President Trump


All over the white net, debates rage about the nature of Donald Trump’s presidency. Will he keep his flagrant promises or wont he? Is he a stooge of the mysterious elite, or is he a friend of the little guy?

I don’t care one way or the other. My brand of apathy may be the key to resolving conflict between the naive optimists and the annoying doom-sayers. Before I can show how, I’ll have to play matchmaker between the two sides:

Voting is a sin, certainly, but are there reasons to forgive (or at least sympathize with) our misguided brethren who voted for the Donald?

The answer, I think, lies in the two main reasons our ilk voted for him. 1: their pathological communitarian cohesion (that is: their healthy psychological attachment to being part of a community and participating in national rituals), and 2: their disbelief in a particular conspiracy theory that says a cabal of evil men control all political outcomes.

To the first: as the survivor of government education, I’m a little jealous of those who retain a healthy attachment to their community. Any such feelings I had were destroyed (through the art of negro-induced humiliation) and replaced with anger at a degenerate society that can’t get its fill of blasphemy and sacrilege.

Assuming everyone else escaped with their sense of community and a few marginally-conservative political views, we ought to forgive them for voting. It’s tempting to sing in beautiful choirs, after all, even if the lyrics are bad. Who hasn’t belted out a Garth Brooks tune in the shower? Who hasn’t done the “wave” at a baseball game? Who hasn’t gotten caught up in national fervor when the romance of the thing seems honorable? Who hasn’t voted for a politician? In a sane world, the joy we feel at joining a national cause is an expression of health.

To the second, I admit I’m skeptical. I disagree with strict theorists about the global conspiracy. Say I disagree in scope and flavor instead of substance. Battling the ruling clique is less like defeating the final boss in a video game and more like getting our parents to feed us lunch at 2pm instead of noon. It’s just too ingrained of a pattern to buck. And given the West’s transformation from Christendom to Dildolechia, ought we be surprised at the resulting political climate? The pro-Trumpers, even if they reject the all-sovereign conspirators paradigm, ought to at least recognize that by voting, they’re propping up the pillars of Dildolech. Nevertheless, an optimistic expectation of change is a hard feeling to ignore, especially when it’s coupled with the sense of community action mentioned above.

It’s here the pro-Trumpers reply with a list pragmatic calculations. I’d ask the cranky curmudgeons of the “I-told-you-he’d-let-you-down” camp to forgive their voting friends. Forgive them because they’re right. It is true that by all objective metrics, Donald Trump is better for us than a Hillary Clinton. Even if you don’t support voting as an institution, why not take advantage of what we’re offered by choosing the much lauded “lesser of two evils”? In this case, the vote (at the very least) shows the political world what we (oppressed white Christians) want from our leaders – they’re on notice and know who to pander to next time, and what to say.


I was literally kicked off the Trump train (by the Secret Service) – I’ve written about it elsewhere. But I still wish I had a foot in the mainstream illusion, enough to believe, along with the throngs of flag-waving socialites, that Trump was a ray of blonde light in Dildolechia.

Here’s where my own brand of pragmatism comes in, however:

Regardless of what the pagans do or don’t do, I’ve disassociated from them. I no longer think of myself as an American. I’m a North Carolinian (for example), by accident. I happen to have been born here, but I’m not *of* here. Not any more. Now I’m *of* a different world. A world I’ve read about in dusty old novels. That’s my home. No amount of voting will get me to it. And Donald Trump? I truly believe he is a gift from God. A reprieve from the reign of evil. A time of truce. A calm in the storm. And while I have more admiration for him than any other president in my lifetime, and while I love how he infuriates the liberals, I don’t put my hope of salvation in him. Not in him nor in any amount of lever-pulling and machine-building.

Once this is realized, the entire frame of discussion shifts. The debate disappears. I’m able to appreciate Trump’s presidency without thinking of him as a messiah figure or being too emotionally distraught when he makes decisions I strongly disagree with. Dis-associate thy-self! That’s the key. It’s a miserable key, but a necessary one.

Become free men! Citizens of a different world.

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Traveling Knight


“Still the knight is young
 and traveling on with pleasure.
Grant him wishes well,
luck in the fullest measure.
Bid you all adieu,
stories to keep and treasure.
When he’s passing through,
ever and on he goes…”

I tweaked those lyrics; I hope the Willis Clan doesn’t mind. They suit me better now. And not just me, but all Christians. We’re all going ever and on. If you’ve stumbled across my blog and you’re not a Christian, you’re not exempt. Thinketh not ye are safe! The refining light of Heaven issues from a terrible being who spares not the wicked from celestial fire…at least I hope He doesn’t.

Don’t hate me! Don’t hate me! I don’t mean I’m wishing you were in Hell – that’d be unkind to my readers. Rather, I’m wishing your submission to the forge of Angels. Consider MacDonald:


That flashy intro out of the way, what’s the point of this evening’s post?

I’m traveling onward. Again. Ever and on.

My criticisms of Kinism – not new or capricious – have recently garnered attention. While not necessarily good attention, I consider it a small boon and will say a quick word while I’ve got an audience:

The trouble I have (had?) isn’t so much with the doctrines of Kinism, although I have always had small disagreements hither and yon with this or that talking-point. Rather, looking back, I think I was wrestling with the Reformed faith itself. I’ve noted here (and others have affirmed elsewhere) the importance of Calvinist dogma in laying the intellectual ground of Kinist polemics. There is no better or more thorough defense of racialism in the entire English speaking – perhaps in the entire white – world. No Alternative Rightist, no white nationalist philosopher, no Darwinian HBD guru, has as intimate a grasp of the underlying epistemological issues nor have any of them developed such an intricate, worldview-in-scope philosophical system to underlie their political philosophy. None. Of. Them.

I defy *anyone* to say otherwise – and even now, while I’m something of a pariah in official Kinist channels (and am in some doubt about the Reformed tradition), I could easily defeat such a challenge. Probably within a matter of minutes. They’d be reduced to profanity and sputtering about how useless philosophy is (I’ve seen it happen many times in my career as a Kinist). There are, of course, many who come close; there are some sharp guys in the pro-white community and I don’t want to disparage their work or discourage them. Nevertheless, the fact of the matter is, whenever a Kinist can be bothered to write the “Kinist Manifesto”, it’ll be the most thorough intellectual defense of the white race ever to have been written (assuming they do a good job in explicating the doctrines).

There’s a problem in the Reformed tradition however.

I’ve mentioned this elsewhere at Shotgun Barrel Straight (and in some of the podcasts I’ve participated in), but there was a split in American Calvinism, corresponding to the North / South divide in America. Refer to it as the “New School / Old School” debate if you’d like, but for those who aren’t interested in arcane Presbyterian history: the North (except Princeton) was radically “liberal” while the South, in whole, was Conservative. It’s difficult to lay out the theological issues specifically since there were so many of them. Nathan Strickland and I did a podcast on Southern Presbyterianism and Kinism which is still on Soundcloud if any of you are interested (the bad audio is completely my fault – I apologize). You can all guess: the Southern Calvinist tradition was lost along with the political South.

What happened afterwards was a spiritual tragedy. Northern religiosity spread throughout the entire country – this has been documented and analyzed elsewhere, especially by the Abbeville Institute (search their articles if you’re interested; also see “Strangers in Zion” by William Glass for a concise study of how “fundamentalism” in the South is an aspect of Northern religious tradition).

For better or worse, this “spirit” (if you will) dominated all of the Reformed tradition although, years later, the conservative wing of it spawned the Christian Reconstruction movement which later spawned Kinism. Kinism, however great, is, nevertheless, mired in the Northern Calvinist religiosity. To the extent most Kinist are Southerners however, they’ve managed to mitigate the negative effects and yet, the total devotion to a dogmatic system is, perhaps, in varying degrees, a disease in all modern religious expression.

And however mean and childish (fill-in-the-blank with whatever other criticism you prefer) you think I am, I’m simply not comfortable with this “Dogma-Uber-Alles” attitude. Hence my struggle with Kinism – a struggle perhaps more with a dogmatic religiosity than with the Kinists themselves (most of whom are still very dear friends – I even still like the ones who claim to be my friends while publicly psychoanalyzing me).

What am I now if not a Calvinist? What am I traveling on to? Onwards and upwards? (Or, downwards if you’re convinced strict adherence to a system is the path to Heaven)? Well that’s just it, isn’t it? What does it mean to be a Calvinist? Is it that I believe in some typically Calvinist doctrines? If so, then maybe I’m still a Calvinist. Or is it that I’m a formal member of an organized church? That, I’m certainly not. Or is it that I participate in and identify as a member of a certain culture, with certain jargon and social habits? If it’s that – and I suspect it is, even if a Calvinist says otherwise – then I’m not at all a Calvinist.

In fact, it’s only been recently that I’ve stopped caring about dogma at all. There are far greater and more important truths about our Father than how His liver might work in conjunction with His pancreas. He’s not on the theologian’s autopsy table.

Call me a “Christian Romantic” if you need a label. My mentors in the Faith are the likes of Lewis, MacDonald, and Owen Barfield…although, don’t suppose that’s an exclusive list. I value Spurgeon and Machen as well. Far more so than anything I’ve ever read in Calvin or Edwards.

At any rate, I still care for many who claim to be Kinists; I don’t suppose for a minute they believe in abstractions over flesh and blood, or dogma over bonds of honor. I’ll never forget the fellowship and in-the-trenches-type battling we’ve done together (many of my Kinist friends came to my defense when I was being slandered by the national media, some even risking exposure and doxxing on my behalf).

…but I’m sorry. I can’t continue traveling the Calvinist path. God is taking me (quite against my will, truth be told) onwards and upwards. To higher truths and a stronger Faith than I ever imagined.

I truly hope He does the same for you (although I pray the flames aren’t as hot for you as they are for me).

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Shotgun and the Leprechaun


If you’re wondering what happened to my response to Ehud’s F&H slam article, I’ve unpublished it. I decided to take the high road; be the bigger man, as it were. So come, my minions. Critique me; psychoanalyze me; make judgements about me based on little more than a phone conversation we had years ago. I welcome it. Really. I’ll enter your criticisms in the footnotes of my ten-chapter-long memoir (which I’m sure F&H will publish).

…but if you’re new to my blog (visiting thanks to the publicity my friends decided, out of the blue, to offer me), then be mindful that I’ve been publishing my struggles with the Christian Faith. You’ll be interested to know that after a particularly dark bout of providence and a resulting spate of angry prayers, I challenged God to discipline me. He did, in at least two instances, both of which, oddly (though humorously) had an Irish twist. The first was a few weeks ago and is recorded in my last post (Luck of the Irate). Here’s how the second happened:

Suffice it to say, I was having a case of the Mondays. Two hours from home, my car had broken down in coon-town. My radiator was bone dry and I was in a vacant lot surrounded by be-bopping jacobins. Was this God punishing me again?! “Well…” I reminded myself, “…I asked for it.” Asked for it indeed, with a healthy side of profanity. In hindsight, I’m pretty sure God disciplines us whether we ask for it or not. Best not to ask for it.

Luckily (and the irony of that word doesn’t escape me), there was an auto parts store about half a mile away. Believe it or not, it was an Irish-themed establishment with, you guessed it, a large shamrock as part of their logo. I put my pistol in my back pocket and set out to a gas station to get water. I was able to fill the reservoir enough so the car would start, then managed to drive it out of the lot and down to the O’Reilly’s. I had a busted seal in my thermostat housing; the water blew out so fast the radiator was dry again by the time I arrived. I thought I could purchase sealant and plug it enough to get home.

…turned out, that was wishful thinking. There was no way the sealant could plug the entire leak. At that point, I called my dad, who had to stop what he was doing and drive two hours with tools so we could perform a minor operation right there in the parking lot; we’d have to replace the entire thermostat. In the mean time, I needed more water (to re-fill the radiator), and asked the clerk if I could get some. “In the back,” he said.

I’ve had radiator issues before and I knew about the large sinks in auto stores. They use them to fill mop buckets but they’re also ideal for milk jugs. Sad to say, when I got to the back, theirs had an “out of order” sign on it. I swore. All the frustration of my recent religious struggles hit me full force. “Why God!?!? Again?! You just can’t give me any good luck, can you?!”

If you’ve arrived at my blog from F&H you might be used to judging your fellows harshly. I implore you not to in my case. There are times we all lose our cool and the pressures of life, even the relatively small ones, act as proverbial “feathers” to break a peeved-off camel’s back; or my back, as the case may be. Broke down in coon town, surrounded by vagrants and thugs. Even the O’Reilly’s employees were shady looking. It just wasn’t my lucky day. Until…

“Hey man…maybe I can help?” a voice said.

I turned around and…you’ll never believe it… there was a midget. A friendly lil’ feller, who, despite his stature, had the trustworthy features of an honorable, normal sized white man. He was holding a water key.

“Yeah…” he explained, “…this one’s broke so we’ve been having to use the outside spigot. You have to have this key though. Come on, I’ll help you out.” And help he did.

A kind word and friendly hand at the right moment, dear readers, mean all the world to a Christian down on his luck.

…although, maybe I wasn’t down on luck after all?

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Luck of the Irate


Here’s a pro tip guys: if you give a girl flowers and she’s disappointed because they’re not edible or otherwise useful around the farm, marry her.

Here’s another pro tip: no matter how angry you get at God, never challenge Him to discipline you. “Come on! Do it! We both know you wont! We both know I’m out of the covenant and praying to a God who doesn’t answer prayers! You only discipline those you love anyway; I’d prefer that to silence. So come on! Have at it!”

If, hypothetically, you ever pray such a prayer, consider the following two stories about what happened to me after doing so. Interestingly enough, both anecdotes have an Irish twist. The symbolism escapes me but in hindsight, adds an hilarious irony I can’t write off as coincidence. No, what I’m about to relate are real interactions between God and man. My awe (and frustration) aside, if I’ve learned nothing else, I’ve learned they might still be celebrating St. Patrick’s Day in Heaven…

The first happened a few weeks ago. I was angry because God seems capricious, “…you’re no better than a weathervain, Lord.” He blesses one minute, curses the next. This makes God more of an impersonal force than a divine person. We may as well be praying to the wind. Although that’s not quite true either (so I reasoned). No, the wind, at least, changes directions from time to time. With God it’s a never-ending stream of bad luck. “Why can’t you be more like the wind, God?! Change it up a little! Give me some good luck for a change!”

The next morning I got out ye olde power washer, put on my headphones, and began a long day of labor. Hours went by. I washed everything, high and low; destroyed wasps, spiders, pollen, and mold. I had to re-fill the gas tank five times. As the day was wearing down, the machine inexplicably shut off. I checked the gas – it had plenty. I checked the water – it was on full blast. The engine started but I wasn’t getting any pressure.

After messing with it and performing all the troubleshooting I could, I decided my water pump had gone bad. It’s a fairly common problem with pressure washers. Unfortunately, a new pump costs almost as much as the whole machine. I’d have to scrap it. “See, God?! This is exactly what I’m talking about! Where’s my luck?! Why can’t I have good luck for a change?!”

As I began coiling the hose and preparing for a disappointing end to the day, it occurred to me there was one thing left I might try. I hadn’t checked the water hose’s connection to the washer. Maybe, somehow or other, something had gotten lodged in there? So I squatted down, hunkered over the connector, and released it. As soon as I did, residual pressure exploded out of the nozzle, blowing… (and you’ll never believe this)…clovers all in my face. Shamrocks! Not just a few, ladies and gents; an entire face full of stereotypical good luck charms. They were clogging the hose and blocking the water. It took me awhile to clean them all out, there were so many.

Now you tell me, you science-minded denizens of modernity…you tell me how that many clovers got into my water hose. You tell me how they made it through miles of county pipe to arrive, at the most ironic of times, plastered all over my face.

Fun Fact: St. Patrick, it’s sometimes said, thought of the Shamrock as a symbol of the Holy Trinity.

In the interest of keeping these posts a manageable size, I’ll post the second story tomorrow. It may involve a leprechaun!

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The Anatomy of a Deconversion


The first cynical maxim of deconversion: God may be good, but He’s not *that* good.

Whatever the smart men say about the theology of “good”, at the end of the day, we dream bigger than God. He usually intends for us to wallow in poverty and shame; those He capriciously blesses (there’s no rhyme or reason to it other than He seems to favor those who publicly detest Him) are unaware of their unmerited gifts. They choose instead to lecture the rest of us on how life works. They obviously have it figured out. So be grateful for whatever little scraps you get because there’s no use in dreaming. He’ll never allow it. This leads to the second maxim:

If you have a dream or a vision for how your life could be, God will take it from you.

As Lewis notes in his “Problem of Pain”, we’re scroungy dogs God is trying to domesticate, and what matters the dreams of a scroungy dog? God wants us to thrive in the living room as a clean, beloved, house pet, while we want to eat the furniture and roll in filth. Lewis wonders, then, how we can expect God to indulge our dreams when they’re so lowly. He follows George MacDonald in believing that God is the all consuming fire who slowly burns away the fallible, finite parts of us, leaving purified remains. Whatever those remains will be, they wont be human…so, does God really love humanity after all? Is He really the greatest “humanist?” Even the house dog enjoys a bone from time to time, but not us. Having food, hope for the future, and an honorable livelihood are beneath the ultra-man-type-things we’re being turned into; we’re not to have them. And on that, maxim the third:

When the Bible teaches that God will provide our basic needs, it’s either outright false, or it’s so ambiguous as to be, otherwise, worthless.

Whatever it means, it doesn’t mean God will provide for *our* basic needs. Maybe He’ll provide for the needs of the Psalm writer (who doesn’t fear arrows or disease), but not us. Maybe He’ll answer the prayers of His hand-picked apostles – for them, He’ll move mountains and heal the sick. Not for us. Not for the average Joe. Us? We’re stuck in a world where, if we want to see miracles, we have to do them ourselves. God is m.i.a. Out to the races. Gone. And did He leave us the Holy Spirit as a guide, or was that only meant for His hand-picked apostles as well? I hope it was only meant for the apostles because if not, the Holy Spirit has made a terrible mess of things down here. No one can prove me wrong on that because none of you can say what the Bible really means (one way or the other). If you think you can, maxim the fourth is for you:

The only people who can be Christians are those who refuse to take Christ seriously.

Do you want a God who is active in the world? A God who, like a King, directs His people? Gives them tasks? Holds court? Christianity is not for you, then; while the Bible claims God is like a King, whatever that means, it doesn’t mean He’s like any sort of king we would recognize. If you take it seriously when it says Christ is a king, you’ll be very disappointed. How about a father? Would you like a God who is a loving father? Again we’re in the same spot: whatever it means to say God is like a father, it doesn’t mean he’s like what we mean when we use the word “father.” How could it? Don’t take the Bible seriously when it says God is like a father, or, again, you’ll get very angry. How about a shepherd? Unlike the other two, here we have a God so good at shepherding, He’s shepherded me right out of the damned covenant. “Out of my pasture, you sheep! Go belong to someone else!” (Lewis says God has shown a lot of emotion towards humanity, but never contempt. He should have rethought that; God shows acute contempt for those outside of His covenant).

The only way these analogies can be accepted is if they’re not accepted seriously. “Oh yes, God is our Father and our King!”…but such can’t be said without a wink or a form of emotional double-think. The moment you really need a Father or a King and He’s not there, you can’t (if you want to take Him seriously), simply shrug it off as inconsequential. Either He’s a king or He’s not. Either He’s going to be our father or He’s not. Additionally, praying without expecting answers is another way to avoid taking God seriously. Praying in such a way that you don’t end up praying for anything at all may appease a false sense of religious piety, but it doesn’t take God seriously. Oh no. Taking God seriously means you’ll experience all manner of disappointment and anger when He doesn’t do as He promised, and answer our prayers.

Avoid taking Him seriously.

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Am I Racist Against Whites?!


“Well the orders came down, we’ll attack tonight at nightfall. If we can stop them right here, we’ll win this war once and for all. You know, I killed a Union boy last week, bet he wasn’t fourteen. He looked just like our son…God, what have I done, Josephine?!”


At one of the recent dust ups in Berkeley, the above specimen was caught on camera, being punched in the face by a well-dressed white man. The Alternative Right, while mostly applauding the man’s action, has produced some commentary in favor of the girl. “We ought not support physical violence towards women,” they say. Others suggest we avoid fighting whites all together. After all, they’re our people and we need to somehow convince them to join our cause.

But I direct you all, again, to the above picture. In it we see a beautiful young girl before she went to be indoctrinated; and we see a picture of her after her indoctrination. While Ms. Moldylocks from Berkeley is a recent example, the above type of meme has been circulating through far right circles for a weeks.

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Unless anyone thinks this is a uniquely female problem, the liberal “mind virus” is just as destructive to men, although in less outward ways. True, men infected with the mind-virus can “signal” their degeneracy to the world – they’ll cover themselves in tattoos, wear skinny jeans, dye their hair weird colors, or participate in melodramatic shows of public outrage – nevertheless, the majority of pain they suffer isn’t manifested on the outside. I say this anecdotally, as a man, without backup from the lab-coat-wearing pagans; take it or leave it.

I’d like to pose a question to those in the Alt. Right who’ve offered commentary in defense of Moldylocks – or to all those pro-white advocates who suggest we reach out to these people because they’re of our same race.

…are they? Really?

I’ve taken heat here at Shotgun Barrel Straight for writing in defense of women. I’ve argued that if we’re in a relationship with a feminist (say: our sisters, daughters, or someone we otherwise wouldn’t feel comfortable jettisoning from our lives), we ought to fight for them. I’ve suggested strategies we might use to ply them away from their indoctrination or to influence them back to sanity.

But I’m afraid there are many who are generations deep into liberalism and, after having graduated all levels of their training, are beyond rescue. I’d like to go a step further and say that, for these people, they’ve (essentially) crossed from one ethnic group into another ethnic group.

What we have here is an epidemic of forced trans-culturalization. Young white women (especially) are being taken, infected with a virus, and transformed into a different ethnicity; a new people who worship Satan without realizing it.

If you don’t feel hatred towards those perpetuating the disease, you need to look to your salvation.

…more importantly, once they’re gone – once they’re transculturated completely – it’s very difficult for them to ever return. As we’ve seen above, this virus causes outward, physical transformation and if allowed to perpetuate itself over generations, the ethnic divide between the “red-state” and “blue-state” people will no longer be hypothetical, pedagogical, or a mere sociological note. It will begin actually taking on the physical characteristics of a distinct ethnicity – just as a savvy anthropologist can tell the difference between an Irishman and an Englishman by looking (or Japanese recognize Koreans by sight).

Even more importantly, once a person “jumps” to a different ethnicity (by enculturating himself or herself into the new community and striving to conform to all its mores, norms, and habits), they’re officially no longer going to be included in the “us” part of the “us vs. them” formula as far as ethno-centric whites are concerned.

While this is a tragedy, my instinct is to play up this division. We need to stop treating these “Anti-fa”, these feminists, and these liberals, as if they’re still “us”. We need to start treating them like “them”. They’re no longer part of our ethnicity; no longer part of our tribe. (John Wayne knew what to do with a woman forcefully transculturated by Indians – if she refused to be rescued).

Despite my instinct in the matter, I think I can understand what it must have been like for my Southern ancestors who fought and killed the Yankees.

What a horrible burden God has placed on man.

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Farewell to Arms?


“Yet I know that good is coming to me – that good is always coming; though few have at all times the simplicity and the courage to believe it.” ~ George MacDonald

I deleted my entire social media presence and came very close to deleting this blog. But as my finger hovered over the metaphorical “delete” key, I discovered I loved my little production more than its recent neglect indicates. A lot more. More so than my massive social network of pseudo friends whom (with a few notable exceptions), I was able to drop without thought at all.

As to that, here’s the unfortunate lay of the land:

I was seeking acceptance and social standing in the “Kinist” community. I wasn’t able to find either there; not really. There’s a schizophrenia in Kinism. A puritan trapped in the same body with a radical Alternative Rightist. I’m not either and wasn’t comfortable trapped between the two; and, given how many clashes, dust ups, and arguments I’ve had with that crowd, they weren’t comfortable with me either.

One half of Kinism, the puritan half, likes to lounge behind protected walls, resting on laurels it barely earned in the first place, while lobbing cynical barbs at all who dare threaten its tranquility. The other half, the half which actually engages the outside world, is so enamored with the degenerate “Alternative Right” culture that it’s become indistinguishable in all but a few esoteric theological issues. The swearing, filthy sexual talk, and musical tastes are all there. And no matter what I did – be it driving to different time zones to try and incite negro riots, be it putting my name on the line to defend Kinism in public contexts, be it long travels to harass anti-Kinist personalities, or be it countless nights arguing and debating in online venues – it availethededed me nothing with them. Whether that’s my fault, theirs, or both, I left.

I thought, maybe, I could find a different online community with the so-called “Alternative Right”, but as I indicated above, there’s so much profanity, filth, and staunch materialism there, I’d never feel at home. Certainly my ideas and contributions could never be taken seriously. Here’s a brief analysis of the Alt. Right: the Alternative Right is to Liberalism, what Protestantism was to Catholicism. This comparison has drawn ire from Alt. Rightists, all of whom claim to staunchly oppose liberalism, but consider this: liberalism rests on three pillars: equality, rationalism, and science.

The Alt. Right attacks “equality” with a passion. They do very well at it. But they steadfastly hold to the other two. Until those other two pillars are attacked with equal passion, nothing will change about modernity.

So I left social media all together.

There were other “real life” considerations that caused me to leave, such as I’m moving into a career where I’ll be particularly vulnerable to “doxxing”. But the main fact is, I need community. Real friendships. I want the quality, not the quasi!

Without those other avenues of expression, expect this blog to pick up.

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The Braggart


Men who brag about wanting to meet Jesus have something seriously wrong with them. You all don’t have to share this opinion. Our judgements of others are influenced by life’s little anecdotes as well as individual temperaments, so I don’t offer this as a universal truth. You can take it or leave it. But I reiterate: there’s something wrong with a man who so boasts. Don’t trust him.

There’s too much of the pharisee in modern Christians. Their holiness consists in outward shows of piety, while on the inside, they’re petty, cruel, and tyrannical. Ohhhh…by their own admission (they’ll have you know), they’re on excellent terms with Christ. Their every word is Scripture and if you disagree with them, you’re “disagreeing with the Bible!” Is it naivete? Stupidity? Or down right sorriness? Yes and yes. It’s that petty, streak of meanness that runs through the hearts of both the cultist and the revolutionary alike – the two are the same creature, after all.

I’m absolutely terrified of meeting Jesus. He’ll see right to the black heart of me; all my weaknesses instantly revealed. The shame of it will be unbearable. And yes, yes, my pharisee, cult friends are right. He’s forgiven us. That’s what Easter is all about. But friends, there’s a reason the men in the Bible fell to their faces and weren’t able to speak in the presence of the Lord.

I thought about all this yesterday morning as I drove to my special place of prayer to watch the sunrise. On Sundays or on holy days, I like to devote my prayers specifically to thanksgiving, worship, praises (and the like). Too often my regular prayers turn into strategy sessions where I hash out what I’ve already decided while God watches from the sidelines. Sometimes those prayers drift into daydreams or drag up new worries. But on holy days, I allow none of that.

Only, yesterday, not for the first or last time, I was speechless before the throne. What do you say to a perfect and holy God? What can you really do other than fall (even if only metaphorically) to the ground and beg for mercy? But then we hear that wonderful voice that touches us lightly and says:

“…be not afraid. Stand!”

Beware the man who takes that voice lightly.

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Armadillo by Morning…


“…everything that I’ve got,
is just what I’ve got on.
I aint got a dime, but what I got is mine.
I aint rich, but Lord knows I’m free…”

I’m uncool in Alternative Right circles because I don’t believe in machine building, revolutions, or democracy. (Also, because I don’t cuss and I don’t chew and I don’t go with the girls that do). What’s that? How could anyone consider *me* uncool? Believe it or not, it happens. Ironically so in light of the anti-democratic, anti-enlightenment posturing among Alt. Right denizens. But deeds and professions are two different things, eh readers?

“We hate democracy!” and yet there’s non-stop political commentary, support for politics, and praise for Donald Trump. Why all the fan-fare for a man, however praiseworthy, who operates squarely within the democratic machine? (As if we can flip, crank, and lever our way out of modernity). But now we have wailing and gnashing of teeth in the Alt. Right because of Trump’s seeming abandonment of his base. He ousted Steve Bannon from the National Security Council and a day later, bombed Syria. (Hopefully I’m too old to be drafted).

I’ve officially had enough “winning”, thank you.

What’s the Alt. Right’s strategy now? A small few are suggesting we focus on winning hearts and minds or other such culturally stimulating evangelistic campaigns. The majority are wanting to double-down on democracy. “We memed Trump into the White House, we can meme him back out!”

I’ve been saying all along we need to shift focus from machine building, democracy, and state politics, towards family, localism, and personal development. We need to take care of ourselves for a change instead of worrying about the political makeup of the giant plantation we’re living on. We ought to snuggle in, hide our assets, and get close to whatever women are crazy enough to tolerate us.

I’m calling this the armadillo strategy.

Why bother with creating a vast political machine when we can “secede” here an now? Secede in our minds by turning off the television and rescuing our children from government school? Secede from the banks by practicing alternative banking strategies (more on that in future posts). Secede from the hive-mind by getting out of those things called “churches” and getting in touch with our real God. And never forget – we need to secede from the average American diet, for the sake of all that’s holy.

Do armadillos eat kale?

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Shotgun vs. Hipstergrass


Modern bluegrass needs its own category: “Hipstergrass.”

The Dixie Chicks and Nickel Creek, back in the 90’s, started the slide, and now every two-bit suspender-wearing degenerate is strumming a banjo, claiming to sing old time music, and wearing the thickest framed glasses he (or she) can find.

Their music is about how bad blacks were treated, or about the “fusion” of urban culture with the surrounding rural landscape. Sara Watkins, the girl from Nickel Creek, has joined up with Sarah Jarosz and formed a group called: “I’m With Her”, for example, an obvious nod towards Hillary. Other groups (like “The Dead South”) are explicit in their views and feature prominent diversity. In all, there’s a new melody resounding around Appalachia (whenever these clowns see fit to visit): Dear white boy…your culture no longer belongs to you.

If I were two ounces more musically inclined, I’d go to war with these people.

I have a cousin who is in the thick of all this. He’s a prominent blues musician and having been indoctrinated at the nearby college, he now tries to educate us backward whites on the history and importance of his chosen genre. Specifically, the blues (according to one of his presentations I attended), were developed as a way for blacks to secretly voice the frustration they felt, living under the unbearable yoke of white domination. It was a way for them to make sly jokes without being lynched by the Klan, which, apparently, was hiding just around every corner.

He’s often encouraged me to check out the “Carolina Chocolate Drops”, a rare band of negro “old time” musicians. My cousin’s entourage approves and have often suggested other “bluegrass” for me to check out. It’s always the same story. Always the same hipstergrass.

There’s a larger point to be made:

Many of these people are really good musicians. Unfortunately, they’ve become acolytes of the new religion. The very people who, in a Christian world, would be making the most beautiful music, are obsessed with praising the devil.

While the situation is bad, there might be hope.

See, these hipstergrass musicians are trying to be the poetic voice of their people, but it’s a major doctrine of their religion to give up any notion of having a “people”. As a result, their songs are nonsensical (in many cases), formulaic, and without spirit. They latch on to jews or blacks (who still have a people) or they sing about vacuous nothings. This can’t last forever. They’ll eventually lose interest whenever a new fad comes around and those with one foot still in that ol’ time religion, will have the field to themselves.

When that happens, we may no longer hear banjos on the radio, but front porches across the South will, once again, sound forth the music of Dixie.

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