 Somewhere high above in the cold, dreary sky, an airliner rumbled along, either leaving or making for Pushkin. By the revving of the engines, as he perceived the sound, he assumed it was departing. But he didn’t check, instead keeping his focus on the green steel tube on the sidewalk, readied on its bi-pod next to a display of furry, ear-covering women’s hats. She was handling one of them, a rich, dark brown one when he broached his concern. ‘Do you think I can buy this? Is this even legal? I get the feeling a newcomer like me should probably inquire of the FSB before getting such a weapon. I’m not even eligible for a smoothbore at this point, and I don’t want to get deported or anything.’ ‘Heaven forfend,’ she said, still feeling the soft ear flaps. ‘We can’t have that. And, while I can’t be certain—who can—I assume anything they sell here is legal. Of course, I would not, being you or me, dare ask the FSB about that stupid thing. And you’re not getting it. How, one wonders, would they react when you carried it into the Metro?’ ‘I hadn’t thought about the logistics, no,’ he said. ‘I mean, it’s just so cool. And cheap for— I assume this is cheap for a, what is this? I think it’s a— Hang on, serial’s still on it. It’s an RM-38!’ ‘And you’re not getting the stupid MR-whatever.’ ‘Not on the train obviously. But who doesn’t want a fifty-millimeter Soviet infantry mortar?!’ He was standing there admiring the thing while wearing an excited boyish smile. He looked most optimistic. ‘I do not,’ she answered. “Why is it even here? Of all the things you could have found at Levash…’ ‘I’ll see if the man will hold it. When I buy the Niva, I’ll come pick it up!’ ‘Your business, renegade. Father would join your mad endearment for the sad little pipe. And are you still considering the uncomfortable, tiny mud plow?’ ‘It’s your car,’ he defended. ‘And it’s classic. Even in the name.’ ‘LADA sells much nicer, more comfortable, and more practical cars, my dear. And some of them are four-by-four, like all rednecks love.’ ‘Hey! I’m okay with it. Just don’t talk about my people like that.’ ‘Not just yours,’ she said. ‘Every culture has them. Our boys in the Urals, some not too far from here too even have y’aaaall’s saying: Эй, вы все! Смотрите на это! You know, Hey, y’all! Watch this! Usually accompanied by alcohol and firearms. Just before some localized calamity.’ ‘Good to know I have the approval of the Ural boys. Think how nice this mortar would look in the back of a shiny new mud plow four-by-four. Or maybe resting out the passenger window!’ ‘I think you may have had too much to drink at lunch. But—thinking— You should really think about using your full first name,’ she said with a bright, energetic smile. ‘Really? I don’t want to sound pretentious.’ ‘No, it’s anything but that. It, especially to us, and given what you do and want to do, it sounds so authoritative. Regal, almost. Put that on a treatise or novel and it will command attention. Especially if you added a little Corinthian helmet icon or something. I love the short name, but we’re talking about grandeur now. My sweet Perry, Перри with the и. Spell it out with your “y” and people might think you’re a cider made from pears.’ ‘Can’t have that,’ Perry said with a grin. ‘Buy me this hat,’ she said sweetly but instructively. ‘That’s a dead animal, you know?’ ‘I know. Probably a mink. I like it and I want it, so you buy it. We have no crazy, blue-haired eco-nut girls here. I’m at the top of the hat chain.’ ‘Poor, unwanted, little mink.’ ‘I just said I want him. And, you know I hunt. Kill it, clean it, eat it. Now, wear it.’ ‘I’m starting to think I want to marry you,’ Perry said. ‘Well, good boy! Also, think about using your real name,’ she said. ‘And how did your parents come up with it?’ He quickly paid the old babushka seated next to the mortar and assorted arms man. A quick inquiry was launched about holding the cannon, though it was cut short by her huffs and tugs on his arm. As they started to walk towards the exit and perhaps something to snack on for the short ride back to the city center, he explained: ‘At Dad’s old school, the archeology department had a little museum. Next to a mock-up of an Egyptian sarcophagus—I can still see the place—they had a replica bust of the general, helmet and all. The story goes that Mom and Dad were loitering around a few months before I made my first appearance. They talked about him, and me, and decided if he’s a boy. And so forth.’ ‘That’s so nifty,’ she said. ‘And original. And again, it makes you sound like someone important, which of course, you are. Promise you’ll think it over.’ ‘I will,’ he said. ‘Now, Julia, if I do, will you be my Aspasia?’ ‘No promises, specifically on the nickname,’ Julia said. ‘A name of the muddy waters maybe. And I don’t mean the jazz man.’ ‘Blues.’ ‘Whatever.’ ‘Julia,’ he said again, slowly wrapping his arms around her. ‘I just asked you if you’d be my Aspasia. You just said you love your Perry. He’s kind of got a thing for you too. Be my girl?’ In a fair turnabout, she kissed his nose. ‘He mentioned something about getting married too. Of course! I’ll be your beloved Aspasia — just don’t sully my reputation around like so many poets and philosophers.’ ‘That I can avoid,’ he whispered into her ear. ‘Ironic, no?’ she asked. ‘What?’ ‘She was a metic. Here and, for now, that’s you!’ ‘I know, right?’ he said as they resumed their slow stroll. ‘And that means I must be careful with acquiring heavy weapons.’ ‘I’m sure it’s a replica,’ she said. ‘Or properly deactivated.’ ‘Can’t be too careful,’ he said; ‘this is Russia and all.’ ‘Countries!’ she said, concurrently putting a little skip in her step. ‘Tell me about that strange idea that you’ve been whispering about on the friends and family flipper.’ ‘You don’t want to rehash empire-approved IDF airstrikes on hospitals, churches, mosques, and refugees? Or the vicious demands of lunatic neoliberals named Haley and Graham?’ he asked, thinking for a split-second about the rank degeneracy of the dead country he’d left, finding a hollow embarrassment in his own words. ‘No. You and the others covered that in too great a detail the other day. No homos and harpies now.’ She slipped on her hat and tugged the flaps down tight over her ears. ‘Tell me, tell the poor mink about this rebel plan of yours.’ ‘Very well, my sultry Aspasia,’ he said. At that, she rolled her eyes and lightly elbowed his ribs. But he continued: ‘It kind of started with that joint discussion the departments had about de Gaulle and his Free French government. Privately, we Americans kept up the talk and it sort of morphed into a crazy idea.’ ‘Then it’s American,’ she added. He gently returned the rib knock, followed by a mussing disarrangement of the departed mink, and kept going: ‘So, despite all that I have going on here, and despite all the problems back home, the barest suggestion was made. A vague, uncertain, and probably most untenable idea. Given that my people are utterly without representation in the GAE, and given that they’re oppressed, hated, and essentially leaderless internal exiles, and given that I’m here— Mention was made of a Confederate States government in exile. The accursed Yankees have never really abated their hostilities towards us, and we have no way of opposing them—at present—from the occupied heart of their evil empire of lies. It makes a degree of sense.’ ‘And only a degree,’ she said. ‘Maybe a fraction of one degree. How, exactly, would that work?’ ‘I have exactly no idea,’ he said with a chuckle. ‘I suppose I’d have to go through Foreign Affairs. I’m sure they would scoff at the idea with all the other headaches everywhere. Maybe once your father, the professor, and a few others with direct friendship allow me to become acquainted with the President, maybe then I’d have some sort of long-odds shot.’ ‘I’m sure he would scoff at the idea too,’ Julia said. ‘I’m scoffing at the whole thing now,’ he rejoined with another chuckle. ‘The last thing I want to do is come across as needy or burdensome. Or insane. It’s really the furthest thing from what I’m here for and what I’m planning. Not sure how any of it would work, even if everyone granted us permission with open arms and hearts. The old true believers, the ones who still mentally live before 1860, would probably want to pick up precisely where our forefathers left off. That wouldn’t work. I’ve previously mentioned setting up a shadow government of sorts. Disbelief or disinterest might be the best description of the reaction to that. They suspect, probably correctly, that what the Nation of Islam is allowed to do, we would not find so easy. That brand of reluctance makes sense. Heck, they’re imprisoning our people for lighting torches at night and making memes on Twit-bird. So many issues. Too many for now. We have no means to renew hostilities on our part despite their never-ending attacks on us. And the old Constitution would need, in my mind’s eye, a major overhaul. A total purging of any and all Enlightenment baggage. Then, there are the vital issues of economics, territory, and the radically changed demographics of the old CSA. No one, myself included, has really thought through those. If we’ve even thought of them at all. If any of it ever happened, it might be safer to start from the serenity of the outside. But, again, I scoff. For now.’ ‘Purge the fire out of the Enlightenment, the father of postmodern, so-called rules-based, Anglo-Zionist globalism,’ she said knowingly. ‘What are you thinking? About that overhaul? A Christian aristocratic monarchy?’ ‘Do the tiny degree I am thinking, yes,’ he said. He then saw something just ahead and to the side of the walkway and gestured towards it. ‘Snack pancakes from a robot vending machine! I’ve been wanting to try those. Perfect for the ride home?’ She happily agreed, and they dialed up pancakes, which would end up being more like rolled crepes, filled with a sugary concoction of fruit and cream cheese. While they watched through a window as a buzzing tube coated and recoated batter on a heated tray, she thought of a pertinent question. ‘Will you, my Perry, be the first reigning monarch?’ ‘Good grief! I had not thought about that! Not really my cup of tea.’ ‘But you are here, the representative among the free,’ she said. ‘General de Gaulle was the leader of his resistance in just such circumstances. Your namesake too, kind of, in a different sort of way. And as you’ve noted, and I’ve independently observed, there is no true leadership far away and no real way for it to arise or take office or effect.’ She was wearing, if only for a moment, her very serious academic face, which delighted him even as the suggestion made him ponder their shared sanity. ‘Let’s just put this one to rest, for now,’ he said with a shrug. ‘Besides, I want to hear more about the special project revisiting the meaning of The Brothers Karamazov. That or plan out a space in the flat for my mortar!’ ‘All of that,’ she said as she scooped two paper-rolled pastries from a little door. ‘Or the hilarity of KINO’s Мама анархия. Or better yet, how this flea market compares those in Dixie. Or best of all, the right wine for post-pancake revelry.’ With visions of renewed nations safely out of their minds, nibbling sweets while speaking to saccharify, soft and low, they made their way to the train station. A hallmark of their afternoon adventures, the fall sun began to set, settling them into a chilly evening. Inside a carriage, as it rolled south, having finished her pancake, she cuddled against him. Raising her face to his, and arching her eyebrows in revelation, she said, ‘You certainly have the name for your hypothetical station: Pericles in exile.’
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 With a Ph.D. from Georgia Tech, Dr. Fadi Lama may be a ramblin’ wreck. His book, however, is anything but — a smooth, fast, and powerful look deep within the rot necrotizing the West and afflicting the rest of the world. It would greatly benefit most Westerners, especially most Americans, and particularly those Americans in my Dixie to read Why The West Can’t Win. Therefore, at least to the Americans who need the information and presentation the most, we could safely assume most won’t. I hope that isn’t the case, and I have some irrationally optimistic sense that this might be THE book to finally start driving a little truth home among the masses. Hello, it’s another book review. As much as I mean to cut back on these, we just keep getting so many very good books. Herein we examine and I cite Lama, Fadi, Why The West Can’t Win: From Bretton Woods to a Multipolar World, Atlanta: Clarity Press, 2023 (Kindle Edition). It’s loaded with charts, statistics, notes and citations—usually sure killers of reader connectivity. Yet and still, I think Lama pulls off something amazing with his short, insightful work. In many of my reviews, especially concerning works of non-fiction, I repeatedly stress the importance of how well a book flows. Lama is an engineer so it makes sense he designed a presentation that cleverly posits real information, pairing it with keen discussion in a uniformly interesting fashion. The order goes something like this: 1) an idea is announced, 2) the idea is visually presented via a graph, mathematical operation, or picture, and 3) the information is synthesized with language I think most readers will appreciate and be capable of following. Why The West Can’t Win is a brief history of the corruption of Western Civilization, especially of the Anglo-American variety by a cohort of living demons Lama aptly calls “the Money Powers.” I’ll start where Lama ends, with his final cautionary words on page 357:
Bleak, but appropriate. And to a large degree, self-inflicted. What he means is that with the bifurcation of the world into Sovereign and Clown factions, and the growing inability of the Clowns to directly oppress the majority of the world population, they are now forced to vent their eternal hatred of God and man upon their only remaining victims, the people of their host countries. That hideous process is already underway. What passes for the mainstream media in the West is a poorly reasoned yet hypnotic collection of lies. Vladimir Putin recently warned the people of Kyrgyzstan to avoid reading Western outlets for that reason. I note that he concentrated on the reading part. Most Americans, being dull and barely literate, generally gain their propaganda by staring stupidly at television screens. On page 234, Lama presents a chart showing Money Power ownership of major Western media outlets; by that measure, Fox “News” really is the worst. Americans continue to defy physics, reality, and belief by falling for one set of lies after another. In the wake of the war on “terror,” the financial collapse, the global pandemic bioweapon attacks, the stolen election and coup in DC, and the NATO Nazis’ war on Russia, the dullards have instantly fallen in line with Israel’s and Lispy Graham’s goal of genociding Palestinians and spreading war and misery across the Middle East. Never letting a crisis go to waste, the anti-human wraiths of the ADL, an organization founded to honor a child rapist and murderer, are pushing more and more dystopian censorship on Americans. Not to be outdone, the feeble UK Parliament passed, in September of 2023, a new law to further regulate (read, “censor”) online information. There are many other existing examples, many of which you, dear reader, are probably aware of, and more and worse is coming. A little resistance from the people of the West against their true enemies would be both wise and welcomed. Westerners have almost uniformly come to live under democracies. Drawing on both Republican Roman experience and the traditions of Greece, Cicero believed that democracy was one of the worst forms of governance possible, along with tyranny and oligarchy. Thomas Jefferson, in his own interesting way, expressed a similar sentiment. Listen to any Clown World heathen, like fake US Secretary of State Anthony Blinken, and within two or three minutes some platitude about democracy will be incanted with sacred solemnity. Lama masterfully walks his readers through the history of the Money Powers-driven West and the Powers’ absolute obsession with democracy. He exposes the clear pattern of the ruin of nations by eliminating religious and nationalistic controls and replacing them with democratic perversions, degeneracy, and usury. The end result, in France, America, or India, is a form of slavery and societal pillaging. That is why all attempts to democratize government, such as the US’s 17th Amendment, allowing for the supposedly “free” popular election of Senators, act to subvert freedom, prosperity, and true representation of and for the people. Lama mathematically demonstrates, on page 88, that “from a socioeconomic standpoint, democracy is the worse form of governance throughout history. That is natural, as it was made by the Money Powers for the Money Powers.” As much as the book is a warning to those who need it and might hear it, it is equally an optimistic appraisal of where the majority of humanity stands moving forward in this century. In between and all around, a history is woven—from the ancient world, through the Middle Ages, through the horrors of the Enlightenment, across the financial capitalistic terror of Bretton Woods, ending with the emergence of multipolarity. Lama nicely sums up the where-we-are-now as follows, from page 20: “The current global geopolitical clash is in essence a struggle between the colonial powers wishing to preserve the Bretton Woods system that facilitates siphoning the wealth of nations and sovereign nations striving for independence and an end to a millennium of their oppression.” If that statement confounds one, then there is all the more reason to read the book as the patterns and methods of oppression are pointedly discussed. That discussion raises historical observations seldom called to anyone’s attention. For instance, from pages 89-90: “Wealth pillaged from the colonies was not pillaged for the colonialist nations, but for the bankers and shareholders of the exploiting companies based therein; that is, the Money Powers.” That is why, as English corporations looted African, Asian, and American colonies, the lives of many Londoners were little better than those of the poor natives in Africa, Asia, and the Americas, as expressed through the eyes and words of many Dickensian characters. It’s a concept perhaps many American Millennials and Zoomers can relate to today. Lama explains the mechanisms of this universally immiserating phenomenon in much the same way Michael Hudson, Steve Keen, David Graeber, Alexander Macris, and other authors do. At present, in a desperate bid to save their empire, the Money Powers rely on the postmodern versions of three time-tested tactics: fake money (the Petrodollar), “virtual reality” (the deceptions of the media), and fading US military power (CVN-78 to Palestine, etc.). As Lama illustrates very well, the events of the past two years have dispelled the myth of American military invincibility and the necessity of the Dollar as the world reserve currency. All that really remains are the lies of Clown World virtual reality. And those necessarily collapse upon crashing into actual reality. Page 40: “When virtual reality meets reality on the battleground, T-Bills and ETFs stand little chance against flying missiles and artillery shells.” I mention CVN-78, the USS Gerald Ford aircraft carrier, for a timely reason. In between the publication of Lama’s book and my review, the US Empire dispatched the Ford, the Ike, and other ships, planes, weapons, and troops toward Occupied Palestine to assist Israel in potentially exterminating some of the poorest people in the world. (The virtual reality liars may tell it otherwise.) Yet, given the condition of the Ford, one almost wonders if its true mission isn’t more in keeping with that of the Lusitania, the Maine, the Arizona, or the Liberty. From page 244: “The $13 billion Gerald R. Ford ‘has yet to demonstrate that it can effectively’ defend the aircraft carrier from anti-ship missiles and other threats, according to the Pentagon’s testing office.” There is, one supposes, nothing like live testing. There’s a healthy supply of many other examples of Western evil like that. I leave most for the delighted discovery of the reader. Here’s one more. Russia’s SMO in Ukraine, forced by NATO, the US, and the Money Powers, revealed many things the virtual realists would prefer people forget about. Following a brief mention of the horrors of Imperial Japan’s Unit 731, Lama comes to a natural conclusion on page 196: “Not surprisingly, with the head start acquired from ‘research’ of Unit 731, the U.S. is today the leader in bio warfare, with its bio labs dotting the globe. U.S.-controlled bio labs in Ukraine have performed experiments similar to those of Japan’s Unit 731.” One is reminded of the nature of many of those experiments as told by JRK, Jr. in his excellent book on Tony Fauci’s miserable life and work. The COVID+ evil from those labs was but one of hundreds of examples of illicit US biowarfare necromancy, a legacy that predates the empire’s acquisition of the 731 war criminals (“paperclipped” into the fold like so many SS Nazis). In the reading, should a Westerner begin to feel a pang of slight guilt, it is because, while he himself might be blameless, extreme wickedness has been perpetrated in his name and on his watch. Again, now would be a grand time to turn guilt into cleansing action, letting the suffering of Oliver Twist give way to the resistance of a Gaza or Donbass freedom fighter. But whether anyone finally awakens in the West, the changes in the world already proceed apace. Much of Why The West Can’t Win is an exemplifying comparison of factors and a recitation of exactly why the West can’t. Much or most of it comes down to sovereignty versus slavery and reality versus fantasy. Lama does much in the way of contrasting the hype for and the reality of the West with that of Russia and China, perhaps the two best examples of the free multipolar domain. On page 129, Table 5, Lama makes a quick comparison of the financial condition of the Russian and US economies. While Russia is, in a word, “healthy,” the US is a basket case. Yet, in Table 6, he shows that the fake Western ratings agencies assign the greater risk of investment to Russia, with the US, of course, being “AAA” and “Prime.” This is but one of many exposures of the prime, AAA, exceptional bullshit that underpins postmodern Western existence. The captive West cannot win and has really already lost because of factors such as money and monetary policy, technology, human rights, manufacturing capacity, education, and healthcare—all of which are covered in detail. These deficiencies are generally interrelated as Lama demonstrates in various places, including his take on education in the US. On page 123 he writes (emphasis mine): “Many individuals who have great potential are effectively discarded. The consequences of this can already be observed in the Military Industrial Complex (MIC), which since 2000 has been unable to develop any competitive weapons system.” In addition to boondoggle false flag fodder like the Ford, the discarding of talent speaks to a large part of the character (or lack thereof) of the postmodern American nation. Richard Hofstadter correctly titled his 1963 book about anti-intellectualism in mid-20th Century America. Since then, things have continued to shift towards outright hostility against genuine higher intelligence. There is a reason why China wisely and officially embraced Wang Huning and why America stupidly but effectively shunned Chris Langan. Already, the results of this shift speak for themselves. While I cannot nail down an exact religious affiliation, Lama’s book is replete with positive morality. It would behoove Christians to read the book and take stock of where they ontologically and physically stand in several areas—particularly areas imbued with a creeping sense of discomfort. While we cannot control the past or the actions of others, we can and must live today as we plan for tomorrow, all while accounting for the intentions of other parties. Those of us in the West must realize that the centuries-long malfeasance of our hijacked culture is losing and will lose, as it deserves to; we, however, need not go down with the sinking ship. Imagine our boot resting upon the throat of a wicked little parasite. Fadi Lama is to be praised for his insight, research, wit, and bravery in assembling an outstanding volume dedicated to intelligence, truth, dignity, and justice. Please buy and read Why The West Can’t Win. This piece was originally published at PerrinLovett on October 18, 2023.
 ‘Say it with me, baby,’ she almost cooed. Pon-chik, п-о-н-ч-и-к, ponchik. Ooey-gooey fried sugar, the donuts of my motherland. Made the right way—unlike yours. Well, the Crispies almost do it, the Dunkers not so much. Ponchik.’ ‘Say? I say it’s time to throw this phone in the river,’ he said, looking ruefully at the aging Android. ‘Nothing but robocalls, threats, and idiots calling in.’ ‘Say, ponchik,’ she again almost cooed, leaning up towards his face and sliding her hands inside his jacket and around his ribs. ‘Pon—’ ‘Ponchik,’ he finally uttered. ‘Good boy. But, no, please do not pollute our beautiful river. Just dump it in one of those recycling bins maybe? I think there’s one at the university. I know there’s one at the mall. Malls. And we probably just passed one or more in the park.’ She paused for a moment and batted her eyes at him. ‘And did you get the other new phone this week?’ ‘I did,’ he said. ‘The silly flip phone design?’ ‘Silly, old, plain, and simple,’ he admitted. ‘Perfect for family and very close old friends back in the distant country. I call it the family phone, in fact. And if that number ever leaks to the wider old dark world, then I can just scrap it and get another cheapy. The crap calls and texts and old address emails all go to this ancient phone anyway. No real reason to keep it.’ ‘Then don’t,’ she said. ‘Flip for the family, and for us, the sleek, sexy new Huawei.’ ‘The sexy Huawei? And you just called me, baby, you know, right? We’ve got eye batting, long close stares, and you keep breaking the touch barrier. Trying to tell me anything?’ He locked his eyes with hers and imparted another little kiss to her cute nose. ‘I like you,’ she said, holding his gaze and then subtly biting her lower lip. ‘Like me how much?’ ‘Like a lot, and I’ll tell you all about it,’ she said, happily snapping back and upright again. ‘Maybe with a ponchik! But first, you will tell me about that last call, which I know had something to do with the news, your presentation, and your vacillating mood. So tell me.’ ‘Ponchik,’ he said. ‘Tell me about the call. Why you ended it like you did. And why you want to send the phone to the fishies. Walk and talk.’ Because he thought he could at this point, and that he should, and because he wanted to, he wrapped his arm around her slender waist before turning towards the southwest. She responded as he had hoped she would, wrapping herself around him, and resting her head on his shoulder as they began to inch forward. And so, as the afternoon sun slowly began to fade and the shadows grew longer around them, they exited one park for another in a beautiful city of parks. The bitter cold of the previous day had receded to a normal autumn cool, a thrill and a respite. His nose caught a similar olfactory note—something sweet in the changing air. Part of it was her, her hair and perfume, though something reminded him of cotton candy. Another couple enjoying the glad end of a brilliant day, semi-entwined, they walked on. And he began to tell her. ‘You are perceptive, baby,’ he said. ‘I like you for many reasons, that being just one. A curious, intelligent, and well-read woman. Beautiful to top it all off! Svelte body to carry a sharp mind and a gorgeous face to wrap a keen wit. Back home, away, I used to know a smart Persian woman. She was high above the local average, but she —even with her lineage— had never even heard of the Shahnameh. I meet you and, of course, you’ve read Ferdowsi. Full of surprises and all of them pleasant. You’re prettier than her too … and she was pretty.’ ‘She wasn’t part of the problems, then?’ ‘Well, she was, in an indirect way, connected to them. But, no, hers was a different outlook. Different from the norm. Maybe it wasn’t such an indirect way, but I could never fault her. If she had an inclination for the usual blindness, she always kept it to herself. Unlike most others. When they could be bothered inclining any which way. It’s strange, but since I’ve moved here, they seem more disposed than ever to inform me of their notions and positions. That last old acquaintance who just called informed me, concerning the late developments, something along the lines of, Why should we care about Jews and Muslims killing each other? I just hope they exterminate themselves.’ ‘That’s beyond callous,’ she said with a sigh. ‘It’s just wrong. So supposedly Christian Americans care nothing for Christian Middle Easterners? Or anyone else? It speaks to something wicked beyond mere ignorance. Your deflection of reluctance, as kind as it is, may gloss over regrettable malice. That’s becoming almost the universal assessment of them. Are they really like that?’ ‘Many of them, sadly,’ he said. ‘In ways. It’s certainly the propensity of the ruling clown elite, a frame of mind without a gloss. But as for the common people, my people especially, while there is a bitterness to it, it’s usually more the case of a lack of interest mixed with hasty, unthoughtful words. A malingering frame of mind, perhaps. Others are blind, willfully blind homers, as we call them, terminally provincial. In their defense, they have a lot of problems, most of which they don’t know or want to understand how to handle.’ ‘Even when something on the outside affects them in more ways than they know?’ she added. ‘Particularly then,’ he said. As they walked, they alternated their gazes between the river on one side and the changing grounds on the other. They slowed to watch men working with a small crane as they erected a tubed metal snow slide for the coming winter. There was considerable clanging and clattering. A hint of diesel mixed with the cotton candy and spurred them to walk on. ‘You were, you know, speaking to them today,’ she said. ‘As if to channel something, maybe something subconscious their way. Pardon me, or not, but I think many of them are, if only a little and not all their own fault, stupid and evil. What else could possibly explain the mass missing of so many points? Such an important lesson? Such a critical set of facts?’ ‘Your guess is as good as mine, and maybe better, pretty girl. Still, I will defend them because I think I really know their hearts and minds. And their situation. Being down and out, having lost control of their land, and knowing they are locked into a reality they don’t like acts to desensitize many of them. The smarter ones know, at some level, what has truly happened. Where they are and where they’re headed. The retreats into the past and the closing of minds and charities are in many ways defensive. Their predicament is almost identical, if not entirely, to that of the Palestinians. Both peoples are hemmed in, hated, and dehumanized. They have both lost their sacred lands. All of it caused by the same sort of demonic people-haters, many of them being one and the same, afflicting both peoples and so many others beyond. It is remarkable that at least the one group fights back. Maybe theirs is the worst plight, that they understand their backs are against the wall and rifles are being loaded in front of them. As I keep saying, I am afraid things will have to worsen back home before they can come to a similar determination. That is, if time allows.’ ‘All the more reason to pay damned attention!’ she said somewhat indignantly. ‘What is the problem? Where do they get their news and information?’ ‘From the CIA mostly. As distributed throughout the mainstream media and the political and cultural quote-unquote leadership. As with most important issues, with this latest episode, every fake, gay politician and all the fake news sources repeat the same lies. It’s nearly uniform across the combined West. One would think that after so many other deceptions they would be on guard, but one must never underestimate the gullible naivete of Americans. I’m not even a little relieved to watch them fall for the Nine-Eleven BS again, almost from the same script, without thought or question. I wonder if many of them have noticed that, at the drop of the hat, they’re commanded to switch their allegiance from Ukraine to Israel. In their fog and delusion, they are rather truth-resistant. And, in this case, it fits with the Christian-Zionist doctrine many of them have held for a century or more.’ ‘Which may be pro-Zionist, but certainly isn’t Christian. Blindness,’ she huffed. ‘But the truth is out there if they could be bothered to look for it. To read and see as someone put it. The majority of the world knows what’s going on. Recap. Walk me through just the more recent examples they can’t see.’ ‘Okay. I’m assuming that what happened in Palestine the other day was either facilitated by a Western-style breakdown of competence or a green flag—not a false flag—in order to goad the attack and further goad the wicked Yankee empire into action. Whether that’s against Iran or just helping to genocide the poor people of Gaza I do not know. It looks or feels like someone may, for once, be playing the master conmen with some grand reverse trap. There’s too much going on, too fast for anyone to see clearly. Only time will tell how it all works out in the end. But my point is that when Hamas was given the chance or when they sensed weakness, they were ready. And they pulled off something amazing, even if only for a day or two. Something almost completely unheard of, almost unimaginable.’ ‘Do you think they’ve been set up?’ she asked. ‘And do you suppose they knew or suspected that was the case and decided to press their luck?’ ‘The former, perhaps. The latter, most likely.’ He thought for a moment and continued: ‘As for their luck, they really have nothing to lose. They’ve been cornered and cornered again, closer and closer. Kind of like my people, but much worse, on much harsher terms. By conventional wisdom, they should be in the active process of being exterminated, but somehow they stubbornly hang on. For all their hardships they still have children and families. Facing much less dire circumstances, my Americans appear to have given up and are going along with their destruction. They’ve suffered a net casualty loss equal to the whole population of Gaza in just the past five years or so. It’s almost impossible to discuss it intelligently with the survivors. With all their credit cards, all their guns, and all their talk, all they do is sit, suffer, and die off. ‘With the real prospect of faster elimination hanging over their heads, in, again, far worse shape, and with far fewer resources, the Palestinians resist. I think they know their days are or could be numbered—a short number either way— and so they are determined to either free themselves, catch the sympathy of someone who can help free them, or else go down swinging. It’s inspiring in a terrible and sad way. They passed the Sun Tzu 101 test; they know themselves and their enemy. And they accept and incorporate advances in modern, or postmodern warfare. They just did many or most of the things I’ve been observing and discussing for years.’ ‘That is the exciting part, the really inspiring part,’ she added. ‘It is. They watched and learned all the lessons. Those from their own land, and from Afghanistan, Armenia, Iran, Syria, and Ukraine. And they applied them. That triple insertion attack was brilliant and beyond anything they should have been able to pull off or that anyone would have assumed they were capable of. Of the combined air, land, and sea assaults, the land and air campaigns were the most important and the most effective. As was reaching out in many directions simultaneously. For a while, they effectively doubled the operational size of Gaza and almost looked like they were trying to create a bridge from there to the West Bank. ‘Their rocketry is beginning to resemble something the regular military of a nation-state might possess. Learning all the right lessons, over just the past few years, they’ve made incredible advancements in range, accuracy, and power. And the quantity of the things is a quality of its own. Since 2021, their missile attacks have had a real effect—more than just one. And now they’ve incorporated drone warfare into their tactics. At first, I thought I was watching footage from Ukraine. But they’ve managed to assemble a host of capable devices which now allow them to perform aerial monitoring as well as bomb troop formations and destroy tanks and facilities. All or most of these weapons are homemade, built under draconian sanctions and surveillance. I heard rumors, and I’ve now seen videos proving they also have shoulder-fired anti-aircraft missiles—mostly older, maybe Soviet-era models, as modified. And they probably have obtained more, possibly much more indirectly from the evil empire by way of Afghanistan or Ukraine. ‘The lightning strikes on the ground were equally impressive. The operational planning, well executed. Taking territory, inflicting damage, and destroying or capturing equipment and personnel. The Merkava, the Iron Dome, Net-a-yahoo’s wicked mind, the greatest surveillance state, and the vaunted legend of the IDF itself have all been exposed as lacking. Virtually no one back in the States gets or accepts the motivation, but taking hostages, military and civilian, makes a degree of sense. I read about a suggested prisoner exchange, though the idea of human shields is manifestly obvious—though I’m not sure the tactic will work as advertised or threatened. I don’t think Israel puts too much value on those people and, unfortunately, we’ve already heard the IDF is willing to shoot through the human shields, par for their rapacious course. I know it would have been extremely difficult, but they should have grabbed one or two higher-value pledges. At any rate and most interestingly, for a day, they managed to turn the casualty tide. Like my people, the Palestinians are always on the lop-sided receiving end of the conflict. I really and truly wish more folks back home would bother to learn a little about the history of the conflict, especially before they fall for lies and start ranting on my phone.’ ‘Do you think any of your Southerners will learn anything from this episode?’ she asked. ‘A very few,’ he said with some difficulty. ‘The majority either don’t know what to think or can’t be bothered to care. As such they cannot appreciate what has happened and what it might look like if they ever tried to fight back. The equivalent would be if men of, say, South Carolina turned off the TVs, got off their couches, and stormed Fort Jackson. Or Fort Rainbow or whatever it's called now. While scattering the carpet-baggers on foot towards Charlotte. While taking some homo-pedo politician prisoner. And all while peppering Atlanta with ballistic missiles. For now, however, I assume they’re content to talk about the past, vote for failed idiots who hate them, overdose, and die.’ ‘And I assume you will, for a little while longer, still keep trying to reach them? To light a fire or two?’ ‘I’m trying. I’ve an idea to write some science fiction stories about Robert E. Lee time traveling into the present and trying to wake the remnant based on what is actually going on these days.’ He paused for a moment and scanned the streets. ‘Here, come on! We’ve got a bus waiting right now, so let’s make the return trip a little faster. A tram with an open door looks like a sign.’ They quickly boarded the neat, clean bus, and soon found themselves rolling and swaying down the wide street. Having walked for over an hour since lunch, their feet relished the short break. But over the rising and falling hum of the engine, the chattering of fellow passengers, and the sporadic announcements of the driver, their conversation continued: ‘With your sci-fi, couldn’t you pick someone with a positive Win Above Replacement rating? What about the, the, um, General Bear-robard? Er, Beauregard?’ she asked. ‘W-A-R means about as much to them as any other set of statistics,’ he said with a slight sigh. ‘You, again, continue to impress, young miss. But for them, math equals bad or something, and, at any rate, Lee is sacrosanct. Yes, PGT, Forrest, and Jackson were the highest-rated generals, not so far off the exaggerated but winning legend of Grant. Of the bunch, I guess that Forrest would have best realized the importance of what we’re discussing and been able to rapidly implement something similar. Here again, I think Lee would get the message too. That’s where my stories will kind of go. If they go.’ ‘And as things in reality go, do you now suspect Palestine will have hell to pay?’ she asked. ‘Continuing to impress, I hope, I suppose they will. If part of their objective was to lure in outside support, from Hezbollah or Iran, for instance, then the results have been a little lacking so far. And now the blockade begins.’ ‘True, so far as we can see. But we cannot see very far or very well. Things are heating up all over,’ he said. ‘The counterattack and siege is on, preplanned or otherwise. If the war can’t be broadened beyond Israel, then I suppose the powers will be content to either devastate or completely cleanse and obliterate Gaza. They’ve cut off everything from the outside, including food and power. They’re carpet bombing apartment blocks and hospitals and now they’re not even roof-knocking as a warning. They’ve literally told the civilians to get out or die. We have the real threat of another genocide in the making if things don’t change. Of course, the empire that couldn’t be bothered to defend its own ship from an IDF attack, or ever secure its own porous border, can instantly dispatch a carrier task force to help murder more innocent people trapped in a giant concentration camp. One assumes the queer Republicans, their Tantric bitches, and that braindead AI fake president are salivating over more blood for their master. At least they, their media pets, and their allies have again been shown to be exactly the worthless, foaming-at-the-mouth, murderous scum they are. Screaming and whooping for war crimes. All the kinder, saner, and wiser countries are, of course, calling for diplomacy. But things may get very ugly, even more than normal, very fast—regardless of whether or not anyone else intervenes or the battle spreads. One glimmer of hope is that Hezbollah’s boast of possessing semi-modern anti-ship missiles turns out to be more than a boast. They or the Revolutionary Guard. What terrible hope.’ ‘Do you think they could do it?’ she asked. ‘Possibly, but it’s doubtful. The shot probably isn’t in the cards anyway. Who knows? The Confederacy certainly can’t do that or anything else of value,’ he said. ‘Sink the Ford!’ she almost sang. ‘A fantastic, if fantasy battle cry. Let me ask your opinion—what do you think of the overall odds? For the evil alliance?’ ‘It’s hard to say, though we know they lose in the end,’ he said. ‘They can’t beat China. I think they’re beginning to accept that. They know they can’t even touch Mother Russia or do anything except make her stronger. I think even Iran is now beyond their reach in terms of victory. They can still cause much damage and instability.’ Looking eagerly out the window at something, he took her hand at the next stop. ‘Let’s get off here,’ he said, leading her to the doors. ‘And walk back to the office?’ she asked. ‘Not yet,’ he said. ‘Somewhere in the other direction first.’ ‘Somewhere where and what?’ she asked as they began walking down another street. ‘Somewhere and something we’ve already talked about,’ he said. ‘Or, if we like, it can be a surprise!’ ‘Very well then,’ she said happily. A block onwards, she asked, ‘No Samson option?’ ‘I think that is more of a word spell, like the rest of the lies, than any kind of operational capacity. And I don’t see the GAE being able to contribute that way either. Whereas the one is built purely on a myth, the other is dissolved in a mire of incompetence and lost engineering ability. No, it stays conventional, and it looks like a long, painful, if losing battle for the alliance. I’m not even sure they can take Gaza, as we’re talking about the people defeated by the Taliban—no disrespect to them. And the other fronts, ignored or otherwise, still burn away.’ ‘Except in America,’ she said. ‘Except there,’ he said, clarifying, ‘as concerns the Americans. North America is an active front, it's just that my people won’t join the fight. Not yet, so long as a little material comfort is left to them in their decline and despair. I really hope they don’t end up in the exact same situation, with mere desperation as the only alternative to extermination. Time will tell. And now I think it’s ponchik time.’ They came to a stop on the sidewalk, and she asked, ‘Ponchik time?’ He pointed up at a sign and said: ‘П-о-н-ч-и-к О-в-а-я, Ponchik Oviah. Your favorite donut shop. Three for two-forty. We’ll split the third one and have some coffee.’ ‘Those things are five hundred calories each!’ ‘Ooey-gooey fried calories! With coffee. Or tea. And you were going to tell me how much you like me.’ Even as he began to reach for the door, she pulled his hand back. Right there, squeezing him tight, she planted a long and fairly lecherous kiss on him. After a minute or more, and one hoot of approval from a passerby, she tenderly broke off her affections. ‘What does that say?’ she asked as he temporarily reeled as if from a soft, sweet-scented blow. ‘That says Mississippi gals have stern competition!’ he finally exclaimed, still feeling a rush running up and down his spine. ‘You have—’ ‘I have no competitors, my sweet babydoll,’ she cooed—it was definitely a coo this time, though tinged with a command of almost haughty authority. ‘But I will have tea. With ponchik!’ ‘And I,’ he said smugly, ‘will have more of your explanation of how much you like me.’ Outside the little shop, traffic buzzed and the sun slowly sank. Inside, murmurs of warfare gave way to nectarous talk about surprising, unlooked-for delight. As several kinds of sugar flowed into the early evening, a happy bear on a circular wall sign smiled down on a blissful unfolding. Another worthy exchange was made.  As more of a refreshing exercise of contraction than a self-demonstration of strength, the man flexed his triceps as he pushed himself back from the railing. Away to his left on the bridge, a few hasty autos competed with the steady whistling of the breeze. He inhaled fresh autumn air and opened his eyes. The river was still there, beneath and before him, slowly churning along that winding loop around the central city. Further away, over the tree-covered hill, the high tower of the main administration building stood proudly against the cloudy, gray sky. Another colorful leaf, blown from a younger birch in the park, bounced playfully off his ear. Momentarily glancing over his right shoulder, he observed the leaves joined once again by a swirling shower of small, fluffy snowflakes. His eyes drifting downwards, he saw the slush was beginning to stick on the bike path, with its green hue blending and fading with the surrounding red bitumen and the white lines of orderly division. An esplanade light flickered. And, tightening her grasp on his arm, a woman, a younger woman, wellborn and alluring, spoke again. ‘You could always decide over dinner,’ she said. ‘You have no schedule to keep, regarding those now distant matters. Or have your thoughts condensed already? Once again? Or nothing?’ ‘Dinner, tonight or tomorrow or even later, may change my resolve, but I think I have decided now,’ he replied. ‘And it’s something between all and nothing?’ she questioned. ‘True,’ he said, pausing to fully look at her face. ‘I’ll give them something softer and perhaps more enlightening than mere pablum. For now, I suppose. All that is happening affects them as much as us. More so in many ways. But they and their part are rather distant, as you correctly put it, at this point. I consider their overall level of reception as well.’ ‘For those who still can and do read?’ she asked. ‘The few?’ ‘Far fewer than I would have liked,’ he said. ‘In their place, a host of timid watchers. To view is to see what is shown. To read is to see what is and what might be. To think.’ ‘So much— All of those things you discussed at the forum, they all weigh in your mind, don’t they? As it concerns your past,’ she said as her hand smoothed the fabric of his jacket over his shoulder blade. ‘You, bless you, still feel a shepherd’s responsibility.’ ‘In a way, yes,’ he said somewhat slowly as his vision caught a lumbering ferry as it emerged from beneath the bridge. ‘I always did what I could. I still do, I will do — for now, a little while longer. To continue to speak to deaf ears. But another Shepherd once advised, in situations like this, it is better to shake off the dust and move on.’ ‘As you have done,’ she noted. ‘To borrow my father’s nautical phrasing, which you too know, you have transferred the flag. And we welcome it here, an addition of value unlooked for. A delight even. But far away, what is their resistance? What explains their aversion to the obvious?’ ‘Reluctance,’ he said, thinking of the matter. ‘Not fear, per se, or ignorance. Certainly not wicked malice. It is and is not born of a kind of defeat. They linger in a truly forgotten past because the doing so comforts them. As bad as it all is, it will have to worsen before they understand. Rather, before they can bring themselves to admit they understand. Even then, the great question remains as to whether, so admitting and understanding, they may bring themselves to action.’ ‘As you, our voice, and so many others have, and have been for the longest while, urging. There is a measure of ignorance, if not of outright idiocy. They continue to ignore —from the same root— the proofs, the examples, and all available lessons.’ She was making determined eye contact with him, a growing habit. He liked her company for many reasons. ‘With you as our prosecutor, we all stand convicted,’ he said, returning her near stare. ‘Our discussion today ran along similar lines I have discussed with them before. Not trusting enemy information for one thing. Especially not to trust it as a lone arbiter while shucking aside all other news and voices and palpable evidence. The few get the importance, but the many still do not. For and to them, while perhaps little is lost in the way of translation, there is a certain immateriality concerning my attempts. Or anyone’s. Pupils who steadfastly refuse the lessons.’ ‘And what lessons!’ she exclaimed with a sudden voice to stir the swirling petioles. ‘Within a war no less.’ ‘The list I mentioned this afternoon, the long or short of it, came to me almost as I spoke. One seldom gets the chance to see one’s own near future playing out in a realistic, informative fashion. One man’s house is much the same as another’s, in this country or that; bombardment ruins them both. The population of a town, or a region, or even an entire nation, may find good cause to voluntarily uproot and relocate somewhere safer and somewhere they might find a better, viable fit. The martial demonstration, of the traditional explosive variety, and of that newer unrestricted nature, serves as a universal warning.’ He trailed off, extending his head towards hers, a natural urge and motion in mind. His kiss landed gently upon the tip of her nose. She held her position though she uttered a low giggle. But she also held her determination. ‘This country and that,’ she said, ‘both under the same spells cast by the same lowly magicians. Revolutions masked by phantom riotous nonsense, a mere six years apart, were the devices of the same enemy. Do they choose not to see the plain similarity? The exactitude?’ ‘Far away, they, trapped even deeper in their past, even as now mythologized, prefer to concentrate still —after all that has been laid bare— still on the riot, the nonsense, and the grand distractions of the enemy. Again, faulted or otherwise, they maintain reluctance.’ ‘And you will maintain your generous defenses, won’t you? She smiled, leaning back slightly and resting her arm once more on the cold steel of the railing. ‘привет, вы, джентри!’ a deliveryman hailed as his bicycle zipped by, momentarily parting the leaves and flakes and leaving a faint track of green through the accumulating wet powder. His transient passing took a more permanent toll on the noblesse couple. ‘For now? If in a depleted fashion,’ she clarified. ‘For now,’ he concurred; ‘the fleeting words of a man departing, moving on.’ ‘As you move on, belletristically speaking, as you, learning one lesson, removed physically, so let us move on towards that cafe. Let us shake off this dust.’ She began to pull and guide him down the path which eventually emptied into the entertainment district surrounding the stadium. ‘I too have decided. And do not question me, but buttered crab meat paired with pumpkin soup is in order this evening. Warm food and warming wine in answer to the falling snow.’ ‘The soup—’ he began. ‘So, warmth upon warmth, a taste of the zealous culture. For my part, I appreciate it. Cold, dark, though with a new friend, and though of an imprecise time, the change is made. The trade of dejecting dust for revivifying snow — a deal! With wine.’ ‘Deo vindice,’ she said, ‘et vinum consolatio.” Safe within a fortress of harmonization, they walked into the deepening night carefree.  Greetings, melody lovers. Today, we will enjoy a bit of an extended Music Minute. Let’s call it the Musical Half-Hour Funtime Festival and Other Words. You’re in luck, as my original intention was to facilitate some form of socioeconomic comparison. Before that, I’d briefly thought about educating a chipmunk as to the workings of a carburetor (of course, instead of listening, the little joker kept crawling into the throttle valve!). Moving along! As for today’s musical links, Mr. Charles Munk and I are working with Ewetube, Yandex, and Goolag to create some sort of auto-translation service so one might read a “foreign” language in one’s native tongue with a degree of reliability. It’s amazing no one thought of this before. If we are successful, say on Ewetube, look for the feature within the little cogwheel symbol next to the “CC” on every video. We’re working hard for you, and Lil’ Chip is pulling overtime. About two months ago, I suggested Americans might benefit from a “Shaman.” The reception was rather positive though I note we are no closer now than we were then. Rather than someone proudly, defiantly proclaiming who we are and where we’re going, we were given the Lunsford treatment, a Clown approved, UTA-repped, and obviously pre-manufactured singing of diversionary lyrics about our problems. And only the problems, skewed narrative-right, and without any hint of a solution. However, in Russia, Yaroslav Yuryevich Dronov, aka, “Shaman,” is still doing what he does best - celebrating all things Russian. I’m going to dissect parts of a recent concert. First, here’s a recent AiF interview with the man. (Cog. Wheel.) Fifteen years of hard, organic work is not the same as instant, AI-propelled “success.” And a nation is a collection of similar people, not a collection of assorted heads-down basketcases. Also, here’s Shaman singing “Государственный гимн Российской Федерации,” the “State Anthem of the Russian Federation,” at another recent concert. Imagine the most popular of ‘Murican pop singers, whoever that is, singing “God Save the South” or the “Star Spangled Banner” for and with 70,000 enthusiastic young American teens and twenty-somethings. I had trouble with visualization too. Do we even have that many young Americans anymore? Now I’m going to focus on two parts and three songs from Shaman’s March 13, 2023 concert in Krasnogorsk, Greater Moscow. Russia’s got talent. (I tried to target the following parts using the “&t=” format, but something would not allow it. For reference, here’s the FULL CONCERT. Skip along as follows, please.) Around timestamp 23:29, he goes among the crowd for a few minutes letting random men, women, and children sing. That was pretty cool, but not as cool as the following consecutive trio of patriotic tunes. At 55:15 he launches “Встанем” (“Let’s Rise” or “Let’s Stand Up”). This is a song about communion with Russian men who fell defending the Fatherland. While Shaman sings, a dancer in military attire performs a physical interpretation. Select translated lyrics:
This is a huge part of the living Russian spirit. Under God’s Grace, they not only honor and remember their heroes and their past, but they actively incorporate their traditions into their modern existence. Immediately following “Встанем,” around 1:01:00 he proceeds into his new and very popular “Я русский” (I’m Russian”). I covered the meaning of those lyrics previously. In short, it is a defiant rallying cry for proud living people. Here one may truly contrast the uplifting celebratory nature of Shaman to the intentional down-in-the-dumps moaning of Lunsford. After the early 1990s, a host of “rich men” settled north of Tula. Rather than selling souls only to complain about “shit” Rubles and tax-based junk food, the Russians unceremoniously ejected the “rich men” from Russia. Now they’re ejecting them from Europe. After “Я русский” comes another rendition of the “Государственный гимн,” at 1:05:28. The English-translated beginning verses:
Here again, we see a common Russian theme: the melding of ancient tradition with the living present and the ardent determination to continue living into the future. Russia is scared in the genuine sense, the Orthodox Christian meaning of the word, and not the freemasonic m-m-muh first ‘mendment meaning. The Russians love Russia to the point of dying and killing to preserve her. Great glory, of the kind God intends for the nations He created and which we are assured will endure even in Heaven. Dignity for all time — not just the marginalized, mythologized past. A free patriarchy in place of an enlightened boarding house. The union is not just of political states, but of kindred people — a nation. The wisdom of the past is carried by the current generations. Pride, not in one’s own selfish interest, but in Russia’s ordained part of The Plan.
Americans, Southerners particularly, should and could have something like this. Will they? I think not, at least, not for the foreseeable future. This gets into postwar Remnant territory and is thus highly speculative. We still lack a few necessary things. But very refreshingly, we appear to be making slow headway. I am pleased to present this: Joyous Sidenote! I just learned that Padraig Martin’s group is planning to place a series of billboards along major Southern thoroughfares in high GAE military recruitment areas with this simple and 100% honest message: "Joining the US Armed Forces is the Gayest thing you can do!" One can look it up if one needs to. In brief: The GAE AF is the largest lgbtP employer in the world; it puts sodomites in leadership positions; it hosts fag queen story hours and fag shows at imperial military bases; it covers up regular sexual abuse atrocities committed by its wicked members against men, women, and children (and probably animals); it pays for tranny sex changes; it makes it a crime to refuse to date trannys; it flies sodomite “pride” flags at imperial embassies worldwide; it names naval vessels after child rapists; from the barracks to Congress, it openly practices satanism; it is the only military that ever dropped an atomic bomb on a church (and in general), and; like sodomy, it exudes hatred of God and His creation: it is the most destructive force on earth. God’s wrath is rightly crashing down upon it. Elsewhere, members of the (Ramzan) Kadyrov family are physically beating down those who blaspheme against Islam — the way our knights used to disabuse degenerates in the West. Christians today can at least speak the Truth to our wicked, blasphemous powers. Martin’s message is in line with what I mean by never serving the enemy. Furthermore, it’s a good rhetorical poke in the eye. GAE = gay, so stay away. We need much more, but at least we still have a little fight in us. And we always have that critical element that goes without saying. Still, Deo vindice. |
