 Most intelligent Americans have, I think, accepted that the mainstream corporate media of the West, a tiny yapping lapdog of the controlling Matrix, is only a haven of lies, propaganda, and falsified hysteria. Now at the end of 2023, I have essentially purged all MSM news sources from my daily reading. I have no further need for lies and fairy tale foolishness. It has been somewhat fun calling out or merely observing the lies as they flow forth. Right now, the general press is turning somersaults to conceal the truth about the genocide in Gaza and the nature of the rather successful Houthi blockade of the Red Sea. Back in the summer of 2021, at Freedom Prepper, I had a good time using reading skills and math to pick apart narrative nonsense about the fake pandemic and the real bioweapons war. I recall a particular headline that proclaimed the vast majority of one US state’s C-hoax cases and deaths were among the DNA unpoisoned. Adding only the state’s population to the numbers provided in the story, I was able to determine the truth was the exact opposite—93.58% of state X’s C-hoax hospitalizations and deaths were among the fully poisoned. So it goes. Until recently, even as I began to shun WereWestern reporting, I did somewhat enjoy reading assorted letters to the editors of various American newspapers large and small. That habit too I now lay to rest. I simply do not need the input of most Americans. And I have noticed a disturbing trend in and among all those letters. Udo Ulfkotte in no uncertain terms showed us how the MSM generates or repeats propaganda on behalf of the intel agencies of the Dark State. We’ve also caught detailed glimpses of how various disinformation or “troll” campaigns work regarding matters domestic and geopolitical. I think I see something very similar at work at the local papers of America via so many letters of concern written over the years. I was moved to write about this phenomenon by one last letter from a paper in a Southern state. It’s not worth directly linking to, quoting, or fully addressing. But it makes or helps make my point. That last letter concerned economics, basically asserting that any increase in the minimum wage causes price (and possibly general) inflation. It was a local yokel regurgitation of idiocy I have read before. Regarding monetary, fiscal, and financial matters, there are paid experts at the top, in the commercial banks, the Fed, the BOE, and the BIS, who know what’s going on. They know because they’re the ones doing it. And reporting the truth simply won’t do. Therefore, they craft all manner of lies and deceptions in a way similar to how the intel agencies spin geopolitical issues. They pass these on to the worthless degree factory schools of economics where the ideas are further falsified by other, lower experts. These experts pass the “news” to the MSM. The MSM duly misinforms the gullible public. A select minority of the public recycle the garbage into letters to editors of dying papers of little value. As with the C-hoax story before it, the last letter’s own figures disproved the author’s hypothesis. If state Y raises its minimum wage by 10% over a period, and during that time, food prices increase by 50% and housing prices double, then something else is obviously at work—something like the final effects of mass financialization. I don’t doubt the author’s sincerity in wanting to help. Nor do I overlook the possibility that his and other such letters may grow organically. Awash in disinformation and wanting to do something benevolent, it is possible letter writers may repeat the lies they’ve been told as purely independent and individual courses of action. However, what suggests something deeper at work is the constant recitation of the exact same words and phrases in all the letters concerning any given topic. To me, it looks like someone devises scripts and somehow disseminates them to the writers. It could be a paid project like the intel agencies’ oversight of the MSM. Or there could be dedicated public interest groups who trot around giving lectures and talking points to civic organizations. The talking points invariably conceal the truth and act as diversions from genuine issues of concern. However this process happens, it works and it is not good. Maybe you’ve noticed something similar. If you continue to read local, regional, or national papers, please be on the lookout for any and all scripted performances. Keep in mind that even if they are entertaining, this is real life and not a movie or a play. Next time, in the Happy New Year(!) perhaps, we’ll address a few structural issues soon to visit heavily upon American society. A good time will be had by some. Deo vindice! This piece was published at Perrin Lovett on Dec. 27, 2023.
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 ~A Tom Ironsides tale by Perrin Lovett~ ~~Christmas 2023~~ Vrubel Hall, the Hotel Metropol, Moscow, a late afternoon in December… Tom glanced around the wide room for a moment as he thought. ‘It is,’ be began again, ‘in a sad and ironic way, an inverted or worsened retelling of part of the original Christmas Story. We have some similar players and oddly reminiscent circumstances. My evil, dying US empire stands in for Rome. He, damn him, the worst leader in their malicious history, is doing a fine job portraying Herod. But instead of just killing the baby boys, he’s murdering all the children. And everybody else. Two thousand years ago, Augustus was rumored to have said, Melior est porcus quam princeps. That is, kind of, it is safer to be a Herodian pig than a son of the tyrant. Of course, our stand-in emperor is a pathetic, half-dead moron who can’t even walk and lick ice cream at the same time. But maybe this explains why the new client king’s own worthless son is hiding out in Miami. Who knows? At the risk of causing an international row, I will say that I would simply love to hack the despot’s head off with a dull axe.’ The gathered fans of multipolarity had quickly grown accustomed to Tom’s blunt and seemingly angered speech that night, punctuated with odd side discussions with and to himself. Most of them chuckled heartily at the notion of bitted justice even as they considered the painful truth behind the historical comparison. Tom continued: ‘So that is that. And thank you, Pericles, for asking. Now, before I forget, I was told to tell you, sir, on orders of Dr. LeFleur, who declined to make this trip in person, there is virtually no will to act or interest in your plan or plans. He said, and I almost agree with him if not entirely, that the cause is not dead, but the spirit is, with the people soon to follow, and that you should simply proceed independently here. I take it that the last part would be the concurring advice of the beautiful woman, surely your Aspasia, next to you.’ He tipped an imaginary hat and continued wrapping up his comments. ‘See,’ Pericles said quietly to Julia. ‘You’re my Aspasia. Any man with a classical background can see it.’ ‘And this classical man,’ she noted, ‘he has, his good looks and obvious wit aside, murder in those cold steel eyes.’ ‘To quickly readdress your inquiry, young lady, from, is it Moscow Twenty-Four? While the US is still dangerous as any large mortally-wounded predator can be, its days of genuinely asserting its will to dominate the planet are thankfully coming to an end. Even in my time, there was nothing in the way of coherent operational planning and strategy. Just a never-ending series of ill-defined tactical actions, none of which ever accomplished anything lasting. I’m sure you report daily or weekly their deteriorating stupidity. All they have are jaded word spells long devoid of any power. Forget a strong national military foe. They can’t even, directly or by proxy, compete with Hamas, the Houthis, or Los Zetas. The only people still in fear of the American monster are the gelded, bedrugged, illiterate American people themselves. And so it goes.’ Tom waved politely to the reporter and a few other people, and then the homicidal vision suddenly took over as he locked eyes with a man standing by the doors at the back of the hall. The man was older, gruff-looking, and wearing a cashmere overcoat atop a brown suit. The two men stared at each other for what began to feel like an eternity. As the crowd alternately observed them and a rumor of disquiet started to sweep the room, Tom raised an outstretched finger toward his opponent. ‘Is the music still good?’ he asked unflinchingly. ‘We are all good people,’ the man replied in husky Russian-accented English. An open-mouthed smile of sheer joy took Tom. ‘Give me one second,’ he said in a cross between a shout and a whisper. Then he directed his final words to the audience. ‘That concludes my bumbling presentation, my friends. Now, as Michael Hudson was unavailable, it is my honor to turn the podium over to my friend, Dr. Todd Vispoli, who will speak of matters monetary and economic. To all, I extend my warmest thanks for the invitation and the most gracious reception imaginable in this most marvelous city. Thank you, Merry Christmas, and a happy New Year, one and all!’ After shaking Todd’s hand and patting his back, Tom merrily hopped off the short platform and veritably bounded towards the man by the door, ignoring a smattering of outstretched hands and well wishes en route. The men looked at each other intently for a moment, then, foregoing a handshake, embraced about the shoulders. There followed a hushed private conversation. The other man, likely twenty years Tom’s senior, a kind of healthy, vibrant elderly to look at, was stocky and a little short in comparison to Tom’s looming presence. Still, as Tom kept his head lowered, the two continued speaking eye-to-eye. Soon, Tom led his apparent friend back to the table, where Larry had just pulled up an extra chair. ‘More wine, please, spasibo,’ Tom said to an attentive waiter as he and the man took their seats. He then pointed around the table, making hasty introductions. ‘This is my Carmyn. And my baby brother, Larry, and his much better-looking better half, Darla.’ As a light chorus of “hellos” and “privets” echoed about, Tom said to the man, ‘and you. I have never known your name!’ ‘Leonid Zhirinovsky,’ the man said with a smile. ‘Forever to my family, Papa or Uncle El-Zee. To my friends, Leo.’ ‘Leo!’ Tom exclaimed. ‘So many years later, now I know.’ The table looked on expectantly and Tom renewed the introduction. ‘Leo, here, was part of my KGB escort on my very first visit to Moscow so many years ago. When was it? Eighty-eight?’ ‘I think Eighty-seven, perhaps,’ Leo said. ‘Eighty-seven, then.’ ‘Way back then,’ Leo explained, ‘we knew a contingent from the US State Department had come to the American embassy with a following of military officers. We were unexpectedly tipped off, that fateful afternoon, that one young Marine officer was about to be dispatched on foot into the city. We did not know his purposes or much else about him. Tall and young was about all they told us.’ ‘It was the end of the first do-nothing day,’ Tom added. ‘And they just told me to go out on the town and enjoy myself. So, never having been here and wanting to see all I could, I did.’ ‘He wore his uniform right out the door, out the gate, and onto our streets!’ ‘I didn’t want to waste a second changing, so I just hit the pavement in my service greens!’ ‘He cut quite the impressionable swath that way. And made our identification so much easier. Some of our girls and women were intrigued. A few men were dismissive. Most bystanders didn’t know what to think of him, roaming about and looking into every shop and cafe with all that silly, cheerful American banter.’ The two roared with laughter at the memory. ‘I had gone a few blocks when, I think the car—that older black car—kind of alerted me. Like, oh, boy, they're on you! You and your partner were walking, following me on the other side of the street. And you both hung in there as if to subtly announce that was what you were doing—following with a purpose.’ ‘He waved to us and jibbered in happy English.’ ‘All I could think of,’ Tom said. ‘I do recall you merely nodded in acknowledgement. Your friend never did or said anything.’ ‘He was a partner, not a friend.’ ‘Oh.’ ‘He died during the dark Nineties.’ ‘Well, I’m sorry to hear that.’ ‘I wasn’t.’ ‘Stone cold, you guys,’ Tom said with a cough. ‘At least my night didn’t end up like the Mama Anarchy lyrics treatment!’ ‘So, you did investigate the songs?!’ Leo asked with a hint of surprise. ‘Of course,’ Tom said. ‘How could I not?’ Leo, his face softened considerably, looked around at the perplexed faces. He sipped cabernet and then said, ‘so your husband and brother, here, he kept snooping for some time. Kept us walking. Roundabout, he lurked into one of our monitored back alley rock clubs. It’s not terribly far from where we sit. A food order delivery service company now, I think. Anyway, we all had the pleasure of seeing the end of a KINO concert thanks to our intrepid Jarhead.’ ‘The music did lure me in,’ Tom said. ‘Sounded really good even as I couldn’t understand a word. The doorman sized me up and just waved me into the club. I think you two might have scared him.’ ‘Is that when you met Viktor Tsoi?’ Larry asked. ‘It was,’ Tom said. ‘One of the best endings of a concert I ever heard. He must have seen the uniform and was curious. We exchanged pleasantries. Nice guy. All of them appeared nice. Such a loss a few years later.’ ‘At the end, we moved outside and waited,’ Leo said. ‘Young Lieutenant Ironsides came out and I asked him, is the music good?’ ‘And for whatever reason, I just nodded and said, and we’re all good people,’ Tom added. ‘So that explains the tense words,’ Carmyn interjected. ‘Yes, lovely Misses Larke-Ironsides,’ Leo said. ‘And I have been meaning to ask you. Around the turn of the century, an American television show about ancient Greek gods and goddesses became popular in Russia. I remember this one lovely goddess, a vicious warrioress, who entered battle with a startling ululating cry…’ Todd was just making his way to the table when Adrestia’s war call shook the room. As more than a few people panicked, he staggered up to find Tom’s gaggle in stitches. Leo was pounding the table. ‘Nice, Carmyn,’ Todd said. ‘We’re all awake now. And thank you, Dr. Tom, for paying such close attention.’ ‘Huh?’ ‘Yeah, so I used you and this morning’s bank exchange trip as an example. Five times I called out for your opinion, but all I got was some murmurs about a uniform and a band or something. I was like, hell with him, but it does still work thanks to the BOR. I then briefly discussed Anton Siluanov’s recent mission in Beijing and what it might portend for any real Americans who want to survive and thrive and so forth. I tried to think of your father-in-law’s full name but couldn’t remember, and I couldn’t get your attention. Think he’d be interested?’ ‘Don’t know. Stanley’s a little pessimistic these days, uncharacteristically so,’ Tom said. ‘To think, for once I’m the pro-Southern nationalist firebrand of the two of us. I’m sure the situation will reverse again. I’m a Cottonmouth! But, now, meet my old pal, Leo!’ ‘I think they say, Diamondback,’ Todd said. ‘They say, Copperhead,’ Leo corrected. Todd was brought up to speed on Tom’s prior semi-licite wanderings about Moscow. Then, as the conference ended, the small group made their exit from the hall. Todd issued a vague promise about dinner and headed for his room while already dialing his family back in Ohio. Carmyn and Darla were intent on shopping and winter wonderlanding, and departed for a quick powdering of noses, grabbing of coats, and assorted girl talk. Larry joined the two cold warriors for a happy parting drink at the Chaliapin bar. Thirty minutes or so later, as he joined the women, receiving his and Tom’s overcoats, he didn’t hear the old friends’ final quiet words. ‘It was sheer luck I remembered your name,’ Leo said. ‘And that I heard it concerning your talk today. I listened, happily, mostly from just outside the door. With all the talk—and I see the matters weigh heavy upon you, old man—I wonder. In fact, I have a hypothesis. Do you plan to use your unique skills in the great battle for the soul of the failing West? Beyond noble classical education, of course, I say. Do you mean to perhaps violently start righting some of the wrongs?’ ‘Start?’ Tom asked. ‘No. I mean to continue.’ With a knowing look, a boisterous laugh, and a firm handshake, they parted ways. Tom joined his family in the lobby by the doors adjacent to the snow-covered Fontan Vitali. ‘You have that Tom’s-up-to-something look,’ Darla said. ‘I’m up to spending quality time with loved ones in Red Square!’ he answered in a voice merrier than it had sounded in a day or three. ‘Anybody up for GUM, the market, and maybe some skating? Maybe some dandy iPhone Christmas tunes?’ As they made their way outside, Larry said,’ I’m ready for it all. Including a preview of this effigy-burning tradition. Is it the good doctor again this year?’ ‘Him and a female friend!’ Carmyn said. ‘Tom made a second doll like a witch wearing a South Carolina flag.’ ‘The political trash!’ Darla said. ‘Everyone hates that wicked neocon Jezebel.’ ‘Howya gonna do it this year, babe?’ Carmyn asked. ‘The fireplace again?’ ‘Oh, no,’ Tom said. ‘Too pedestrian. And let’s cross the street now. No, this year, I have a new toy for the job.’ ‘What kind of toy?’ Larry asked as they skipped along the snowy street. ‘My ninety-two dollar homemade cardboard kamikaze drone!’ Tom said with more than a little pride. ‘Down at the shooting lane, Mehr-Bear will love flying it into those two straw wretches!’ ‘Less than a hundred bucks, Bubba? And you made it?’ Larr asked. ‘Yep. Old boxes. Tape. Little motor and some throwaway phone parts. A delta-wing pusher. That’s the inert price, of course. We’ll be using as a warhead a little bottle of poor man’s napalm for the ceremony this time. Otherwise, for roughly twice the price—no need to pay ten thousand dollars to some two-bit Aussies—they’ll be armed with, say, TAT—’ ‘Tom, Tom, Tom,’ Carmyn said with a laugh. ‘Only you. And, we noticed it went from it to they. How many have you built?’ ‘No enough,’ Tom said. ‘But enough of that. Let’s walk and shop and maybe throw snowballs at each other. Enjoy the good mood. I’ve never seen anyone do decorations like the Ruskies here.’ ‘It is lovely,’ Darla said. ‘A shame the whole world can’t look and live like this. I’m fixating on your Christmas Story analogy. Sad.’ ‘It is,’ Tom admitted. ‘But there’s always hope. The original version kicked off with a good news message from the Archangel Gabriel. Maybe soon we’ll get a martial follow-up word from Saint Michael.’ He paused a minute while they walked, evidently trying to remember something. ‘Ah!’ he exclaimed. ‘That thought and something Leo said reminded me of the missing Republican Senator.’ ‘He certainly puts the sin in Senator, that homo,’ Larry said. ‘No one misses him, I’ll warrant.’ ‘Why did you remember him?’ Carmyn asked cautiously, almost perceptively. ‘The liars at FOX and News Max haven’t told the tards,’ Tom said, ‘but just before he disappeared, the Russians issued an arrest warrant for him for war crimes related to the SMO.’ ‘Aaaand—’ Carmyn dared. ‘And I have to turn him over to the GRU or the FSB or someone,’ he answered. ‘You know where he is?!’ Darla asked. ‘Yeah. He’s in the cargo hold. With us the whole trip,’ Tom said. ‘Forgot all about him when we met with customs yesterday. Hope he’s comfortable. No Boy’s Life magazines like he’s used to, uh, reading, but I did leave him an electric blanket and some water. Hope there was enough air in there for the trip at altitude…’ Three voices oscillated between gasps and chuckles, and Tom added, ‘and, if anyone asks, he was in his present condition when I grabb—when I found him. Right? Better yet, we’ll just say nothing and let them sort it all out. Now, for some fun!’ And as the wider world turned in its usual turbulent fashion, the happy foursome ventured to GUM, Red Square, and other central points. A decent amount of snow fell. Night settled. Relatively nearby, an unnoticed lispy voice moaned from within a handsome trijet hangared by the general aviation tarmac. Further away, children and grandchildren prepared for a reception, a ceremonial flying bonfire, and other Ironsides-esque festivities. And with Christ’s Mass, New Year’s, and the Feast of the Nativity approaching, some semblance of peace took to some of the smaller corners of the world. THE END Postscript: This story wasn’t the most Christmasy I could have thought of, perhaps, but it was the best I could do. Or, it was what I did—and certainly worth the reader’s good money. We came perilously close to a cancellation, things being what they are. But that wouldn’t have been right. A sigh of relief, eh? As always,Postscript: This story wasn’t the most Christmasy I could have thought of, perhaps, but it was the best I could do. Or, it was what I did—and certainly worth the reader’s good money. We came perilously close to a cancellation, things being what they are. But that wouldn’t have been right. A sigh of relief, eh? As always,Postscript: This story wasn’t the most Christmasy I could have thought of, perhaps, but it was the best I could do. Or, it was what I did—and certainly worth the reader’s good money. We came perilously close to a cancellation, things being what they are. But that wouldn’t have been right. A sigh of relief, eh? As always, MERRY CHRISTMAS! счастливого Рождества! С Новым Годом! Editor's note: If you want some more of the "Southern James Bond," Dr. Ironsides, read Perrin Lovett's novel The Substitute!  Christmas is coming. Therefore I thought of telling a few true tales from Christmases past. This is instead of another report on the usual that I just couldn’t do or a short story that ran the risk of a kind of contamination. This may end up being another excuse for a column, but it should be a good one. If I remember correctly—and it was almost fifty years ago, so the memory is a bit fuzzy—it was Christmas Eve the week or so before the house almost burned down. Nineteen Seventy-Something. Family had come to visit and it was a warm and swell time while it lasted. Very small me was informed, as children sometimes are, that if I went to bed and slept soundly, Santa Claus would visit and leave presents! (Maybe you’ve heard something similar?) I promptly went to bed and dozed off thinking about the old poem and hooves beating on the roof and a loud, jolly, “Ho, ho, ho!” Deep in the dark hours, perhaps after Midnight, I awoke because I heard what to my young ears sounded like hooves pounding away on something nearby. And while it might not have been “Ho, ho, ho,” loud words were being spoken. ALL excited, I hopped out of bed and peeped out the door. In the hall, all the lights were on. And all the adults were gathered around the door to the guest bedroom which was adjacent to mine. There was a general excitement about something though I can’t say it was the jolly kind. At that moment I didn’t know that someone (no names, no one reading will know and most who do know are dead!) decided it would be fun to take someone else hostage with a knife! Lost in my happy innocence, as I watched my dad and uncle break down the door, I gleefully asked, “Is Santa here?!” The adults paid me no attention. On my own, maybe when the men carried someone (love ya!) out kicking and screaming, I decided it was a false Santa alarm. About that time, Dr. Wilson rolled up in Mrs. Betty’s sedan, the men placed someone in the back and sat on her, and off they all went to the hospital for some Yuletide sedation. I must have gone back to bed. In the morning, while I can’t remember any presents from Santa, I’m sure there were some. Later, the family departed early. And a few days later, unless it was the next year(?) (or the preceding year??? One of them…), the house did catch on fire. No, for somewhat obvious reasons, I didn’t really meet Saint Nick. But after all these years, I still find the episode hilarious. And it’s more kind and friendly than the Christmas most children in Gaza can probably expect this year. There were going to be a few more, but I’m suddenly worn out. I will point out that in Christian Russia, Ded Moroz or Dedushka Moroz (“Дедушка Мороз” ~ Grandfather Frost) comes to bring all the good Russian children presents. By the way, I’m informed that all the children in Russia, like all of them everywhere, are good. While some or many may observe Christ’s birth on December 25th, the Orthodox emphasis is on the Commemorative Feast on January 7th. I’m told Ded Moroz comes around, in between, on New Year’s Eve. I’m not sure if that is to separate the Sacred from the secular, but I kind of like the whole scheme and plan to investigate. How would a Western Christian transplanted to a place like Moscow react to and treat the calendar differences? Well, if it was me, I plan to celebrate both dates and every day between them! Here’s an astounding walk-around look, from last year, of how they celebrate the Christmas Season, Red Square style: Here’s a preview of the surrounding streets this year: Now, we’ll close with a little Christmas music minute! Next week there may or may not be some Christmas fiction. Stay tuned. Бог - наш защитник.  Hello, all. Looking back at things I wrote four, ten, or nearly twenty-two years ago, I have mixed feelings. I’ll for now keep those to myself, but with perhaps infrequent exceptions, I will cease writing about practical American political affairs. It’s like being a veterinarian that specializes in dinosaurs—sounds cool and all, but… Over four years ago, I wrote an article called “Only A Dictator Can Save America.” My (admittedly dangerous) suggestion was highly implausible in the summer of 2019. In the final month of 2023, it’s too late, out of time, and gone with the wind. Back then, I wrote: “the United States Empire … nears its predictable end; it currently collapses at free-fall speed. Even now, wicked useless elites scramble to suck out what value remains while their scavenger hordes descend upon the rotting shell.” That was fifteen years after Vox Day correctly called America an unfixable corpse. And it was before Big Floyd’s summer of love, the COVID hoax, the stolen election and coup, NATO’s suicidal losing war against Russia, Judeo-”Christian” support for genocide for Greater Israel, and all the other signals and signs the United States is well and truly over. And it is. And it should be. American women are now encouraged to practice literal satanism to murder their children—and you know many are doing so. The destruction of Sodom and Gomorrah 2.0 approaches, though one hopes there are still a lot of Lots around. Maybe it’s in that valiant spirit that even now it appears some good people want to try something—anything—to hold the old line. Today I had planned to discuss a new non-political (political) movement in the U.S. I mentally waffled all over the place deciding whether to do it for three reasons. First, I greatly admire this movement’s leader, a truly good man, and my review skews a little realistic. Second, while some of their policy statements are just wrong and others are slightly misguided or misdirected, others are great and I think the group means very well. Third, as futile as I perceive the attempt is, if it gives good people just a little hope, then there is more than a little merit in it. I decided to plow ahead regardless, mindful there are no legal or political solutions to America’s many and generally self-inflicted problems. Here follows a review and macro-assessment, not a condemnation. OCOC is the acronym for the new semi-political cultural movement Our Country Our Choice. I learned of OCOC the other day via a link from Lew Rockwell or Ron Unz. It is my opinion that while very well-intentioned this movement is potentially destined to go the way of the Tea Party, MAGA, “Q”, and the 1607 Project. The decent-sounding ideas put forward by OCOC and its honest, heroic leader, Col. Douglas MacGregor, would have better served the Peak America of 1965 or earlier. They would have still had some chance of success twenty years later, though by then, the US was in dire need of pull-out-all-the-stops emergency domestic military action. Those of you who were around then know we didn’t get it. And we won’t. OCOC presents a solution for a society that no longer exists. And it fundamentally misses the very categorization of that society. The key to understanding why is found in OCOC’s founding Statement: “OCOC believes that the three pillars of civilization are equal justice under the law, cheap energy, and freedom of speech.” While not as bad as it could be, that belief is wrong. The US is no longer observably American or Christian. It was not founded as a Christian country. Rather, it was constructed as an Enlightenment ideological experiment by predominantly pseudo-Christians, neo-pagans, and Freemasons. But it was, upon a time, part of Western Civilization, the heir of the (even back then) failing British tradition. The three pillars of Western Civilization are Christianity, the Greco-Roman legacy, and the heritage(s) of the European nations. Take away one element and the civilization ceases to be Western. Take them all away, as is the case with the postmodern US, and the subject civilization itself fails. The US no longer has any semblance of law and order. As such, notions about fairness under what passes for the law are misplaced. Cheap energy is vitally important for any advanced society, but it is not a critical component of the existence of that society. Free speech is an Enlightenment lie and trap designed almost exclusively to weaken and destroy Christian law and culture. To see this explicitly stated by a leading proponent of Enlightenment evil, read A History of Freedom of Thought by J.B. Bury (Cambridge, USA: Henry Holt, 1913) (yes, that J.B. Bury). Bury writes: “[F]reedom of thought, in any valuable sense, includes freedom of speech.” He then praises the paganism of ancient Greece as an example of and for the postmodern, anti-Christian future:
That was, of course, during the Fifth Century BC, which Bury calls the “age of Illumination.” He extolls the luciferian concept of the “supremacy of the individual conscience, as we should say, over human law.” He goes on to slander the Christian Church as well as the “reforms” inflicted by Luthor and Calvin, going so far as to lie and blaspheme:
In discussing the Christianization of Imperial Rome, he stupidly asserts: “in a State where Christians had the power there would be no tolerance…” And he wraps up with a few moaning examples of how, even as the devil’s progress progresses in the early 20th Century, vestiges of Christian culture still linger in Europe. One such bemoaning: “The recent rather alarming inflictions of penalties for blasphemy in England illustrate this point. It was commonly supposed that the Blasphemy laws, though unrepealed, were a dead letter. But since December 1911, half a dozen persons have been imprisoned for this offence.”
Over 100 years later, the empirical truth is plain to see. Freed of their oppressive blasphemy laws and Christianity in general, how well do England, Germany, France, and the United States fare? The truth is that in the absence of Christian control, there is no tolerance. I didn’t mean for this to turn into a mini-review of Bury, but doing so illustrates the point of the danger of “free speech” and of making the same a pillar of any civilization. And I do not think Macgregor and his fellows are Freemasons, Enlightenment-mongers, or in any way evil. In fact, elsewhere in OCOC’s various statements and propositions, there is hard evidence to the contrary. For example, in decrying the persecution of Christians today, OCOC amazingly condemns the IDF for murdering Christians in Occupied Palestine. And under their “Defend Our Children” section they dare state a great if terrible truth: “Be aware that pedophilia is being normalized and inducted into the [SIC?] Stand your ground! (When a gay chorus sings “we are coming for your kids,” we should believe them. Some law makers are even trying to make pedophilia legal.)” Either of those honest statements is enough to make the ADL scream, “Anti-satanic!” That’s good. With other matters, the views, beliefs, and approaches are a little muddled. For instance, OCOC is 100% correct that the Federal Reserve should be abolished. It will be, and hopefully soon, by monetary gravity and nature. But whether legally or naturally destroyed, its elimination erases, mitigates, or changes some of OCOC’s other stated goals concerning things like debt levels, federal spending, and taxation. All of these issues are moot points at this extremely late hour. It’s good and very well that MacGregor says OCOC is not overtly political and does not support or try to curry favor with any Democrats or Republicans. No side of the Uniparty would have anything to do with the movement other than to try to subvert it or maybe have it prosecuted for hate crimes. Really, everyone knows that. It’s because the entirety of the American political structure is dead. And that is because the entirety of American and Western-American culture is dead, a product of the death of the prevailing Western identity of Americans. As such, there is no reason to try to influence the dead politics of a dead country. What OCOC should instead foster—and I think they have a good chance to do so—is the redevelopment of the concepts of God, family, and Christian community that MacGregor champions. Christian men and women should deeply consider how America fell and who led the demise. The answer to all related questions, whether concerning debt, pedophilia, or open borders, is the same. At a certain time and place a notion of vengeance inserts itself. OCOC should also accept that as America is no longer American, Western, or Christian, the otherwise valid solutions they suggest will not be accepted by all US residents or occupants nor will they work universally. Whether or not anyone understands or likes that the US is done and is breaking apart is immaterial. It is, it should, and no human endeavor can stop the process. Everyone’s ultimate focus should be on rebuilding something new and better in the rump states that will form over the next decade-plus. There’s great potential beyond the great upheavals and I suspect all good people will want to participate in the grand developments. On a personal note, I am happy to reveal I have completed my Thorongil Testing of the American people. I have the results and will, by my actions over the next year or so, make them and my related decisions public. Great news! Going forward, marching steadily toward 2024, we’ll have some more excellent fiction in this space. That will—or should—include another Tom Ironsides Christmas special. Don’t miss it. Deo vindice.  Above, the etiolated late-November sun peeped out between large fast-moving gray clouds with their cold bodies sunk well below the peaks of the surrounding mountains. Below, arm in arm, they inched down the serene lakeshore amidst repeated joyful wind-borne blasts of snow. With a snicker, and after blowing several icy flakes from her phone screen, she read aloud the hastily devised story:
‘Okay,’ she said, turning the phone off and returning it to her coat pocket. ‘That was kind of funny. But also rather sad. Is that the best you can do?’
‘It’s just a sketch,’ he said. ‘And that is probably all I can do, period.’ ‘Between this and pablum, I’d pick pablum,’ she said. ‘Let this little idea sit in the hopper until the final moving along comes. Oh! And Perry, speaking of that, did you hear Perrin Lovett retired from writing about American education?’ ‘No, I didn’t,’ Perry said. ‘But it’s not surprising. One can only do so much before reassessing the field. The people one tries to help the most, particularly those disinterested or despiteful, either ignore one entirely or stab one in the back the hardest. I know all about that.’ ‘That’s what he did, about the reassessment. Or so I think I read somewhere,’ Julia said. ‘After a book, some book chapters, podcasts, radio show appearances, and what I think turned out to be 452 articles, he declared a form of victory, perhaps pyrrhic, and moved on. He was planning to make an announcement in what would have been number 453 but instead, he turned it into some kind of polemical fiction. I suppose he is tired of what President Putin just called a quote-unquote degraded system.’ ‘What was 453 supposed to be about?’ ‘I think it was his commentary on a New York Times editorial admission that the fake pandemic finally revealed the total demise of Amerikan systemic education. He was also going to briefly get into the ever-so-slightly more intelligent and educated, into the multicultural sexual crime crisis at French universities. Being Perrin Lovett, he had planned to mention a stunning woman he knows who was educated at the University of Nantes—I assume he would have called her his ravissante déesse. ‘And he was going to conclude with a segue to our most educated and intelligent way of dealing with the issue of migrant children not knowing Russian when they enter our schools. He knows about the coming general immigration overhaul, the deep-sixing of the last faux Western vestiges, and he thinks well of the practice of requiring base language skills before school entrance.’ ‘He should consider moving here,’ Perry said as they slowed to a halt. ‘He seems to have somewhat of a Russian heart.’ ‘I know. Kind of like my Pericles. And we do need a few more rebellious Catholic Anglo-Norman Aristotelians in our midst. But now, where are we going?’ ‘Back, I suppose,’ Perry said, blinking in the snow. They turned about where the landing and a playground gave way to a little marina. On that day and under those conditions, against all odds a small lone boat was setting sail into the deeper waters even as ice began to visibly form in places on the surface. Perhaps just a little faster than before, they moved back towards the resort. As they strolled, Perry changed the subject. ‘History and economics are no longer taught in Amerikan schools. In fact, really, nothing is taught anymore. The economies of the United States and France have been destroyed by usurious financialization. Few people understand the fact because most people are stupid and because all modern and postmodern schools of economics are about as useful as a COVID so-called vaccine. As such, it is remarkable that the world’s two greatest real economists came together again to explain exactly what happened, what’s coming, and what can be done to remediate the future. Somewhere, should anyone care to partake, there’s a transcript and a video of the discussion. I wish I could link it to the good people somehow as it’s well worth the reading, watching, or listening.’ ‘Is that Michael Hudson and Steve Keen talking for three hours about capitalism and multipolarity with Michael DeLay and Anastasia Bendebury?’ Julia asked. ‘I read half of it and listened to the rest.’ ‘That’s it,’ Perry said thoughtfully. ‘Though I think Mr. Lovett would preface with the very attractive Anastasia Bendebury.’ ‘He would, certainly,’ Julia said. ‘And not without merit. But, speaking of merit, about one-third of the way through, there was an exchange I found fascinating, hilarious, and a little alarming. Bendebury asked Keen something like, So when you say that capitalism collapses, what do you see near feudalism or you see something totally different? And he answered, Mad Max. That would have been a total hoot coming from anyone but Steve Keen. So Anastasia sought to clarify by saying, I mean, that’s very romantic. But… And Keen cut in and said, Now it’s not romantic. But I’m looking forward to dying before it happens. It would almost be romantic, for the average Westerner, except for the learned source. The man was, as usual, very serious.’ ‘And as usual, he’ll be very ignored by most Westerners,’ Perry said. He noticed some children having a snowball fight along the treeline between two sets of cabins and smiled. ‘At least some generations will still get A Christmas Story instead of Mad Max. Those kids over there probably don’t know about any of it, not that they’ll ever need to. Safe in their greater sovereignty.’ ‘I do wish those two would have left off the infrequent mention of the climate change specter,’ Julia said. ‘Of course, no one is perfect. A small matter. Then again, if the seas do rise, a lot of places full of a lot of wicked people will be swamped. London, New York, DC. That would be just fine.’ ‘Hear, hear!’ ‘And, hearing,’ she said; ‘Do you think your time-traveling friends will appreciate the economics lesson? What year are they in again?’ ‘Yes, and no. 1607 now, I think,’ he answered. ‘The ones closer to the present will understand. And those forever mired in a bygone dream will think or say they get it too. That 1607 business could serve several purposes, more than a few contexts.’ ‘1607 as a reaction—always a reaction—to the communist’s 1619 program nonsense?’ ‘Of course. Economically, 1607 doesn’t line up the way they think or imagine or fantasize it does. The London Company, within and without Virginia, a forerunner of today’s hedge funds and private central-commercial banking axes of evil, was developed to loot North America while ethnically cleansing the native populations. It simultaneously impoverished the ordinary people of London and England, even going as far and so low as barring the English from growing their own tobacco. It would soon after 1607 replace destitute Londoners down the employment rungs to even the indentured level with a host of what would be euphemistically called in the future teens, gentle giants, joggers, and bird watchers. ‘It was about what one would have expected from a fake corporate person chartered by a Bible-butchering heretic, Judeo-satanic Lodge loafer, and flaming sodomite. So if one of their crazed purposes is an attempt to blackwash and Talmudize Dixie, they might also consider going all the way and proudly proclaim it was essentially founded by an lgbtP activist—because it kind of was! Strange, but 400 years later, not much has changed on the English throne. Nor in Virginia, really.’ ‘The Judaic foray?’ she asked; ‘From the outside to, as usual, converge and control all facets of the culture. Is that really happening? A minor lateral not-so-great leap of desperation?’ ‘I conclude it is happening, though there is no warning them about it,’ Perry said with a sigh. ‘They simply won’t hear that. Or think about it, most of them. That’s another potential storm they’ll have to weather in time.’ ‘I think your decision is coming along,’ she said. ‘Time to move on, leaving Lee where he belongs, so to speak?’ ‘We’ll see—and, probably, yes. Sooner or later. It’s sad. All of America could have gone another way, emulating the functioning multi-nationalism here, fostered by faith, strength, and mutual respect, instead of abiding terminal multiculturalism barely held together by violence and treachery. The fate of the good natives in this small land compared to those of the Powhatan and the Catawba. The fate of the larger people. But, eh— The rest of the world is happily passing Dixie, America, France, and the rest of the Golden Billion by. Here’s me hoping a free and legitimate Western Remnant joins us, especially an updated and free Southern contingent. If not, they’d better watch out for the Nightrider.’ ‘The what-rider?’ ‘You never watched Mad Max?’ ‘Not fully. Just like I’ve never experienced the full turkey treatment of an American Thanksgiving. Is it time, do you think?’ They stood before the main lodge office and the little path and stairs leading to the suites on the upper levels. A gust of wind dispatched a healthy quantity of snow from the evergreens all around them, though they both noticed the flakes directly from the clouds had at least momentarily abated. Unlooked for, the sun peered fully down upon the camp, adding a glow that suggested, if barely, warmth. Perry looked at his watch and said, ‘Eight kilos, four o’clock… It just might be time to start setting all the trimmings up and out.’ ‘Once you give the word,’ she added, ‘Mother and I will take over. She wants to carve, just like you demonstrated with the ham. While singing about Alice in the restaurant. Small things. And that should give you and Father a little time to sip, maybe smoke, and discuss whatever men discuss when the snow slows a bit.’ ‘Fantastic!’ he said. ‘We’ll probably talk about new and genuinely exciting news. About the coming tribunals and a little justice! That’s how the Department and the Center will probably close this year and open next. May some of it visit the heads of a few Amerikan neoliberals! But for our evening festivities, ahead of a long double Christmas and New Year’s, here’s to a new holiday tradition!’ ‘Which didn’t start as most Amerikans tell it?’ ‘No, the Massachusetts Yankee tradition, while romantic and maybe partly accurate, isn’t the whole story. Neither is the 1607ers’ 1619 reactionary reinvention. The first Thanksgiving in what is now the dying GAE homeland started in September of 1565 in Florida. Our protesting Puritan and Calvinist friends overlook the hard fact that the first Thanksgiving commenced with a real Christian Mass—in Latin too. In honor of real tradition, after your dad says an Orthodox Blessing, I may add a short Latin quip!’ ‘Deo vindice!’ she said. ‘True, but I’ll probably just go with something simple and fitting like, Benedicite cibos bonos et amicos meliores.’ ‘Perfectus!’ she said. ‘Ну и хорошо! And now, let’s get to it!’ With that, and a short canoodle, and the now ubiquitous kissing of noses, they made their way down the path towards the waiting feast. The wind hummed, almost singing, new snow began to fall, the sun was again veiled, and a peaceful, thankful calm held the whole of the Altai. |
