Monday, November 30, 2009

The Reign Of Lord Jew

HAC:

The enclosed article by Jeremy Clarkson was in this week's Sunday Times but has since been pulled - probably by the subject of the article, Peter Mandelson. So much for free speech.

But poor old Manglebum fails to appreciate how the blogsphere works and in no time the article finds itself going viral round the world.

Wonderful. Enjoy it - and feel free to pass it on if you did.....

Best Regards, Adrian

*************

Censored Peter Mandelson Article
by Jeremy Clarkson

Sunday Times 8/11/09

I've given the matter a great deal of thought all week, and I'm afraid I've decided that it's no good putting Peter Mandelson in a prison. I'm afraid he will have to be tied to the front of a van and driven round the country until he isn't alive any more.

He announced last week that middle-class children will simply not be allowed into the country's top universities even if they have 4,000 A-levels, because all the places will be taken by Albanians and guillemots and whatever other stupid bandwagon the conniving idiot has leapt onto.

I hate Peter Mandelson. I hate his fondness for extremely pale blue jeans and I hate that preposterous moustache he used to sport in the days when he didn't bother trying to cover up his left-wing fanaticism. I hate the way he quite literally lords it over us even though he's resigned in disgrace twice, and now holds an important decision-making job for which he was not elected.

Mostly, though, I hate him because his one-man war on the bright and the witty and the successful means that half my friends now seem to be taking leave of their senses. There's talk of emigration in the air. It's everywhere I go. Parties. Work. In the supermarket. My daughter is working herself half to death to get good grades at GSCE and can't see the point because she won't be going to university, because she doesn't have a beak or flippers or a qualification in washing windscreens at the lights. She wonders, often, why we don't live in America .

Then you have the chaps and chapesses who can't stand the constant raids on their wallets and their privacy. They can't understand why they are taxed at 50% on their income and then taxed again for driving into the nation's capital. They can't understand what happened to the hunt for the weapons of mass destruction.

They can't understand anything. They see the Highway Wombles in those brand new 4x4s that they paid for, and they see the M4 bus lane and they see the speed cameras and the community support officers and they see the Albanians stealing their wheelbarrows and nothing can be done because it's racist.

And they see Alistair Darling handing over £4,350 of their money to not sort out the banking crisis that he doesn't understand because he's a small-town solicitor, and they see the stupid war on drugs and the war on drink and the war on smoking and the war on hunting and the war on fun and the war on scientists and the obsession with the climate and the price of train fares soaring past £1,000 and the Guardian power-brokers getting uppity about one shot baboon and not uppity at all about all the dead soldiers in Afghanistan, and how they got rid of Blair only to find the lying twerp is now going to come back even more powerful than ever, and they think, "I've had enough of this. I'm off."

It's a lovely idea, to get out of this stupid, Fairtrade, Brown-stained, Mandelson-skewed, equal-opportunities, multicultural, carbon-neutral, trendily left, regionally assembled, big government, trilingual, mosque-drenched, all-the-pigs-are-equal, property-is-theft hell-hole and set up shop somewhere else.

But where? You can't go to France because you need to complete 17 forms in triplicate every time you want to build a greenhouse, and you can't go to Switzerland because you will be reported to your neighbours by the police and subsequently shot in the head if you don't sweep your lawn properly, and you can't go to Italy because you'll soon tire of waking up in the morning to find a horse's head in your bed because you forgot to give a man called Don a bundle of used notes for "organising" a plumber.

You can't go to Australia because it's full of things that will eat you, you can't go to New Zealand because they don't accept anyone who is more than 40 and you can't go to Monte Carlo because they don't accept anyone who has less than 40 mill. And you can't go to Spain because you're not called Del and you weren't involved in the Walthamstow blag. And you can't go to Germany ... because you just can't.

The Caribbean sounds tempting, but there is no work, which means that one day, whether you like it or not, you'll end up like all the other expats, with a nose like a burst beetroot, wondering if it's okay to have a small sharpener at 10 in the morning.

And, as I keep explaining to my daughter, we can't go to America because if you catch a cold over there, the health system is designed in such a way that you end up without a house. Or dead.

Canada's full of people pretending to be French, South Africa's too risky, Russia's worse and everywhere else is too full of snow, too full of flies or too full of people who want to cut your head off on the internet.

So you can dream all you like about upping sticks and moving to a country that doesn't help itself to half of everything you earn and then spend the money it gets on bus lanes and advertisements about the dangers of salt. But wherever you go you'll wind up an alcoholic or dead or bored or in a cellar, in an orange jumpsuit, gently wetting yourself on the web.

All of these things are worse than being persecuted for eating a sandwich at the wheel. I see no reason to be miserable. Yes, Britain now is worse than it's been for decades, but the lunatics who've made it so ghastly are on their way out. Soon, they will be back in Hackney with their South African nuclear-free peace polenta. And instead the show will be run by a bloke whose dad has a wallpaper shop and possibly, terrifyingly, a twerp in Belgium whose fruitless game of hunt-the-WMD has netted him £15m on the lecture circuit.

So actually I do see a reason to be miserable. Which is why I think it's a good idea to tie Peter Mandelson to a van. Such an act would be cruel and barbaric and inhuman. But it would at least cheer everyone up a bit in the meantime.

Northwestfront.org Updated

Hi, guys:

The Party web site at http://www.northwestfront.org has been updated with a new and separate media section containing audio files, so you can all groove to the sound of my dulcet tones.

-HAC

Saturday, November 28, 2009

Okay, Another Little Preview...

Due to the surge in viewership over the Michelle Monkey Pics reference on Drudge, we've picked up a number of new readers, many of whom were fascinated by the brief excerpt from The Brigade a few posts back. I got some e-mails asking me for more of the Perils of Annette.

This isn't a serial, though. Guys, you really need to read the whole book. You can order The Brigade and the other three Northwest independence novels off Amazon.com or from Barnes and Noble or Alibris.com, or if you don't mind reading books on-line you can download .pdf versions from http://wn-pdfs.tk/

However, like all authors, I can't disappoint my fans, so here's another little snippet. After this, go get the whole book and read it.

-HAC

Chapter XI. - Hearing The Screams (continued..)

“Okay, so if you promised to stay out of bars in McMinnville, how do we find the NVA?” asked Eric Sellars as they walked along the quad at Ashdown Academy. They were dressed in their dark blue school uniforms, with a dark green tartan plaid skirt for Annette, along with parkas and sweaters against the weather, their books under their arms. It was their first day back after the long Christmas break. The school authorities had told Annette she could have some more time off if she needed it, but she had responded that she wanted to get back into the routine of school as soon as possible.

“We don’t,” said Annette. She took a deep breath “Eric, I think we need to quit seeing each other, and you need to put some visible public distance between you and me. I’m going to do something, one way or the other, and my father is right. I’m probably going to end up destroying myself just as surely as Jan did when she swallowed those pills. I have no right to take you with me on this death trip.”

“I’m in,” he said. “I mean it, Annette, I’m in. I loved Jan too, not like I love you, but she was important to you, and that made her important to me. If you don’t want to be with me anymore, I can’t make you, but if that’s the way you want it, then I’ll go after Flammus myself. As corny as this may sound, if I can’t be with you I don’t much care what happens to me.”

“I know,” she sighed. “That’s what bothers me. I thought a lot about what Dad said, about what will happen to him and to Mom and to you if I fuck this up, which I probably will.”

“But you’re going ahead anyway?” he asked.

“I have to,” said Annette. “It just can’t be any other way, Eric. Dad was wrong about one thing. At some time we have to lift our heads up from the trough, and we have to let ourselves hear the screams. I can’t let this go, Eric. If I don’t let myself hear the death scream of my own sister, if I pretend I don’t hear because I’m afraid or because it’s just too darned inconvenient to hear, then it will get easier and easier from then on, and eventually I will be just as deaf and dumb and blind as everyone else. Somebody has to hear the screams, Eric, and do something to stop it all. Don’t get me wrong. I’m not Joan of Arc, and I’m so scared of what I’m doing I think I may shit myself sometimes. But I just can’t do anything else.”

“That old saying about the truth will set you free is crap,” said Eric. “The truth isn’t liberating, it’s lethal. We live in a world based on lies, and anyone who chooses truth, they’re going to try to destroy. There's no way I can stand by and let you go into this alone, Annette. You’re doing it for Jan. So am I, a little. But mostly I’m doing it for you. I want to, I have to, and I don’t want you to ever blame yourself. You offered me an out, and I said no. I’m in. Now how are we going to find the NVA?”

“I’ve got one possible idea,” she told him. “About two years ago, Dad and I were coming back from the All-State swim meet in Salem. Remember, the one where I won the junior hundred-meter? We were in one of his company cars, a Caddy, and as we were going down the interstate an engine light came on and it started to lose power. Dad pulled off at Woodburn, and we found a gas station with a service section. It was kind of seedy, but the old guy there seemed to know his stuff. Turned out one of the Mexicans at the bank motor pool hadn’t bothered to check the transmission fluid, and the transmission was screwed up, and so Dad arranged to leave the car there and called a limo to come down for us from town. Anyway, we ended up hanging around this gas station down in redneck country for a couple of hours. They had a waiting room, sort of, with some old magazines, and I noticed there were a couple of copies of the Northwest Republic stuck in among the old People and Sports Illustrated magazines.”

“That’s the newspaper the Party put out, back before they were banned after Coeur d’Alene?” asked Eric keenly.

“Yeah. I wasn’t really interested in politics back then, and I just glanced at them. But I wandered into the office area where the vending machines were, and I also noticed that on the back counter this guy had a couple of bumper stickers from the Party put up, and a little stand with those little flags in it, an Oregon state flag but not a Stars and Stripes crossing it. It was that Jerry Reb flag they show on TV sometimes, the one that looks like France, except it’s blue and white and green.”

“I doubt he still has it there, since it’s good for life imprisonment these days,” commented Eric.

“No, but don’t you get it?” Annette pressed him. “That guy must have been with the Party, or he knows somebody who is. He might be able to point us in the right direction.”

“If he’s still there,” said Eric. “If he hasn’t been arrested or fled underground himself after Coeur d’Alene. Okay, so what do we do? Just walk up to this total stranger and say hi, guy, can you hook us up with the NVA, because we’ve got a nigger we want them to kill? I’m sure he’ll fall over himself to be helpful.”

“It’s all we’ve got,” said Annette.

“Speak of the damned devil!” said Eric, his lips turning down in a bitter sneer, his eyes riveted across the quad. Annette looked over and saw a group of students coming out of one of the mellow red brick buildings, all wearing the neat blue serge uniforms of Ashdown Academy, boys with trousers and girls with skirts and knee socks, and both with the blue blazer and Academy patch. In the center of the group was a huge figure, all six foot six inches of Ashdown’s star forward and shoo-in first-rank NBA draft choice, Lucius Flammus.

Flammus must have had some Watusi or other Nilotic ancestry. His skin was so black as to look almost as blue as the serge of his jacket, and instead of the usual round Negroid skull his cranium was elongated, almost hatchet-like. Stripped down into his basketball uniform, his body was lithe and superbly muscled, not the typical negro athlete template built like a refrigerator. As big as he was, Flammus moved down court like lightning, and he shot with the speed and accuracy of a striking cobra. He boasted, correctly, that in his entire life he had never missed a free throw. If Flammus scored less than seventy points in a game, he was having a bad night. He was eighteen years old and still had not reached his full growth; the sports doctor on loan from the NBA who was assigned to his specially tailored training program predicted that with the help of certain special “nutritional supplements” he’d top off in a couple of years at six foot eight.

Lucius Flammus was a stupid being who made up for his stupidity with a sharp, cruel, vicious cunning that compensated somewhat for the fact that he was a moron. He was totally without a single vestige of moral feeling or conscience. He ate, slept, and lived for but two things on earth: basketball and white females. Another one of his boasts was that he had never slept with a black or a Mexican girl. He did not use drugs himself, at least not hard drugs, since that would have interfered with his basketball game, but he kept a whole pharmacy on hand of both legal and illegal substances as party favors and bait for anything and everything white and female he could get near.

Using crack cocaine and ecstasy tablets, it had taken less than two weeks for him to charm, seduce, and abandon Annette’s confused and vulnerable sister Jan, who was just starting her second year at Ashdown Academy, a year behind Annette. Jan hadn’t gotten the message, and she had made the mistake of going to Flammus’s dorm room one night in November, looking either for more drugs (according to Flammus) or some kind of reconciliation with the great love of her life, according to Jan’s incoherent iPod-recorded suicide note, which Ray Ridgeway had allowed Annette to hear, but not his wife. At the conclusion of this encounter either the two of them had a “farewell break-up fuck” (Flammus’s version) or Flammus had raped Jan (her iPod suicide note version.) This was the act that had left the girl pregnant, depressed, and half out of her mind, or rather more so than she normally was, and that had led to her New Year’s Eve freakout and death on the rec room floor.

Now Ashdown Academy’s official Black Boy With The Ball bee-bopped down the sidewalk with his admiring Caucasian coterie in tow, laughing, shucking and jiving, and babbling in his best gangsta rapper style. He was completely unconscious of the two pairs of white eyes watching him from across the quad, raging hatred and deadly serious murder in their hearts. After Flammus and his entourage had turned the corner, Annette said, “I’ve got French class fifth period and a study hall sixth, which I can cut.”

“Gym for sixth, which I will be glad to cut rather than look at that ape showing us all how he’s got more moves than Ex-Lax,” said Eric.

“Feel like a drive down to Woodburn?” asked Annette.

“Yeah,” said Eric.

It was about four in the afternoon when they pulled up to Jarrett’s Tune & Lube in Woodburn. The sun had come out on their drive down, the Oregon sky was blue for a while, and the rather seedy clapboard gas station was illuminated in the pale wan light of a crisp and cold winter afternoon. They were in one of the Ridgeway family Lexi, the white one, which Annette had decided was appropriate for this trip. They watched as a middle-aged man with long hair in greasy jeans and a plaid shirt pumped some gas for a customer and checked her oil. “That the guy you remember?” asked Eric.

“That’s him,” said Annette.

“You’re sure?”

“I’m sure,” she said.

“I thought you said he was old?”

“He is old,” said Annette. “Well, old compared to us.”

“Okay, so how do you want to do this?” asked Eric. “Go buy some gas we don’t need and start dropping hints, tell a few nigger jokes, what?”

“Let’s just do it, Eric.” She turned and looked at him. “Last call, Eric. You can at least stay in the car. You know I’m not asking because I doubt you. I’m asking because I love you, and I owe you one final chance to back out of this.”

“I know,” said Eric, opening the car door. “I love you, Annette. Now let’s go see if we can cop ourselves a couple of life sentences.” They got out of the car as the customer drove away and walked up to the pump jockey.

“What can I do for you kids?” he asked cheerily. On closer inspection he was a thin man of medium height; his long hair beneath the battered and stained baseball cap on his head was a dirty blonde laced with gray, and he looked at them through cheap Wal-Mart wire-rimmed spectacles with thick plastic lenses. They looked down and both spotted an odd tattoo on his right hand between his thumb and forefinger, a diamond with the crude letters “AB” over it. Both the young people recognized it as a prison tattoo.

“This is going to sound kind of weird, sir, but we’re trying to find somebody,” said Eric. “I think you might be able to help us.”

“And who might that be?” asked the man politely.

Annette stepped forward. “Okay, look, I’ll tell you exactly what this is all about. Sir, my name is Annette Ridgeway. This is Eric Sellars. You probably don’t remember me at all, but about two years ago, my father and I stopped here at your station for a couple of hours to get our car fixed. When I was here then, I saw that behind your counter there you had a little stand with a couple of flags on it. There was an Oregon state flag, and there was a three-colored flag that was blue and white and green. Plus there were some copies of a newspaper in your waiting room called the Northwest Republic. I think you can guess who we’re looking for. Now, have we come to the right place?”

While Annette had been speaking, a change had come over the man in front of them. It was impossible to define, except to say that during her few words the man seemed to become somehow hard and real. When Annette had begun speaking, he was a man of flesh and blood. When she finished, through some silent transmutation he was made of steel.

“I am going to ask you a question,” he told them both in a soft voice that struck them almost dumb with terror. He did not raise his voice, or make any threatening gesture, but all of a sudden both of them understood what they had gotten themselves into. “Who else have you told about me and about this place?”

“No one,” said Annette.

“We told no one,” confirmed Eric.

“I see. So you two fucking rich kids have the gall to come into my place of business and imply that I am some kind of racist terrorist? You’re saying that I hate people because of the color of their skins or their national origin? That I am in some way disloyal to the United States of America? I’ll tell you what. Both of you get back into your goddamned Lexus and you get the hell out of here. Do not ever let me see either of you around here again. Am I making myself clear?”

“Yes, sir,” said Annette, gulping. Suddenly she knew that this man was turning over in his mind whether or not he should kill her and Eric.

“Yeah, okay, man, our mistake,” said Eric. “No offense intended, okay, man? Fine, we’ll go. Just be cool, all right?”

The two of them backed away and made it back to the Lexus. Eric started the car and then all of a sudden there was a knock on the window. He rolled it down. The pump jockey leaned in and said to them both, “Look, I don’t know what the fuck kind of game you two kids think you’re playing. But I’m going to give you a word of advice. Whatever it is you’re doing, stop it. One thing I learned at a very young age, about your age, in fact, is that if you go looking for trouble, you’re gonna find it. You don’t want to go looking for the Boys. Because if you do, then somebody who isn’t as loyal to this great country of ours as I am might make a phone call, and then the Boys might come looking for you. You don’t want that. Trust me on this, you don’t.” He turned and walked away, and Eric peeled the Lexus out of the gas station.

The man went inside the gas station, opened the drawer and pulled out a cell phone, and dialed a number. A male voice answered. “Sugar Shack.”

“You guys got any more of those jelly donuts you sent me last week?” asked the man.

“Plenty,” said the man on the other end. “You need some?”

“Yeah. I need some donuts, right away.” He closed the phone. Damn! he thought to himself, looking around the gas station. I’ve been here for ten years, and now I have to go on the bounce because of a couple of goddamned kids!

Friday, November 27, 2009

HAC Glenn Beck Interview

Regarding a proposed (purely hypothetical, of course) interview with Glenn Beck either on his radio program or on TV, I would have to decline, for the following reasons:

1) If Beck wants to lure me into a Phil Donahue-style "ambush" and publicly berate and rag on the wicked evil neo-Nazi racist, and jabber about how un-Amurrican racism is, and all that crap, in order to try and dilute some of the horse shit people like Ariana Huffington and that asshole on MSBNC are throwing at him now--then obviously I would not allow that. I would also strongly advise any other White Nationalist personality like Don Black or anyone like that to decline to be used in this manner.

2) If the offer is/was sincere, then although I have some problems with Beck, especially his Israel-worship and his constant drumbeat for war with Iran, I do have enough respect for what he is doing now not to let him shoot himself in the foot by any public association with me or with the Northwest Migration. The enemy of my enemy is my friend--well, sort of.

I honestly don't know why Beck would invite me onto his show. I can't see what he thinks he'll gain. Maybe to cover his exposed left flank like I said, such as he has one, or maybe because he has just gotten so sick of the genuine hatemongering directed against him by the Huffington Post and Salon crowds that he decided to flip them the bird using me as the middle finger.

Anyway, if any such invitation ever were issued, which I categorically deny, I would decline for the above stated reasons.

-HAC

http://www.northwestfront.org/

Let's Talk A Little Treason

(I know I posted this one recently, but for the benefit of all those new people who are wandering in here looking for Michelle Obama Monkey Pics, I am re-posting it, since I think it's one of my better pieces and I would like to draw your attention to it. - HAC)

In Ireland, when a man has an old friend over for dinner, after the meal is over he will generally tell his wife the traditional Irish tale: “Love, Seamus and I are going down to the pub and talk a little treason.” (Brendan Behan, I think.)

Oh, hell, let's come right out and say it. Us White boys need to be talking a little treason.

I notice that the great state of Oregon is about to pass more grotesque “hatecrime” laws in favor of sodomites, making perverts who commit the filthiest acts imaginable (people don't seem to realize what it is that homosexuals actually do) a politically and legally protected class. Better than me, in the eyes of the law. Better than any white man who likes girls, because they will have specific legal protections that we are denied.

No More Equality

There is no more equality under the law. Some states are even worse; in Idaho all women, period are considered a special politically and legally protected class under these deranged hatecrime laws, effectively meaning that only heterosexual white males are without legal protection against “hate” and only white males can be victimized only on the lowest level, as mere Americans. Less than a woman of their own race, less than a Mexican, less than a faggot, less than a black. Three-fifths of a man, at best.

I’m going to say something now to all my fellow girl-loving honkies, and I’m dead serious. I think we need to start re-evaluating our relationship with the United States of America, with a view towards bringing that relationship to an end.

America gives us nothing except ridicule, hatred, contempt and oppression. America ignores our interests, laughs at us and reviles us, picks our pockets, discriminates against us with affirmative action and racial quotas, and kicks us in the teeth when we try to protest or petition for the redress of just grievances. America rigs the electoral process so that no one without ten million dollars in the bank should even think about running for office, and so that only criminals, incompetents, and mentally unbalanced mediocrities can win. America passes laws that give foreigners who are in our country illegally, and perverts who literally wallow in their own filth during sexual acts, a preferred and privileged status over us.

Every time we turn on the television we see grinning black and brown monkey-faces mocking and reviling us, mincing faggots waving their limp wrists mocking and reviling us, toilet-mouthed Jews like the loathsome Sarah Silverman spewing hatred and abuse at us, pathological liars in the White House and Congress pissing down our back and assuring us with solemn faces that it is raining. Thanks to the media and the Jews who control the media, when the world thinks of White males they think of revolting cartoon characters. George Washington, Daniel Boone, and Charles Lindbergh have been replaced by Homer Simpson and Peter Griffin.

White women are in their own way just as much victims as White men are, although some of them haven’t quite seen sufficiently through the feminist horse shit to understand that. If we can ever succeed in de-programming our sisters and making them understand what has been done to them, so that they realize that their place is by their menfolks' side and not with the Jews who hate them and hold them in just as much contempt as they do white men, calling them shiksas, etc...well, if we can ever succeed in doing that, you kikes had better start running.

It’s Our Country. Always Was.

White people do the real work in this country; Mexicans and blacks do nothing that couldn’t be done twice as well and at half the expense by a good cart horse. Robotics will eventually make the black man and the brown man completely obsolete.

White people pay the overwhelming percentage of the taxes that finance the Grand Guignol horror show that is America. White boys, and increasingly girls, are dragged into the military and come back from the Jews’ foreign wars with their bodies mangled, to rot in the filthy Army hospitals like Walter Reed, because the influx of illegal aliens has taken all the entry-level jobs in their home towns and there is no future for White kids where they grew up.

White people, especially boys, are denied access to college education, to employment, to workplace promotion and job stability because of their skin color, because of their gender, and increasingly because of their age. I could go on and on, but if you’re White, you know what I’m talking about, and if you’re not White, I’m not talking to you anyway.

Guys—and gals—let me ask you something. What the hell do we owe a society that treats us like this?

What Freedom?

The neocons wave their red, white, and blue Masonic dishrags and babble about all this “freedom” we’ve got. Bullshit.

What freedom? The freedom to never be able to get any kind of decent career because you’re the wrong color and you’ve got convex genitalia? The freedom not to be admitted to college because their quota for White boys was filled by the sons of the wealthy elite long before you even applied? The freedom to spend thirty years in the workforce and see incompetent affirmative action employees promoted over your head year after year?

What freedom? The freedom to pay one third of your income to support stupid wars in the Middle East to protect the Jews from the consequences of their own behavior? The freedom to “vote” in elections where half the time these arrogant swine no longer bother to conceal the massive fraud?

What freedom? The freedom to have your children corrupted by the endless tsunami of filth from the television screen and taught sodomy techniques in school? The freedom to have your son and your daughter come back from Iraq in a plastic bag or minus some limbs because all of the jobs in their home town had been gobbled up by illegals and the military was the only place they could get a paycheck?

What freedom? The freedom to be insulted, belittled, and spat upon every time we turn on a TV or pick up a newspaper? The freedom to eventually be carried off to the living hell of some state-run “nursing home” when the government finally finds some way to steal the Social Security and Medicare fund and piss it away in the deserts of Iraq or blow it on the stock market?

What the hell kind of loyalty do we owe to a government that has made us third-class citizens? What the hell kind of loyalty do we owe to a state that uses us like toilet paper and throws us away?

Why, exactly, should we respect the “rights” of media garbage people who give us nothing but insults, contempt, and vilification?

Why, exactly, should we allow our country to be taken over by millions of Mexican mestizos and all the overflow from the Third World’s sewers, and never raise a hand in our own defense because the tyrant’s law forbids it?

Yes, yes, I know the United States of America is “the law.” Of course it is. Tyrants always are the law. That’s why they’re tyrants and not simple gangsters. The difference between Barack Hussein Obama and John Gotti is only a technicality of paperwork. (Except that Gotti dressed better and killed a lot fewer people.)

When the law is cruel and uncaring; when the law is vicious; when the law is oppression wrapped up in paper and forced down the throats of the powerless, the coerced and the cowed; when the law is enforced by steroid-popping bullies with badges and jackals with briefcases and reptiles in black robes who use it solely to maintain their own power over other human beings and to squeeze them dry of every last wretched penny they possess; when the law is being used to do you and your family harm, then you are under no obligation to obey it.

The Social Contract Has Been Broken

In every society there is a social contract that cuts both ways. The United States Constitution was an attempt to create such a contract, and until 1861 it worked. But we need to be very clear on this: the White American has upheld that contract and is even now upholding it as the blood of our young men is spilled in the Iraqi desert. It is the federal government of the United States and the squamous alien things who have stolen it away from us who have violated that social contract, again and again and again over the past century.

Like an abused wife, White Americans have put up with it all from our cheating, lying, thieving, murdering government—the beatings, the drinking up the rent money, the lipstick on the collar, the constant bullying and browbeating. But even the most abused spouse eventually decides it’s time for a divorce. That time has come. Enough! Fuck the United States government, fuck democracy, fuck America! We’ve seen enough, we’ve had enough, and we want out.

Yeah, I know. Our ancestors tried this in 1861. Well, it’s time for a re-match. Here in the Northwest, and anyplace else where White males are tired of being treated like dogs, and finally decide to show the Jews that dogs have teeth.

And you know something? I think if we ever do pull off the old Macbeth trick and “screw our courage to the sticking point,” I suspect the world will discover that as far as the baby-shit brown Barack Hussein Obama goes—well, he damned sure ain’t no Abraham Lincoln.

http://www.northwestfront.org/

Thursday, November 26, 2009

A Real Turkey Of A Holiday

The First Thanksgiving Proclamation

June 20, 1676

"The Holy God having by a long and Continual Series of his Afflictive dispensations in and by the present Warr with the Heathen Natives of this land, written and brought to pass bitter things against his own Covenant people in this wilderness, yet so that we evidently discern that in the midst of his judgements he hath remembered mercy, having remembered his Footstool in the day of his sore displeasure against us for our sins, with many singular Intimations of his Fatherly Compassion, and regard; reserving many of our Towns from Desolation Threatened, and attempted by the Enemy, and giving us especially of late with many of our Confederates many signal Advantages against them, without such Disadvantage to ourselves as formerly we have been sensible of, if it be the Lord's mercy that we are not consumed, It certainly bespeaks our positive Thankfulness, when our Enemies are in any measure disappointed or destroyed; and fearing the Lord should take notice under so many Intimations of his returning mercy, we should be found an Insensible people, as not standing before Him with Thanksgiving, as well as lading him with our Complaints in the time of pressing Afflictions:

"The Council has thought meet to appoint and set apart the 29th day of this instant June, as a day of Solemn Thanksgiving and praise to God for such his Goodness and Favour, many Particulars of which mercy might be Instanced, but we doubt not those who are sensible of God's Afflictions, have been as diligent to espy him returning to us; and that the Lord may behold us as a People offering Praise and thereby glorifying Him; the Council doth commend it to the Respective Ministers, Elders and people of this Jurisdiction; Solemnly and seriously to keep the same Beseeching that being perswaded by the mercies of God we may all, even this whole people offer up our bodies and soulds as a living and acceptable Service unto God by Jesus Christ."

******************

Please note the following points of politically incorrect historical truth:

1) The original Thanksgiving was in June, not November.

2) The first Thanksgiving was held in 1676, not 1620, and it has nothing to do with the Pilgrims, who arrived in Masschusetts 56 year before.

3) So far from Indians and Pilgrims sitting down to a turkey and cranberry sauce feast of interracial brotherly love and peace, the original holiday was proclaimed to celebrate White men's military victory over the Indians, who were correctly considered to be savage vermin and a threat to peace and White lives.

4) Contrary to popular greeting-card myth, modern Thanksgiving is actually a 19th century holiday decreed by Abraham Lincoln in 1863, as a political ploy to bolster sagging Union morale after two years of getting their asses whupped by the South.

-HAC

Wednesday, November 25, 2009

Joe Bob Says Check It Out

I would like to extend my greetings and appreciation to the influx of new people we have visiting this blog for the first time. Many of you seem to be reading the back posts, which I hope you enjoy. I hope that you also will check out the Northwest Front's web site at

http://www.northwestfront.org

You will find more information on the Party and our ideology of White separatism and Northwest independence there.

-HAC

Chapter XI. - Hearing The Screams

[Excerpt from The Brigade by H. A. Covington]

O, God, that I were a man!
I would eat his heart in the market-place!
Much Ado About Nothing – Act IV, Scene 2


Annette Ridgeway had led a life of sufficient privilege, and sufficient just plain good fortune, so that until the age of seventeen she had never attended a funeral before. On this cold and rainy afternoon in January, her luck ran out. She stood with a group of her family and friends on the sodden grass beside a long dark hole of brown earth into which some men in overalls were about to lower her only sister. Janet Ridgeway had turned sixteen only a month before she swallowed an entire bottle of her mother’s sleeping pills, and almost a whole bottle of Jack Daniels from her father’s liquor cabinet. She then passed out on the plush carpeted floor of the rec room in the two million-dollar family home in West Linn, Oregon, and choked to death on her own vomit.

Annette stared at Jan’s peaceful face, like a golden little angel, visible through the glass window at the top of the coffin. The minister was droning in the background about the saving grace of Jesus Christ, but Annette tuned him out. What he was saying had no relevance to what was happening to her. It was just background noise.

Annette watched the face in the glass slowly disappearing into the ground, burning into her mind forever the last sight she would ever see of her sister. They had only been a year apart; Annette’s parents sometimes joked with them, “You were a mistake, Annie, but you were so beautiful we just had to make another one.” This would be the last time that she would ever see this person, this part of her that had been there always, now been ripped away from her for the rest of her life, now sliding down into the earth out of her sight forever. Annette knew that she had to control herself, that she mustn’t go insane. She leaned over the edge of the grave, her long blonde hair falling from her black-draped shoulders, straining for that very last glimpse of all. She could see her sister’s dead face, barely visible in the shadows at the bottom of the grave, before the dirt began to fall on it and she was gone.

Her boyfriend, a tall and good-looking kid in a somber suit named Eric Sellars, grasped her arm, afraid she would fall in. “Annette, we need to go now,” he said, quietly but firmly, gently easing her away from the grave.

“It’s not over,” she said.

“I know,” said Eric softly. He understood perfectly well what she was really saying to him. “But the ceremony is. You need to come away now and be with your parents. They need you.” Annette turned and walked away from the grave without another word. She had not cried during the entire funeral. Since the one explosion of hysteria and grief in Eric’s arms when they had heard the news together, she had not cried at all. Annette went straight to her sobbing wreck of a mother, Lorraine. She quietly took Lorraine’s arm from her father and led her back to the waiting black stretch limo parked along the gravel cemetery pathway. It was as if none of the other hundred or so people attending the funeral even existed. Annette ignored them all, and none intruded.

Ray Ridgeway stared after his wife and daughter. He was a distinguished-looking man in late middle age, expensively dressed in Armani and professionally coiffed. He prided himself on requiring neither Rogaine nor Viagra at his age, and he had the bright and even teeth of a young man, polished but not even capped. Ray was the CEO of Continental Bank, a senior partner in the most successful brokerage firm on the West Coast, and a power player in the financial world. He had just made the stunning discovery that rich and powerful men down through the millennia always made at some point in their careers—that he was powerless to cheat death. His child was dead, and there was no one to negotiate or bargain with, no one to threaten, no one to bribe, no strings that could be pulled, no way to fix this.

Technically Jan hadn’t even been murdered, she had taken her own life. Ray’s common sense and lifetime of experience in the real America told him with perfect clarity that the man responsible was completely untouchable, and that there was nothing to be done. He was shaken to the core of his being by the loss of his youngest child, and he was icy with fear for his oldest.

He beckoned to young Sellars. He had approved of this boy from the beginning, a steady and intelligent young man planning a career in engineering, and he was grateful for Eric’s relieving him of his fears for Annette’s future, since even at their young age he could sense that they were a solid couple and would probably make if they decided to give it a go. It was Jan who had been driving him and Lorraine frantic for the past year. “Eric, is Annette…all right?” Ray asked the younger man anxiously.

“I don’t know, sir,” Eric told him frankly. “She won’t talk to me.”

“Or me. I’ve tried. I’ll try again tonight,” said Ray.

He did try again that night, asking Annette to join him in his study in the West Linn mansion. She sat down on the couch, still wearing her black mourning dress from the funeral. “Mom won’t take a sleeping pill,” she said. “She says she won’t ever take anything again. I suppose that’s understandable in view of what happened to her last prescription. I think she’ll sleep, though. She’s exhausted. Empty, I suppose would be a better word.”

Ray poured himself a stiff shot of Jack, aware of the irony of consuming the drug that had killed his daughter as a means of ameliorating his grief at her death, although he said nothing. He knew that Annette would catch that irony as well, but he said, “This is a hell of an occasion for me to ask you this for the first time, but do you want one? Have you started drinking yet?”

“I don’t think I’m going to start,” said Annette.

“Smart decision,” said her father with an approving nod. “But then, all of yours are smart. I wish your sister had possessed your level head.”

“Dad, no need to dance around it. Jan’s decisions were just plain stupid. She was self-destructive, she had no sense of self-esteem and no inner strength. She let the whole adolescent angst thing get on top of her, she just went with the flow, and it killed her. She got involved with drugs, she got involved with a nigger, and she did both at once. If that’s not the classic definition of a self-destructive personality, I don’t know what is.”

Ray looked at her oddly. “The psychobabble I get. You picked that up from your mother and her hundred and one self-help books and fads, not to mention TV. But the racism is a new one on me. Where did that come from?”

“Where racism always comes from, Dad,” said his daughter calmly. “From close and regular contact with blacks.”

“Oh? And how many blacks do you have close and regular contact with at Ashdown Academy?” inquired her father. “Three? Four?”

“One was enough,” she replied coolly. “Look, Dad, can we take all the shocked disclaimers as read? Or to quote one of your own favorite sayings, don’t piss down my back and tell me it’s raining. I know what every white person in this country knows, even if they’re all too terrified to say it out loud. They’re not Africans-Americans, they’re niggers. They aren’t equal to us in any way, they never have been, they can’t tie their own shoelaces without an affirmative action program, and they’re not even very nice. Now, what did you want to say to me?”

Ridgeway looked at her, bemused. “Okay, fine, we’ll leave the deep political and philosophical debate on diversity and multiculturalism for another time. And yes, you’re right, we all know in the privacy of our own thoughts that when all is said and done, they’re nothing but niggers, and they won’t ever be anything else. But the fact is that society doesn’t allow that viewpoint anymore. I always thought of myself as pretty smart, but I’ll admit to you, I have no idea how on earth we have gotten to—well, where we are, but we have.

"The point is, Annette, and it’s the point I have to make sure you understand completely, is that whether we like it or not, we have to live in the real world. Down throughout the centuries, society has always had certain rules that men and women were expected to live by, and I don’t mean just the laws on a statute book. Always there have been certain people who by common consensus, however arrived at, have been allowed to flaunt or disregard those rules, so long as they do so within certain commonly accepted if unstated parameters of discretion. This Lucius Flammus is one such. This society has decided, for what reasons I will not even try to speculate, that tall men with black skins who can bounce a ball up and down on a wooden floor are a politically and socially protected species. For all practical purposes, Flammus is immune from the consequences of his behavior. The fact is that other than a few minor narcotics violations, which we can’t prove, his behavior isn’t only not illegal, it’s actually encouraged as part of his public persona.”

“How can you talk about Jan’s death in those detached bullshit terms like it was some kind of sociological phenomenon?” cried Annette bitterly.

“Because it is the only way I can talk about it, the only way I can think about it, and not lose my mind! The only way I can not take that gun out of my desk and go kill Flammus, thereby destroying not only myself but you and your mother, and losing all we have, and leaving you two alone and destitute in this horrible place,” said Ridgeway harshly. “Annette, suicide is not the solution to anything. It wasn’t the solution to Jan’s pregnancy, and it wouldn’t be any kind of solution for me, or you, or your mother.” He knelt beside her. “Honey, do you understand what I am saying to you? Do you understand that with your silence, your refusal to grieve, your refusal to accept her death and get on with your life, you are scaring the hell out of Lorraine and me? And Eric too, I think?”

“So we’re all nothing but a bunch of hogs slopping at the great American trough, and every so often the big black butcher comes among us and drags one of us away squealing, and we just look the other way and accept it as the price of all that lovely swill and jam our snouts back in deep, so we don’t hear the screams?” demanded Annette. “Is that it?”

“Yes,” admitted Ridgeway. “I know how contemptible that sounds, but yes, Annette, that’s how Americans have to live, because the powers that control our existence have decreed it. You live your life, and you try to do the best you can for yourself and your family. Insofar as possible, you avoid all contact with the system, especially the so-called justice system. You stay away from politics and controversy and anything that might get you noticed, you build what you can for those you love, and you hope to God that every time that black or brown butcher comes into the pen, he passes you and your loved ones by and takes someone else. And you don’t hear the screams. You never let yourself hear the screams.

"You mustn’t, Annette. You must condition yourself, harden yourself, train yourself, deceive yourself if need be, however you have to do it. But you never let yourself hear the screams off in the darkness, because if you do, that way lies madness and self-destruction, and you may well drag your loved ones with you. I’m sorry, but that’s the way real life is, Annette. I understand how terrible this sounds, and if by telling you this I have lost your respect, then I am deeply saddened. But I am your father, and I have to tell you these things, because no one else will. I am telling you, desperately trying to convince you, because you’re young and idealistic, and in the world of today that is deadly dangerous. Normally we hold up youth and idealism as good things, and so they are, but only in certain channels that the powers have pre-approved. I know you, honey. I know that stubborn streak you’ve had since you were a little girl, like that time when you were five years old and you sat at the dinner table until four o’clock the next morning rather than eat your Brussels sprouts. You are dangerously close to letting your youth and idealism draw you in a direction that society does not approve, and will not allow.”

“I never did eat those damned Brussels sprouts,” Annette reminded him.

“No, you didn’t,” Ridgeway agreed with a soft laugh. “You got me there. But honey, if you try to pursue this matter of your sister’s death, you won’t be a little girl defying your father and a plate of vegetables. You will be crossing a line that America forbids you to cross, and you will be punished more savagely than I think you can possibly imagine, especially with the, uh, situation here in the Pacific Northwest the way it is now.”

“Maybe the NVA will solve the problem and kill Lucius!” said Annette irrepressibly.

“Maybe,” agreed Ridgeway. “I have to say I don’t think much of his good judgment in remaining at Ashdown in view of what’s going down in the city. Nor will I shed a tear if and when that happens. But Annette, I want you to promise me something. Dead serious, I want you to promise me that you won’t do anything stupid along that line.” His voice was anxious.

“And just what do you think I’m going to do, Dad?” she asked artlessly.

“Now don’t you go pissing down my back and tell me it’s raining, young lady!” snapped Ray. “I know perfectly well what is going on in that beautiful head of yours, and I say to you again, this isn’t a plate of Brussels sprouts you can get your way on through sheer mule-headedness! I want you to promise me that you’re not going to try to contact this damned gang of racist psychopaths who are running around Portland murdering people and bombing things, and try to get them to kill this Flammus character!”

“And how would I do that?” laughed Annette merrily. “Come on, Dad! It’s not like they’re in the Yellow Pages under A for Assassins or anything! And none of the kids at Ashdown are likely to hang with them after school. Our student parking lot looks like a Lexus and BMW dealership. Not a pickup truck with a rifle rack in the bunch.”

“I don’t know, but honey, I am scared shitless that you are going to go floundering around in biker bars in McMinnville or something stupid like that, asking dangerous questions about some truly dangerous people, and you’re going to get into some horrible situation. Either the police or FBI will pick up on what you’re doing and arrest you under the Patriot Act or Suppression of Domestic Terrorism Act, and I will have to spend half our savings on lawyers to get what’s left of you back—sorry, I know that sounds horrible too, but you know what I mean—or else what’s worse, you might actually stumble across a real racist death squad and they’ll kill you. Annette, please!” her father begged her urgently. “Promise me you won’t do anything stupid like that! We’ve lost one child, and now you’re all we’ve got left. If we lose you, your mother and I will die too, inside, in a way that doesn’t bear thinking about. Please!”

“I promise, Dad, no bars in McMinnville,” she told him.

Tuesday, November 24, 2009

Climate Change Hoaxers Hacked

Greenery Fakery
by James Delingpole

Daily Telegraph
November 23rd, 2009

If you own any shares in alternative energy companies I should start dumping them NOW. The conspiracy behind the Anthropogenic Global Warming myth (aka AGW; aka ManBearPig) has been suddenly, brutally and quite deliciously exposed after a hacker broke into the computers at the University of East Anglia’s Climate Research Unit (aka Hadley CRU) and released 61 megabites of confidential files onto the internet. (Hat tip: Watts Up With That)

When you read some of those files - including 1079 emails and 72 documents - you realise just why the boffins at Hadley CRU might have preferred to keep them confidential. As Andrew Bolt puts it, this scandal could well be "the greatest in modern science". These alleged emails - supposedly exchanged by some of the most prominent scientists pushing AGW theory - suggest:

Conspiracy, collusion in exaggerating warming data, possibly illegal destruction of embarrassing information, organised resistance to disclosure, manipulation of data, private admissions of flaws in their public claims and much more.

One of the alleged emails has a gentle gloat over the death in 2004 of John L Daly (one of the first climate change sceptics, founder of the Still Waiting For Greenhouse site), commenting: "In an odd way this is cheering news."

But perhaps the most damaging revelations - the scientific equivalent of the Telegraph’s MPs’ expenses scandal - are those concerning the way Warmist scientists may variously have manipulated or suppressed evidence in order to support their cause.

Here are a few tasters. (So far, we can only refer to them as alleged emails because - though Hadley CRU’s director Phil Jones has confirmed the break-in to Ian Wishart at the Briefing Room - he has yet to fess up to any specific contents.) But if genuine, they suggest dubious practices such as:

Manipulation of evidence:

"I’ve just completed Mike’s Nature trick of adding in the real temps to each series for the last 20 years (ie from 1981 onwards) amd from 1961 for Keith’s to hide the decline."

Private doubts about whether the world really is heating up:

"The fact is that we can’t account for the lack of warming at the moment and it is a travesty that we can’t. The CERES data published in the August BAMS 09 supplement on 2008 shows there should be even more warming: but the data are surely wrong. Our observing system is inadequate."

Suppression of evidence:

"Can you delete any emails you may have had with Keith re AR4? Keith will do likewise. He’s not in at the moment - minor family crisis. Can you also email Gene and get him to do the same? I don’t have his new email address.We will be getting Caspar to do likewise."

Fantasies of violence against prominent Climate Sceptic scientists:

"Next time I see Pat Michaels at a scientific meeting, I’ll be tempted to beat the crap out of him. Very tempted."

Attempts to disguise the inconvenient truth of the Medieval Warm Period (MWP):

"……Phil and I have recently submitted a paper using about a dozen NH records that fit this category, and many of which are available nearly 2K back-I think that trying to adopt a timeframe of 2K, rather thanthe usual 1K, addresses a good earlier point that Peck made w/ regard to the memo, that it would be nice to try to "contain" the putative "MWP", even if we don’t yet have a hemispheric mean reconstruction available that far back…."

And, perhaps most reprehensibly, a long series of communications discussing how best to squeeze dissenting scientists out of the peer review process. How, in other words, to create a scientific climate in which anyone who disagrees with AGW can be written off as a crank, whose views do not have a scrap of authority.

"This was the danger of always criticising the skeptics for not publishing in the peer-reviewed literature. Obviously, they found a solution to that-take over a journal! So what do we do about this? I think we have to stop considering 'Climate Research' as a legitimate peer-reviewed journal. Perhaps we should encourage our colleagues in the climate research community to no longer submit to, or cite papers in, this journal. We would also need to consider what we tell or request of our more reasonable colleagues who currently sit on the editorial board…What do others think?"

"I will be emailing the journal to tell them I’m having nothing more to do with it until they rid themselves of this troublesome editor."

"It results from this journal having a number of editors. The responsible one for this is a well-known skeptic in NZ. He has let a few papers through by Michaels and Gray in the past. I’ve had words with Hans von Storch about this, but got nowhere. Another thing to discuss in Nice !"


Hadley CRU has form in this regard. In September - I wrote the story up here as "How the global warming industry is based on a massive lie" - Hadley CRU’s researchers were exposed as having "cherry-picked" data in order to support their untrue claim that global temperatures had risen higher at the end of the 20th century than at any time in the last millenium. Hadley CRU was also the organisation which - in contravention of all acceptable behaviour in the international scientific community - spent years withholding data from researchers it deemed unhelpful to its cause.

This matters because Hadley CRU, established in 1990 by the Met Office, is a government-funded body which is supposed to be a model of rectitude. Its HadCrut record is one of the four official sources of global temperature data used by the IPCC. I asked in my title whether this will be the final nail in the coffin of Anthropenic Global Warming.

This was wishful thinking, of course. In the run up to Copenhagen, we will see more and more hysterical (and grotesquely exaggerated) stories such as this in the Mainstream Media. And we will see ever-more-virulent campaigns conducted by eco-fascist activists, such as this risible new advertising campaign by Plane Stupid showing CGI polar bears falling from the sky and exploding because kind of, like, man, that’s sort of what happens whenever you take another trip on an aeroplane.


The world is currently cooling; electorates are increasingly reluctant to support eco-policies leading to more oppressive regulation, higher taxes and higher utility bills; the tide is turning against Al Gore’s Anthropogenic Global Warming theory. The so-called "sceptical" view is now also the majority view.

Unfortunately, we’ve a long, long way to go before the public mood (and scientific truth) is reflected by our policy makers. There are too many vested interests in AGW, with far too much to lose either in terms of reputation or money, for this to end without a bitter fight. But if the Hadley CRU scandal is true,it’s a blow to the AGW lobby’s credibility which is never likely to recover.

Data that has been hacked from the Hadley Centre’s Climatic Research Unit at East Anglia University - one of the principal academic centres behind anthropogenic global warming theory - appears to reveal an international conspiracy of scientific experts to distort, falsify or suppress evidence in order to exaggerate man-made global warming, and also to vilify AGW sceptics in order to rubbish and bury their own evidence.

If true, a revealed systematic fraud of this magnitude will surely not only bury AGW once and for all but, as Philip Stott anxiously observes, this ultimately inevitable outcome may well bring all of science into disrepute as a result. The web is alight with excitement over the hacked data. A word of caution, however - although the CRU’s director Philip Jones has confirmed that the material is genuine, with so much of the hacked material now floating around it is possible that some or all of it may take on a different complexion in its true context. On the face of it, however, it looks extremely damning.

http://www.northwestfront.org


Monday, November 23, 2009

HAC Radio Appearance

Hi, guys:

On Friday I appeared on Jim Giles' show on Radio Free Mississippi. You can listen to the show or download it from

http://www.radiofreemississippi.net/audio2009/stream.covington.wma

There were some technical glitches, or maybe I had my speakers turned up too loud or whatever, and I had difficulty hearing Jim sometimes, so if it seems we step on each other's lines on occasion, that's why. Also, I had no advance talking points on this one at all and I "winged" the whole thing, so maybe it sounds a little digressive at times. But I think I did okay. Check it out and see what you think.

-HAC

Sunday, November 22, 2009

Jew Shrink Says Obongo Is Nuts

[There is in fact an anti-Obongo faction among "right-wing" Israeli Jews who don't like the idea of having a Muslim in the White House, for obvious reasons, and don't trust their co-religionists Rahm Emanuel and David Axelrod to keep the nigger in his place. This was written by an Israeli psychiatrist, a Russian Jew named Dr. Sam Vaknin, back around the time of The One's fraudulent "election.". - HAC]

***********

"I must confess I was impressed by Sen.Barack Obama from the first time I saw him. At first I was excited to see a black candidate. He looked youthful, spoke well, appeared to be confident, a wholesome presidential package.

"I was put off soon, not just because of his shallowness but also because there was an air of haughtiness in his demeanor that was unsettling. His posture and his body language were louder than his empty words. Obama's speeches are unlike any political speech we have heard in American history. Never a politician in this land had such quasi-religious impact on so many people.

"The fact that Obama is a total incognito with zero accomplishment, makes this inexplicable infatuation alarming. Obama is an ordinary man. He is not a genius. In fact he is quite ignorant on most important subjects.

"Barack Obama appears to be a narcissist. Obama's language, posture, demeanor, and the testimonies of his closest friends suggest that the President has narcissistic personality disorder (NPD.) Narcissists project a grandiose but false image of themselves. Jim Jones, the charismatic leader of People's Temple, the man who led over 900 of his followers to cheerfully commit mass suicide and even murder their own children was also a narcissist.

"David Koresh, Charles Manson, Joseph Koni, Shoko Asahara, Stalin, Saddam, Mao, Kim Jong Ill and Michael Jackson are a few examples of narcissists of our time. All these men had a tremendous influence over their fanciers. They created a personality cult around themselves and with their blazing speeches elevated their admirers, filled their hearts with enthusiasm and instilled in their minds a new zest for life. They gave them hope. They promised them the moon, but alas, invariably they brought them to their doom.

"When you are a victim of a cult of personality, you don't know it until it is too late. One determining factor in the development of NPD is childhood abuse. Obama's early life was decidedly chaotic and replete with traumatic and mentally bruising dislocations. Mixed-race marriages were even less common then. His parents went through a divorce when he was an infant (two years old.) Obama saw his father only once again, before he died in a car accident. Then his mother re-married and Obama had to relocate to Indonesia, a foreign land with a radically foreign culture, to be raised by a step-father. At the age of ten, he was whisked off to live with his maternal (white) grandparents. He saw his mother only intermittently in the following few years and then she vanished from his life in 1979. She died of cancer in 1995.

"One must never underestimate the manipulative genius of pathological narcissists. They project such an imposing personality that it overwhelms all those around them. Charmed by the charisma of the narcissist, people become like clay in his hands. They cheerfully do his bidding and delight to be at his service.


"The narcissist shapes the world around himself and reduces others in his own inverted image. He creates a cult of personality. His admirers become his co dependents. Narcissists have no interest in things that do not help them to reach their personal objective. They are focused on one thing alone and that is power. All other issues are meaningless to them and they do not want to waste their precious time on trivialities. Anything that does not help them is beneath them and do not deserve their attention.

"If an issue raised in the Senate did not help Obama in one way or another, he had no interest in it. The "present" vote was a safe vote. No one could criticize him if things go wrong. Those issues are unworthy by their very nature because they are not about him.

"Obama's election as the first black president of the Harvard Law Review led to a contract and advance to write a book about race relations. The University of Chicago Law School provided him a lot longer than expected and at the end it evolved into, guess what? His own autobiography. Instead of writing a scholarly paper focusing on race relations, for which he had been paid, Obama could not resist writing about his most sublime self. He entitled the book Dreams From My Father.

For a narcissist no subject is as important as his own self. Why would he waste his precious time and genius writing about insignificant things when he can write about such an august being as himself? Narcissists are often callous and even ruthless. As the norm, they lack conscience. This is evident from Obama's lack of interest in his own brother who lives on only one dollar per month. A man who lives in luxury, who takes a private jet to vacation in Hawaii, and who raised nearly half a billion dollars for his campaign (something unprecedented in history) has no interest in the plight of his own brother. Why? Because, his brother cannot be used for his ascent to power.


"A narcissist cares for no one but himself. This election is like no other in the history of America. The issues are truly insignificant compared to what is at stake. What can be more dangerous than having a man bereft of conscience, a serial liar, and one who cannot distinguish his fantasies from reality as the leader of the free world?

"I hate to sound alarmist, but one is a fool if one is not alarmed. Many politicians are narcissists. They pose no threat to others. They are simply self serving and selfish. Obama evidences symptoms of pathological narcissism, which is different from the run-of-the-mill narcissism of a Richard Nixon or a Bill Clinton for example. To him reality and fantasy are intertwined. This is a mental health issue, not just a character flaw. Pathological narcissists are dangerous because they look normal and even intelligent. It is this disguise that makes them treacherous.

"Today the Democrats have placed all their hopes in Obama. But this man could put an end to their party. The great majority of blacks have also decided to vote for Obama. Only a fool does not know that their support for him is racially driven. This is racism, pure and simple.


"The downside of this is that if Obama turns out to be the disaster I predict, he will cause widespread resentment among the whites. The blacks are unlikely to give up their support of their man. Cultic mentality is pernicious and unrelenting. They will dig their heads deeper in the sand and blame Obama's detractors of racism. This will cause a backlash among the whites. The white supremacists will take advantage of the discontent and they will receive widespread support." (One can only hope. - HAC)

I predict that in less than four years, racial tensions will increase to levels never seen since the turbulent 1960s. Obama will set the clock back decades. America is the bastion of freedom. The peace of the world depends on the strength of America, and its weakness translates into the triumph of terrorism and victory of rogue nations. It is no wonder that Ahmadinejad, Hugo Chavez, the Castrists, the Hezbollah, the Hamas, the lawyers of the Guantanamo terrorists and virtually all sworn enemies of America are so thrilled by the prospect of their man in the White House.


"America is on the verge of destruction. There is no insanity greater than electing a pathological narcissist as president."


http://www.northwestfront.org/




Saturday, November 21, 2009

Murderous Chimp Wasted

Yet another reason to keep a gun in the house . . .

Several months ago, in the notoriously dangerous neighborhood of College Park in Atlanta, Georgia, two armed blacks broke into a White house party and, after confiscating the group's valuables, split the men and women up into different rooms. Witnesses say the perpetrators counted their rounds and discussed if they had "enough" ammunition.

The students believe the niggers were going to rape and murder the entire group of White students, who were celebrating a birthday at the end of the semester. However, one male student, whose identity is being protected by police and local media, retrieved a handgun from a backpack and fired at the nigger who was detaining the men. (That is, one smart student had prepared for a night in College Park, Atlanta.)

The monkoid fled the apartment under the threat of injury and never returned. The student continued on into the girls' room, where the other nigger, 23-year-old Calvin Lavant, was preparing to rape his first victim. The unnamed student exchanged gunfire with Lavant, lethally wounding him in the process. Lavant fled out of a window and died in front of his apartment, which was just one building away. One of the female students was injured during the exchange, but doctors expect a full and complete recovery.


So what's the point?

A one armed White male saved the girls from rape, and saved the whole group of ten people (including himself) from murder..and he did it with a handgun. This is a perfect example of how ludicrous "big city gun laws" are. What if this had happened in New York, Chicago, or any of the other big cities that ban their citizens from carrying handguns?

Yes, we would be reading a different story--one so horrendous that we would shudder at the very words. Either this whole group of friends would have been raped and murdered by these two niggers, or the hero of this story would be facing prison time for firearm possession and murder.


Thankfully, however, Atlanta hasn't outlawed self-defense,,,yet. And since someone had a gun and was willing to use it, innocent life was preserved.

Congratulations to the unnamed White kid who is the hero of this story. You saved your friends' lives.

http://www.northwestfront.org/

Friday, November 20, 2009

Immigration for Brits

United States Immigration and Residence

Dear HAC:

What are the requirements for British immigrants and their families to the U. S.? Is there a website I can look at?

-Michael A.
U. K.

**********************

I periodically get queries from our comrades in Europe, the Antipodes, South Africa and Canada on this subject, but especially from the U.K. Apparently life has become so intolerable in Great Britain nowadays that many of our British comrades, knowing full well that they are jumping from the frying pan into the fire, still want to come here, where at least uttering a politically incorrect opinion is not followed by immediate arrest and Clockwork Orange-style brainwashing, and where there is not a closed-circuit television camera on every corner as Big Brother watches. (So much for England "standing for civilization.")

Several months ago, a comrade in Scotland, Mark, contacted me through a third party, James, and asked me about any possibility of him and his wife coming to America. This is an updated version of the letter I wrote to them:

Dear James and Mark:

I can tell you right now, it's going to be very, very difficult for you to come here to the Land of the Free and the Home of the Brave, unless Mark is a brain surgeon or a nuclear physicist. When Lady Liberty holds up her torch beside the Golden Door and says, "Give me your tired, your poor, your wretched huddled masses yearning to breathe free," for the past fifty years or so there has also been a sign tacked on below: "Colored only; no Caucasians need apply."

American immigration law is an incredibly confusing hodge-podge. Like the American tax code which even IRS agents cannot understand or explain, most ICE officers themselves do not know and cannot explain most provisions of American immigration practice. The rule of thumb seems to be that once a cheap laborer with a brown skin gets past the border, he is more or less ignored unless he gets really drunk or stoned and commits some spectacular criminal offense that can't be overlooked.

I can tell you from my own experience in trying to bring my New Zealand girl friend over here, and before that my wife and children in Ireland, that this country simply does not want White immigration and will deliberately and with malice aforethought erect every conceivable barrier to keep White immigrants out.

Even the old dodge of marrying an American if Mark was single wouldn't serve; at my last job I knew an American girl whose British husband had already been ordered out of the country by the ICE. She was about to leave, with their child, to live with him and his parents in Cheshire (in mid-winter, yet. Joy!) for at least two years until his paperwork got sorted. The only way Jan and I were finally able to be together was for us both to live together in London. And that was pre-9/11. God knows what it's like now.

Unless a British or European falls into the highly, highly skilled category, I will go so far as to tell him or her that there's no point in even trying to do it through channels. True, there are a few possible loopholes, but the one thing he mustn't presume is that he will be cut the same slack that Juan Jiminez the illegal wetback picking lettuce or cleaning out the rich Jew's swimming pool in Beverly Hills will be afforded. He won't be.

White illegals get deported every day here, without trial or hearing. Just because the ICE ignores brown illegals, don't be fooled. They will pounce on a white illegal and throw them onto planes so fast it will make their heads spin. Ask those poor Russian and Hungarian girls who were busted in the big Wal-Mart raid two years ago when the ICE herded 400 young White women out to the airports and back to Eastern Europe with no hearing at all.

All that said, if you do decide to make the attempt:

Rule One is get past the airport. Once you are actually standing in the sidewalks of Jew Yawk or wherever, and you're in the country, if you know what you're doing or if you have a little money, you can start working the system like the Pinball Wizard from Soho down to Brighton, etc. Cicero said "The existence of many laws is the sign of a corrupt society." American law is a jungle housing many predators, but like all jungles, a savvy prey can also learn to escape, evade, and hide therein.

The first thing to do for Europeans aspiring to "breathe free" is to get your asses into the country by hook or crook, with some kind of valid visa. Entry without a visa makes you truly illegal. You can still work the system once you're in, but it's a lot more difficult, so try to at least get past the airport with a valid passport and a rubber stamp. (Note: it is also illegal for American citizens to re-enter the United States without going through customs and passport control at an authorized border check.)

Our aspiring Caucasian immigrant's visa needs to be at least one cut above tourist if this can be managed. Tourist visas are very hard to zilchify, sanctify, or transmute into a higher grade of visa, much less a green card. You keep getting constantly confronted with this moronic demand that you leave the country before they'll process your paperwork and you have to hire lawyers to fight that for five years. (Anyone stupid enough to leave the country on promise of a visa later doesn't deserve to be here anyway. You know darned well that once you leave voluntarily, they're not going to let you back in. Ask Mark Cotterill.)

A student visa is best. Everyone from aspiring Quickie Mart managers from Calcutta to 9/11 hijackers originally gets into the United States on a student visa. Find some course to take at some Moo U. in Oregon or Idaho and get a student visa, of which there are several categories, some of which will even allow you to work legally on an ostensibly part-time basis, and some of which last two or three years.

Student visas also apply to certain kinds of on-the-job internships with large corporations. Your best chance at getting in might actually be through a corporation. If you can come in with some kind of job, even if it's only working for Arthur Treacher's Fish and Chips for your accent, you're killing two birds with one stone. The trick here is to work a shufty and get some American corporation to hire you, and let them worry about ICE. There are agencies all over London that specialize in U. S. employment, especially for nannies and servants (white servants are an incredible status symbol among America's super-rich.) More about the Indentured Servant option later on in this rave.

Once you get past the airport, you've got at least some wiggle room and you can start playing the system like a pinball machine. The Left has been doing it for years. You've got options.

If you decide you want to stay, resign yourself to the fact that you will eventually have to hire a skilled and expensive immigration attorney whose main function will be to get you out of this ridiculous ICE demand that you leave the country again for years while Washington puts your papers in a drawer indefinitely and leaves them there for the mice to nibble on. A good lawyer can tie the System in knots for years. He can probably eventually get them to say "fuck it" and give you the necessary rubber stamp and papers to get you out of their hair and get your file off some bureaucrat's desk, never mind how.

Don't knock yourself out trying to assault the bureaucracy head-on. If you have a White skin, it is designed for the express purpose of keeping you out. The power to keep people out or kick people out is the immigration bureaucrat's narcotic, the one thing that makes him somebody other than the wretched little cretin he is, and they love to use it. Since these weak little Walter Mitty types can't use that power against blacks and browns and yellows, and this frustrates them, when White illegals get caught up in the mincing machine they get a double dose of bullshit.

If at all possible, try to get some kind of corporation on your team before you come, so you can come in on a temporary work permit which is much easier to transmute into a full green card. Failing that, the next best thing is a student visa, as I mentioned.

Now...there is another route into America which I hesitate to mention because it's so damned degrading. Fancy being a servant? Most likely to rich Jews or non-White nouveau-riche? Believe it or not, British butlers and nannies are still major status symbols over here. No mansion in the Hamptons or penthouse on Central Park is complete without some pretty blond girl with a Euro accent in an obviously subservient position, taking orders and fetching and carrying and hauling around the squalling liver-lipped brats of Missus Greenboig whose hubby is the biggest junk bond dealer on The Street, or some negress of the new Obamanoid elite, dolled up to the nines whose husband is a big wheel federal prosecutor while she's got some GS-17 sinecure downtown. Yadda yadda yadda.

I know this would be the bitterest pill of all for any European with any personal or racial pride left to swallow, but a servant visa (there is a special visa for that, yes) will get you past the airport and allow you to plunk your feet down on American concrete with at least some legal right to engage in employment. And it's probably the easiest one to get. Otherwise, you could wait years.

Go down to London and go through Mr. Higginbotham's Six Week Boffin Brit Butler School, and get your wife some kind of cert from the Mary Poppins Nanny Academy, and then send resumes, cooked of course, to various domestic servant agencies along the American east coast. You will be on a plane to Jew York faster than you can say chim-chim-cheree. I happen to know through various nefarious sources that you will be snapped up. Domestic service for the wealthy is one of the few virtually guaranteed job openings remaining.

Since your employers will be on the upper levels of a thoroughly corrupt and money-driven society, and if they like you they will have the juice, the shekels, and the attorneys to make the ICE roll over, you need to stay on their good side for a while and refrain from chopping them up with an axe until you get that green card in your hand. The work and the humiliation will make you want to vomit, but you need to stick it long enough to get acclimated, before you flee into the night with your massah's silver in your suitcase.

Long and the short of it, guys--immigration to the United States from Europe can still be done, but it is bloody difficult. I will of course be glad to help with individual cases in any way I can. E-mail me with a precis of your individual situation and we'll put our heads together and see what we can come up with.

-HAC