I took the day off today, just because. Just to spend it with my wife. Just to enjoy the cool, rainy weather and the green slopes and the big breakfast and the French pressed coffee and the hum of the tractor under my bones and the barn swallows slicing through the spring air and the red dog dreaming on the wood floor after gorging on corned beef hash and the useful bargains we found at the Dollar Tree and the thought of what the seed ‘taters will produce and the hens pecking at strawberry tops and the kale that we need to pick TONIGHT and the revivifying breeze sifting through the screen door. And I did enjoy all these things and thoughts and I kept thinking of things that make me wince and laugh. Things like the island off the coast of Thailand of which I recently read, an island called Phuket. I want to head up their tourism campaign. “Had a lousy month at work? Need to get away? Just call your travel agent and say ‘Phuket,’ and we’ll take care of the rest!” Things like the fact that Daniel Huttlestone, the little Cockney lad who plays Gavroche in the recent film version of “Les Miserables” looks just like a miniature Ronnie James Dio. I laughed at these thoughts, and then I read of another son of England, a young soldier named Lee Rigby, who was beheaded in public by two gloating nigger muslims.
And my smiles and my laughter ebbed, disappeared.
Who are we? We as a people, I mean. Who are we? To focus more sharply, why are we so passive and so silent and so weak in the face of open hatred for who we are, what we represent, and what our destiny is?
Let’s individualize the question. Who am I?
Who are you?
Perhaps you’re The Respectable Christian. You go to the services, you serve on the boards and committees. You teach. Your wife organizes fellowship meals. You tithe. You do outreach. You own – and actually read – the right books, the impressive books, the books your religious peers dissect in their soporific nasal NPR monotones during the men’s breakfasts. You think you have some kind of diaphanous obligation to share something (the gospel? your wealth?) with the have-not heathens of the filthy world, but you haven’t done a lot with this belief so far. You don’t want your daughter marrying someone who doesn’t look like your parents, but you also don’t want to go so far as to say that those people aren’t (or perhaps can’t be) true Christians. You have witnessed incident after incident, as plain as the hair on your head, demonstrating the fact that your congregation or your denomination or your group is about as unbiblical, as un-New-Testamentish as it’s possible to be. But you remain. You piss away your irreplaceable hours every week, doing the churchy busywork, determined that orthodox-with-a-small-”o”-Christianity is the answer to our peoples’ genocidal plight, even though the church is obviously doing nothing for your people and is in fact working actively to harm your people. You are content to adopt a baptized “long march through the institutions” mindset, and you watch your children grow into young adulthood and essentially apostasize from your family altar and they embrace all things you told them to shun during those long drives and those biblical worldview conferences and those hours poring over the wholesome catalogs like Fishin’ For ‘Em or SeeBeDeeBee’s, put out by some crypto-Jew like, well, you know. You pray, but you don’t expect an answer because, well, Christ doesn’t operate like that anymore. You ignore what Christ says to your heart at 3:00 am because, well, the heart is desperately wicked and your heart was the one part of you that wasn’t redeemed and wasn’t resurrected with Him, so you can’t trust it, right? Your girlfriend or your wife is frightened by your viewpoints, and you’re afraid to talk too much about your beliefs around her or any of your family or friends, so you read the blogs and you start your own blog and you daydream about all this stuff while you fix the garage door. And you fear that you’re doing nothing and that you might be on the wrong side, because all the world is telling you that you’re wrong. Perhaps that’s you.
Or perhaps you’re the Angry Talk-Radio listening, Headline reading, News-watching Mumbler. Your family members gave their lives or limbs in Dub Dub Two or Korea or Vietnam, and Old Glory still makes your pulse pick up, but you’re damn-hell sick of all this shit, and someone’s gotta do something, and so you write letters to the editor until someone figures out where you live and puts a live raccoon in your mailbox or throws balloons of piss onto your front porch or calls you in the middle of the night to scream “Fascist!” in your stunned, sleepy ear. You vote Republican, even though the GOP is outdoing itself in the Let’s See How Much We Can Make The Darklings Like Us game. You dominate the conversation at the weekly poker game, and all your friends think you’re too angry. Your children avoid you. No one seeks your counsel, and you’ve noticed this, but you comfort yourself in the knowledge that the truth you hold is so potent, it can’t be handled by the yokels who are less angry than you. You’ve toyed with the idea of running for local office so you can “change things from within,” but that idea has never really taken off. Your nephew has tried many times to talk to you about your ultimate purpose in this life, but you’re uninterested. After all, you walked the aisle when you were thirteen. You’ve been washed in the blood. You bought the fire insurance policy; you need nothing else. You know your people are under attack, but it can’t be the Jews who are responsible, because they’re God’s Chosen People. They’re untouchable. You might get in trouble just thinking about the fact that they have a 100% flawlessly evil track record. You might get in trouble just reading certain words, or visiting certain websites, or entertaining certain questions. You’re angry and you’re righteously right, but you don’t want any trouble.
Perhaps you’re the Wistful-But-Occasionally-Tentatively-Aggressive Southron. You dream and talk and blog about the South seceding again, and this time, it’ll work. You expend your emotional calories in the pursuit of the fantasy that somehow, for the first time in the history of the world, time will run in reverse, and the antebellum South will rise again, and you’ll get to wear a frock coat and shave with a badger brush and your wife will wear hoop skirts and your daughters will sip camomile tea and banter with the benevolent darkies under the shade of the magnolias while Topsy fixes you a mint julep and old Rastus cleaves that ripe watermelon in half for your epicurean, I-do-declare pleasure. You blind yourself to the fact that no one is attacking Southern culture and that everyone is attacking White culture. You ignore the fact that if the South were to secede today, she would be a majority nonWhite, and that you and yours would quickly be Mau-Maued in some Haiti-on-Sewannee massacre. You quote Dabney while ignoring the warlike Christ. You’re willing to die for the ancient abstract notion of Dixie (if only it were 1862 again!) but you’re not willing to kill the enemy in order to protect your sons and your wife. You want a world that no longer exists, but you won’t work for a world that could exist. Your wife never misses an episode of Dr. Phil because, hey, he’s a Southerner, and he gives good advice, and he really Tells It Like It Is, even though he’s a complete coward when a dark-skinned degenerate is sitting in the tall barstools on the set of his insipid show. You belong to a megachurch that televises its Sunday morning services, and you feel good that a smiling Negro is chairman of the deacon’s board, even though you know his simian son has been rubbing up against your wife during the official fellowship time after evening worship. All we need is the Confederate flag and some respect for Brooks & Dunn and a few more airings of “To Kill A Mockingbird” and this race shit will go away and we can get back to rebuilding the South.
Maybe you’re just The Average Addicted (to tv, sports, alcohol, Rx drugs) White man. Get up with a hangover, shower with effing designer body wash, slurp down some Slim Fast and a microwave meal. Drive to work in a car for which you can’t even change the oil because it’s too complex in these new models, your ears poisoned with the morning drive-time antics of a couple of lowbrow ex-high school jocks, whose show probably features the word “zoo” in its title. Get to work, do the minimum, kiss your boss’s ass and chat up your coworkers with the latest reality tv show gossip, then vivisect one or two of your coworkers via some real-life gossip. Do this for several hours with a lunch break to bisect the fun. Then drive home while listening to two overgrown adolescents crack vulgar jokes and swap arcane sports trivia, maybe stopping off for an order of fries and a twelve pack and a lottery ticket on the way. Oh, and be sure to swing by the drive-thru pharmacy to pick up your wife’s Prozac and your Ambien and your (and your wife’s) Cialis. If the sign shows green, get some hot Krispy Kremes while you’ve still got your ATM card on the console. Yell at the kids, mumble at your wife, hit the recliner and watch another Seinfeld rerun while waiting for the pizzas and breadsticks and 2-liter Pepsis. Your wife is texting or updating her Facebook page, so you watch a little soft porn on Cinemax and then listen to some awesome classic rock on your cellphone while you read a comic book and fret about being constipated yet again. Time for bed. Rinse and repeat. Then the weekend’s here and we’ll drink a lot of beer, halleleujah. The playoffs are on. Maybe the lawn gets mowed. Maybe a golf game. Maybe you get browbeaten into taking Them to the mall, or to the amusement park (you bought the season tickets, after all, diddinyou?) Maybe you go to the sports bar on Saturday afternoon for some man-cave time. Watch a little. Drink a little. Flirt with the waitress who unbeknownst to you was a classmate of your daughter’s, and she uses your name as the punchline for every pervert joke she’ll tell for the next four years. Sunday is for sleeping in, but your wife rouses you with requests and demands, and you call her “bitch” under your breath, and she calls you “bastard” to all her friends, all of who know how much you drink, how much you spend, how weak you are, how mean you are, what a shitty father you are, and did you say that Michael Vick will be at the opening ceremony for the new Jiffy Lube later today? Put on your baggy shorts and your t-shirt and get on down there, with your illiterate, sullen son. Waste the rest of the day watching Daniel Craig mince through a James Bond DVD, and then get ready for tomorrow, because it’s Monday, and racism is the biggest problem in this country, this country, this country where black athletes are role models, dammit, and don’t you bad-mouth him just because he got arrested for rape when he was young and dumb. You want to be left alone so you can perch in the bleachers or squat on the sofa. If drool were gold, you’d be as rich as any Jew, if there were such a thing as a Jew, which there really isn’t, because race doesn’t exist. The Super Bowl exists. KFC exists. Sports Illustrated exists. And those aren’t constructs. They’re life. Sweet, sweet life.
But perhaps none of this applies to you. Perhaps you’re The Capable Agrarian. None of this will touch you, because you can make the most potent compost this side of the Mesozoic era. Jews might be running the world, and niggers might be taunting your son in the Walmart, but you can grow them frikkin’ carrots, yeah, baby. You grow gourds and build banjos out of ‘em. You butcher your own barn cats so you can harvest their intestines and make strings for your handcrafted fiddles. You build your own ram pumps. You castrate your own velociraptors, which you incubated and raised from Day One. You have tons o’ guns, most of them slathered in cosmoline and buried in secret bunkers on your property, and you occasionally do some attention-getting target-shooting, but you’d never really fire one at a human being, at least not with any intent to take a life. You’ve got catnip growing in the window boxes and echinacea growing in the circular plots outside the immaculate outhouse. You’ve got binoculars at every window. You scoff at air conditioning. You cut your wood with a crosscut saw, and if your neighbor doesn’t want to help, well, hell, that’s just one more asshole who won’t be getting any Vienna sausages from your 40 X 40 X 8 larder when the balloon goes up, and you pray yet once again that it goes up. You’re so self-sufficient, and you’re so off the grid, but you somehow can’t bring yourself to acknowledge that the self-sufficient, off-the-grid routine didn’t work out so well for Randy Weaver or David Koresh, can you? You’re convinced that B. Hussein Obama’s government is going to leave you alone, let you withdraw, let you be independent. ‘Cos you’re capable. And you only eat free-range bullshit.
Oh, wait, no, you’re the Christ-mocking tattooed pagan Odinist skinhead, aren’t you? Got your head all razored down like every nigger on every basketball court in St.Louis, unaware that no White men in history ever shaved their heads in such a fashion or for such reasons, but you’re a badass, ain’t you? You like to curse at the Christians for worshiping a “dead Jew on a stick,” but you’re wearing your Thor’s hammer, right? Got the skin your Creator gave you all marked up like graffiti under a piss-stinking bridge in Baltimore, but you’re a proud pagan, aren’t you? You want to create a new religion, a religion for soft-handed, bloated-bellied little shits like yourself, don’t you? You spend your money on new boots or new CD’s or new bumper stickers, but you won’t give a dime to the little semi-senile widow who lives in the decrepit bungalow on your street, will you? You spend your money on Milwaukee’s Best and puke it up every third night, and then you watch Mexican soap operas on Univision and get your little earthworm all hard from the sight of those hot Latina bitches, and then you think you might marry one because they’re so family-oriented. You get into a lot of fights, but only if it’s you and six of your buddies against one Phillipino transvestite, and you worry for days that the cops are going to come for you since you hit him/her just a little too hard, and your sister is dating a nigger but you won’t say boo to him or her because he’s got two inches and forty pounds on your hammer-wearing ass, doesn’t he? But get a new tattoo – make sure it’s a Viking rune, because, hey, the Vikings were hardcore, right? – and go to a concert and yell ’til you lose your voice, because you’re the savior of your people with the new religion that rejects the sheep-savior, ain’t that about right, Wotan?
Could be you’re the doe-eyed mystic escapist. You haunt the Barnes & Noble in your suburb, wearing your British trenchcoat, with your retro briefcase strapped backwards across your doughy torso, a coffee thermos clipped to the D-ring. You get your friends to take photos of your brooding face,and you post the photos on your Facebook page, and you write sarcastic, relevant essays about the Oh-I-Just-Don’t-Have-Words-To-Express-It experiences you have with your boyfriend Jeezus on a daily basis. You don’t care that your uncle was sliced from nave to chops by a nigger with a razor. You just want to feel your way into the otherness of God as He parades past your special ass. You don’t care that your niece is scared to death to leave the house because the Pakistani scum from one street over have been telling her for weeks, in great detail, what they’re going to do to her. You’re too busy centering yourself to observe the inner light, and as soon as you get a chance, you’re going to tell the Hmong down the street how great JC is. But don’t bother you right now because you’re in His presence, aren’t you?
Or could you be…just could you be the racially-aware keyboard kommando? The careful Caucasian, watching and listening, but ultimately above it all because he’s got a profession and picturesque kids? The one who’ll make the big decisions after the economy tanks and the election is overturned and the riots start in Detroit? The one who’ll be the Big Leader when his intelligent (but not equally intelligent!) friends turn to him for advice and counsel when anarchy rules and zombies crawl the curbs and Congress dissolves and Starbucks folds and big cigars are no longer available? Maybe that’s you. You’ll just sit and watch,and when the smoke clears and the dust settles and the gulls stop squawking and the howler monkeys are back in their trees, you’ll finally do something. Or say something. Or make a decision. Or take a risk. It’ll all work out the way you predicted it will, because life is predictable, and you’re the star of your own movie called The Tale of Me.
No, really. Who are you?
If you know who you are, you have to answer the second question:
What are you going to do?
These are important questions. And your responses to them are equally important. If you don’t know the truth of this, why are you here? I don’t mean “Why are you reading this little blog?” I mean, “Why are you here in this life?” If you won’t face the important questions, you may as well make the trek to Notre Dame with your little pistol. Or tell your daughter that she has your blessing to marry Mfweme.
Who are you? What are you going to do?
It’s tighten-up time, friends.