Where Do I Fit In?

A black man insulted a white feminist within my hearing and I couldn’t decide what to do about it. Correct the boy for daring speak that way to a lady, or revel in the lady’s just desserts?

Dylan Roof shoots up a church and I can’t decide if he ought to be universally condemned or if it ought to be acknowledged that, at least in the case of one of the congregants, he got it right?

A Muslim shoots military men in TN; is it wrong to think that if a Muslim didn’t get them, they’d likely end up being our prison guards in the new American gulag?

I hate abortion but love that our enemies are killing themselves.

I love American women, but can’t stand most of them.

I passionately argue for families but am constantly estranged from mine.

I love the church but can’t for the life of me find one to attend in good conscience…

I love learning but can’t stomach the American educational system.

I’m not intelligent enough for philosophical system building, nor bull-headed enough for street brawls.  I’m not motivated enough to write novels, but I’m too high minded for factory work.  I’m not commanding enough to lead anyone but I’m too opinionated to be a minion.  I’m just smart enough to see the meta-situation, but I’m too passionate to deal with it intelligently.

I can’t be a Southern Nationalist because I’m not enough of a democrat; but it’s hard to be a monarchist because I love rugged individualism.

I’m friends with all the TradYouth guys, but I’m not Orthodox in my Faith and I’m simply not attracted to Eastern European culture or nationalism.

I’m friends with lots of the Kinists but I’m not puritanical enough for many of them.

Despite all this, I’m driven to act.  To do something.  To gain honor and glory amongst this small band of outcasts, taboo-breakers, and pariahs.

…driven to make a name for myself in not only the Alternative Right, but in the history books.

I want my grave to say:  “Here lies Scott Terry, one of the last men of the West.”

…if only I could find where I fit in.

Posted in General | 1 Comment

The End of Shotgun Barrel Straight

I woke up a few minutes ago, inexplicably and unwillingly.  Since I was up, I decided to check the net to see what was going on.

To my surprise, it seems WordPress has forcefully removed my Confederate Battle Flag title banner, and replaced it with that effeminate-looking tree and dainty white flowers.

A while back, when the supreme court decided faggotry was acceptable in our land, the WordPress team proudly displayed a rainbow banner across the dashboards of all their bloggers.  Was I mad?  Yes.  Was it unprofessional of them to force their political views on all their customers?  Yes.  Did I let that slide?  Ok, fine.  What choice did I have?  Migrate my entire blog elsewhere?

But this…I’m very angry about this.  WordPress doesn’t realize it, but she just made an enemy…

This episode has made me realize that the fate of my blog rests in the hands of a bunch of cowardly faggots whom I pray God lets me meet face to face one day.  But it’s discomfiting to know that all my posts, all my hard work, is subject to immediate and capricious deletion.

From this point on, I’ll be searching for a new blogging platform that respects freedom of speech and expression.

…but who am I kidding?  From the start, this blog was supposed to be a depository for my lengthy apologetic and philosophical articles and I’ve all but stopped writing those.  It morphed, for awhile, into my attempts to defend Dixie and other alternative right causes.  Lately, it’s just an outlet for my rants – an online journal, if you will.

I need a new platform, yes, but along with it, a new reason to write; a way to focus; a new agenda…

**Update**

As you can all tell, I’ve changed themes and re-uploaded a Confederate banner.  I don’t like it as much as my old theme, but oh well.  We’ll see how long this lasts.

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Tribes and Cults

WBCPhelps

I’ve read two books recently: Jack Donovan’s “The Way of Men” and Lauren Drain’s memoir about growing up in the Westboro Baptist Church. I didn’t intend for this, but the two play off each other in interesting ways.  Donovan is a homosexual who is, nevertheless, easy to agree with regarding his view of masculinity.  The Wesboro folks are also easy to agree with (especially their strong stance against homosexuality), but are hard to like.

I was going to post a picture of Lauren Drain but after Googling her, found that the Westboro folks who kicked her out were right: she became a whore, doing all sorts of provocative photo shoots.  I get the feeling she dove off the deep end as a way to get back at her father (and maybe the church) for how she was treated.

Reading Drain’s memoir is like reading an adolescent girl rant about her mean daddy.  Only in this case, she’s empowered by our Godless society and embellishes freely, knowing Americans couldn’t care less about being fair to the Westboro Baptists.  They want dirt, shame, and ill-will, after all.  Accuracy and fairness don’t play well in the American media.

Nevertheless, Drain shows some restraint, managing to lay out the Westboro folks’ beliefs without too much scoffing.  They’re Calvinistic Baptists, King James Onlyists, and hold to a form of Premillennial Dispensationalism.  But laying out their theological views is only half the picture.  They’re also typical mid-western Baptists and all that implies:  a matriarchal family structure, openness to pop-culture, willing participants in government school, and they center their lives around their pastor Fred Phelps.

Anyone who thinks this is odd need only attend a Baptist apologetics conference where Norman Geisler is the main speaker.  The man is almost worshiped as a demigod.   I went to one a few years back.  He strutted around like he already had his halo.  They did all but roll out a red carpet for the man.

I was familiar with his work, of course, but had never seen a picture of him.  While browsing through a book table, he approached me, asking my name in an authoritative voice.  I told him, then asked him his.  He chuckled, as if it were funny I didn’t know him.  “Why, I’m Norm Geisler.”  (He actually said “why”…talk about archaic).  Anyone familiar with American Baptist culture will recognize Wesboro’s relationship with Fred Phelps as typical of the hero-worshiping / guru-following Baptists.

Don’t let my criticisms fool you though; Westboro’s willingness to oppose and mock Satania is admirable.  They even oppose modern jewry, which ought to win them points with White Nationalists.  Unfortunately though, even the WBC are unwilling to break American racial taboos.  That’s what’s so annoying about them:  they imbibe the very culture they claim to hate.  For example:  they realize how evil the American education system is, yet they send their children there anyway.

I wonder what would have happened had Lauren Drain never been sent to a government school?  She’d likely still be in the Westboro Cult.

Despite having admirable viewpoints, the Westboro Baptists function like a textbook cult, where in-group values are constantly maintained by culling the herd and using group humiliation tactics.

But who cares?  If they’re a cult, they’re a benign one – and who doesn’t love seeing American pagans squirm when told they’re going to Hell?  I know I do.  Once you accept the slaughter of infants and support vile sexual degeneracy on a national level, my compassion for you has effectively run out.  You no longer need to be evangelized, you need to be opposed.

———————–

This is a great point to talk about Donovan’s book and how it relates.

Donovan is careful to draw a fine philosophical distinction:

There’s a difference between being a good *man* and being a *good* man.  Notice the difference in emphasis.

Donovan realizes that, as a homosexual, many will likely claim he’s not a *good* man.  He takes pains to separate the virtues of masculinity from the virtues of goodness.  Masculinity, he says, is defined by four virtues:  Strength, Courage, Mastery, and Honor – all four of which can only be manifested by men and in a tribal context.

I agree with his four virtues but I’m not sure we can so easily separate what makes a good *man* from what it takes to be a *good* man, as Donovan tries to do.  While he acknowledges that standards of masculinity differ from tribe to tribe, as a Christian, I believe my standard is the superior and true one to which all others must bow.  And if they don’t, well, by God, we’ll make them, whether through winning intellectual arguments or dominating the heathen on the battle field.

Nevertheless, Donovan deserves his place in the canon of Alternative Right literature.  His clarification of tribal psychology and why we need in-group relationships (vs. one-world egalitarianism) was enlightening.  I realized, while reading, that I had always thought of the world this way; it took Donovan’s book to articulate and refine my thoughts.

…which brings me to the WBC:

They’ve created for themselves a sort of pseudo-tribe, one with its own system of shame, its own ethics, and its own ways of attaining honor.  But cults are a special form of a tribe – maybe an aberration.  They’re not organic parts of nature, rather, they form around a shared set of talking points combined with in-group inclusion of those who are exiled from other tribes.

Will the WBC last?  I doubt it, not unless they manage to relax the strict policing of members and the controlling day-to-day inquisitions; they also need to relax entry and exit procedures, making it easier to gain access to the tribe and making it less traumatic to leave.  (How they’d manage this theologically is anyone’s guess).  Making it easier to leave, by the way, would effectively relax in-group relations, making them deeper and more genuine.

…in other words, the WBC needs to lighten up.

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Ten Quesitons For CoCC and Trad Youth That Shouldn’t be Asked, but Will Be Anyway…

cofcccofcc2

Because some Identitarian talking-heads have nothing better to do than ask ridiculous questions, I thought I’d contribute to the fray by asking serious and important ones instead.  The following questions are meant to evoke deep responses and heavy thinking amongst the pro-white community.  Read with care:

1.  If Matt Parrott and Kyle Rogers got into a fight, how badly would Rogers beat Parrott?

2.  Did Parrott, Heimbach, and a ridiculously handsome young gentleman, sing Karaoke at a Nashville dive bar?

3.  Is it really true that South Carolina black children are taught to look under their beds for Kyle Rogers before going to sleep?  And who pays for Rogers’ gas money all those times he steals naughty SC black childrens’ presents during the Christmas season?  Is it the CoCC?

4.  Did the CoCC fund the building of the Egyptian pyramids, thus reinforcing the institution of slavery?!  These questions need to be asked.

5.  And if the CoCC did fund the Egyptian pyramids, does it somehow follow that Matthew Heimbach is jewish?  Just asking…

6.  It’s well known that Matthew Heimbach has gotten married.  How did this happen?  It doesn’t seem possible without CoCC financial aid.

7.  Is it true that some female members of the CoCC board resigned once Heimbach got married, declaring that their lives no longer had meaning and that they’d die as lonely spinsters?

8.  Is it also true that female hits on Matt Parrott’s  E-Harmony profile dramatically rose once it was discovered that he was newly single, and that many of the hits came from the Middle East?

9.  Is it true that Parrott, Heimbach, and Putin, are shape-shifting lizard men from a cartoon world where ink-remover is used to wipe out criminal toons?

10.  And finally, the most important question:  What in the world kind of conditioner does Matthew Heimbach use in his beard?  The WN community needs that woolly glisten.

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Farewell to the Mightiest Boys I Ever Knew

Mighty Ducks

Tonight is one of the last nights I’ll ever spend in my childhood home.  So many memories here.  It’s hard to relate the sense of nostalgia in words.  It’s pitch black outside, but a few minutes ago I lit a cigar (nasty habit, I know; I’m quitting soon) and took a last walk around the block.  I let the memories roll over me as I ambled through the old neighborhood.

Mine was one of the last all-white neighborhoods.  Such things are out of favor now and wont ever be seen again, at least, not any time soon.  We had many adventures here, formed our own childish police force, built forts in the woods, and got into all sorts of mischief; but somehow, all our youthful angst coalesced into one, great enterprise: street hockey.

The “rich” kids got skates first.  We’d see them in the distance and wonder why they’d choose roller blades over bikes.  Then, without explanation, one Christmas my sister and I found skates and hockey sticks under the tree.  We’d never expressed interest, but I guess my p…er… Santa, intuitively realized neighborhood trends and provided us the tools we’d need to participate.

I learned to skate that very morning, though it was the black and bluest Christmas Day I’ve ever experienced.  My sister picked it up quickly as well, but lacked my aggressive instincts.  A puck was found and soon, the other boys came out to play.   I’ll never forget that first game.  I was thoroughly man-handled by a kid named R.H.  He flicked the puck through my legs and spun gracefully around me and out to the goal.

Disney released its first of the “Mighty Ducks” franchise around that time, and I suspect we owe much of our hockey enthusiasm to that movie.  I realize now it’s just one in a long chain of egalitarian propaganda flicks put out by modern Disney, with a gang of multicultural kids triumphing over sleek, uniformed, white boys.  Fortunately, none of that stuck with us.  What stuck was the beauty and passion of the sport, which I still appreciate to this day.

Hockey is a masculine sport but has a certain finesse to it; a symmetry that I intuitively picked up on.  Owing to our environment, we had to make various adjustments.  Many street hockey players use a ball, which, as I picked up the sport again as an adult, I’d come to favor.  But, back then, Franklin produced a street hockey puck, with wheels in it, promising a more authentic hockey experience for the ice-impaired.  Plus, in Mighty Ducks II, a negro on the team had a special shot he called a “knuckle puck”, where he’d tip the puck up on edge and slap-shot it into the goal.  We all wanted to emulate that shot so we used pucks instead of tennis balls.

wheelsI’m glad I spent so much time playing with a puck.  The handling dynamics are unique and I would have missed out had we used a ball instead.

Additionally, the road was only two lanes.  We didn’t have a rink-sized bit of pavement to play on, so we rarely body checked each other.  We had girls come out to play as well (my sister was the cause of this), and we couldn’t go around tackling girls.  These factors caused us to really focus on our finesse and skill with puck handling, feints, and skating tactics.  We had to work on our fundamentals more so than our sprints and fast-paced maneuvers.   It really made for an intriguing style of game play.

I was hooked.  More than hooked; street hockey became a passion.

It wasn’t long before I was the dominate force in the neighborhood and my enthusiasm was catching.  The bus would drop us off from school and we’d practically bounce out of our tennis shoes and into our skates.  We were the bane of neighborhood traffic.  At the height of our games, we might have had fifteen kids out on the road.  Everyone wanted in on it and everyone wanted to be on my team.

We’d spend entire summer in skates.  Long after the Mighty Duck movies had faded into pop-memory and children in other parts of the country were moving on to other passions, our neighborhood kept at street hockey.  It was too fun and we didn’t want to stop.  Even when it got dark, we’d keep playing.  I managed to get a glow in the dark puck from somewhere, and when that didn’t work, we’d move down to where a street light lit up part of the road.

We’d skate all over the neighborhood.  We’d lounge around each others’ porches with our skates and sticks, dreaming about the day we’d actually get to play on ice and talking about our favorite teams.

Years later, long after we’d all grown up and gone our separate ways, I moved to Washington DC and a friend of mine told me about a concrete “pond” where he played adult street hockey with a bunch of other guys.  The rec. department in Northern Virginia had entire leagues set up for it.  I couldn’t help but think back to my days here in this rural NC neighborhood and how we would have killed to play in a place like that.

…the smell of asphalt still excites me and brings back the memory of all our games and the fun times we had.

One day, when I have the money for it, I’m going to buy that old empty lot right off the street we all used to play on, and convert it into a neighborhood park, with a large paved area for hockey.  Maybe some of the many kids who live here now will pick up the sport again?

If I’m ever able to do so, I’m going to pay the extra money for a small memorial…a monument to the boys who dreamed of better things for themselves and made their own magic in an environment that didn’t understand hockey.  Basketball, football, or baseball, they understood, but never hockey.  That was a northern thing…”…and didn’t you need ice for it, anyway?”

We didn’t.  We were the true mighty ducks.

…so farewell, to the mightiest boys I ever knew…

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Trad Youth Goes to Stafford

IMG_20150706_131601~ My people are destroyed for lack of knowledge: because thou hast rejected knowledge, I will also reject thee, that thou shalt be no priest to me: seeing thou hast forgotten the law of thy God, I also will forget thy children. ~

I don’t know about you all, but I’m sick and tired of rolling up into a herd of Confederate flag waving neo-Jacobins.

“What’s a neo-Jacobin” the uninformed lurkers of my blog may be asking?  I’m glad you stayed behind your cloak of anonymity while asking, because it’s embarrassing that you don’t know.  A “neo-Jacobin”, dear lurkers, is someone who has imbibed the cultural sludge Western Civilization has become since those regicidal maniacs your government school teachers fawned over conquered France in the 1790s.

These first of the Jacobins were inspired by their occultic and jewish ties to the devil – the details of that relationship need not concern us presently.  They formed club houses all over France and advocated for the end of the monarchy, an end to the aristocracy, an end to Christianity, and an end to the medieval worldview and lifestyle that dominated Europe until their time.  Basically, the Jacobins were the enemies of all that was good and right in the world.  If this overview strikes anyone as naive, I ask forgiveness and note that Jacobin offspring are unable to focus on lengthy articles.

They conquered France but had their ideology checked by the conservative resistance of the time, the ideological father of which was Edmund Burke.  Nevertheless, their poisonous ideology seeped through the veins of Europe and slowly inched its way into every nook and sainted crevice.

This slime made its way to America where it infested the Northern region, turning the once beautiful agrarian Yankeeland into a writhing, mechanized system of Satan.  The Southern United States, however, lived more in the Burkean tradition, preferring to hold to the conservative and feudalist values of their ancestors.

Slavery, states rights, and all the other political issues of the 1860’s were mere pretenses of the inevitable clash between the old world and the new Jacobin monstrosity that clutched the West.

Long story short, the good guys lost and ever since, the neo-Jacobins have been indoctrinating southern school children via the government schools and pop-culture programs.  Today, the best and brightest are spouting Jacobin rhetoric from their cribs.  Even worse, since the government education system is designed to create plantation workers (not free-thinking men of the West), they’re not even aware of their own history.

Fast forward to the present, where, after the shooting in Charleston S.C., the new Jacobins are waging a mop-up operation to purge every last bit of the old Burkean worldview from their midst, tearing down Confederate flags and destroying our monuments as fast as they can.  This has sparked an unprecedented wave of Southern pride throughout the region, resulting in more pro-flag rallies than reporters can keep up with.

But after having attended a few of these, in an official capacity as the N.C. Chairman of the Traditionalist Youth Network, I’m finding they’re less rallies against the devilish regime oppressing us, and more rallies to convince our rulers that our symbols have a small place at the neo-Jacobin table.  But they’re Jacobin nonetheless.  The protestors are riding joyfully off the proverbial cliff with the rest of Western civilization, they’re only asking for a few kind footnotes in the history books.

Well I don’t want a kind note in Jacobin history books.

With these thoughts in mind, I drove to the Stafford Virginia pro-Confederate flag rally.  When I arrived, counter-protestors were already engaging with the flaggers.  Being an experienced activist, I brushed through the crowd and made my way to a shouting black man, angry at our “ign’ance” … and began singing “Dixie” as loudly as possible.  The flaggers immediately joined in.  The black man began brushing his flag into my face, so I channeled my inner Heimbach and ripped it down.  The man almost pissed himself.  The other flaggers stepped back in awe.  Neo Jacobins aren’t supposed to assert themselves in that way, after all; especially not against one of the black demigods.  They were shocked.

The man’s female accomplice, a black woman in her forties, began arguing with me.  They both asserted that if we didn’t like America, we ought to leave.  I told them we tried that back in the 1860’s and they wouldn’t let us.  They didn’t understand what I meant.  They got the message when I began shouting at them, asking repeatedly if they wanted us to stay or leave?  Make up your minds!

This sort of aggression couldn’t be tolerated by the neo-Jacobin flaggers, all of whom were stuck in retarded feedback loops… “Heritage not hate.  We’re not racists.  Heritage not hate.  We’re not racists.”

One baby boomer pulled me aside and, after assuring me he was legit (he was related to John Wilkes Boothe), he said something like… “… come here for a second man, let me talk to you.” (As if he was pulling a crazy white boy away from the precious negro protesters so I wouldn’t give all the flaggers a bad name.)  “Now, correct me if I’m wrong, but it sounded like you just said white culture was superior in some way…”

Well, by God, I just might have.

See you all at the next protest.  And leave your cynicism at home.  They might be neo-Jacobins, but a teenaged white boy, standing beside the humiliated Boothe’s ancestor, beamed with approval at my response and recognized the future when he heard it.

They can be reached…

**EDIT**

None of my scathing criticisms of the Southern advocates apply to my friends in the League of the South, all of whom remain stalwartly unreconstructed in their outlook and fearless in their advocacy for our Southern symbols and identity.  They’re far better off than the flag-waving neo-Jacobins who make up the bulk of the trending flag rallies.

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Still Go Farther…

~ As we travel through the desert,
Storms beside us by the way
But beyond the river Jordan
Lies a field of endless day ~

Others are better suited for detailing the attacks against our people over the past week.  Monuments are being torn down, flags are being lowered, and the graves of our heroes are being vandalized.  Demonic Jacobins shout with glee as one after the other of our sacred relics are removed from public life.  On top of it all, laws forcing vaccinations on school children are being passed, the Federal Reserve is diving into a new currency war with the Euro, and sexual depravity is now the law of our land.  It’s as if this Fourth of July will be a celebration of the new French Revolution – a mop-up operation to rid the world of the last vestiges of an old worldview.  The last of the Knights and Ladies will be found out and destroyed.

There is resistance though.  Some of the white grazers have dusted off their Confederate battle flags and marched on their state capitols.  It’s inspiring to see, but the cynic in me, despite my efforts to pen him up, crawls out and runs his big mouth:

“Look at those ‘heritage, not hate!’ signs!”  he says.  “That’s a rainbow Confederate saying if I’ve ever heard one.”

Cynic me is right.

I want heritage *and* hate!  Where’s the flag for that?

Without a religious hell-fire passion, the grazers will go back to grazing.  Worse: they’ll go back to their televisions and learn how wrong they were to have stirred in the first place.

————————————————

That brings me to my point:

A few years ago, PBS’s “Frontline” made an interesting documentary called “Merchants of Cool” which detailed the handful of organizations that control everything we see in pop culture.  The documentary ends by asking its audience to consider if the culture influences television or if television influences the culture.

This confused me for years.  I knew the Satanists who run television were shaping culture but I couldn’t decide to what extent.  It’s true that producers dip into pop-colloquialisms and the herd-mind to make up their episodes and to run their advertisements.  Their greed vies with their will to serve Satan so they’re always balancing culture-shaping with mass appeal.

I didn’t realize it, but the question of which influences which (culture or television) was answered decades ago by Neil Postman in “Amusing Ourselves To Death”.  I’m kicking myself for not having read it until now.

While his dismissal of computers as “overplayed” seems silly today, he has some striking points about media modes and epistemology.  His model of how the typographical age was replaced by the television age plays well into Victor Hugo’s discussion of how the typographical age replaced the architectural age (in “Hunchback of Notre Dame”).

On Postman’s view, there’s no question of which influences which because our culture has been effectively “uploaded” to television.  Who we are and what we think of ourselves is no longer controlled by thousands of small, regional duchies, related by a tenuous sense of tribal, then racial (read: national) loyalties.  No.  In the television age, we’re taught what to think of ourselves by a television screen, making the kid in Alaska virtually interchangeable with the kid in rural Arkansas.  Our culture and our television are the same now.

I’ve thought of a way to help illustrate this for modern readers:

Think of Leonard Nimoy, the actor who played Spock in that horrible television show “Star Trek.”  His character in that show was so iconic that he had trouble finding other roles.  Everyone knew him and wanted to see him as Spock.  Consider another example:  In the early nineties, there was a black sitcom marketed to white families, called “Family Matters.”  It featured a black nerd character named Steve Urkel played by actor Jaleel White.  White, like Nimoy, often complained that his character was so iconic, he had difficulty getting work.  These days, actors often complain of being tied down to one sort of role and seek to diversify their work; known heroes sometimes play villains, or known comedians sometimes star in serious roles.

As white people, especially as white men, we’re “pigeonholed” by the television-culture in the same way Nimoy and White were pigeonholed.  The only problem is, the majority of whites either don’t realize it, or worse, they subconsciously play along and, over time, become what the television makes them out to be.

What we’re seeing on the national stage at the moment (the destruction of all our monuments) is a television show, essentially, with the bad guys getting our comeuppance from the generous, kind-hearted good guys (the Jacobins).

This has to end.  It’s killing our people.  We’re literally amusing ourselves to death.  Postman was hesitant to offer a solution, and when he did (in the final chapter), it was tenuous at best.

At this point my inner cynic cries victory…but not so fast!

Postman didn’t believe in miracles; at least, he didn’t care to mention them in his work.  Nor did he live to see society transition from the television age into a new age:  the internet age.  With this invention, the television is becoming more and more obsolete; the cultural mind is being re-settled provincially, all be it in digital rather than organic communities.  And while this age has its problems, it seems as if the internet, like the printing press, has the power to destroy the stranglehold of modernity and ring in a new era of prosperity for Europe.  With the internet, the poets are regaining the upper hand.

Where there are European poets, there are European Knights and Ladies.

Hope is just a little farther…a little farther on…

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Shotgun Goes to Charleston

bring it(..in which I troll a black power rally…)

I don’t know for sure, but I suspect Dylann Roof was groomed by the F.B.I. or some other government organization; groomed to carry out his irrational shooting spree as a means of acting as a catalyst for rubbing out the last of the pro-European sentiment inherent in the American folk mind.

Whether you believe this or whether you believe he was really a lone wolf, acting out his adolescent angst, the catalyst is the same.  The satanists are using this as a machiavellian presumption to attack all things white, southern, and Christian.  Knowing this to be the case, Matthew Heimbach of the Traditionalist Youth Network invited me to be proactive by going with him to Charleston and laying a wreath at the steps of the church where the shooting took place.  In this way, we hoped to stave off the narrative by showing that even the pro-white community rejects this sort of indiscriminate action and that we’re not to be blamed for the tragedy.

As my seasoned readers may have suspected, especially if they watch the news, our ploy didn’t work.  How could it have?  Our enemies want white blood and only white blood will satiate them.  They want no shows of solidarity or unity-in-mourning.  The politicians, the academics, the bureaucrats, all side with the vicious black panthers in demanding white blood.  Only white blood will satisfy their master.

Well, by God if they want it, we’ll make them earn it.

After placing the wreath and making the rounds through the media, we decided to stroll into the middle of the most violent (in terms of rhetoric) Black Panther rally held in years.  A BBC producer wanted to get our interaction with black nationalists and wondered if we felt safe.  It wasn’t the blacks we were worried about, of course, it was the sackless, no-good cowardly “social justice warriors” from the local college, all skinny-jean clad white boys, out to prove their value to their negro gods by causing real white men as much trouble as possible.

Still, we were on edge as we nudged our way to the front of the crowd and stared the black leaders in their eyes.  The highest ranking speaker was a vest-wearing negro who called for the death of all the white devil slave masters – meaning all whites, and he wouldn’t be satisfied until his wishes were fulfilled.  I stood tall, only yards away from him as he yelled about rape and slaughter, looking him in his dead black eyes.  The bastard wouldn’t hold my gaze.

During the next speaker, I inched my way to the side and commandeered a “black power” flag.  I took it and paraded it around behind all the speakers, hoping that national TV would get a shot of a notorious white racist, trolling a black power rally.  The national leader of the black panthers looked at me like I was crazy.  “Who dis white boy is?”  I wish I could be in the room with them when they find out.  I’m only kicking myself for not stealing the flag and burning it.

The crowd dispersed but not before Heimbach (a national celebrity) was noticed by, you guessed it, a gang of skinny-jean clad social justice warriors, whom, as expected, began shouting, waving their signs, and trying to cause us as much trouble as possible.  Heimbach, a true goth, ripped a sign away from a small-boned jewish lad and glared at him until he might have passed out, his eyes glazing over with tears.  We intellectually stomped their arguments, asking if “race” was a social construct, why anthropologists were able to determine race via bones?  They couldn’t answer and were visibly shaken by Heimbach’s arguments.

Heimbach’s passion is a wonder to see in real life.  He stuck his finger in the ring-leader’s face and asked if he was so against racism, why in the hell didn’t he show up and protest the black panthers just now.  The kid was obviously scared to death of the blacks, so Heimbach began calling him a coward.  Defeated, the team tried to slink off, but Heimbach stayed on them, shouting at them how cowardly they were and demanding they “sack up” and come with us to the church where the negros were rallying, so they might be consistent with their “anti-racist” message.  The social justice faggots retreated as fast as their skinny jeans would allow.

Our Charleston adventures prove to me all the more that our enemies cannot be reasoned with.  We have only two choices (that I can see):  we must either flee or we must fight.

I leave it to my readers to guess my choice.

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**Update**

In the original draft of this post, I said the BBC “paid our way”.  This wasn’t technically true.  I wasn’t aware of the nature of the relationship between the Trad Youth and the BBC and made careless assumptions in an offhand comment.  I’ve tried to correct this blunder in the present draft.  As far as I know, the BBC holds to the highest degree of journalistic integrity and hasn’t (to my knowledge) violated any ethical standards in their dealings with Trad Youth; they certainly don’t financially support our organization in any way.

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Lend Us Your Millstones for They Are Needed

~ Woe unto the world because of offences! for it must needs be that offences come; but woe to that man by whom the offence cometh! ~

“Gay” street, aptly named, runs through the heart of Knoxville.  This Saturday, it was lined with hundreds of rainbow-clad zombies who were only there because their television and government schools taught them they ought to be there.  Cheering the parading deviants, the crowd of mostly teenaged girls, danced and gyrated their whorish bodies while waving supporting signs and memorabilia.

Our folk, about ten strong and surrounded by sympathetic and smirking police officers, held aloft our “pro-traditional marriage” signs and made ourselves heard over the crowd.  It wasn’t long before we were able to see the gay-parade approaching – like a faggoty slug that feeds on the death of nations and leaves a trail of poisonous slime in its wake…

“You ought to be ASHAMED of yourself!” I’d yell at a passerby.  “What would your mother think of you wearing women’s clothes?  What would your father think?!  You’re not manly!  You KNOW you’re wrong!  You’re going to Hell if you don’t repent!”  When surprised by this sort of rhetoric, the participants were immediately shocked, jaws dropping in devilish imitation of female expressions, then for a split second, before their moral outrage kicked in, they’d look guilty.  A man cannot descend into that level of depravity without being aware of it.

Soon, the church floats arrived, lead by a homosexual Episcopal priest, in full clerical garb, strutting with his negro boyfriend; upon hearing us call him a damnable heretic, he stopped the parade to “shock” us by kissing his fellow deviant.

The worst part about the parade was how many children, from infants to teenagers were either actively involved (they were marching or displayed on floats, etc.) or were present in the crowd.  Can a nation that allows its most innocent members to be so thoroughly defiled, remain a nation for long?  No.  It cannot and will not.

~ But whoso shall offend one of these little ones which believe in me, it were better for him that a millstone were hanged about his neck, and that he were drowned in the depth of the sea. ~

When the parade was over, we walked a few blocks down to where all the deviants were gathering.  The police wouldn’t let us into the fence and preferred we stand on the opposite side of the street.  An hour-long yelling match erupted.  We were spread out thin enough so that each member of our group could carry on his own shouting / debate / argument with the corresponding deviant on the other side of the street.

To my surprise, the majority of the crowd (at least, the ones I argued with) claimed to be Christians.  It had never occurred to them that homosexuality was not Christ like.  The most oft-quoted Bible verse I heard was “Judge Not!”; I was even told at one point that “Thou Shalt Not Judge” was one of the ten commandments and was the only one we still need to obey.

Facing this sort of Biblical illiteracy was surreal, but that’s just the beginning of this crowd’s level of ignorance.  One young lesbian assured me that no one meant me any harm and that we ought to just live and let live.  “Oh?” I replied.  “What if I’m a Christian baker who doesn’t want to bake a cake for a gay wedding?”  Displaying no knowledge of contemporary events, she assured me that in no possible world would I ever be forced to do something like that.

A scrawny 15 year old, with his lips painted purple, nose pierced, and hair dyed in rainbow colors, began ranting to me about how American society ought to function.  I asked him why in the hell I should care what some uneducated fifteen year old had to say about the world… “… because…because…I have opinions man!”  He was obviously exasperated by my question, never having been checked like that before.  “Oh?  What’s the last book you read?” I asked.  He stuttered, stammered, then began cussing at me before a gaggle of his lesbian friends pulled him away.

This event was also a wonderful time to attack feminism, which we did with relish.  I heard Heimbach tell a belligerent old jewess that he rejected feminism…to the shock of all the little feminists around him.

Every block we left behind dozens of gaping jaws.

Another favorite was our yelling at the girls to put some clothes on because they looked like whores.  In another repeated incident, a man would stand by, glibly holding his girlfriend’s purse while she engaged in a yelling match with us; when he’d finally dare to speak up, we’d applaud and suggest that, in the future, he be a man and step in to keep his woman from having to argue.

They simply had never been talked to like this before.  They’d never had their views ridiculed.  They’d never been intellectually man-handled; not just by Christians, but by conservative, antique-European Christians.

I’ll describe one more encounter because I think it says something about the entire event.  One harpy, particularly upset with me because I kept telling her to turn off her television and open a book, finally pulled out her big guns and said that the things I was saying were exactly the same as those racists in the fifties were saying!  That brought a delighted hush over her group of friends.  “Why thank you, ma’am,” I replied, “I *am* a racist…” gasps throughout the crowd.  “You… you … you just lost everything,” she said… as if I had been gaining ground with her before hand and just lost all influence.

Another man accused our group of being possibly mistaken for those “Westboro” freaks if we didn’t improve our road-side demeanor.  I replied to him and the harpy in the same way… “I’d much rather be confused with them, who are wrong on a few points of activism theory, than be confused with a bunch of sick sexual deviants who poison the minds of innocent children and pollute once beautiful Southern cities with their disease-riddled slime.”

I don’t care about “reaching” that crowd.  I care about letting them know they are opposed.  I care about God’s truth being spoken out loud on the streets of Knoxville, at least one last time.  I care about the Devil looking out from his throne in New York (or wherever George Soros is hosting him) and knowing that he’s still got a few white boys to deal with.

One of the most inspiring parts of the afternoon, was how many elderly baby-boomer types, mostly women, would discreetly approach us and offer a quick thanks.  I’m also greatly inspired by the number of businesses with “closed” signs in their windows that morning.

We will not go silently into the night…

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Thanks to all who showed up to support the Traditionalist Youth Network, especially the Knoxville 10-Milers who are always an inspiration and constantly remind me of the ideal group of white boys.  They retain a rugged sense of Scots-Irish chivalry and a healthy martial spirit (especially the legendary twins).  Also, thanks to the National Youth Front guys who continue to impress me with the level of man they’re able to bring to the streets.

I apologize for not recounting more of their involvement in this event, but there were so many people, usually crowded thickly around us, that we each had to fend for ourselves and were lost in our own conversations.  What I’ve recorded here is, I’m sure, characteristic of theirs.

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A Midnight Defiance…

LOasHamlet

31 For the Lord will not cast off for ever: 32 But though he cause grief, yet will he have compassion according to the multitude of his mercies.

In my last post I mentioned suicidal thoughts.  These aren’t new to me.  I’m not sure how many of my readers have considered (or are currently considering) suicide, but if you are, or maybe if you’ve stumbled here by chance after searching the web for reasons to live, then hear brutal honesty from a man who’s sick and tired of the truisms and emotionally-distant talking-points flooding our society about this topic:

Faith really is the issue.

I know how that sounds.  How can it be that simple?  I’d get mad anytime someone suggested it.  “Of COURSE I believe God exists!” I’d tell people.  How could I not?  The problem, though, is even demons believe God exists.  A suicidal man may believe God exists, he just doesn’t believe God cares.  He doesn’t believe God is willing to interfere in the world on his behalf or on behalf of justice.

So, dear reader, look deep inside and ask yourself: if you really have no hope in God then why not pull the trigger?  That’s where you’ll find your faith.  That’s where I found mine.  I discovered a mustard seed sized belief that God wasn’t done with me; that I had work left to do.  When it came down to it, I realized I still had faith that God might do something big in my life.

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I read a post on Cambria Will Not Yield suggesting Shakespeare was a greater philosopher than Immanuel Kant.  At the time, I was taken with philosophy.  Reared in the Presbyterian tradition, I was characteristically devout in studying systematics and spent hours working through analytic philosophy and theology.  I made a name for myself as a Christian apologist, debating philosophy majors and uppity God-haters of all stripes.  As quaint as I thought CWNY’s commentary was, I could never admit Kant was outdone by a playwright.

That was before the “slings and arrows” of life forced me to look beyond intellectual parlor games to find my mustard seed of Faith.  Now I’d only venture to disagree with CWNY in that, in my current state of mind, I feel it’d be an insult to accuse Shakespeare of being a philosopher at all.  To tie him in with that bunch is a heavy charge.  Of course, if we’re going to compare them, Shakespeare is the greater philosopher.  He skipped all the nonsense about transcendental idealism or pure and practical reason, choosing instead to answer that timeless question: “to be or not to be?”

I’ve suffered many defeats in my life and few victories.  My people are defined by tragedy, suffering, and loss (I’m speaking of southerners).  The whole of antique-European culture is “gone with the wind”, leaving behind a legacy of descent.  If there was ever a time white boys needed to pick up their Hamlet and read, it’s now.

To be or not to be?

What was Hamlet’s answer?

“O, from this time forth,
My thoughts be bloody or be nothing worth!”

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In light of Hamlet’s resolution and its unique applicability to my life, I’ll be taking a break from blogging for awhile.  I need time to fast and pray and focus on my spiritual health as well as plan for a future that may very well include rash acts of heroism.

Fare thee all well, for now.

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