquarters in Kokomo, Ind., a cellphone in one hand, a voter call list in the other. She was stretched out on the carpeted floor wearing laceless sky-blue Converses, stories from the trail on her mind. It was the day before Indiana's primary, and she had just been chased by dogs while canvassing in a Kokomo suburb. [Too bad they didn't catch her.]
But that was not the worst thing to occur since she postponed her sophomore year at Middle Tennessee State University, in part to hopscotch America stumping for Barack Obama. [Ook! Eek!] Here's the worst: In Muncie, a factory town in the east-central part of Indiana, Ross and her cohorts were soliciting support for Obama at malls, on street corners and in a Wal-Mart parking lot, and they ran into "a horrible response," as Ross put it, a level of anti-black sentiment that none of them had anticipated.
[Yeah, well, I'm not surprised. She clearly doesn't live in the real world. This is obviously some bird-brained little privileged White bimbo who has never had to work a day in her life, or go without anything, and whose wealthy and privileged family has managed to keep her away from the kind of personal, physical contact with blacks that most of us have to survive every day.]
"The first person I encountered was like, 'I'll never vote for a black person,' " recalled Ross, who is white and just turned 20. [And who is dumb as a bag of hammers.] "People just weren't receptive." [To the idea of a monkey as President of the United States. Awwww. My heart just bleeds for this little cloth-eared bint.]
For all the hope and excitement Obama's candidacy is generating [Among white liberal media whores of all ages and both sexes] some of his field workers, phone-bank volunteers and campaign surrogates are encountering a raw racism and hostility that have gone largely unnoticed -- and unreported -- [in the fantasy world wherein in the media and braying White liberal jackasses live] this election season. Doors have been slammed in their faces. They've been called racially derogatory names (including the white volunteers).
And so they should be, because they are bird-brained stupid morons with no moral sense, no pride, no racial identity, and no worth as human beings. They are three-for-a-dollar traitors who can be bought for a bag of political junk food packaged in brightly colored Styrofoam and a super-sized cup of Jim Jones brand grape Kool-Aid.
Much can and should be said about Barack Obama, although the mainstream media will never say it. But when all is said and done, Barack Obama has one primary disqualification for the office of President: he is not a human being. He is some kind of monkey. He is a genetic mistake which in any sane and moral society would never have existed at all, and the idea of electing him as president of anything is truly GUBU--grotesque, unbelievable, bizarre, and unprecedented, to quote the late, great Charles J. Haughey.
Barack Obama is a symptom of our society's profound sickness and alienation from reality, and he should be--[sigh.] Well, we all know what he should be, but do I dare articulate it this early on in the game? No, let's leave it for a few more months, by which time my level of disgust will have reached a point where I honest to God don't give a damn any more what our friends in the silk suits do to me.
Let's just say fuck Barack Obama and the wart hog he rode in on, and leave it at that. For now.
Tuesday, May 13, 2008
A Reply To Emma Lazarus
[Someday we will inscribe this at the base of whatever remains of the Statue of Liberty.]
I lit a single flame to guide them in the blackness,
And stood open my doors, crying out into the night…
“Bring me your tired…Bring them to me;
Your worn and your spent and your weary;
Give them to me and I will give them rest.”
And they came.
In their thousands and in their millions, they came.
And with them they brought their idle and their indolent,
Their work-shy and their feckless,
Lieabeds and layabouts of every dusky hue and dark race.
To hang, sink stone, about the throat of my people,
Dead weight, limp and languorous, drawing our spirit down.
Thus have you punished me for my charity.
Yet still I oiled that flame and forced it bright, a beacon,
And threw open its lantern,
Calling into the darkness… “Bring me your poor…
Bring them to me;
Your ragged and your hungry and your pitiful;
Give them to me and I will grant them succor.”
And they came, a rolling human tide,
Surging and heaving and eddying, they came.
And with them they brought their mendicant,
Their sponging, their grasping and their greedy,
Scroungers and freeloaders of every creed and dark color.
To cling, parasitic, infesting the skin of this noble and generous land,
Leeching, sucking and gorging, bleeding it of its tender will.
Thus have you punished me for my benevolence.
But higher still I turned that wick and flared the flame,
Casting open its sheltering window,
Loud, out into the gloom I cried…
“Bring me your stateless… Bring them to me;
Your scarred and your oppressed and your dissident;
Give them to me and I will give them freedom of speech.”
And they came.
Limping and broken, legion and hopeless and debased, they came.
And with them they brought their criminal and their fugitive,
Their murderous and their sociopathic,
Gangsters and warmongers of every state and nation.
To prey, insatiable, a cancer consuming the very heart of my people,
Whoring, child mongering and dope dealing, sapping us of our strength.
Thus have you punished me for my humanity.
Still brighter yet I strained that flame,
Fanning it ever higher with my best intentions,
Strident into the murk I pleaded… “Bring me your persecuted…
Bring them to me; your faithful and your defiled and your denied;
Give them to me and I will give them freedom of faith.”
And they came, debased and defamed,
Clinging to their holy books and their broken gods, they came.
And with them they brought their fundamentalists and their zealots,
Their fanatics and their pedants,
Bigots and blasphemers of every faith and fashion.
To terrorise, debase and threaten the very soul of my people,
Bombing, murdering and mutilating;
Sickening them in their fragile faith.
Thus have you punished me for my tolerance.
Tomorrow and tomorrow
That single flame will burn no more in my open window,
And no voice will cry then out into the darkness…
The doors hang loose on their hinges now,
But no one passes through;
For I have nothing left to give.
And they come no more, not the tired or the poor,
The stateless or the persecuted; no one comes.
For when they came like ticks on cattle
They brought their fanatics, their miscreants, their dogmas,
Journeying with them, on scar-crazed backs,
Those very things they had sought to flee.
Brought them to tire, impoverish, oppress and persecute
This gentle and humane host, to bleed it of its charity,
Its benevolence, its humanity and its tolerance...
Thus will we be punished all. For our cowardice…
© Sullivan The Poet 2008
Monday, May 12, 2008
Sweat, You Bastards!
I got an e-mail lamenting about high gas prices and the effect they would have on po' lil ole White Amurricans. Perhaps I haven't made myself clear--I think that in many ways, the skyrocketing prices for energy and food in this country are a good thing. Americans live way, way too high on the hog, and we need to be taken down several pegs. We need a lesson in humility.
Cheap energy and cheap food are two of the reasons we have become such fat, lazy cowards who won't defend our own women and children and why we've become such bird-brains that some of us would even consider voting for a bubble-lipped nigger for president. Liberalism and racial angst about how we done dem po' little niggas wrong so now we gots to vote for BO are luxuries for those who can afford it, and entirely too many Americans can still afford it. That needs to change.
Americans have entirely too much money to spend on crap like professional dog grooming and Six Flags and these huge RVs that now require $1500 per fill up but there's as many of the goddamned things on the roads around here as ever before. Americans have entirely too much money, period. Our wallets need to be lightened to the point where we stop and think before spending one thin dime, on anything, because that means ten cents we won't be able to spend on something else like food or mortgage or medical. Simply re-acquiring that habit of a few moments of thought and calculation before whipping out the credit card will do us a world of good.
We need to be forced to economize, because force is all Americans understand, as we ourselves will learn if we ever recover our manhood and decide to use it. We need to be forced to turn off the goddamned air conditioning in these globally warmed summers because it costs $1200 a month to air condition a family home, and sit out on our porches talking to our neighbors like our forefathers did, paying attention to what goes on outside rather than sitting inside staring at a television. (The South died because of two things: air conditioning and the Chamber of Commerce.)
We need to be trimmed of all that excess cash. If we're not going to donate it to worthy racial causes (like Your Friend and Humble Narrator, but there are others), if we are not going to use our money for our own racial interest, then at least we need to quit giving it all to the goddamned Jews and Chinese. Why in God's name are we so bloody stupid that we not only submit humbly to our own racial destruction, but we pay for it as well by giving all our money to people who want to kill us?
Maybe the coming economic crunch will finally bury the last of the Brady Bunch, Pat Boone lifestyle with a stake through its heart, and force this next generation of ditzy, dumb-ass White kids to get their lame and pale asses up off the sofa from in front of the TV, get their noses out of their computer games, and make them get out onto the street and look for jobs because the family will sink beneath the waves back into the lumpenproletariat with the niggers and the Mexicans if they don't start doing something useful with their lives from age 16 or so onward.
This business of White girls being narcissistic consumer whores and White boys still being adolescents playing with games and toys into their 30s and 40s needs to come to a screeching halt. $10.00 per gallon gas and $7.00 per loaf bread, and the family saving up for months to afford a hedonistic night out splurging at Burger King might be what does it.
A little suffering is good for the soul. America's soul is diseased unto death and a lot of suffering is just what the doctor ordered. It may or may not cure this country and make White people brave again--but in any case, I want to watch, just to see these pale blobs of protoplasm suffer.
Suffer and sweat, you American bastards! Hee hee hee hee hee hee! And your little dog too!