Election Rhetoric: The Full-On Wank

As election day nears, you the American voter must realize the immense power you have been granted by your dear, beneficent rulers to make a difference in this world.

(Don’t you dare roll your eyes at my use of that admittedly overwrought cliché—what are you anyway, some kind of miserable elitist who disbelieves in the inherent goodness of the common voter or the efficacy of the democratic process or the wisdom of the majority or something? Oh, you say you didn’t really roll your eyes, you just cast a reverent look upward to Heaven to thank God you were born in the United States of America? That’s good. Maybe I’m just a little oversensitive. I do get passionate about this stuff. Can you blame me?)

Yes, the crucial day of decision is Tuesday, November 6, so remember, please, to report to your local polling place on that day and cast your vote for the candidate I’m endorsing, the one who represents purity, goodness and integrity, the one whose party is striving mightily to put a stop to the wickedness and skullduggery so prevalent in American politics today. Unfortunately, the opposing party just keeps on ruthlessly promoting their own corrupt self-interests and resolutely refuses to do the will of the American people (which of course is always of necessity the right thing—see the note regarding the “wisdom of the majority,” above). But this can all change, if with your help we elect the candidate and the party that I’m endorsing, whose identity should by now be perfectly clear.

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Remember, first of all, that your vote matters. Oh, yes. Yea, verily. It does. Only annoying, freedom-hating pukes would draw attention to the proclivity of crooked officials from both parties to commit election fraud, discounting as many inconvenient votes as possible whenever they can get away with it. No, this is America (fuck, yeah!); persisting in cynicism about how our great system works is simply unpatriotic; in fact, such dastardly skepticism amounts to the blatant commission of a repugnant hate crime against all the heroic American warriors who gave their lives at Guadalcanal and Normandy Beach and Fallujah and other far-flung places across the world. If you don’t vote, or worse, if you disparage the very act of voting, that means that these brave men died in vain, and their blood is on your hands, you pathetic, apathetic reprobate!

Refraining from voting is, in fact, like spitting in the faces of the firemen who died on 9/11, while slapping a high-five with Osama Bin Laden, while urinating copiously on the Stars-and-Stripes, while blowing your nose on the Declaration of Independence, snickering maliciously all the while. Not rocking your “I Voted” sticker on election day is morally equivalent to shooting Martin Luther King in the face whilst raping Anne Frank’s corpse. You really don’t want to be seen as that kind of asshole, do you? So just vote already, will ya?

One thing you can bank on: your vote, once cast, will almost certainly make a decisive difference in the outcome of the election. In fact, plenty of presidential and congressional contests have been decided by exactly one vote. (“Which ones,” you ask?... and, “When has such a scenario ever come close to occurring?” you querulously prod, like the smartass freedom-hating puke that I imagined you were when you first rolled your eyes at me. Well, don’t trouble me with demands for particulars, you cursed troublemaking nitpicker! I’m only making a rhetorical point here….)

Finally, please remember that this is the most important election EVER!

The stakes have simply never been higher… Oh, I know I said this in ’08, ’04, ’00, ’96, ’92, and ’88 too (as well as a few times before then as well), but this time I really mean it, and this time, it’s really true. (I know I said that same thing all those other times as well, but this time I’m really lingering on the point, which makes the urgency more palpable and helps to really demonstrate my sincerity.)

Today, after all, we stand at a crucial turning point as a nation. If we get our guy elected, then there is still time to stem the dark, sinister tide of infernality that threatens to engulf us all, but if the other guy wins… well brother, you may as well gather your family, break out the Jonestown koolaid, and make a toast. It’ll all be over but the shoutin’.

Yes, the choice is a stark and simple one. After all, our political party is good, and our rivals are bad. If our candidate doesn’t win, and the bad guy candidate does, then evil will be enabled to establish a beachhead that will henceforth prove impossible to repel. A Manichean fight to the finish is about to ensue, the outcome of which will determine the survival of everything holy and decent. So be sure your stomach gets tied up in knots as you ponder the grave implications of the nearing apocalypse. God bless America, land that I love.

Now stop rolling your eyes at me and smirking and refusing to get caught up in the hype. And quit making that rude, obscene wank-pantomime with your hand. This is serious, I tell you. Hear me now, believe me later!

A Lefty Nails It!

After receiving numerous recommendations from many and varied sources, I finally purchased a copy of Mark Ames's 2005 book Going Postal. I am about two-thirds of the way through this controversial, flawed but rather compelling work-- perhaps once I've finished I'll compose an "official" review (tardy as such a write-up will be, given that the book was published seven years ago). Suffice it to say right now that Ames strikes me as a non-doctrinaire, and at times astoundingly politically-incorrect leftist, which makes him quite interesting.

Yes, Ames hates big businesses, and yes, he seems to think that unions can do no wrong (except when they compromise with big business owners, which Ames thinks that they do far more often than not). Not to mention that he appears to hold that nearly every office worker who has ever gone on a homicidal rampage was in fact goaded into such behavior by cruel and sadistic employers, who, as the Chicago showtune goes,"had it comin'." And of course, Ames holds Ronald Reagan responsible for nearly everything any psycho has done in the past 30 years, which is supremely tiresome.

But Ames is not your typical drearily droning sociology professor or otherwise unimaginative liberal scold. His reflections on white malaise and habitual self-deprecation-- i.e., trendy ethnomasochism-- show real insight and flirt, in fact, with white ethnic advocacy. Consider the following remarkable passage:

"Today's white middle class must be the only socioeconomic group in mankind's history that not only doesn't recognize its own miseries as valid, but reacts dismissively, sarcastically... even violently against anyone from their class who tries to validate their misery... It is more comforting (for the white middle class) to believe that they aren't really suffering, to allocate all official pathos to the misery of other socioeconomic groups, and it's more comforting to accuse those who disagree of being psychotically weak whiners. Despite its several hundred million strong demographic, the white bourgeoisie's pain doesn't officially count-- it is too ashamed of itself to sympathize with its own suffering." (bold mine)

Ames has his finger on something truly profound here. Indeed, how often have we observed the tendency to deride the complaints of whites as irrelevant, to depict their suffering as insignificant, to dismiss their claims of unjust treatment vis a vis quotas and affirmative action as at best mere whining, at worst disguised racial hatred? How often does white opposition to mass Third World immigration get impugned as a mere tacky display of white "racism" with no real substance behind it? And how often are such dismissive and derisive statements made... by whites themselves? Even at times by whites who call themselves "conservatives"?

I will give Ames's larger thesis a more considered critique at a later time, but thought it worthwhile to call attention to some of his edgier, more alt-right friendly rhetoric here...

Man's Search for Meaning

For a movie by an acclaimed director featuring a highly talented cast of A-list actors with a much-hyped, juicily controversial storyline, "The Master" has performed rather less than masterfully at the box office. Perhaps all of those (mostly positive) critical reviews describing the film as "challenging" and "difficult" are what's to blame for people generally staying away in droves. After all, most moviegoers want to be entertained, not blasted with discomfiting imagery or forced to unpack puzzling and discombobulating narratives. They want, in short, not to be required to think too much.

Then again, maybe the Hollywood Scientology mafia have issued a kind of fatwa against the film-- which is clearly based on L.R. Hubbard's early career as a kooky cult leader-- and have ordered that it be utterly thwarted and driven into obscurity. One never knows. But whatever the reason, it's a shame, because The Master is a profoundly well-made movie which deserves to be seen, particularly by those who (like many on the "alternative right") keenly feel the debilitating absence of once widely-held spiritual values and mourn the erosion of faith in our wretchedly vulgar and morally degenerate post-modern age.

The film charts the simultaneously parallel and perpendicular courses of the life-tragectories of two seemingly very different men, both of whose souls are, literally and metaphorically, "at sea."

The film's "Everyman" figure is a sailor named Freddie Quell (Joaquin Phoenix)... and if Freddie is indeed "everyman," then God help us all! Dissolute, debauched, depraved, and dim-witted, with an addiction to cheap sex and queasy alcoholic concoctions and afflicted with a frighteningly volatile temper, Freddie seems a pure animal, albeit a desperately unhappy one; his Cro-Magnon brow always seems to be furrowed in brute frustration, and his posture is perpetually stooped, as if he were weighed down by a crushing burden he can't even begin to understand.

We first meet our unlikely hero, a U.S. Navy man, at the literal start of what is now known as "the post-war era": the immediate end of World War II. After having endured what must have been an especially hellish stint in the Pacific theater fighting the Japanese in the waning months of the conflict, Freddie humanity appears largely to have been shredded and scrapped. In a memorable scene, we witness him and his comrades roaming the beach of some beautiful South Sea isle in a crazed, giggly stupor; under a blazing tropical sun, next to the brilliant azure ocean, Freddie builds an intricate sand sculpture of a naked woman, complete with enormous breasts and pointy nipples, which he avidly dry-humps with precarious abandon for an extended period of time, an act that his shipmates, jaded as they are, seem to find a bit disturbing.

After this inasupicious start, we see Freddie's failed attempts to adjust to civilian life. He cavorts lecherously with a whore in a photography darkroom, then picks a drunken fight with a stranger in a department store, then accidentally poisons an elderly migrant worker by making the man drink one of his noxious homemade concoctions. Fleeing from the consequences of this last transgression, Freddie somehow ends up back at sea again, on a yacht captianed by Lancaster Dodd (Phillip Seymour Hoffman), a pompously rotund and insufferably mustacioed would-be self-help guru. In introducing himself to Freddie, Dodd announces of himself, "I am many things... I am a writer, a doctor, a nuclear physicist, a theoretical philosopher, but above all, I am a man, just like you."

For all of his unctuous rhetoric, and for all of the dubious trappings of the belief system he's constructed (no systematic set of doctrines is ever revealed, but belief in reincarnation seems central, as well the attempted attainment of "perfection" through hyponosis and various bizarre and at times violently confrontational role-playing exercises), Dodd nevertheless appears to have built a considerable following among certain sectors of the wealthy, liberal, and educated classes-- those who feel they have "outgrown" the devout Christianity of their forefathers, but who still want answers to the vexing questions which invariably attend human existence, so long as these answers don't interfere too much with their modern values and life-choices. Those who adopt Dodd as disciple are, in short, the same breed of people who today we hear uttering glib, facile mantras like "I'm spiritual, but not religious," and who plaster their cars with smug and smarmy "My karma ran over your dogma" bumper stickers, all the while claiming to shun "judgmental" attitudes.

Dodd, as played by Hoffman, seems in large part aware of the essential shallowness of his pre-New Age adherents; he secretly loathes them, one gathers, for being so easy to exploit. Freddie, however, is altogether different; he's a tough lout with a tortured soul, a dirt-poor "white trash" upbringing and a decidedly unglamorous family background: we learn that his father flew the coop, that his mother went insane, and that his aunt sexually abused him. Dodd takes an immediate liking to Freddie, though there is a condescension to his geniality-- to Dodd, a man like Freddie can only be looked upon as a "project" of sorts. Freddie, in turn, is drawn to Dodd for reasons not entirely clear to himself; he seems comforted by the older man's vaguely paternal presence, yet he also retains enough native horsesense to know that behind his dapper facade, Dodd is a fraud.

The two remain bonded by an odd loyalty. Dodd runs Freddie ragged, making him endure endless, exhausting psychological trials. He subjects the hapless ragamuffin to relentless insults, makes him answer a series of embarrassing questions without blinking, and has him run back and forth between the window on one side of a room and the wall on the other side for hours and hours on end. All of these exercises are meant to help to make Freddie more centered, focused, and mentally healthy, but instead, they only seem to addle the poor galoot all the more. Yet when all of Dodd's immediate family try to persuade him that Freddie is bad news and needs to be cut loose, Dodd refuses to give up on his pupil. Freddie, for his part, lashes out in rage against Dodd's enemies; he savagely beats one man who openly expresses skepticism in the cult leader's methods, and slaps around another who has the temerity to call his latest book "nonsense."

Eventually, however, the two men do separate. When this happens, it's hard for us to tell which one initiated the break-up and who was jilted. In this ambiguous scene, Dodd weirdly serenades Freddie with an a cappella version of "Slow Boat To China," a moment which provoked bewildered chuckles from the sparse audience members in attendance at my showing. Before this seemingly affectionate, yet also menacing rendition, Dodd speaks to the effect that a man must have a master-- none of us are truly "free agents"; we must bow before someone, or something-- we must live for something greater than ourselves, else we will perish.

This moment, bizarre as it is, nicely encapsulates what I take to be the central and enduring message of the movie. Like it or not, man is a spiritual animal: he does not live on bread alone. If the West is to be renewed, as most readers of this site ardently wish, then a regeneration of transcendent faith will be necessary.

We, like Freddie Quell, have descended into a dumb, sensually-overloaded, beast-like stupor; like Freddie, we are vaguely aware that we have gone astray, but we seem helpless to help ourselves. Our only hope is to seek out our proper Master, and once again to be ruled by him.

Mammary Mania

It's October again, and once again they're making American football players wear pink for "breast cancer awareness" which means it's also time to run this article again:

I have often pondered how it impacted the average Gen-Xer to hit puberty at the very moment when the AIDS epidemic became a ubiquitous media sensation.

I do know how this ironic sequential syncronicity affected me personally, though I am in no sense a paradigmatic “X-Man.” In my adolescent mind, as a teenager in the '80s, sex and certain death came to be inextricably intertwined in ways they had never before been associated in human history. To have sexual intercourse was to make oneself vulnerable to a dread plague that viciously ate away at your insides until you perished in horrific pain. You didn’t get better, and there was no cure.

Due to this grim set of circumstances, sexual abstinence assumed an allure for me that wasn’t merely motivated by a concern for physical health and well-being, but by plainly psychic considerations as well. For as much as we were always sternly lectured by our betters not to view the HIV virus as karmic retribution for moral misdeeds—i.e., the result of junkies, sexual perverts, and other “unclean” people reaping what they sowed as a result of their lifestyle choices—it was nevertheless hard to avoid drawing such primal inferences when one glimpsed the wasted-away visage and corpse-like form of some poor bastard enduring the final stages of Acquired Immune Deficiency Syndrome.

Of course, this reaction was severely overblown on my part. Not because AIDS wasn’t a terrible disease—it was, and it still is. But most of the noise we heard concerning HIV wasn’t so much concerned with encouraging compassion for its victims, but rather with politicizing their misery in order to agitate for social change. To this end, it became necessary for radical organizations like ACT UP to send out strident and often contradictory messages in an effort to “educate”— which is to say, indoctrinate—Middle Americans inclined towards more conservative sexual morays. “AIDS is not a gay disease,” the ACT UPers would loudly insist, while simultaneously attacking those who feared the possibility of transmission as latent “homophobes,” an implicit admission that homosexual contact did indeed correlate with incidences of HIV-positivity. And while widespread terror of contracting the virus was derided by activist-types as a loathsome byproduct of the hoi palloi’s shameful “ignorance,” these same activists weren’t above exploiting the common man’s supposedly unfounded fear in an effort to promote “safe sex,” that is, contraception, another brave new innovation of the post-1960s age which had always previously been regarded as a low and disreputable practice. 

Thus, the occasion of the rise of a particularly devastating sexually transmitted disease, which if anything seemed like a pressing reason to refrain from non-monogamous sexual relationships, became for many a rallying cry for carrying forth the dictates of the Sexual Revolution, for pathologizing “repression” and declaring any aversion to deviance to be “hateful.” The prevalence of a virus largely transmitted through gay male sex became a reason, not to implore people to avoid gay male sex, but rather to insist that buggery be seen as a beautiful expression of love, in every way aesthetically and spiritually on par with heterosexual intercourse.

But in endlessly flogging their ideological hobbyhorses, the AIDS-insistent busybodies thoroughly overshot the mark. Back in ’86 or so, everyone seemed to be projecting that HIV would go mainstream, that soon we’d all know someone who’d be dying of it, that no discrimination would be made between heteros and homos when it came to who came down with it. In 1987, Oprah Winfrey informed her audience that one fifth of all heterosexuals would be dead from AIDS. Such an outcome has not transpired, at least not in the Western world.

Now, a decade and a half later, we seldom even hear anymore about this disease that was supposedly going to affect everybody’s lives in some mode or manner. In fact, it’s fair to say that people nowadays more often fear the costly ravages of a computer virus than the bodily depredations wrought by that pesky HIV bug. Certainly, people still contract HIV, and there remains no known cure, though medical treatments have improved through the years. But as Eric Cartman found out in a recent “South Park” episode, AIDS just isn’t a sexy illness anymore. The HIV-hype reached its zenith with the 1993 cinematic sanctimony-fest Philadelphia, featuring Tom Hanks as a sweet, saintly ailing poofter criminally wronged by a homophobic corporation; after that, the flamers’ disease more or less flamed out. Since the turn of the millennium, it’s pretty much been “AIDS Who?”

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Today, we’re instead instructed to spend most of our time hatin’ on a totally different deadly illness—breast cancer.

In fact, although people still find various other types of tumors growing in other places on their bodies, it is exclusively mammarian malignancy that is granted the spotlight—an entire month, in fact, of nonstop press. During October, everything in sight is painted pink—the chosen color of feminine “empowerment,” I suppose—and a bevy of worn, weary “survivors” are regularly trotted out as exemplars of womanly courage and fortitude. I have nothing against women with breast cancer, of course; indeed, I wish them well. But do we really require pink newspapers delivered to our doorsteps, and do we really need to see professional football players wearing faggy-looking pink shoes and socks for an entire month, just to show we’re properly concerned for and in righteous solidarity with the afflicted?

And if we’re going to parade the victims around and sing them gushing praises, why the selective, patently exclusionary, celebration? Are people with lung, throat, eye, pancreatic, and testicular cancer not also suffering? Are they not also facing their difficulties with stout determination? Why have these inspiring victims not been their own months to be affirmed, lauded, and praised?

The answer, I suspect, has very little to do with cancer, and very much to do with the misandric calibration of the current era. Just as AIDS became a cause célèbre because it disproportionately afflicted gay men, at a time when the Zeitgeist-shapers wished to banish “heterosexism,” so breast cancer “awareness” has become a means of furthering the “Girls rule, boys drool” vibe of radical feminism, which disdains and aims to “deconstruct” masculinity. There’s nothing at all inherently wrong with women giving other women encouragement, but the fact that macho NFL linemen are now being made to wear pink should tell us something about the aims and objectives of the “Save the Tatas” campaign.

Surely there is a way to honor the sick that doesn’t resort to cheap posturing and politicizing. And surely there are sincere people in the “pink ribbon” movement who only want to see the development of a cure for a disease that affects thousands of families a year. But the hearty Zeitgeist-defier should recognize, and be leery of, massive media-driven, and obviously contrived campaigns to exploit his compassion for nefarious ends.

Radix, Radix, Burning Bright

My friends, I have seen, with my own eyes, a draft of issue 1 of Radix, "The Great Erasure"... It is complete. It is informative, witty, and devastatingly corrosive to the dominant intellectual paradigm of this wretched Zeitgeist. Moreover, it looks beautiful, just as Richard Spencer has promised it would.

It shouldn't be long now until your wait is finally over, and you who have subscribed will hold "The Great Erasure" in your very own hands. (And for those who wish to subscribe, please see the information on the top of the Alternative Right page...)

In the meantime, I've uploaded a couple more videos from my South Africa journey last year, which feature the Voortrekker Monument in Pretoria on a quiet and overcast day just prior to the celebration of Geloftedag on December 16.

A view from the top of the structure, exterior and interior:

www.youtube.com/watch?v=l_x2sPCB59k&feature=plcp

www.youtube.com/watch?v=DXAYyjFaN4w&feature=plcp

An examination of the extraordinary marble frieze on the main floor of the monument:

www.youtube.com/watch?v=GktzWW9-Lt8&feature=plcp

College Football Whiteout

From ESPN, a compellingly biting and shockingly subversive (as well as totally hilarious) satire of the negrification of American sports... with a surprise ending!

www.espn.go.com/blog/playbook/trending/post/_/id/8343/key-peele-have-fun-with-football-intros

We Hate Big Brother

At the end of George Orwell’s 1984, hero and would-be revolutionary Winston Smith is tortured brutally by ghoulish government goons at the Ministry of Love. Following this ordeal, his will is utterly broken; he betrays his closest allies as well as himself; moreover, he learns to “love” Big Brother, the awful totalitarian entity who has made his life unbearably miserable. Winston himself gets absolutely nothing out of this bargain except a certain warped peace of mind and a perverse sense that he has in some way “done the right thing”:

“He gazed up at the enormous face. Forty years it had taken him to learn what kind of smile was hidden beneath the dark moustache. O cruel, needless misunderstanding! O stubborn self-willed exile from the loving breast!... It was all right, everything was all right, the struggle was finished. He had won the victory over himself. He loved Big Brother.”

As prescient as Orwell was, I’m not sure if he wouldn’t have been somewhat astonished at the extent to which such savagely cruel methods have proven to be generally unnecessary mere decades later. A man of his time, Orwell saw sadistic boot-in-the-face uber-Stalinism as the ever-cresting wave of the future. But today, with the Soviet Union long dead and anti-white multicultural heterodoxy ascendant in the degenerate West, economic Marxism rejected for favor of cultural Marxism, Big Brother’s methodology has evolved. We now live in an age of polite totalitarianism, where only a bit of minor arm-twisting is needed to convince slightly reticent individuals to give way to the dictates of the prevalent ideology.

Such a circumstance would hardly be possible if there didn’t exist in man an intense drive to conform, and to seek the approval of those with authority over him. The ardent childhood yearning to be patted on the head and called “good boy” never really leaves us, and this desire can be expertly exploited by those in control. Strange to say, man can indeed be shamed into violating his conscience and abandoning his principles; thus are dissidents brought effectively to heel.

I have examined this phenomenon before as a symptom of “cool crowd conformism.” Following the classic Dr. Pepper jingle (“I’m a Pepper, he’s a Pepper, she’s a Pepper… wouldn’t you like to be a Pepper too?”), Big Brother appeals to us not primarily as a figure of menace, but as a jovial, kind, and deeply righteous chap. He’s having fun, and doing well, and we can have fun and do well too, if we just prove to be his obedient servants. If we refuse this request, however—well, that would really be a shame, a most unfortunate thing… Just think of how we’ll be missing out, of the price we’ll have to pay!

It is through the application of just such an approach that supposedly stalwart thought criminal-types are coerced into loving Big Brother, thus rendered gentle as lambs patiently awaiting a slaughter. We have recently seen various high-profile outfits do an about-face after an extensive engagement with the Zeitgeist-guardians. The evangelical Christian company Chick-Fil-A has cried “Mercy!” and agreed to accept the greasy embrace of Big Bro in exchange for not funding groups that oppose gay marriage. (Now they’re claiming that it’s all a misunderstanding, but the cow doth protest too much, methinks). Augusta National , the golf club of the Master’s tournament, has meanwhile consented to a mandated estrogen injection, having invited no less a luminary than former secretary of state Condeleeza Rice to join their former all-boy’s club. Hell, even Southern rock gods Lynyrd Skynyrd have turned on their beloved Confederate flag! Who will be the next to fall, the latest to forsake his heritage, his traditions, his values, his manhood?

What we see before us is a ghastly spectacle of endless surrender and retreat. And against the backdrop of such a conspicuous slide into craven cowardice, hearty resistance and refusal to backtrack, back down, or in any way apologize is in itself a revolutionary act.

We here at Alternative Right—contributors and readers alike—have our significant ideological differences. But I think I speak for everyone when I say that we will never stop hating, despising, jeering and flouting at Big Brother, no matter which form he may choose to take. We are the few, we happy few, the band of brothers, who—whether due to conviction or principle or out-of-fashion dogma or sheer pissy stubbornness—opt to stand firm against the relentless tide.

Stay strong, comrades! Stick to your guns, and refuse to bend, much less break, to please anyone. Resolutely decline to love Big Brother, and great will be your reward.

Did It Make You Feel Like Crying...

Parker and Stone's dead-on, wickedly hilarious parody of 9/11 country-western schmaltz-kitsch, replayed here on the 11th anniversary of the 11th as a kind of perverse tribute to the spirit of modern America:

www.youtube.com/watch?v=XOXfzR85dAc

Murderous Equality

“Equality” is one of the hoariest cliches and most pernicious slogans of modern times. Said to derive from a supposedly common-sense notion of fairness, the mad clamor underway to equalize the human race in fact has no basis whatsoever in justice or reality, human or otherwise. Ironically, the idea of equality is almost inevitably deeply debasing to a culture; pushing for greater “equality” does nothing to make the dumb smart, the ugly beautiful, or the poor rich; instead, it only makes nearly everything— be it fashion, the arts, language, commerce, or general human interaction-- duller, less pleasant, less orderly, less desirable, and infinitely more tacky, tawdry, and loathsome. More crucially, the ramming of equality down our collective gullet requires the construction of a hateful bureaucracy to monitor, control, and altogether enslave the very people it supposedly wishes to uplift and empower. The imposition of equality, that is, requires the self-appointment of a vanguard elite who arrogate to themselves the task of being the equalizers. Thus the attempt to construct a society of “equals” invariably leads to perpetual exercise of tyranny.

But how did we get to the point where this obviously insane concept came to be enshrined as an ideal? And why, after the untold carnage, horror, and heartbreak it has caused, do we still view equality as a thing worth pursuing, worth sacrificing for, a patriotic duty even?

The term “equality,” of course, isn’t exactly new; it first sprung up as a vogue among the Western intellectual elite over two centuries ago. It in large part inspired two major political upheavals, one in America and the other in France. Upon deciding to be unencumbered states, representatives of the thirteen former English colonies in the New World signed the Declaration of Independence, which holds it to be “self-evident” that “all men are created equal”; meanwhile, those guillotine-happy men of Gaul made “egalite” one of their watchwords of revolution.

Far be it from me to mock and deride America’s founding fathers—they were in many ways an impressive lot. Still, their collective signing on to the concept of mankind’s equality was an astoundingly stupid gesture, which has ushered in all kinds of ideological mischief. Whatever Thomas Jefferson’s reason for including the phrase in the Declaration of Independence, this ill-defined assertion of men’s equality is vexingly vague.　“All men are equal,” how exactly? Equal under the law? Equal in the eyes of God? Equal, as in “deserving the same level of income as everyone else”? TJ doesn’t say. And the matter is complicated, since—as has often been pointed out in our selectively iconoclastic age—this supposed believer in the self-evidence of human equality was also an owner of slaves.

The French revolutionaries, for their part, weren’t content merely to cozy up to abstractions. Their tireless quest was to make society much more equal by bringing the mighty low: specifically, to cut the “one percent” of their time down to size by rendering them a whole head shorter. Thousands perished in this orchestrated reign of terror, whose main aim was to promote and promulgate equality.

Once the Bolsheviks seized power in 20^th century Russia, joined later by the Maoist regime in China and the Khmer Rouge in Cambodia, the stakes were magnified. Now millions, and tens of millions, would be put to death for the singular crime of not being properly “equal” with their fellow men. Across the world, the quest for equality has led to carnage unequalled by any previous era in history. One would have thought, by now, that demagogic demands to “level the playing field,” as the sinister euphemism goes, would be utterly rejected as gauche and tasteless, given the moldering mound of corpses whose pitiful and poignant stink reminds us that equalitarian rhetoric seems inextricably tied with state-sanctioned mass murder. We live in a time, after all, when any criticism of Jews is treated, in respectable circles, with extreme reflexive suspicion, if not outright hostility. Because of the bloody Shoah of recent history, one who calls Jews to task for anything in any manner or context is punished with banishment from polite society and the imputation of being complicit in genocide; such a one might as well wear a scarlet swastika sewn across his chest, like a post-modern day Hester Prynne.

But of course, not all of history’s victims are held to be equal in stature; as George Orwell famously observed, some are indeed much “more equal” than others. Thus it seems to make no difference how many tens of millions have been beheaded by the guillotine, executed in the killing fields, or sent to Siberia to starve, all for the offense of seeming to be more prosperous or of a higher social strata than the average citizen, and thus rousing the ire of a murderous revolutionary regime demanding that the high be brought low (or, as the Hutus in Rwanda broadcast their genocidal designs prior to indulging in a luridly nightmarish three weeks of unfathomably promiscuous slaughter, that the “tall trees” be cut down)… No, it seems clear that no matter how many have been ground into dust under the tyranny of enforced “equalization,” demands to make things more “equal” will continue to be not only tolerated, but approved. Those who agitate for equality are still viewed as righteous crusaders for justice, rather than properly judged as shrieking nuisances spitefully waging a campaign of terror against tradition, logic, and reality.

It was, I suppose, only a matter of time before the relentless clamoring for “gay marriage”—that is, the demand that a millennia-old institution to be suddenly redefined based on a decade-old whim of the ruling class—got reframed as a matter of “equality.” The fact that a man and a woman can get married but not two men or two women, means that things aren’t “equal” on the marriage front (so it is asserted); therefore the law must be changed to accommodate those who feel left out (or at least those among the “left out” whose cause is favored by the hive-mind of the Zeitgeist-upholders; polygamists, having as they do the flavor and complexion of ultra-conservative patriarchy, are TSOL in the new dispensation, while incestuous couples are just seen as icky and are reflexively dismissed, though in truth no legitimate reason exists to reject either innovation under the new rules, given that everyone involved is a consenting adult).

Again, one would have thought, given the equality-brigade’s altogether crummy human-rights track record throughout recent history, that those stridently demanding what is now called “marriage equality” would be looked at askance for employing such rhetoric. Indeed, if the merest whiff of sanity prevailed among the fetid fumes of our brain-dead Zeitgeist and its uncritical adherents who man our opinion-shaping institutions, then the invocation of “equality” would set off the same warning bells that “hate” now does among the highly-placed and powerful and their eager lapdogs and water-carriers. In such a world, an outfit called “equality-watch” would be keeping a wary eye on equality-agitators. As it stands, the SPLC’s “hate watch” has conniptions whenever any skinhead with an iron cross tattoo on his neck appears to sneer threateningly at an illegal immigrant, and it completely flips its lid anytime a small group of clean-cut, suit-and-tied white activists want to hold a weekend seminar in a medium-sized hotel ballroom somewhere in the United States. But far-greater malefactions are excused, or even defended, if left-leaning equalitarians commit them. (A semi-famous Hollywood actress can even wish catastrophic death upon a group of convention-goers who don’t meet her definition of “enlightened,” and nobody important seems to care, since even if her words were imprudent at least she’s on the side of the angels.

Again, as we see, the legacy of genocide, terror, and tyranny that the push for equality has engendered makes absolutely no difference; equality will remain perversely sacrosanct among our cultural betters; it will continue to be trumpeted as a good in itself, an end unquestionably worthy of fulfillment, and its conspicuous historical dark side will be downplayed, if not completely ignored. In Europe and North America, the wish to impose “equality” now carries a more and more pronounced anti-white subtext; its advocates tend to be deracinated white liberals (or SWPLs, as they are now called) who have imbibed poisonous cultural Marxism like mother’s milk, and who flatter themselves as being the vanguard of the ongoing societal revolution, ridiculously romanticizing the cultures of urban blacks, barrio Latinos, and other ethnic minorities, while viewing their conservative Middle American racial brethren with an unhinged, embittered hostility worthy of an Ellen Barkin Twitter hissy-fit.

But the truth is a mighty ally, and those of us who know better than to believe what we’re told should never hesitate to point out that our would-be vanguard are naught but a bunch of smug, self-serving, and generally ignorant brainwashed clowns. And it is a grim irony not untinged with Shadenfreude that, should a real, brutal, balls-to-the-wall, no-bullshit revolution ever actually gain momentum, these useful idiots will no doubt be the first to face the firing squad.

White Ethnomasochism Unpacked

In an insightful, witty, and entertaining essay/Youtube multimedia piece, Hugh MacDonald examines the loathsome phenomenon of opportunistic white guilt:

www.youtube.com/watch?v=ppIS19La8W88&feature=share

No Jokes, Please: We're American

There is a kind of meta-humorous flavor to this story in the New York Times, which reports that a certain humanities instructor is in hot water after telling a dark and edgy joke to his class earlier this month.

It seems that this twinkly-eyed but utterly luckless prof couldn't hold back from indulging in a topical crack of questionable taste. After dimming the lights and starting up a video, he advised his students: "If someone with orange hair appears in a corner of the room, run for the exit," an obvious reference to James Holmes, the deranged young man with bright orange hair who shot up a movie theater, killing 12 people and injuring many others, on the opening night midnight showing of The Dark Knight Rises in Aurora, Colorado.

This man and I have a very similar sense of humor, and we're both college teachers... although I would have managed to restrain my wit at such a juncture. Even so, the nutty professor probably would have been okay, and nobody would have reported his lamentable wisecrack, if it hadn't turned out that-- wouldn't you know it!-- despite the astronomical odds, one of his students had a father who'd actually perished in the cinema massacre a week and a half prior to the occasion of the ill-timed classroom jibe! (Cue the pathetic punchline music: wah-wah-wah-waaaaahh!)

And here is where the meta-humor comes in... I have to admit, I can't help but crack up when I think of what this guy's face must have looked like when he found out that he'd just unknowingly traumatized the family member of a mass murder victim. I picture the sad mug of Larry David on Curb Your Enthusiasm as he mutters to himself: "Uh, oh... Yikes... Guess I really screwed the pooch here..."

I freely admit: I feel bad for the man. He figured, reasonably enough, that nobody in his class had a personal stake in the horrific event. He thought the biggest reaction he'd get would be gasps and rolled eyes and nervous laughter and maybe a few appreciative utterances of, "Oh, professor... you're terrible!"

After all, the college is in Long Island, New York, thousands of miles away from suburban Denver. What were the chances that anyone nearby was of any relation to any of the victims of the shooting? The danger of suffering spontaneous combustion, or suddenly geting struck by an asteroid, was probably greater. The capricious fates just have it in for some of us, don't they?

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

There is something very American about this story, and I don't mean that in a good way. It's yet another iteration of the relentless media shame-cycle, whereby some sacrificial victim who said or did something supposedly"offensive" (usually "racist," "sexist," or "homophobic") gets kicked around, humilated, and cast for a time into the utter darkness, before being forced to apologize and beg forgiveness, all the while enduring the shaking heads, pursed lips, and squinty eyes of the holier-than-thous who stand in judgment over him. In this case, consider even the bitchy tone of Times reporter Ariel Kaminer, which seems designed to tell us how we ought to feel : "The joke would not have been especially funny in any setting, but 11 days after the shooting it was dreadful..." (What's with this glib editorializing, you dizzy broad? Who asked you your opinion of the joke, anyway?)

No one controls what he finds funny. Humor, unlike ideological sensibilities, cannot be tamed or brought to heel. You won't find something unfunny just because some scoldy sensitivity-trainer writing for a newspaper gets in your face and insists "IT'S NOT FUNNY!" In fact, it is just what it is. I, for one, plan to keep laughing at things that happen to tickle my funny bone, and I resolve never to apologize for continuing to do just that.

So shoot me.

An Atmosphere of Hate

Since a militant queer activist attempted to storm the Family Research Council headquarters in Washington D.C. with a loaded gun last week (in the process managing only to wound a security guard rather than achieve maximum fundie-cide, as was surely his goal), the president of the conservative Christian outfit exploited the occasion to lash out mightily at the despicable and odious SPLC, which has labeled the FRC a "hate group" for their stance opposing gay marriage.

www.cnn.com/2012/08/16/us/dc-shooting-blame/index.html

Put another way: who's hatin' now, sucka?

This is one of those moments of undeniably irresistable schadenfreude. I must admit, it's kind of neat to witness cultural Marxist rhetoric employed with such skillful, perhaps even gleeful, irony. It's delicious to see lefty humbuggery (assailing your enemy for creating an "atmosphere of hate," etc.) used to hoist lefty activists by their own petard.

On the other hand, stupid disengenuous rhetoric is stupid disengenuous rhetoric, no matter who uses it. Must we really imitate the adversary at his most insufferable in order to defeat him?

Trouble In Twilight

If you've walked through a checkout line in a grocery store lately, you've probably seen the earth-shattering, heartbreaking news. Eloi, Eloi, lama sabachthani! Your dreams have been betrayed, your hopes deceived, your spirit horrifically sodomized and left for dead. Your sink to your knees, gasp for air; tears cloud your eyes. You look again... yes, it has happened. Robert Pattinson and Kristin Stewart are splitsville.

"But how can this be?" you ask yourself. "They seemed so happy together..." And you grasp frantically at the glossy pages on the newsstand, flipping through one celebrity rag after another, groping desperately for anwers. Soon enough you have an explanation for this tragic turn of events, but it makes no sense. It doesn't fit with anything you've previously known to be true. You are baffled, and appalled.

"She cheated?" your brain screams, incredulously. "But that's impossible!" Women aren't unfaithful to their husbands! Men cheat... men are pigs, men are dogs... women, on the other hand, are exalted beings who must be such saints to put up with the annoyingly feral bleatings and relentlessly shitty behavior of the pigdog sex!" You know this well enough, just as you know that the white race is the cancer of history, and that diversity is strength, and that gay marriage is wonderful, and that Martin Luther King died for your sins... You're an educated person, after all; such knowledge simply follows as a matter of course. And you've watched your requisite share of Lifetime TV-movies with your long string of feminist girlfriends, enough to qualify you as an honorary sensitive male.

Then in the midst of your bewildered musings, two creatures suddenly appear over each of your shoulders. On your right, clad in immaculate white, sits what looks to be a heavenly angel; her hair, however, is butch-cut short. A ring adorns her left nostril, and her voice, when she speaks, resonates with the cultivated contempt of an upper-middle class Womyn's Studies major at a high-toned university.

"How dare you judge poor Kristin Stewart!" the dyke-angel scolds, in the fire-and-brimstone manner of an old-school New England minister turned self-righteous WASP hippie New Ager from Martha's Vinyard. Being a deracinated male feminist, you are flushed with terrified feelings of involuntary shame; your face reddens, and you lower your eyes... A woman is upset! It must be your fault!

Still, the enraged angel shows no sign of letting up. "Don't you go around slut-shaming, you testoterone-addled wretch!" she hectors, wagging her finger sternly. "You... men (she spits the word as if it were an obscenity) always try to make us one of two things: either virgins or whores... Well, Kristin is just breaking out of your repressive patriarchal paradigm and embracing her own sexuality. She can do what she wants! She doesn't need or endorsement or approval. Quit being so judgmental, you wicked white male heterosexist homophobic pigdog!"

Truth be told, you feel somewhat judged by this heavenly messenger's admonishment to refrain from judgment, but you decide not to raise the issue. Instead, you opt to stay on point. "But Kristin cheated on her boyfriend!" you feel moved to observe. "If Robert had been the unfaithful one, you'd be laying into him unmercifully. Isn't this a double standard?"

The Janet Napolitanto-faced specter purses her lips menacingly in response to this unwelcome retort, but before she can fly at your face with the unleashed rage of an early-90s Alanis Morissette song, the creature over your left shoulder interrupts by snickering loudly, and you turn to look at him for the first time. This little devil wears a backwards baseball cap over his horns and sports truly tacky sunglasses on his pointy nose. A demonically sleazy Anton LaVey-esque gotee adorns his chin. You can't help but notice, though you wish you could, that his fiery-red jeans are at least two sizes too tight. The devil takes a puff from his uber-manly cigar, which is nearly as big as he is, and he mutters, "Cool your jets, sweet-cheeks; I'll take it from here."

The angel, knowing that she's in the presence of a true "alpha," obediently pipes down, her feminist anger having been effectively neutralized by the frat-boy devil's irresistable studliness. She bats her eyes and begins to nibble on a fingernail coquetteishly, casting coy glances in his direction, but he utterly ignores her. He turns his head with casual studied ease and addresses you in a condescending voice that recalls teenage Christian Slater shamelessly channeling Jack Nicholson.

"Look, chum," he nasally rasps. "Here's the way of the world. A woman wants what she wants. She can't help desiring that whcih makes her 'gina tingle. Now Robert's a good-looking guy all right, but he's too nice. Anyone can see that. A girl doesn't want a shy, retiring nice guy; she wants a confident asshole. She may not think that's what she wants... She may not want to want a dick, but she can't help it: the preference is hardwired into her genes. It's part of who women are. Dames don't want a pasty-faced pushover like Pattinson. They want a cocky, arrogant alpha, like Rupert Sanderson, film director extraordinaire."

"A powerful, older man with a sexy, commanding voice, a man influential in the industry... ooh la lah!" enthuses the angel, who's now stripped out of her angelic robe to don a pair of hot pants and some whorish high-heels.

"Shut up, bitch. Go fix me some turkey pot pie," the devil in the Top Gun shades commands in an even voice.

And this is when you've had enough.

"Both of you, SHUT UP!" you yell.

Other patrons of the grocery store glance up at you with astonishment, as if they don't see the miniature personages floating over your two shoulders, plain as day. But you don't care. What you have to say is important, damnit, and the world needs to hear it.

"Look, you silly little devil... maybe it's true what you say. Maybe women do love assholes, and have nothing but contempt for nice guys. But if you've chosen to be with a nice guy, you've made a commitment. No one forces a grown woman to follow her base instincts and engage in adultery just because her 'gina is tingling... If you're in a serious relationship and you find yourself lusting after someone else who's more 'alpha,' that doesn't mean you get to sleep with him. Get a vibrator, knock yourself out, fantasize all you want--- you're still a taken woman. You can't help what you feel, but you can help your behavior!"

Angel and devil stare at you, bemused and speechless, and as you look quickly from one to the other, your fury escalates. You suddenly realize that everything you've ever been taught is wrong. It's been swimming around in your head for years, but you've always previously held it in. Now the ugly truth has crystallized before your eyes.

"You pick-up artist types and radical feminists are in cahoots!" you exclaim. "It's in both of your interests to undermine marriage... You work in concert to justify female adultery and to mock 'beta' cuckolds as somehow unworthy and unmanly, deserving only of humiliation... When each of my feminist girlfriends left me, they always just told me that they needed 'space,' and afterwards I always saw them with guys more monied, more powerful, more full of themselves than I was. So yeah, maybe chicks do dig assholes. Or maybe I just need to seek out a better caliber of women.. In any case, fuck it. I refuse to be an asshole, so fuck feminism and fuck lame alpha asshole-apologetics!"

The two specters exchange a glance.

"Oh, dear," says the angel. "This is awkward..."

"Yeah, you figured us out," the devil admits. "Busted us good! Guilty as charged. So what are you gonna do now, Twilight-boy? What's your next move? Something really supremely beta, I'll bet. Throw a hissy fit, maybe? Break down in tears? Cut your wrists? Go on a shooting spree and call yourself The Joker?"

You shake your head. "Nope, I'm doing something ever worse," you say.

"I'm gonna write a book."

NOT From the Onion

Slimy and scurrilous... but also hilarious! A Romney Republican casts his Ron Paul-affiliated primary opponent as a Nazi-sympathizin', segregation-lovin', Rebel Flag-wavin' racist sexist xenophobe who couldn't care less if a bunch of Jews are murdered in Europe so long as plenty of blacks get lynched in the South:

White Steel in the Hour of Chaos

To all who have asked: no, the debut issue of Radix magazine hasn't yet been released. It is running behind schedule, I'm told, but will surely be worth the wait, and then some.

In the meantime, I have uploaded more significant segments of the video diary I kept during my trip to South Africa last December, when I journeyed to that troubled country to collect material for a piece that will appear in the first issue of Radix, concerning the multitude of dire threats that face the Afrikaner people today. (Rape, murder, dispossession, genocide, etc.)

Enjoy, but please forgive my at times shoddy camerawork. I wield a pen with far greater dexterity than I do a video recorder.

1) Exterior of Voortrekker Monument in Pretoria: www.youtube.com/watch?v=JDhe261BADI&feature=plcp

2) Inside the Voortrekker Monument on December 16, the annual Day of the Vow: www.youtube.com/watch?v=YWmT2c86jTc&feature=plcp

3) A drive through dear dirty dangerous downtown Johannesburg: www.youtube.com/watch?v=aqt1sh6zFaQ&feature=plcp

Home Security in Johannesburg

www.youtube.com/watch?v=KI3eGU_wmHg&feature=g-upl

Belle In the Hood

Back in the 80s, it was generally trendy among would-be "subversive" humorists to mock all manifestations of cultural whiteness. If flamboyant ethnic non-whites were introduced into such satire, it was usually for the purpose of highlighting just how bland, silly, hapless, and essentially colorless all Middle American fly-over-country-dwelling Caucasoids were in comparison with the flavorful and intensely aesthetically compelling duskier strains of humanity, whose art and culture were always presented as authentically and resonantly soulful in ways that white "culture" (they'd put the term in quotes, or better yet, use those obnoxious air-quotes) could never be.

I'm not sure when the turning point was, but I think it can safely be said that this propensity has shifted significantly. No doubt the norming of politically correct standards has led in large measure to the turnaround; even liberal hipsters today know that there isn't much "edgy" about making fun of redneck hicks who chew tobacco and commit incest, or WASP suburbanites who drive minivans to work and attend Joel Osteen-esque megachurches.

Supply follows demand, and as a result, "racist" (air quote retaliation; back at ya, bitches!) humor has made a comeback. Interestingly, today we often find black humorists leading the way in this regard. Consider last year's controversial viral video, "It's Free, Swipe Your EBT!" which featured numerous melanin-rich ghetto dwellers gettin' jiggy as they celebrated their status as welfare parasites. Now there's this, a memorable parody of a song from the Disney movie "Beauty and the Beast":

http://ipowerrichmond.com/2146065/new-viral-video-beauty-the-beat

Note how Belle, the sole white actress/singer in the piece, alone embodies innocence and beauty, while all of the black characters she encounters are corrupt, depraved, obnoxious, criminalistic and/or morally bankrupt, as well as generally being aesthetically disgusting. Belle possesses both an appealing guilelessness and also a certain shrewdness, most on display in the hilarious moment when she hands the child to the crackhead and goes on her merry way, or when she successfully resists the wiles of the charming neighborhood drug-dealer.

Yes, I know the piece is intended as a joke. Of course, it's meant to be in good fun, and not to be taken seriously. Still, could you honestly imagine anyone daring to make such a joke even a few years ago? Jokes, in their way, are serious business... And times, they are a'changin'.