In a world gone mad, meeting those who share one’s ideas about society and civilization is a welcomed relief. I’m getting into Terry Hulsey’s distinguished and exemplary new book, The Constitution of Non-State Government: Field Guide to Texas Secession, Shotwell (2022), and I heartily recommend it as to the title matter and many other topics. I’m delighted he takes a view of public education similar to my own.
Systemic schools certainly do not provide basic safety to their charges. Rather, they were designed to provide the opposite - the destruction of mind, soul, family, and civil stability. My friend makes a strong statement about the concurrence of legitimate state sovereignty and parental dominion over what, at the beginning and end of the day, is a sacred matter:
Hint: this is applicable within and without the Lone Star Republic. The schools were instituted in the Nineteenth Century for the tandem purposes of training cheap factory labor and eradicating Christian Western Civilization. With those objectives largely accomplished, the schemers shifted their focus to social engineering and indoctrination. Now they have shifted into a final, terminal phase, with schools becoming little more than Moloch worship centers where children are offered as sacrifices. An older Book offers proper wisdom for dealing with such atrocity:
Hello. It’s another column about schools and education, approximately number 430 if you’re keeping score. First, a “shout out” to one reader, Dixie Belle 47, who appears to have excellent tastes. I must warn you, gentle reader, this one is about to get plain disgusting. It’s a tale of Readin’, Ritin’, and Raunch, courtesy of a public Moloch temple in Washington State. (I issue a strong advisory regarding the video and pictures at that link).
Who, one student? Faggots and idiots, one supposes. Then again, Dr. Traci Pierce, Kennewick School District Superintendent, and potential High Priestess asserted, “There is zero evidence to suggest or support that this was in any way ‘grooming’ activity on the part of organizers or participants.” Walks like a duck, quacks like a duck… It’s a cat! Your lying eyes. Please ignore the pictures, video, and victim statements to the contrary. It’s not supposed to be that way, you see. According to the district’s website, its mission “is to provide a safe environment in which every student reaches his or her highest potential and is well prepared for success in secondary school education.” Really, what safer or higher potential is there than playing tonsil hockey with the staff?
Yes, I’m sure your child’s school is totally different. And we’re just dealing with allegations and suspicions. And evidence bordering on proof. But, seeing as how there is “zero evidence” of malfeasance, one could guess this episode was the result of a simple, silly lapse of judgment. One could also guess that Pol Pot was a kind-hearted and well-meaning man whose exuberance got the better of him.
Desert Hills Middle is the “Home of the Hawks!” If I remember correctly, hawks are birds of prey that swoop down and snare small unwary critters. Kind of the way pedophiles snare and groom kids. Zero evidence. All conjecture on my part. Do ignore the pictures, video, and victim statements.
Instead, to get a better idea of how Desert Hills raises that potential in a safe environment, consult the school’s Student Handbook, “Sexual Harassment”, p. 20:
Kids, you might not get far reporting harassment to school staff if the staffers are the ones doing the harassment. Might young students reasonably believe they have to submit to unwelcome conduct, like, say, licking teachers or what have you, in order to gain something? And might this interfere with their educational performance while creating a hostile environment? Might a touching of the tongues, even through thin plexiglass, constitute an unwanted sexual scenario? Would a random eighth-grade boy who did something similar with a girl, the way boys and girls did back in another age, run afoul of this policy? These are questions competent police officers and district attorneys would be asking if America was still governed by laws, common sense, or common decency.
Note: The district’s policy links route to a cool “404” error. I’m sure they’re not trying to hide anything. Again, zero evidence. Pol Pot = nice fellow. Etc. And maybe this wasn’t harassment. Maybe it was instruction! If it’s still up, one can watch the district’s Comprehensive Sexual Health Education Parent Preview Night video on EW(!)-tube. Learn all about how S.B. 5395 (2020) requires all 4th through 12th graders in Washington to be indoctrinated in all matters regarding sexual health - all matters, like, let’s imagine for a second, minors playing old-fashioned plexiglass spit-swap with adults. No grooming whatsoever.
One wonders when the joys of grooming, er, health “education” will become available to the tiny K-3 kids. And there really is no lower age limit for this kind of rank evil. Powerful forces far beyond the American Northwest are hard at work on satan’s behalf. Just in time for this story, the International Commission of (Homosexual) Jurists, an affiliate of the (Homosexual) United Nations, released their 8 March Principles for Sodomy and Child Sacrifice. If one has recovered from vomiting over the above-linked video, then one might enjoy an encore by reading the report. Read things like the following, at the end of Principle 14, pp. 21-22 (just above Principle 15, Abortion):
Wait, there’s more. From Principle 16, pp. 22-23:
All that is more than a word salad. Still, some of the words have meaning. “May be consensual in fact”. “Evolving capacities”. “Progressive autonomy”. These are not coded messages; they are overtly explaining what they’re up to. Child molestation and, ultimately, sacrifice, are the plan. It’s a policy at the international, national, state, district, and school levels. Only a maniac would force his child to participate in any such openly luciferian program. In other words… HOMESCHOOL! And, considering that degeneracy has become the norm in post-Christian ‘Murica, one might reasonably want to separate from all popular culture to the greatest extent possible or practical. In many cases, one need not wait for one’s state to secede from the pack or for the pack to fall completely apart; one can just personally, or in the familial sense, break from the madness.
Those in Washington, or other states within and without Texas, might benefit from some of the ideas Terry presents in his Secession book. And for more examples of the retarded, retarding, lecherous, and ruinous nature of the schools, with a workable alternative, please buy a copy or ten of THE SUBSTITUTE.
What a whirlwind! Due to circumstances, this one will be a little shorter than usual. I have just physically returned from my first venture away from the swamp in about 1,000 years. As a pseudo-hermit and curmudgeon I fancy not liking public interaction. Ironically, once out and about the old Possum generally has the best time. Maybe a little too good. Maybe.
I’d like to publicly thank Don Livingston, Brion McClanahan, and the whole gang at the Abbeville Institute for an incredible gathering. Happy 20th anniversary! This will all take a second to digest, but it has left me with great optimism.
Along with some recent reading, the entire confab imparted the overall sense that things like Southern nationalism, Christianity, realism, and sanity are still in vogue. None of us can predict where this decade goes with complete accuracy, but I do believe we might be on the right road. I’ll try to elaborate a little more as I readjust to normalcy. There are still some issues to work out or through. Our people, in general, have some decent perspectives about what’s what and where things are headed. We’ll get there. In. Due. Time.
It was amazing to meet some younger people who are awake rather than “woke”. Some great questions were asked, and some substantial answers given. You younger men keep powering through. Us oldsters will do whatever we can to help make your future work!
One may look around the Institute’s previous lectures and more HERE. I don’t think the 2023 rounds are up yet so please check back frequently.
How refreshing it was to take a short break from the usual news-unworthy madness. Any exciting new hoaxes and idiocies while I was away? To stoke a half-rant, I’ll pick just one to look at.
Here we go! Churchians Cuck on Tranny Gun Control! In the wake of the lgbtP attack on Christians last month, Brent Leatherbrain of the SBC’s ERLC (LMAO, GTFO!), is echoing Tennessee Governor Shill Lee’s (R-Israel) call for gun control. They might be using different words, but that’s what it amounts to. Tennessee has existed for 226 years. The State’s good people have been armed the whole time. The spectacle of queers murdering Christian children is relatively new, as new as the phenomenon of TN lieutenant governors named Randy (R-Israel) leaving randy comments of homo twerking social media pics. [LITERALLY writes itself, thanks]. So, of course, the sensible thing to do is ban guns. One suspects the retards in the legislature will do something moronic, especially the GOPers.
***IMPORTANT REMINDER!!!*** We have to VoAt rEpUbLiCaN or else the demoncrats will give us gun control, queer child-killers, and lustful comments of sodomite tik-tokiness.
Advice? Millstones. Millstones everywhere. And, for the love of children, homeschool.
Now, a few more items:
Dr. Ironsides is going to China! 你好，新读者和朋友。 如果书中的任何东西都是合法的帮助，那么我很高兴提供我所能提供的东西。 而且，如果老男孩足够有趣，那么如果需要的话，我们会翻译十亿份。 请准备好那些元。
Lynne and other fans (can’t believe I have those), thank you! You do realize there was a literal movie star standing just a few feet away, right?
Cousins, it’s always a good time to gather.
MB, great to see you, man! When you stepped away for a second, I informed the crowd how lucky they were/are. (I also appropriated a cup of coffee).
Paul, please pardon the lack of biscuits and the … “stir”.
This one is much shorter than normal, yes. All I got, kids. In the coming weeks and months, I have some great books to review. And, we’re gonna have fiction, fiction, and more fiction. Stay tuned. God bless. And,
Greetings, beloved readers. Being pressed for time, I had to improvise this week. Luckily for you, that means a little fiction! But first, read this book: Running on Empty: How the Imminent Collapse of the Petrodollar System Sets the Stage for World War III, by Alexander Macris (2023). It’s very short but rather important. Many of the predictions from December and January have already come to pass. Things are heating up. Ultimately, all of this will be good for any Americans who survive getting to “ultimately”.
And now, a preview of another little book:
Spring 2017: France has suffered great violence and political turmoil. Everything is shrouded in deception, death, and danger, but rest assured, Dr. Ironsides is on the case. Our “better than Bond” story is a hard, fast, all-action, first-person(!) thriller set in Paris one year before the beginning of THE SUBSTITUTE. What follows is from one draft or another and is, of course, subject to change. Enjoy.
A short segment from AURELIUS, a forthcoming Tom Ironsides novella
I heard the chopper, of course, a noticeable part of the background noise on a night of continuing excitement. Slowly wandering down the street - I won’t call it staggering - I checked my shoulder again. It was a clean wound and small. I couldn’t even rest my pinky in the gash. That was happy news as far as I was concerned: a few stitches and I’d be fine. I was catching my breath and I then suddenly became aware I was probably wandering the wrong way. So it was that I had just decided to check the next street sign I came upon and walk back towards Foch. Then I looked up.
It was only a block away or less, hovering maybe fifty feet above the rooftops. Even in the dark, I could see it was blue and white, a newer Eurocopter model. She turned slightly to one side, and I read ‘Gendarmerie’ printed on the side just above the skid. The rear door might have been, probably was open, slid back. Figures were moving inside though I really couldn’t see what they were doing nor, beyond being cops, who, exactly, they were. As I listened to the loud, nearly hypnotic whomp-whomping, half of my brain suggested waving. What better way, I thought, to get in touch with Jacques? The other half, however, maybe the half with the experience or the intuition, suddenly if silently objected. I had no time for internal debate. In an instant, the spotlight hit me. I didn’t feel like it, but I immediately launched the full sprint again, running by the absolute Grace of God.
Speeding across an intersection, racing towards the opposite corner and relative, temporary safety, I felt the shrapnel hit. Bits of lead or other metal fragments and little chunks of asphalt were driven into my legs and back. Even in the heat of things, I could tell it probably wasn’t bad, maybe not even breaking the skin and certainly not leaving any long-term damage. But the accompanying sound told me it was a SAW or another light machine gun of some kind, not the thing one wants to feel the full experience of. Around the corner, I hugged the inside of the sidewalk, trying to use the wall to my right as a partial shield. The shots stopped but I could hear the whomping louder than before and, just barely, I caught the note of the turbines revving up. The glare of the spotlight returned. She was on me!
After only perhaps a block, the gunner opened up again. All around me, though thankfully just behind, a cacophony of breaking glass, snapping brick and concrete, and exploding rounds broke out. I darted down the first turn I came to. I felt for it but did not draw my pistol. I’ve been the guy in the air doing the shooting. Against such an opponent, there’s not much a man on the ground can do with a sidearm in the dark. Then I was in another alley, still running hard and fast. The light flickered on and off as I ran and the sound moved in and out, surrounding and then passing me. I knew she was getting ahead. So mid-run, I turned hard. In a moment, I was back on the first street, heading in my original direction. Knowing they’d figure out the move, I took the next right I came to.
In this manner, I zigged and zagged, slowly - all too slowly - making my way in a southerly direction. At some point, I crossed Foch. Glancing to my right, I noticed many flashing lights. I wondered where Jacques was and if he was still watching my bow-tie show. At any rate, I had no time to correct my course, with the gunner suddenly right behind me once again. More bullets kept me moving fast. After what seemed like an hour, or a day, I arrived at Trocadero Gardens. Unfortunately, I ran in from the side and was unable to obtain the cover of the museums. My plan, if I had one, was to make for the carousel and take up a shooting position. I was wondering if any officers had seen me running and how anyone could miss all the gunfire. A little optimism almost started building in my head. However, just past the central pool, in sight of the Pont d’Lena, they had me.
A van rolled off of New York straight onto the grass. I halted and faced off with half a dozen men, each aiming a rifle at me. The Eurocopter was now just behind, hovering and illuminating me. I figured I was covered and would be mowed down if I resisted. So, I slowly raised my hands. Several of my terrestrial assailants moved in. They were strangely attired but were given away by their uncovered faces. It was obvious that I had encountered Middle Eastern terrorists making a low-effort attempt to kind of, sort of look like cops. But while their appearance was almost comical, their guns did command respect. One of them roughly patted me down and relieved me of the burden of my gun. Passing it off to a comrade, he spoke, angrily if haughtily: ‘Doctor Ironsides! Steinmeier said we could expect you. Please join us for a ride.’
I asked, ‘Nicholas? Is he going to join us? Maybe show off the Foundation’s real work in all these happy events?’
The answer was a little cold, and it came with a hard blow to my head: ‘No, mon ami. He’s busy setting up a new government for a new nation, but he asked us to give you a tour. If you don’t mind now, let’s go!’
We walked slowly towards the van, while I still actively gasped from the run and while my mind raced. Six of them, and they appeared serious, were a little much, at least in my present condition. For the life of me, I was out of plans. Fortunately, someone else was not.
The helo was lazily drifting away and to the south. The spotlight turned off as it passed over New York. I was watching it uneasily while we walked, so I saw the whole thing. It happened, all of it, so very fast as to make accurate recounting somewhat speculative. First, in my mind’s eye, there was the explosion. Then, as the burning wreck fell into the Seine, I noticed the trail in the air. ‘Why didn’t I pack an R-P-G?’ I think I actually laughed openly. The other men didn’t find the episode funny. Alarmed rather, they ran several steps forward toward the van. I could have made a dash for it, but I (we, rather) were interrupted again. I only noticed the other van when it careened onto the sidewalk and ran over four or five of my captors, scattering the rest. The driver fired a submachine gun into the cab of the first van and then called to me in French: ‘Docteur Tom! Entrer!’ I did so almost immediately. But first, I had just the presence of mind to snatch my gun back from one of the last men standing. For bailment, I shot him in the temple. I wasn’t even seated, my door still ajar, when the heroic driver hit the gas, launching us into the traffic on New York. A couple of stray rounds hit the van as we rocketed away. He handed me his MP-5, saying, ‘Prends le! Pour toute poursuite. - Take it! For any pursuit.’
I looked down at the gun before I looked over at him. But, when I did, I knew him! He was a Godsend and I told him so: ‘Pauly! You’re a Godsend! How’d you know?’
‘My scanner. It’s normally how I keep the business one step ahead of the … you know. And I wasn’t going to let them get away with my favorite old customer.’
‘When did you get into the heavier stuff?’
‘About the time your old supplier, the other American, Becker? When he left town. Have a hard time moving the stuff. I don’t sell to them - the new French nor Steinmeier’s kind.’
‘Well, I’m glad to see you again. Thank you, brother!’ I said with joy.
‘Don’t mention it. Now, where am I taking you?’
I had him route over to Foch. There, at an intersection, Jacques waved us down. He was expecting us, pinging both our phones as it turned out. For a second, I was worried about Pauly.
‘He just happened to be in the area,’ I said. ‘I saw him and jumped--’
Jacques didn’t require an excuse. ‘Save it. He works for us some of the time.’
‘Who doesn’t?’ I asked.
Pauly drove away and I started quizzing Jacques about, well, from my perspective, revenge. He had other ideas, insisting that I visit a hospital. We arrived at the closest ER under a heavy escort. While a young, attractive lady doctor cleaned my shoulder and prodded my backside, I renewed the interrogation or debriefing. ‘You must have everything you need,’ I said. ‘If nothing else, the button-vision footage should suffice. They even implicated Steinmeier back in the park. When do we--’
‘Yes, that and more. But there is no we. It’s time for you to resume retirement and maybe think about returning to Slovakia. Like tonight,’ he said somewhat firmly.
‘That, my friend, isn’t in the cards,’ I said defiantly.
‘It is. And it’s all of them. The whole deck! I will, for old times’ sake, give you a little more information. We’ll go to a field office before you leave – and it is time you leave, you damned trouble-making Yankee. I’ll answer a few questions in exchange for a few answers from you, and for your promise to stop shooting people and blowing things up!’
Within an hour of leaving the hospital, we were at a field office, which looked a lot like a good neighborhood pub. We entered a private office in the back, me sipping Scotch, and they pulled up a monitor. It was then after midnight.
[Learn More This Fall]
How was that? Great. Make some room on the old credit card!
Padraig Martin has a new book out, a collection of Southern dissident essays, The Honorable Cause. I’ve read it and it’s a great first step toward righting the Dixie mindset for the rapidly approaching future. In it, I found some words I wish I had written:
Sodomy, usury, retardation, and obesity - our cherished ‘Murican values! It really is just about that ridiculous. And it’s going to get worse.
I drafted an entirely different column, which will wait for later. As the mass homicide at the Covenant School has been memory-holed by the MSM for obvious reasons, I thought we’d take a brief look at it. Though their casus belli is specious at best, the queers openly advertised they wanted vengeance. It looks like they got it. One wonders when, if ever, will we get ours. Some bullet-pointed observations:
Next week, I’ll probably drop a little preview of AURELIUS. For now, for an Ironsides fix, if one wants a picture of what the schools are really like these days, and if one likes seeing righteous vengeance visited upon the wicked, then consider reading THE SUBSTITUTE.
Perrin Lovett is a novelist, author, and small-time meddler. He is a loveable, unobtrusive somewhat-right-wing Christian nationalist residing somewhere in Dixie. The revised second edition of his groundbreaking novel, THE SUBSTITUTE, is available from Shotwell Publishing and Amazon. Find his ramblings at www.perrinlovett.me. Deo Vindice!