"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
Tuesday, June 30, 2009
Monday, June 29, 2009
Great Anti-Jew Site
All you rabid anti-Semites and conspiracy theorists out there--do we have any people like that reading this blog, I wonder?--should check out
It's written by a renegade Jew who has turned on The Tribe. He really hates the kosher meat millionaires, the Rubashkin family, the ones running the kosher meat processing plant in Iowa where the feds found hundreds of illegal aliens and a meth lab cooking away. Fascinating stuff!
Sunday, June 28, 2009
The Return of the Resurrection Men
Two hundred years ago, gangs of ghouls called "Resurrection Men" crept through the foggy night in Britain and in America, stealthily unearthing the coffins of the newly buried dead and stealing their bodies for sale to medical schools and doctors who needed specimens for medical experimentation. Mary Shelley's novel Frankenstein was written at about the time when this practice became prevalent; the old horror movies do have at least a loose basis in fact.
Now, the Resurrection Men are back. According to the St. Louis Today web site, "Grave robbing has become an above-ground affair. Gone are the days when enterprising thieves would dig up an old grave and pillage for gold teeth and rings. Today, it's mostly the bronze markers and flower vases that draw their attention. Rising scrap metal prices, coupled with the lagging economy, have triggered a string of cemetery thefts both locally and across the nation."
The ghouls also target brass and copper fittings on caskets and funeral laying-out clothing, which is usually the deceased's best suit, although these being lazy Generation X type thieves of today they get these things by breaking into funeral homes at night, and not by good old-fashioned digging by the light of the moon. "I can't think of anything lower," said David Evans, general manager for Valhalla Gardens of Memory in Belleville. "Nothing's worse than stealing from the dead."
"But grave robbers beware: The authorities are getting wise. States are passing laws and police are cracking down. In March, the Madison County Sheriff's Department arrested three people for stealing 40 vases from two Metro East cemeteries. The owner of a Granite City scrap recycling center turned them in. Late last year, a trio of thieves hit the Valhalla Memorial Park cemetery in East Alton. They stole 17 bronze vases from graves in the cemetery. A month later, they went back and stole a dozen more. The two men and a woman were arrested after a tipster reported a suspicious vehicle. Charges are pending."
"The scrap value of a bronze vase is about $10, according to cemetery operators; the replacement price often tops $300. Three men were arrested earlier this month on charges of stealing more than 1,000 brass vases and headstones from nine Chicago-area cemeteries. Also this month, about 150 bronze vases were reportedly stolen from a West Virginia cemetery. In addition, a man was arrested on charges of stealing 55 vases from grave sites in the Fort Myers, Fla. area. In the last few weeks, robberies have been reported at cemeteries in Arizona, Maryland, Michigan and North Carolina.
"Grave robbery was more common in the 19th century, when thieves dug up the dead in a search for gold. Sometimes they snatched the bodies for medical experiments. In 1876, three men broke into Abraham Lincoln's burial site in Springfield, Ill., in an attempt to steal the body and hold it for ransom. The men were caught in progress." (Thieves did the same thing with the body of department store mogul Andrew Stewart.)
"Stronger laws and new technology are helping catch the thieves. A Missouri law passed last month is aimed at helping police track thieves who steal brass and bronze and sell it to scrap metal dealers. The state stiffened the fines for dealers who don't keep proper paperwork and requires them to get a copy of a photo ID for those who aren't regular customers. Illinois enacted a similar law earlier this year. Ed Wilkerson, the police chief in Millstadt, said his department has begun paying for an Internet-based system, www.leadsonline.com, that tracks the sale of scrap metal online and in pawnshops. He said the Mount Evergreen Cemetery in Millstadt was robbed of bronze vases last year. No arrests have been made."
As the American economy begins what may well be its final slide down the tubes, we're going to see an increase in weird crimes of desperation like this. The devil of it is, stealing these bronze vases and copper fittings brings in such a relatively low profit compared to drug dealing or knocking over liquor stores that it's entirely possible these thieves are simply trying to raise enough money to put gasoline in their tanks or some rice on the table.
Expect an increase in people willing to do anything for money or gasoline. I once was skeptical that we would ever see the devastated world of Mad Max the Road Warrior in real life. Now I am not so sure.
Friday, June 26, 2009
The Death of Androgynous Rex
[A trip down memory lane, from Thoughtcrime, June 15, 2005]
Pedo's Pecker Picture Possession Panned
Newly-acquitted Michael Jackson is now demanding that District Attorney Thomas Sneddon return photographs of his (Jackson's) John Thomas which Sneddon wanted to introduce at the trial. He (Jackson) is afraid the pecker pics will be leaked onto the internet, and that would be most undignified. And we can't have Michael Jackson's dignity assailed, now can we?
The reason the cops wanted the peter pictures was that apparently, back when Jackson was having his skin peel or his drug treatment or whatever it was that he used to transform himself into a Puerto Rican, either the doctors or Androgynous Rex himself didn't want to apply the process to his male organ. Ergo, Jackson's schlong is still black. The boys observed this during their buggery bouts at Neverland, told the cops, and the prosecution wanted to show the jury Jackson's pubic portrait in order to verify the kids' version of events.
Sneddon says he doesn't have the offending pecker pics, which are no doubt in police 8 X 10 glossy like you'd find in the trash at Alice's Restaurant. Gawd, who would want the damned things? Anyone care to make a small bet they really do end up on the Net?
God, this country is a zoo.
Thursday, June 25, 2009
More Evil From the District of Corruption
Obongo is personally sponsoring a new bill that would destroy a union worker's right to vote in private, forcing him to vote right in front of intimidating union officials, who could then fire, demote, harass, or even stomp said employee, effectively forcing these workers to vote the union ticket...or else.
This little gem was created as a thank you to the union bosses for supporting Super Chimp in the election. This evil little piece of shit is deceptively titled the Employee Free Choice Act or the EFCA.
There's an opposition bill put out by honest men, which are now few and far between in DC, and this one is titled Secret Ballot Protection Act. This is the one our senators should vote for.
Now you can see how sneaky the bastard liberals are. They make it all so stinking confusing deliberately. Both of these bills are coming up for a vote very soon now.
Obaboon and his crew are in absolute overdrive, thinking up innumerable ways to cut off our rights and freedoms. I could use up three sheets of paper just listing the various evil bills and proposals they've put forth in the senate in just the past two months alone. It's enough to make your head spin.
But you see, no matter what they do, or how much they do, or how blatantly communist it is, we say and do nothing. No riots, no assassinations, no threats, no killings, no attacks, nothing. We just sit back and pop open another beer. And this cowardly complacency is emboldening them. They now feel as if they can do whatever they damned well want to us, and we won't do squat but silently obey.
This is the nature of evil, and it has been since the dawn of time. It never changes. Only the names, faces, and dates change. Evil remains the same.
I'm just sitting back at this point and watching to see just how much more my fellow whites are going to take before going absolutely postal on their asses. I am hearing very distinct rumblings, and they're getting louder by the day..and I like it.
-The Lone Haranguer
Wednesday, June 24, 2009
Sleep Tight, Don't Let The Bedbugs Bite
One of the little-known and least studied effects of diversity and multiculturalism is the way in which the First World is quietly sliding back into the past, a past we once thought we'd pulled our way up out of. Parts of our lives are literally beginning to go back in time.
Massive power failures of our aging energy grid and infrastructure now leave many Americans sitting in blackness by 18th-century candlelight for more and longer periods of time, dependent on burning fuel in old-fashioned fireplaces and stoves for heat.
Working conditions in the American labor market, once the home of the eight-hour day, the 40-hour week, and employer-provided medical insurance, are now reverting back to the cruel and bad old days of Victorian laissez-faire. The workplace is now a world of day labor, zero unions and zero job security where human lives hang on the bosses' whim, a world wherein white people are worked like dogs for the longest hours and the lowest wages an employer can get away with, and then downsized when they are of no further use or when the greedy bastards in the suits decided to outsource Americans' jobs to India or Guatemala.
Strange historic diseases we once thought would never threaten us again, such as diptheria and bubonic plague, are now regularly reported along our southern border where the illegal immigrants cluster in squalid colinias that resemble something ot of the slums of Mexico City or Calcutta. Rabies in animals is now a problem again thoughout the South and the Southwest as rabid bats, dogs, and other mammals wander through the uncontrolled borders along with the millions of illegals.
Now, we have a new blast from the past, and this time it's surfacing right in the heart of our so-called gorgeous mosaic, Jew York, uh, New York City.
Bedbugs, no less.
The New York Daily News reports: "A bedbug epidemic has exploded in every corner of New York City - striking even upper East Side luxury apartments owned by former Gov. Spitzer's father, the Daily News has learned. The blood-sucking nocturnal creatures have infested a Park Ave. penthouse, an artist's colony in Williamsburg, Brooklyn, a $25 million Central Park West duplex and a theater on Broadway, according to victims, exterminators and elected officials." (For those who don't know, bedbugs are a somewhat larger cousin to ordinary body lice.)
The Daily News goes on: "Once linked to flophouses and fleabags, bedbug outbreaks victimize the rich and poor alike and are spreading panic in some of the city's hottest neighborhoods. 'In the last six months, I've treated maternity wards, five-star hotels, movie theaters, taxi garages, investment banks, private schools, white-shoe law firms, Brooklyn apartments in Greenpoint, DUMBO and Cobble Hill, even the chambers of a federal judge,' said Jeff Eisenberg, owner of Pest Away Exterminating on the upper West Side.
"The numbers are off the charts: In 2004, New Yorkers placed 537 calls to 311 about bedbugs in their homes; the city slapped 82 landlords with bedbug violations, data shows....The scourge has left no section of the city untouched: complaints and enforcement actions soared in 57 of the 59 community boards.
"In the most bedbug-riddled district, Bushwick in Brooklyn, HPD issued 172 violations this year, up from four in 2004; it responded to 476 complaints, up from 47. Central Harlem chalked up 269 complaints, up from nine. Williamsburg and Greenpoint, home to the city's hippest galleries, racked up 148, up from 11 in 2004. Astoria and Long Island City saw the tally climb to 345 from 41."
Okay, we get the idea. But where did these pests come from all of a sudden? As bad as things were in New York City for the past many decades, what with all the rats and cockroaches and Puerto Ricans, I never heard of bedbugs before. Where are they coming from all of a sudden?
According to the Daily New, "A surge in global travel and mobility in all socioeconomic classes, combined with less toxic urban pesticides and the banning of DDT created a perfect storm for reviving the critters, which had been virtually dormant since World War II, experts say."
Read illegal immigration from the entire planet, which re-stocked New York with these beasties in exotic breeds from Pukeistan and Bung-Bungi, and goddamned tree huggers who have acquired this bizarre idea that all animal life is automatically good because it's a part of nature, and so they banned effective pesticides.
This "man must return to Nature" idea is crap. Tornadoes, smallpox, tsunamis and volcanic eruptions are part of Nature too, but that doesn't mean we want to deal with them personally. Our ancestors have just spent the past five thousand years trying desperately to get away from Nature, because having to try and survive in the middle of it really sucks.
But now as the white man's technology, his civilization, and the social order than only whites can create begin to vanish from the face of the earth, all our old ancient enemies are starting to creep back in under the tent, from the Black Death to bedbugs.
Tuesday, June 23, 2009
I'm afraid autumn has come early this year. The nuts are falling from the trees.
If any of my readers receives e-mail from any source, but most likely from a recent Yahoo ID, which appears to be related to this blog or the Northwest Freedom group, and which is abusive, obscene, or threatening, please forward it to me at email@example.com
Monday, June 22, 2009
Another One By Request
[I have had another request from a fan of A Distant Thunder to re-print their favorite excerpt from the novel. Yeah, I know these things are long, but hopefully they'll inspire some of you to order the book yourselves. - HAC]
We had no idea how or when the balloon would actually go up. It’s odd that for almost three quarters of a century we used that term, “When the balloon goes up.” I think we all envisioned some gigantic apocalyptic event that suddenly changed everything from top to bottom and made all things possible where nothing had been possible before. None of us had any idea how it would happen. A sudden explosion of race war? A total economic collapse with rioting in the streets? Invasion by the Chinese? Some ecological disaster that created zombies who shambled through the streets moaning for brains? Flying saucers landing on the White House lawn? No one knew.
And then, by God, it happened.
On the morning of October 22nd I was just coming off the night shift at Mighty Mart, and I was weary from twelve hours of humping big cardboard cartons of plastic crap made in Hong Kong off trucks and onto conveyer belts. I pulled out of the parking lot at the Olympia distribution center a little after six, heading south to beat the morning rush hour traffic as the sun rose, and looking forward to my coming four days off.
At about the same time Gus Singer looked out the window of his house in Coeur d’Alene and saw the body-armored federal goons of It Takes A Village coming for his children, I was driving down Interstate 5 in the battered old Toyota Corolla I had bought from Adam Wingfield for a hundred dollars and which we had then rebuilt together. That car looked like crap on the outside but it ran like a top under the hood.
It was a beautiful, crystal clear autumn morning, one of the many that give the lie to the popular legend that western Washington is always gray and rainy. I remember feeling oddly contented and happy, because the night before, while I humped the Jews’ trucks and hauled their freight around that big huge freezing cave, I had decided that despite rating only three kisses in three years, I was going to grab hold of Rooney Wingfield sometime that day, wrestle her to the ground if need be, and ask her to marry me.
We were both out of school for good and we knew it. White kids like us weren’t going any further, so why not get on with life’s big ticket items? By now I considered myself a naturalized redneck, and in her culture and her family marriage between two eighteen-year-olds was by no means out of the question. In fact, I had heard both Carter and Ma say that people ought to get married young because it kept them out of trouble. I didn’t know if that was a hint aimed in my direction, but my thinking matched.
Hell, until the revolution came I had nothing else on my plate except humping in Mighty Mart’s warehouse, and having Rooney to come home to in a trailer of our own on mornings like this sure would lighten that load. I figured she wouldn’t say yes right away, but I was fairly sure where I stood with her. I knew there wasn’t anybody else on the horizon, anyway. If there had been she would have let me know.
That was another rare thing about Rooney. You could trust her, and for a white woman of that time and society, that was unheard of. She never played the kind of stupid head games most white girls played. I figured if I faced her head on and asked her point blank what it would take to make her my wife, she’d tell me straight up, and I was willing to do whatever she told me it took. I didn’t fully buy into the Wingfields’ religion, nor have I since, but I went to their Sunday morning prayer meetings whenever I could because I knew they liked it and because I liked being with them. It wouldn’t be a problem on my end, and if they wanted me to get dunked in the river and have my sins washed away or whatever, that was jake with me.
I turned the car radio on as I drove back to Dundee on that fine cool morning, but either the morning shock jocks hadn’t picked up on the news of the horrible racist doings out of Idaho yet, or else maybe the government was still keeping a lid on. I found a country music station playing oldies and I even remember the song that was playing when I pulled up in the Wingfields’ yard. It was John Conley, The Old School. It’s about a poor boy who goes steady in high school with some rich Barbie Doll cheerleader type like Jill Malloy, but she dumps him after graduation to go to college and marry rich, and he ends up pushing eighteen wheels. “I got married to a sweet young girl…and kept driving for the line.”
The cheerleaders had always ignored me and Rooney couldn’t exactly be called sweet, but I felt it was on target. As I got out of the car, suddenly I was struck with an idea. Truck drivers still made reasonably good money, and there were a lot of husband and wife driving teams. Maybe that was a future for Rooney and me if we both got our CDL licenses. I was sure Carter could find some way to get us a rig and something to load on it. We could take a long haul to Florida for our honeymoon.
I had my own key to the house. It was seldom locked, yet this morning I had to use it to get in the back door. I yelled as I got into the kitchen but got no answer. It was unusual for no one to be there at this time of the morning, but not unknown. China might have headed out for school early and Rooney might have gone into town on Party or personal business, and Ma still helped out at Wingfield High Performance with the books and taxes and whatnot.
One thing I should have noticed at once, and which I would have noticed even a few weeks later after a taste of life on the bounce, was that the dogs were gone as well. Caprice hadn’t come up and stuck her cold wet nose into my hand and Porterfoy wasn’t lying like a furry lump in front of the fireplace in the living room. I rummaged around in the refrigerator and heaped up a huge plate of bacon, sausage, scrambled eggs and grits which Ma had left for me like she always did every morning. I slapped the food in the microwave, warmed it up, poured myself a cup of coffee from the pot which was still warm albeit turned off, something else I should have noticed. I sat down at the kitchen table and started eating.
About the third bite, I looked up at the fridge and I saw the note pinned on the door with a Tricolor magnet. It was written on a page that looked torn from one of China’s notebooks and written in large red letters with a felt-tip pen.
Shane, it read, Turn on the TV. It’s already on CNN. Looks like the balloon just went up. Catch up on Coeur d’Alene QUICK and then get your ass OUT OF HERE. We don’t know how fast ZOG will strike back, so don’t spend all morning staring at the tube like a dummy. Call the Cookie Monster as soon as you get to a safe phone, not from the house. Take care. – Rooney
Cookie Monster was one of Carter’s multiple cell phones we hoped to hell they didn’t know about. I later learned that the Wingfield women and Adam had E & E’d about three minutes before I pulled up in front of the house. Like most Party people at the time, they had an evacuation kit ready. I had a small one that I kept at the house, but they’d taken that one as well.
I went into the living room and turned on CNN. I saw a street full of burning houses and a burning police car. There were fleeting glimpses of people running and ducking down behind things and firing; I couldn’t even tell who they were.
The camera shifted and I saw a dead man in body armor lying on his stomach, half on and half off the sidewalk, with bright red and orange and gold autumn leaves whirling around him in the wind and black smoke. The back of his jacket said FBI in bright yellow letters. You could see a bloody hole in the back of his Bakelite helmet; the bastard had been running away when what goes around finally came around.
The tag line on the TV screen said Coeur d’Alene, Idaho, Live in the lower left-hand corner. A Barbie doll talking head in the top right hand of the screen was babbling. I turned up the sound. “Again, Roger, what we have so far is that according to an FBI statement, a team of agents and United States Marshalls acting on behalf of the U.S. Attorney General’s Child Protective Services Division have apparently been lured into some kind of terrorist ambush, and the FBI in Washington D.C. has told us that several federal agents have been killed and wounded. The federal law enforcement team was attempting to serve a child protection order issue by a U.S. Circuit Court judge on the family of one Augustus Singer in Coeur d’Alene when they came under heavy gunfire from the surrounding homes in what appears to be a highly disciplined and prepared terrorist attack.”
As history tells us, it was nothing of the kind. It was Gus Singer’s neighbors, good Americans all who finally decided they no longer wanted to be Americans, good or otherwise. Ordinary people who said to hell with America. Slaves who in the light of a Northwest dawn pulled their cherished guns out of hiding, and who at long last, for the first time since 1865, fired those guns at the hirelings of the United States. Ordinary and decent men and women who heard the call to heroism and answered it, who fought and died in an attempt to save the Singer children from being kidnapped and sold as chattels and toys to rich yuppies and perverts.
That attempt failed, and the Singers died that their race and nation might live. But at the time I had no idea what the hell was going on. Neither did anyone else. For all we knew, the Party had decided to start the revolution without us. I disobeyed Rooney and stared at the tube for several minutes, trying to wrap my mind around it all, until the phone rang on the side table. I picked it up in a daze. “Yeah?” I said.
“Hello, darlin’. No names on this phone,” drawled Carter’s voice. “Little pitchers have big ears.”
“Is it us? Is it us?” I yelled.
“Don’t know. The government says it’s us, and that’s all that counts. They’ll be coming after all of us now. You need to get out of that house and over to the gym.”
“Got it,” I said. Needless to say, the gym was anything but a gymnasium. One of our people ran a franchise for a major shoe store chain in a local shopping mall, which included a capacious warehouse and storage area in the back. One of the best places to hide when you’re on the bounce is in plain sight, in the middle of as many people as you can find. We had all been provided with employee parking stickers in case of need. Mine was in the glove compartment of the Corolla.
“Wait, don’t hang up,” said Carter quickly. “You know the rapture kits I made for this kind of sitch? My big boy got ‘em out of the barn and got ‘em mostly ready for you. He didn’t do ‘em up completely because he knew you’d be coming into the house. They’re under the sink. You need to take care of that for me, son.”
“Are you sure?” I asked. “It might turn out to be a false alarm. You all might want to come back.”
“Dead FBI lying in the street ain’t no false alarm, no matter who done it or why,” Carter replied grimly. “We ain’t coming back. This thing in Coeur d’Alene may be us, it may be some kind of staged incident like 9/11 to give ZOG an excuse to do us all in, who the hell knows with these people? But either way, our old lives are gone, son. We all knew we’d have to move on someday soon, and we’ve been trying to prepare everybody for that. I’ve got some good memories of that home of ours, your home too as we tried to make it, but an old time has ended today and a new one has begun. Do it. I’ve showed you how.”
“You got it,” I said, and I hung up.
A major rule of urban guerrilla warfare: when un-assing an area, always booby-trap everything you possibly can. The reason for this is not so much to inflict casualties per se as it is psychological warfare. You want to wrack the nerves of the man who’s pursuing you and keep him on edge, never letting him forget that while he’s hunting you, you’re hunting him as well. A cautious enemy is dangerous. You don’t want him calm and cautious and deliberating. You want to take him beyond cautious and way into paranoid. He needs to see you around every corner, behind every bush, never knowing when you will strike or how. Every moment of his day, ZOG’s hired lackey needs to be sweating, wondering where Jerry Reb is, what he is doing. His neck needs to have a permanent itch from those invisible cross-hairs on it.
Booby-trapping everything in sight also has the effect of slowing them down to a crawl while they check out every nook and cranny for any unpleasantries you may have left behind. Time spent calling in the sniffer dogs and sweeping for explosives and manipulating clumsy handling equipment to open a door is time ZOG is not chasing you, time you are using to put distance between yourself and your last tickle and prepare for your next, or even grab some much needed shut-eye.
Nor need you restrict yourself to pyrotechnics. Booby-trapping is fun and it allows you to get creative as you destroy. With a little practice we learned to open bottled beer, spike it with cyanide or sulfuric acid, and then reseal it so carefully that thirsty cops and Fatties breaking into one of our safe houses would pop the top and go for the gusto, for the last time. (They knew we didn’t allow alcohol in the Volunteers. I am amazed the idiots never wondered why there was beer in our fridge and never figured that one out, but it worked more than once.)
Then there was the old exploding crapper trick. The famous Dr. James Cord cooked up a little powder we’d sprinkle onto the surface of the water in toilets or urinals which exploded when it came into contact with uric acid. We blew the family jewels off a Marine colonel that way once.
My personal favorite was to booby-trap a picture of Adolf Hitler on the wall with a white phosphorus grenade set into a recess behind it. When some red, white, and blue-blooded all-Amurrican boy ripped it down in righteous rage for Mom, God, and apple pie, then he got a truly Herzlïche NS-Grüsse.
Cars were especially dangerous for Uncle Slime. It got to the point where they wouldn’t even examine a vehicle they knew the NVA had abandoned. They’d just back off and shell it with their grenade launchers. Not too good for collecting evidence. But I digress.
I looked under the sink and pulled out the rapture kits, two OD green ammunition boxes, each one of which had a 9-volt battery attached to the side by an aluminum bracket and both of which contained a large shaped block of Semtex high explosive. On both batteries, one red wire from one terminal led directly to a detonator cap inserted into one end of a stick of dynamite, which had in turn been inserted into a hole in the box and which would act as a larger detonator for the main charge.
So did the blue wire lead to another detonator cap at the other end of the dynamite. But the blue lead was really two wires, one attached to the battery terminal and the other to the blasting cap, connected in the middle of the strand by an alligator clip. The jaws of the clip were clamped down on a small patch of lead sheeting about an inch square and the thickness of a dime, and in the head of each lead tab was bored a small hole, through which was run a heavy thread, about eighteen inches long. At the end of the thread was a looped thumbtack.
I carefully placed the first ammo box to the left of the front door, out of sight under a raincoat of China’s I found, and firmly pushed the thumbtack into the door as low as I could so hopefully any fed or cop trying to ease the door open wouldn’t see it. Then I did the same at the kitchen door in the back. Anyone kicking open either door would then yank the little lead tab out of the alligator clip, complete the circuit, and fly up into the sky to meet Jesus. Hallelujah, brother!
After I rigged up the rapture boxes I took a last check around the house to see if anything obvious had been missed. The only thing I could see was Chompus, whom I knew to be China’s favorite stuffed animal from her childhood that she’d hung onto. Chompus was a threadbare, battered and faded green alligator in a sitting position, wearing a stupid grin and a purple tie that said South Carolina on it.
He struck me as an odd thing to be carrying into an armed insurrection against the United States government, but in spite of her father’s acute observation about an old time ending and a new one beginning, I figured Chine might want to keep at least that one thing from her past, so I grabbed Chompus off her bed. Then I climbed out a ground floor window, got into my car and left the American part of my life behind forever. I knew whatever happened, I wouldn’t be unloading any more trucks of plastic junk for the Mighty Mart.
Sunday, June 21, 2009
Political Correctness In The Victorian Age
[Another one of Harold's historical maunderings.]
An interesting historical anecdote has surfaced which enables scholarly types to date what we refer to as Political Correctness today, to one of its earliest manifestations, in the time of British novelist Charles Dickens. This was the same era in which Karl Marx, Frederich Engels, and the early Fabian Socialists thrived, and also the era in which the misnomer "anti-Semitism," i.e. criticism or accurate portrayal of the Jews, became "unfashionable."
The BBC reports that "Charles Dickens' portrayal of one of his most famous villains may have been altered after he received letters accusing him of anti-Semitism." The character in question, of course, was the famous East End master of thieves and trainer of young pickpockets in Oliver Twist, the infamous Fagin.
Fagin was portrayed by the novelist as a Jew for the simple reason that in Dickens' day, as in ours, crime was a very Jewish field of endeavor and the Tribe were noted for their thieving and corrupt tendencies, especially in London's teeming East End. (As an aside, the infamous Jack the Ripper who slaughtered six prostitutes in the East End in the autumn of 1888 was widely believed at the time to be a Jew, so much so that there were a number of anti-Jewish assaults and riots among local inhabitants as the killings continued.)
Getting back to the BBC report on Dickens, "Eliza Davies, the wife of a Jewish banker, wrote to Dickens in 1863 complaining of the 'vile prejudice against the despised Hebrew.' The letters are held at University College London's (UCL) library. It is thought the last chapter of Oliver Twist may have been revised in 1867 to show Fagin in a better light."
The end of the novel concludes with Fagin in the death cell screaming and cringing and fawning, out of his mind with fear, while he waits to be hanged at dawn. If that is a "better light," then it would be interesting to see how the original version of the book read.
It appears, though, that Dickens himself stuck to his guns. In those days, white men didn't roll over and play dead at the first whisper of "anti-Semitism" or "racism." I know it's hard to believe these days, but yes, some of our ancestors actually possessed spines.
According to the BBC, "Dickens wrote back to Mrs Davies saying: 'I must take leave to say that if there be any general feeling on the part of the intelligent Jewish people that I have done to them what you describe as a great wrong, they are a far less sensible, a far less just and a far less good tempered people than I have always supposed them to be.'"
By the standards of Dickens' time and class, this response is rather brusque. In the polite and elegant language of a true Victorian gentleman, Charles Dickens is telling the loud-mouthed Jewish yenta to piss off.
However, although it is difficult to tell at this distance in time exactly what happened, apparently sufficient Jewish pressure was brought behind the scenes so that Dickens (or his publisher) at least partly caved in. The BBC says "Dickens did make a few changes to his novel as a result of the letter and told Mrs Davies to 'see what I make of this in my next novel'," which was apparently nothing. There is no other major Jewish character in any of Dickens' works.
The BBC quotes some literary egghead type as saying, "'If you compare an early edition of the book, published between 1837 and 1838, and a later edition in 1867, supervised by Charles Dickens, he has made a number of changes with regards to Fagin...Instead of calling him The Jew he uses old man or Fagin and he changed the title of the last chapter from The Jew's Last Night Alive to Fagin's Last Night Alive.'"
In other words, it took the Jews almost thirty years of persistent backstairs intrigue and blackmail and pressure to do it, but they managed to at least partly get their way. This is an interesting historic first.
Of course, it might also have something to do with the rise to power of England's first Jewish prime minister, Benjamin Disraeli.
Of all her prime ministers in her sixty-four year reign, Queen Victoria loathed Disraeli more than any of the others. Even men whom she disagreed with politically, such as Gladstone and Salisbury, she always treated with regal courtesy, and in private she would allow them to sit with her and conduct a more or less normal, informal conversation. Disraeli alone was never allowed to appear before her in anything other than the exceedingly uncomfortable formal court dress--tails, spats, sash, and a stiff high stock or collar that locked the head in place like a medical neck brace. And as is famously known, not once in his entire career was the Jew allowed to be seated in the Queen's presence.
Victorian literature is rife with examples of unfavorable Jewish characters and references. In addition to Dickens' Fagin, there is the repulsive financier and swindler Melmotte in Anthony Trollope's The Way We Live Now, and Arthur Conan Doyle's repeated references to someone in hock to the moneylenders being "in the hands of the Jews."
In view of the fact that Queen Victoria never allowed a Jew to sit down in her presence, maybe we know from whom they were taking their cue.
Saturday, June 20, 2009
My standard aphorism on this topic is: "The purpose of democracy is to prevent change." However, a comrade suggested a variation which might have better resonance in these times:
"The purpose of democracy is to make sure the rich people always win."
Fighting For Air
A few days ago, I guy I know that runs another convenience store only six blocks from here was attacked and robbed by four niggery-looking niggers dressed in baggy pants, pantyhose on their nappy heads and unlaced tennis shoes, all the uniform of the day for the up and coming maggot. They beat him bloody with a crowbar and took the whole damned cash register, laughing and kicking him on the way out.
To add insult to injury the cops didn't even try to catch them but instead tried to stuff him in a $2,000 ambulance, which he would have to pay for on top of the robbery. As it was, he had to have his folks drive him to the hospital, where nine hours later he was treated. It took so long because the staff was buried in hordes of wetbacks choking their waiting rooms with snotty nosed little wetlets.
That's the standard problem here in California. You can't even get ER care for the damned muds. He lost a lot of blood and had to have 54 stitches. On top of that the hospital charged him $1,500!! Why so much? To compensate for all the non-paying niggers and wetbacks. He not only got robbed once at the store, but the damned muds robbed him again at the hospital! This is what we whites must endure here in the land of the liberal.
I just got back from the dentist. This particular one has the personality of a Komodo dragon. He extracted a shattered tooth and put me in an extremely bad mood because he hurt me.
On the way back I stopped for gas. Before I could even stick the pump nozzle in my truck, another damned coon comes slinking up behind me, wanting me to "donate" some of my gas for his huge old Chevy van, which, by the way, was bristling with lazy niggers. He couldn't get the gas money from any of them because they're always broke. And even if he did have the money, if a nigger thinks he can con a white into footing his bill, he has no qualms about begging.
Pure nigger. He too, was replete with pantyhose on the head, ultra baggy pants that looked like he took about ten dumps in them, and three-hundred-dollar tennis shoes which were no doubt stolen from one of the malls in town.
The gall of niggers never ceases to amaze me. After all they've done and are always doing to us, this bastard had the sand to ask me for gas? He took one look in my eyes and realized what a huge mistake he'd made and he beat feet. Good thing too, because the more I thought about it, the madder I got. Before I finished pumping, Rastus and his crew had driven off. Good thing too. I was in a homicidal mood.
I got about three blocks from the station when I noticed some guy out front of his home doing a war dance. He was yelling and throwing stuff around in a fit of rage. I glanced at his house and saw why. During the dark of the night some wetbacks had spray painted their gang graffiti all over the wall of his freshly painted house.
"Damn!" I said under my breath and shook my head in disgust. There's just no limit anymore. There was a news blurb on the local news last night about another hatecrime perpetrated on some poor, innocent blacks by some mean old racist whites who naturally were completely unjustified in this assault on said coons. It appears that three niggers were found shot full of holes outside an apartment building in a white area, where they obviously had no business other than no good. Looks like some whites decided to head them off at the pass..lol. They were beat and shot. Good riddance.
A few blocks down from there I witnessed a very close call as some fat nigger ho waddled across an intersection on a red light, knowing she wasn't supposed to walk. But niggers here ignore all the street lights and traffic laws because they're black and too good for that shit. She almost caused a serious accident by forcing several speeding cars to slam on the brakes because of her. Bitch. She just stuck her fat bubble ass in the air and actually grinned! It was all I could do not to hit the gas and flatten her worthless ass right on the spot.
Finally I arrived home. sore, angry and shaking with rage and frustration. Every day it's like this in this stinking state. Not just for me, but for every single white here. It's a damned nightmare, one deliberately created by our so-called leaders.
Just trying to do day-to-day business can get you into a boatload of trouble because these bastards target whites. If they see you, they're going to make a beeline straight for you to try and get either money, gas, smokes, or some other thing of value off you.
That's what niggers do, and what they are: predators and parasites. To muds, whitey is simply a source for all things of value. That's why all these stinking wetbacks are here, to take what we've built and earned. Greed, pure and simple. It's why so many millions of mud immigrants are clamoring at our doors to get in. They don't want to be Americans, they want to take what Americans have.
With each passing day my tolerance for these parasites grows less and less. My only question is why my fellow Americans don't all feel the exact-same way. What's it going to take to wake them all up? At this point, even if all of them chose this very week to see the light, I'd still never respect them, simply because they took too long to do it. They waited until the damage was done. There's no excuse for that.
Living in this nation today as a white is like fighting for air as you drown in a sea of sewage.. There's no clean place to simply exist without the government jamming these animals down our throats. The only way out, the only rope that can pull us from the quagmire is the one that revolution can toss us. There's nothing else left.
Thursday, June 18, 2009
[I am publishing this excerpt from my novel A Distant Thunder by special request from an old friend who thinks this particular passage is the best description of life in today's America he has ever read. An old man in his 90s named Shane Ryan, a veteran of the Northwest Volunteer Army and the War of Independence, is describing conditions in his youth for a university graduate student doing historical research for her doctorate. - HAC]
Damn. How can I explain to you what life was like back then?
The little girl from the university tells me the purpose of me sitting here maundering into the videocam is to preserve all this clutter for posterity, and also so future historians can listen to me and from my babbled fragments reconstruct the reason for The Awakening, as they’re starting to call it. Yeah, I guess it’s a pretty interesting question, if you think about it. For almost three generations the white race ate every serving of shit that ZOG chose to dollop out to us, grinning like egg-suck dogs while we scarfed it all down and licked the plate. So what changed? Just why, exactly, during the early decades of the twenty-first century did the white man finally decide to fight, at the eleventh hour and the fifty-ninth minute and the fifty-ninth second? What made the white man finally get up off his ass and pick up a gun after a lifetime of allowing the Federal government of the United States to do pretty much any damned thing it wanted to do?
Hell if I know.
I keep getting asked that all the time. I think some of us even talked about it among ourselves back then, to while away the hours on the bounce. Can’t really remember what we ever decided, if anything. Young people look at me like I have the key to some great secret. If I knew it I’d share it with you, believe me. It’s sure something we need. Whatever the hell it was, our race didn’t stumble across it until it was almost too damned late. But really, I don’t know. When you live through something, it doesn’t necessarily mean that you understand every little thing about it. I’ll tell you this much: I don’t remember the war as being this big long heroic adventure that our NBA films and books and documentaries portray, that’s for sure. You want to know the truth of the matter, it wasn’t a very pleasant experience. War isn’t. Long periods of paranoid and nervous boredom broken by brief outbursts of madness and horror. But as to why white people finally revolted? The best I can tell you is that there wasn’t any one reason, it was a whole combination of things that just happened to fall into place just right. Or wrong. You can only push people so far. At some point, there was just some final straw that broke the camel’s back, and thanks to the Party and the Incomers, the white racial settlers from around the continent who came to the Northwest, we were able to reach critical mass and blow. But precisely what that ultimate straw was, I haven’t got a clue. Didn’t then, don’t now.
Life is so utterly and completely different now that it passes comprehension. I don’t think anyone who’s not of my generation can really imagine what it was like back then. Sometimes I sit here and I look at my grandchildren and I see the calm and safe, all-white world of peace and plenty they live in, this beautiful town of mine and this land of ours, and I swear I think I dreamed it all or imagined it, that my childhood and my young manhood was some kind of nightmare I had and then I finally woke up in the world as it should be. The main difference is that life is good now for most people. A white child has a chance now, a chance to be a child without fear and worry. A child can ride a bike and play down at the creek and walk home from school without any risk of being kidnapped and buggered and chopped into pieces by a pervert. A child has a chance to grow into a young man or a woman instead of a—well, what we were then, a kind of half-insane consumer zombie. People in the Republic are happy, mostly. Or at least you have a proper chance to be happy in the Republic, which we never had when I was young. Hell, when you don’t have to look at niggers every day and you don’t have to hear Spanish and Tagalog and Muklucky-Muck being gibbered everywhere, you’re halfway to bliss already. And for those who feel the ancient restlessness and who want the sight of strange new things and the feel of strange new places under their feet, as is natural with our Folk, there are the very planets above us, or the scientific laboratories where Aryans are unlocking the secrets of the universe even as we speak. Whatever a white man or woman wants to be, now they can be.
But how can I describe to you what it was like when nobody was happy at all? It’s like that bit I mentioned yesterday about every other person you saw on the street being fat? You can’t really believe that, can you? When was the last time you actually saw a grossly overweight person in your time here in the Republic? Our national diet doesn’t include all that garbage people used to eat under ZOG. Junk food, junk politics, and a junk life. The Northwest American Republic doesn’t poison its own people to make money. That fact alone should give you a shrewd idea of one big difference between now and then. We don’t do much of anything here solely for the purpose of making money, which is something completely unimaginable in the world into which I was born. That Jewess Ayn Rand got her books burned right alongside the Marxism and the pornography. In cases where people have bona fide thyroid conditions, we now have a simple enzyme therapy that soups up your metabolism and in a couple of months you’re running marathons. That’s just one example of a social problem that existed before the revolution, and which is now completely gone. There were about a hundred other little pissant things we had to put up with then that don’t exist any more, from traffic jams to air pollution to functional illiteracy to foul-mouthed children talking like niggers. Nowadays only dirty old coots like me do that. I apologize for my language, young lady, and I know such words aren’t used in polite society any more, and so they shouldn’t be. But if you want me to go back to that time then you’re going to get all of it, and one truth about those times was that the American dialect of the English language had become negrified or ebonicized or whatever the hell you want to call it. We all talked like whiggers back then. We didn’t know any better. Hey, we heard blacks talking like that all the time on TV, and whatever was on TV must be right, eh? Polite or not, I’m sure you’ve heard it before from your older relatives. I once heard someone say we have the only society in the world where it’s the grandmothers who shock and embarrass their granddaughters at the dinner table.
Even now, I bet you half-disbelieve me or think I’m exaggerating, right? There never really was any such thing as fat people, and this old fool is making all this up, right? That’s okay, ma’am. Disbelief is human nature and in this case it’s a sign of healthy racial instincts. Christ, honey, do you have any idea how lucky you are not to have known any of this? How lucky you are that you don’t know? How lucky you are that you can disbelieve?
We did it all for you, you know.
The main thing I suppose that stands out in my mind about life in them United States was that everybody was miserable. Wretchedly, bitterly, soul-destroyingly unhappy. I think every white person alive in the year 2000 understood instinctively that something was terribly wrong with the world, even if they didn’t know what. My own childhood was pretty crappy, but it was by no means atypical, and in fact it was actually better than some. My parents were drunks but they didn’t divorce, they neglected me but they never burned my fingers on the stove or beat me black and blue when I was a child, and I always had enough innate good sense not to pick up their bottle and to stay away from drugs. I wasn’t born with HIV or addicted to crack cocaine because my mother was a junkie, and I wasn’t abducted and murdered and left in a ditch.
As horrifying as it sounds, in many respects my family was emotionally and socially quite typical. Everybody was dysfunctional. There was no “normal” left. From the richest kids on down to trailer trash like me, we lived our lives all doped up, dumbed down, zoned out, pregnant, half insane with rage all the time, confused, hostile, paranoid, dishonest, vicious and mean and looking out for nobody but Number One. Everybody had problems, terrible problems that poisoned our very existence, and we were all being eaten alive inside like we’d swallowed acid. Life in the United States was a nightmare from which we were all desperately trying to awaken, but we never could. Nobody ever got a chance to stop and smell the roses. There weren’t any roses left any more to smell, anyway. There was a weird kind of reverse Midas touch in operation throughout the world: everything America touched turned to shit. We were all too busy scrambling and scrabbling and scrimping for small sums of money to pay a hundred little pissant bills. Drivers used to go insane and murder one another over minor traffic mishaps. It was called road rage. Happened all the time. You know what happens when you keep too many rats in too small a cage, ma’am? They start attacking and eating one another. That was America at the beginning of the 21st century.
The majority of white marriages ended in divorce. At least a third of all young white men and women of marriageable age lived alone, because they couldn’t stand one another. Feminism taught women to hate men, and the men returned the favor. How can you marry and love someone you’ve been taught all your life to view as an enemy and a competitor? A whole generation of white children grew up as latch-key kids, dumped in a day care center or a school every morning before Mommy and Daddy or the single parent of the household went to work. The kids came home to an empty house and the boob tube, sometimes with a TV dinner sitting in the oven. More than any nigger gun or knife, more than any needle of heroin or line of coke, more than any perversion of thought practiced by the Jews upon our minds, this so-called liberation of women destroyed two generations of us. When a race of people loses its women, it loses everything.
Oh, it wasn’t all bad. Nothing ever is. Sure, there was laughter, but it was a mechanical laugh track from TV. It was the shrill, forced laughter of people who were on the edge of the abyss and just barely coping, who knew they had to laugh at least a little to stay sane. There were good times in the old America I knew, but they all involved either deadening your brain with drink or drugs or television, or withdrawing into some fantasy world on the computer every night, or else doing stupid, dangerous, pointless things for an adrenalin rush, like bungee jumping or rock climbing or leaping out of airplanes and skateboarding down on a parachute. The good times had a kind of brittle, hysterical edge to them, a conscious effort to escape from a world that everyone knew in their hearts had turned to purest dog doo.
Right, getting back on track, how the hell do I explain to someone who never knew it what life was like under Zion?
The first thing you have to understand is that in those days the United States was a society driven by one thing and one thing only, money. Christians call it the worship of Mammon. I have my own thoughts about God, but I will tell you this much: the only god America worshipped in the days of my youth was Mammon, gold ringing in the till so to speak. It wasn’t real gold and silver like we use today, but numbers on a computer spread sheet. They called it the bottom line and the bottom line ruled every aspect of our existence. Everything was completely and utterly material, and if you tried to suggest there might be something more in life than chasing the almighty dollar you were looked at like you were a lunatic. I remember seeing these little computer-printed signs on office walls about how “Life is a game, and the one who dies with the most toys wins.” There were people who actually believed that. I guess they thought that if they could only live long enough, science would find some way for them to take all their money and silly little toys with them.
Seriously, I think that’s what they were trying for. One of the big things you always heard about on the news in them days was various types of genetic and medical research into the possibility of immortality. By the time I hit my own teenaged years, the first wave of post-World War Two Baby Boomers were finally being carted off to the cemeteries and the fogey farms, and let me tell you, they did not go gentle into that good night. Those Baby Boomers fought and scratched and kicked and screamed every inch of the way, absolutely refusing to admit that their generation was finally getting old. One of the biggest growth industries in them days was plastic surgery, botox injections, hormone treatments, every baldness cure you can think of, anything that might halt or reverse the Baby Boomers’ aging process. When I reached my own codgerdom I came to understand how they felt. Hell, no one wants to grow old, but dammit, you should at least try and be a man about it. There was always something desperate and pathetic about it in those days, all those hippy-dippy flower children from the 1960s scrambling and clawing to fight off the fact that their time was over now, and they’d pretty much all done what they come here to do. It lacked dignity, and sometimes dignity is all an old coot or old crone has left in life. And if you work it right, that’s enough. Well, you wanted stream of consciousness. Remembering all those hippy-dippy assholes trying to stay young or at least middle-aged was one of the first things to float to the surface in my particular stream.
Money, money, money, it was all about money. Some asshole was always screaming at you demanding it, and no one ever had enough of it. Everybody except the very top echelon of truly wealthy people was always broke and up to their chins in bills and damned near insoluble financial problems. Mortgage, rent, credit card debt, car payments and repairs, sky-high utility bills, the astronomical cost of food and clothing if you were trying to raise a family. And God help you if you or a member of your family got sick. Today in the Northwest Republic, the very thought of the medical vocation charging money to save people’s lives and make sick little children well is held in revulsion. Free medical care is held to be a right in the Republic’s Constitution right on up there with freedom of speech and religion and the right to keep and bear arms. But in those days a sick child or a heart attack would wipe out a lifetime’s hard work in a few months and destroy the future of an entire family.
America had three rules back then: don’t be poor, don’t be sick, and for God’s sake, don’t get old. I don’t exactly cotton to being ninety-one years of age, but at least I’m ninety-one here in the Republic. The thought of being old in the United States chills my blood to this day. I wouldn’t have made it this far, actually, if we’d stayed with ZOG. The state would have dragged me away to the fogey farm under the Senior Citizens’ Quality of Life act, which basically gave the government the power to throw old people away once their insurance ran out, and some Third World quack would have given me the hot shot long ago, like that kike Friedman murdered my Dad. The average life span of old folks locked up in those fogey farms was less than six months, especially the ones that were “privatized” as they called it back then, farmed out to entrepeneurs wearing turbans or yarmulkes. If I wasn’t legally euthanized I would have died of neglect or been poisoned or beaten to death by my Filipino and Nigerian “caregivers.” Elderly white people who had no money or whose insurance ran out, and that was most of ‘em, got the short end of the stick like you wouldn’t believe. Social Security finally went down the tubes when I was—twelve? Thirteen? Can’t remember—but even before Social Security went, there were old white people in America who lived on dog food, at least at the end of the month before their checks arrived. Once Social Security was gone, life for old people was a horror beyond comprehension. If you had no children who were able or willing to take care of you, then the only alternative was one of those fogey farms run by the state if you were lucky and run by a turban or a yarmulke if you weren’t. Then came the hot shot.
Oh, there were a few of those hellholes run by “faith-based initiatives,” which was part of a complex system wherein tax money was funneled to the religious right in exchange for pro-Zionist bloc voting to keep the neo-cons in power and keep the endless war in the Middle East going. I remember seeing busloads of old people being driven up to the polls in Dundee and marched in, with their preacher handing them their ballots at the door and a nice young deacon to escort each of them in and make sure they pulled the right levers. What were neo-cons? It means neo-conservatives. They were Jews who pretended to be conservatives. We eventually managed to track them all down and kill them. Anyway, at those “faith-based” fogey farms they made you jump for Jeeee-zus twice a week, as opposed to Jesus, in exchange for your bed in some crowded dormitory of sick and dying and half-insane old people. But I’ll say this, they at least kept you alive so you could vote, and indeed you’d most likely vote a few times after you croaked, too. No, not Jesus, Jeeee-zus. What’s the difference? Jesus is the son of God, Jeeee-zus was who the tub-thumping fools in some of the churches jumped for. Long story, don’t worry, I’ll ramble over in that direction eventually, when I talk about the Wingfields. They were into Jesus, not Jeeee-zus. But that’s really how you want to end your days, eh? In a warehouse for geezers. Several years before the revolution an epidemic of suicide among the elderly broke out. Tens of thousands of old people every year killed themselves with gas or pills or hanging or any guns they’d managed to save from Schumer Act confiscation. A lot of times it would happen when the cops or the IRS came to drag some poor old man or woman or couple out of their foreclosed home and take them to the fogey farm. The police would break in and find ‘em dead. There’d be some horrible story like that on the evening news nearly every day, back when I was growing up. That’s one thing I remember from my childhood. You always heard about old white people killing themselves.
Of course, life wasn’t exactly a breeze for young people either, if you had a white skin. Leastways if you had a white skin and you liked girls. When I say that it was all about money, you understand I’m not referring to the consumer society of the late twentieth century. Three cars in the garage, split-level ranch home with a swimming pool in the back, two-hundred dollar tennis shoes named after some niggerball player, a closet full of clothes and a room full of computer toys, conspicuous consumption, the whole Brady Bunch scene—by the time I was coming along these things didn’t exist any more, except for a tiny minority of very rich people who lived in what were called gated communities, meaning fortified compounds with fences, armed guards and dog teams to keep the poor people of any race out. The American kids I knew when I was growing up were all poor and wretched, because none of the rich kids went to public schools. They had their own private schools that cost more for a semester than my father made in a year. We all knew about the great American consumer lifestyle, of course, because we saw it every night on TV, but that was the only place it existed. On TV.
The fact was that during the first couple of decades of the twenty-first century, nobody had any money for all those fancy consumer goods and toys, except what you bought on your twenty-nine percent interest credit cards. In the latter part of the twentieth century you could actually do a Chapter Seven and get out of the cards, but then along came “bankruptcy reform” which was pushed by the banks and credit card companies, with a cute little sub-clause that allowed for “debt inheritance” so you couldn’t even really get out of that crushing debt by kicking the bucket. All of a sudden not only you but your children and your grandchildren were saddled with paying for that sport utility vehicle at twenty-nine per cent, for life. The loansharks would load you up with credit cards by the time you were twenty-one, and then you spent the rest of your life in a kind of financial slavery paying the cards and their outrageous interest. If you were a guy, of course, there was the crushing alimony and child support from your first marriage. Everybody had a first or starter marriage in those days, and the way the courts were completely slanted against men, that was another form of financial slavery you could expect to last twenty or thirty years. Basically, a white male lived his entire life paying bills, and as the years went by and ZOG became more and more confused and incompetent and greedy, they became harder and harder to pay. The economic power structure thought maybe ten minutes ahead, if that. It stands to reason that you can’t expect people to pay credit card bills on the one hand, while you’re shipping their jobs out to India and Malaysia and Guatemala by the millions on the other hand. You would have thought they would have figured that out and worked out some arrangement whereby at least the peons would have jobs to earn the money to pay their debts, but the system never did quite catch on to those little basics. Or maybe they knew it all along and just didn’t care. Maybe they were just evil.
I’ve never been able to figure that out. How much of what we went through back then was because the Jews and the rich white men in business suits who ruled over us were just stupid and uncaring, thinking of us as their livestock to shear and slaughter as they liked, and how much of what they did was because they were truly evil and meant to hurt and destroy in furtherance of some weird conspiracy. It was both, I know, but I never understood in what proportion. I think there was a strong element of plain sadism; some of the stuff they did to us back then was so petty and cruel that they had to know it and just got some kind of kick out of it. Anyway, they all deserved nothing but a bullet in their heads and by God, some of them got it.
Unemployment was a ghoul that was always present in our lives, there in the background, cold skeleton hands around our necks. It was something we lived with, like people in the Middle Ages lived with the Black Death, this terrible invisible demon that could descend at any moment and destroy everything we had. A few missed paychecks and it was welcome to the Salvation Army hostel. It’s not that there was no work. There is always work to be done, anywhere, but for every unskilled and semi-skilled job there were hordes of Mexicans willing to work like cart horses for chicken feed. When the capitalists found it inconvenient to ship American jobs to the Third World, they brought the Third World here. When I was growing up you could still see a few white men doing manual labor, but by the time I was in high school every road crew, landscape crew, or roofing team was Mexican. Whole industries became closed to native-born white Americans, as all the local convenience stores and filling station franchises and motels were bought up by Sikhs, Koreans, or Arabs who hired no one but their own relatives just off the jumbo jet. White faces disappeared from behind the counters of stores and the kitchens of restaurants. One job after another, bottom rung employment was closed off to whites, and those of us who didn’t have the skills or usually the money and connections to jump a few rungs never got on the ladder at all.
Not just bottom rung, either. Mexicans replaced whites at the lower end while Asians and Indians replaced whites at the high end. My dad had a masters degree in structural design and a solid resumé despite his drinking. When he was sober he was damned good at what he did. But as time went on he couldn’t even get temp work because some Hindu or Chinese with a degree from Ching Hoo U. would work for half his rate. To complain or protest about this sitch invited an arrest for hatecrime under the Dees Act, so whites ended up competing desperately and brutally with each other for the few jobs that were open to gringos. Since pretty much all the jobs that were available paid nothing but a crappy minimum wage that no white man could live on, never mind support a family on, it followed that no one could make it on just one job. Most people had two or three. It was by no means unusual to know a married couple who had five jobs between them, and that didn’t leave much for the young guys like me coming up on the bottom rung with a couple of strikes against them already.
Discrimination against whites, especially white males, was everywhere. It was just one of the things we all accepted and tried to work around. College admission was by quota unless the parents were rich enough to just plain buy a white boy in. I never even got onto the college track, because the guidance counselors knew my family had no money and I had no chance at a scholarship. It wasn’t even discussed. But I remember from the few kids at Dundee High who were being considered for college track that the first thing their higher education counselors asked was if they could claim membership in any minority group,some obscure Indian tribe no one ever heard of, a non-white great-grandparent, anything. Often they had to claim to be a faggot or a dyke to get into university, until the authorities caught on to that and started asking for affidavits from—no, ma’am, I am not making that up! The discrimination against white Americans took a dozen forms. It started with the growing demand down through the years that in order to get a job you had to speak Spanish. If you spoke only English then you just didn’t get any job that required dealing with the increasingly foreign and non-white public, anything from a grocery checkout clerk to a telemarketer. Things got so bad that there were white parents who voluntarily gave up their own children to It Takes A Village in order to have them placed with wealthy liberals and faggots who could afford the adoption bond, because they knew it was the only way their kids would ever be able to go to college and have any kind of future.
By the time I hit high school, the safety net was pretty much all gone and you either knew somebody who already had a job who could get you in, or else you ended up on Workfare, which was state-paid slave labor for less than minimum wage. When that wasn’t available, and it usually wasn’t, you didn’t work, period, and more often than not it was off to the homeless shelter or the hobo jungle under the old underpass outside of town. Not like our National Labor Service today where every citizen of the Republic is guaranteed some kind of gainful employment. The ZOG power structure had never really been comfortable with anything that involved white people taking money out of the kitty instead of putting it in. White males were like the peasants of the Middle Ages; our role in society was always to work so that all might eat. But capitalism decided we were too pricey, and so they brought in millions of Third World immigrants to replace us and more or less tried to breed us out of existence. Gradually, over a period of about fifty years, all the entitlements were chipped away and replaced with things like those big grants to the so-called “faith-based initiatives” I mentioned. In other words, it was still possible for white people of the right politically correct stripe to get their hooks into Federal tax money, all right, but not as something you were entitled to because you’d worked like a dog all your life and paid in. Instead there appeared all kinds of political quid pro quo. The money was doled out in the form of “community grants,” etc. In other words, as bribes for votes and political favors. Politically, America became Chicago writ large. Racially, America became Brazil.
Materialism was total. The only spiritual aspect to American life, if you want to call it that, was among a fairly significant number of quasi-fundamentalist Christians in what was known as the religious right, but that wasn’t really a religion, it was just a theological smokescreen for Zionism, which is a political and racial ideology. The ones like old Walter who were always jumping for Jeeee-zus on TV or running around in public handing out those silly little comic books or hollering through bullhorns about how Israel was the fulfillment of Biblical prophecy and God wanted us to slaughter every Muslim in the world who wouldn’t bow down and convert.
When I was growing up, everything we used or bought or saw around us was shoddy and half-assed. The stuff we bought at Mighty Mart was all cheap plastic made in Taiwan or some South American shithole under NAFTA. Cars and computers and appliances were constantly breaking down because of substandard Third World workmanship and planned obsolescence. Nobody could spell correctly any more; even computer spell check programs had errors in them. The roads and highways were full of potholes. There were constant power outages and brownouts because the electrical grid was so archaic and overloaded. There were constant cases of ptomaine poisoning and botulism arising out of the fact that America wasn’t even producing much of our own food any more; we were either importing bacterial mad-cow beef for our hamburgers or sending our own food overseas to be processed and canned up with whatever exotic Asian or African plague the workers in the latest capitalist paradise suffered from. The public schools were falling apart, and so were a lot of the private schools since no one had any money to support them any more, and they had all succumbed to forced diversity and political correctness. Our textbooks were twenty years old and nothing but politically correct, dumbed-down drivel anyway. Our teachers were pig-ignorant and sometimes just barely spoke English. Health care, when you could get it, was substandard and mostly carried out by Third World immigrants whose medical degrees came from Roachistan U. There were regular scandals at the Veterans’ Administration hospitals involving death by neglect and murder of patients for sport by the staff, although once euthanasia for the elderly became law that was only a misdemeanor.
A hundred times a day we were reminded that white people were a minority in our own land, and a despised one at that. You turned on the TV and it was nothing but black and brown and yellow faces. You went to the post office and tried to buy stamps from some hadji who’d just walked off the jumbo jet and into a government job because back in Iraq or Saudi he’d been a traitor who collaborated with the invaders of his country and been rewarded with a green card, but who didn’t even speak English. In some cases our glorious Crusaders bribed whole Muslim armies to surrender without a fight that might produce embarrassing casualties by offering them all green cards, a practice that began with the First Gulf War in 1991. All around us, we heard a dozen languages, but above all the eternal gabble of that half-assed, almost illiterate bastard Spanish that Central American Latinos speak. Everywhere we went it seemed there were brown-skinned immigrants of some kind ahead of us in line, always holding us up with their inability to speak our language. Always you wanted to scream out “What the hell are you doing in my country?” But if you ever did, if you ever so much as whispered a word of complaint or criticism, you were finished. Hatecrime
Anything non-white was officially cool and admirable and anything white or European was by definition lame and contemptible. For white people, especially white males, there was a constant atmosphere of insult. On TV and everywhere else, white men were portrayed as buffoons. We were all Homer Simpsons or Hank Hills. Those are old cartoon characters. I don’t know if they are teaching kids in our Republic’s schools today about Homer Simpson. If not, they should be, because that’s how white men were portrayed, as bumbling, drunken, stupid fools instead of the head of a family who deserved respect and trust. One of the ways I think ZOG might have avoided the revolution is if they’d just not insulted us all the time. If they’d let us retain some kind of sense of dignity, pride, and self-worth. But they just had to rub our noses in it.
We all lived with a constant sense of fear, especially fear of the informer. For years it was never official, it was just understood that there were certain things a white person, especially a white male, did not say and certain opinions one did not voice or else bad things would happen, anything from loss of employment to a malicious lawsuit to unpunished assault and murder by left-wing or non-white thugs. A couple of years before 10/22 ZOG got so nervous about the growing rumblings of discontent from the pale peasantry that they made it official. They passed the Dees Act, allegedly to “promote diversity and protect minority rights in the workplace, including transit to and from the workplace, and in public institutions of learning,” i.e. all public schools, universities and colleges, and any private school getting so much as a dime of Federal money. The Dees Act slapped a mandatory five-year prison sentence on anything and everything politically incorrect, from “causing mental anguish on the basis of race, religion, ethnicity or sexual orientation” to “creating a hostile workplace environment,” “inappropriately directed laughter,” and “deliberate exclusion from conversation and social interaction in the workplace.” In other words, white people gathering in corners and talking to one another was in itself an act of insurrection, and every lunch table and extracurricular activity had to have an affirmative action quota of blacks, browns, and bugger boys to monitor what the pale peasants were saying. We were constantly bombarded with all this blather about how great Amurrica was and how we supposedly had all this liberty and freedom and that was why we had to “fight for our country” by going to the Middle East and slaughtering the natives. (Needless to say, any mention of Israel got airbrushed out of the picture real quick.) Liberty, my ass! Ordinary white people were always afraid. Any time a white person was about to make any kind of racial or other remark that might have seemed even faintly politically incorrect, they looked over their shoulder first to see who was listening. That is the mark of a true police state. Any time you have to look over your shoulder for fear of who might be listening, you’re not free.
Then there was the almost obligatory race-mixing and perversion. In school and on the tube we were always having our noses rubbed in interracial couples, gay couples, man-sheep couples, you name it. We all somehow understood that of all the taboos, speaking out against seeing some white girl with a nigger or a mud was the strongest and that it would bring the most severe retaliation. We were all made aware in a hundred sub rosa ways that it was the intention of our lords and masters that all babies should eventually be brown, and that this was supposed to be a good thing. Yet to me, and I know to most of my contemporaries, it never felt right. In Dundee itself, I am sorry to say race-mixing was, if not common, at least there. We only had a couple of blacks in town, but there were always illegal Mexicans looking for their La Gordas, white women who were so hugely fat that having a spic marry her to get his green card was the only way she would ever get a man. The foulest thing of all was the sex education courses. Fortunately by the time it got really bad I was in high school and the system assumed I already knew the whole kama sutra, so all I had to do was collect my weekly condom ration in homeroom, which I then traded to convenience stores for a chili dog or a microwave burrito. But young children in elementary school were being given illustrated courses in various unnatural acts and told to pair off in class with someone of the same sex and kiss them. One outraged father in Dundee went to jail for hatecrime under the Dees Act when he pulled his son out of such a class and then lost it with the teacher and called him a faggot. Got the full nickel, too, but he was murdered by Mexicans in prison so he never completed his sentence.
A minor news article I just happened to notice on the internet. No big deal, no great ruckus being made over it. Just normal everyday news in our time.
In other words, the man in charge of a whole school full of impressionable twelve to fourteen year-olds was caught in the process of committing a sodomitic act in a public park. Apparently either he didn't have a bedroom at home, or else he gets some bizarre thrill out of doing these things out in the open for the entertainment and edification of passers-by.
No word on whether or not the parents of his pupils have raised any objection to having this pervert in charge of their kids, or whether the local school board intends to do anything. Probably not, lest they be accused of the horrible crime of "homophobia."
What in God's name is wrong with us?
We not only tolerate these deviates, we now routinely allow them access to our children. There are now "gay" scoutmasters in the Boy Scouts, "gay" rock music videos to corrupt teenagers, "gay" couples are allowed to adopt infants (you'll notice the hapless babies are always of the same sex), and Vermont has just allowed these freaks to "marry" one another. Sex education in the schools now teaches graphic perverted sexual techniques of both the homosexual and heterosexual kind.
Have the majority of people in this country lost all sense of decency? I don't think so. I believe that the majority of people and certainly the majority of parents of young children hold this foul perversion in utter loathing and they don't want it anywhere near their kids.
What White Americans have lost is not their sense of morality, it is their courage. We all know this is wrong, and yet we are simply too cowed and intimidated by the politically correct system to stand up and fight it. What kind of man won't stand up and fight to protect his own sons and daughters against being defiled in mind and body by perverts?
That rumbling sound you hear is George Washington, Thomas Jefferson, and Andrew Jackson rolling in their graves.