Mayhem So Blasé

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[Vung Tau, 5/13/24]

Those who insist there’s a moral crisis or societal breakdown are just delusional reactionaries, if not anti-American and anti-Semitic conspiracy theorists, Holocaust deniers and anti-vaxxers who hate gender-affirming surgeries, progress, fine dining and themselves.

Raking the internet night and day, they dig up freakish incidents to gloatingly condemn the greatest society ever, with an economy that’s “the envy of the world,” to quote the Wall Street Journal.

Teenagers have always attacked strangers to exact revenge, with robbery a secondary aim. Commuters have always been pushed onto subway tracks. Of course, there are slight variations to these blasé occurrences.

ABC New York on 5/13/24:

Millions of people visit Manhattan every single year—now, one tourist is leaving Midtown with a horror story after being stabbed at random while walking out of a gift shop […] The seemingly random attack on a tourist was caught on video on Saturday around 6PM. It shows the victim doing nothing at all to provoke it.

This happened outside Anwar Yahia’s store, “After he stabbed the lady, he sit down to the chair, nothing happened—everybody walked close to him, he didn’t do nothing.” The culprit is 61-year-old Cyril Destin, a biological black man.

For at least two months, there have been stories of white women attacked by black men in NYC, but let’s not conclude these were random or unprovoked. They were white women, no? Just being white is already a crime, according to our leading academics. Plus, Destin may identify as white, Vietnamese or a woman.

Unless it’s a white on black crime, it’s kosher to see it as a class issue. On 5/10/24, the New York Post reported on 21-year-old Jace Christian Hanson:

That’s no dry rub.

A disturbed worker at a pricey Kansas steakhouse admitted to cops that he tainted food served to customers more than 20 times, including vile acts like placing his genitals on salmon, urinating in pickles and au jus sauce and putting lettuce down his pants—and posted videos of the sick displays online, court documents reveal.

As an oppressed worker, Hanson had every right to exact revenge on slobbering fat cats gorging nightly on 30-ounce steaks, but there’s a glitch. As a pasty white youth with “Christian” in his name, Hanson isn’t your ideal Marxist hero. We must wait for rebels of color to outclass Hanson. Maybe they’re tainting away steaks, apple pies and ice cream sundaes right now. There’s hope.

It’s an intractable problem. In 1958, a 26-year-old UPenn student, In-Ho Oh, was murdered by at least seven blacks aged 15 to 20. In 2017, his cousin, David Oh, was stabbed by a black man in the same city. A city councilman at the time, David Oh ran for mayor in 2023.

In The Ecology of Homicide, Eric C. Schneider recounts In-Ho Oh’s murder:

“‘I stuck out my foot to trip him but he stumbled,’ Clark testified. ‘I did it only for a gag.’” Leonard Johnson, who had said earlier “he was tired doing all this walking for nothing, that he was going to get somebody with his blackjack,” now had his chance.

Another boy recounted, “I seen Franklin Marshall with one arm around the man hitting him. He hollered, ‘Flip, I need help.’ So Alfonso Borum, Lenny Johnson, Harry McCloud, Sonny [Edward] McCloud, and Percy Johnson and James Wright and Douglas Clark—they all ran back to where the scene was happening at. So Alfonso Borum, he hit the man and the man went down. I saw Lenny Johnson hit the man three times with the blackjack.” Lenny Johnson later explained his actions by saying, “Well . . . they were all yelling ‘hit him, hit him,’ so I did.” Edward McCloud, who later became a prosecution witness, said, “I heard Flip say, ‘Damn, I got blood all over me.’ And then he started kicking him like crazy.” Another witness claimed, “Then somebody hollered ‘get his wallet.’ Frank and the boy I don’t know looked in his pockets, and then Frank said ‘it’s not here.’ Then the man made a gruntin noise, like a moan, and then Frank said ‘shut the fuck up,’ and Frank kicked him two times in the face and then everybody just fled.” A trail of blood in the street indicated that Oh’s body had been dragged for about twelve feet, and a homicide detective later testified that Oh’s face was battered beyond recognition with “indentations and depression in the face caused by the kicking and the blows of the blackjack and lead pipe.” Blood, bone, and brains oozed out onto the street.

Yo, that’s just Philly! Sixty-six-years ago, Americans weren’t so jaded, however. At Oh’s funeral, mayor Richardson Dilworth said through tears, “It is a horrible thing that this could happen in our city.” Many sobbed with the ex-Marine.

Consider, also, Lafcadio Hearn’s account of Japan in 1893. Just caught, a murderer is faced with his victim’s son:

A slight small woman standing near me, with a child on her back, answered, “Hai!” and advanced through the press. This was the widow of the murdered man; the child she carried was his son. At a wave of the officer’s hand the crowd fell back, so as to leave a clear space about the prisoner and his escort. In that space the woman with the child stood facing the murderer. The hush was of death.

Not to the woman at all, but to the child only, did the officer then speak. He spoke low, but so clearly that I could catch every syllable: —

“Little one, this is the man who killed your father four years ago. You had not yet been born; you were in your mother’s womb. That you have no father to love you now is the doing of this man. Look at him—[here the officer, putting a hand to the prisoner’s chin, sternly forced him to lift his eyes]—look well at him, little boy! Do not be afraid. It is painful; but it is your duty. Look at him!”

Over the mother’s shoulder the boy gazed with eyes widely open, as in fear; then he began to sob; then tears came; but steadily and obediently he still looked—looked—looked—straight into the cringing face.

The crowd seemed to have stopped breathing.

I saw the prisoner’s features distort; I saw him suddenly dash himself down upon his knees despite his fetters, and beat his face into the dust, crying out the while in a passion of hoarse remorse that made one’s heart shake:—

“Pardon! pardon! pardon me, little one! That I did—not for hate was it done, but in mad fear only, in my desire to escape. Very, very wicked have I been; great unspeakable wrong have I done you! But now for my sin I go to die. I wish to die; I am glad to die! Therefore, O little one, be pitiful!—forgive me!”

The child still cried silently. The officer raised the shaking criminal; the dumb crowd parted left and right to let them by. Then, quite suddenly, the whole multitude began to sob. And as the bronzed guardian passed, I saw what I had never seen before,—what few men ever see,—what I shall probably never see again,—the tears of a Japanese policeman.

Feeling the pain of a single child, everyone sobs, including the cop and a contrite criminal. Sure sounds like a fairly tale, especially in 2024 America.

[Vung Tau, 4/30/24]

[Vung Tau, 4/17/24]

[Vung Tau, 4/29/24]

[Vung Tau, 5/8/24]

Image Suckers!

As published at SubStack, 5/11/24:

[news photo of Điện Biên Phủ on 5/7/24]

For the 70th anniversary of its victory at Dien Bien Phu, Vietnam staged a military parade with 12,000 participants. What caused the biggest buzz was the appearance of a four-year-old girl. Hoisted by a soldier, Trần Vy Trâm smiled and raised both arms. In one hand was a bouquet. Half Vietnamese, half Tai, she was dressed in colorful Tai clothing, an exotic touch.

This climatic scene mirrored a huge and clunky sculpture by Nguyễn Hải. Visiting Dien Bien Phu in 2020, I was content to admire it from very far away. Of Socialist Realism, I’ve endured more than my share in Serbia, Albania, Germany, Ukraine, Laos, Cambodia and the rest of Vietnam.

Eighty seven percent of Dien Bien Phu’s 14,000 defender were actually not French, but Germans, Italians, Belgians, Moroccans, Algerians, Congolese, Vietnamese, Cambodians, Laos, Hmong and, yes, Tai. The Communist Viet Minh also had Tai soldiers.

Then as now, there were Tai who saw Vietnamese as a bigger threat than the French. Others just thought France would win. Historical accounts, though, are always reductive. Often, they’re just lies. What the Viet Minh achieved in 1954, though, was unquestionably spectacular. On 2/13/20, I wrote:

Each 105mm howitzer had to be taken apart, then lugged up in pieces by porters, to be reassembled, emplaced, fortified and camouflaged. Roads and bridges had to be immediately repaired after each French bombing run. Many miles of trenches were dug.

Marveling at all these coordinated activities, the French brigadier general Pierre Langlais remarked, “This efficiency was not doubted by those who knew the Tonkin delta and its giant dikes—the mechanical marvels of another age; and as for being courageous, one certainly had to be in order to work under threat of delayed-action bombs that were dropped in each attack.”

A 90-year-old veteran of this 56-day siege told me a Viet Minh soldier survived on just two cold balls of rice a day, “We couldn’t cook. If the French saw smoke, they’d bomb us.”

Handsome and heroic seeming, soldiers on parade aren’t anything like those in battle, but this is just the gap between image and reality. Image suckers, we avert naked truths. Our lust for sexed up or comforting mirages is relentless.

Since we dress up even the most banal or inconsequential, of course we would mythologize war. Since its abject terrors are incomprehensible, we need war to be glamorous, entertaining and sexy. Since the state can’t survive without war or war readiness, it stokes then satisfies this desire. No one does it better than the USA. The world has never seen a more sexed up purveyor of carnage and mass misery. You can even masturbate to American anti-war movies!

Though a lesser authority on war than Katy Perry, Paul Fussell still has something to say. In Wartime: Understanding and Behavior in the Second World War, he cites a revealing questionnaire:

Over one-quarter of the soldiers in one division admitted that they’d been so scared they vomited, and almost a quarter said that at terrifying moments they’d lost control of their bowels. Ten percent had urinated in their pants […] The fear of this fear augments as the rank rises: for a colonel to piss his pants under shellfire is much worse than for a PFC. Landing at Peleliu, U. S. Marine E. B. Sledge confesses, “I felt nauseated and feared that my bladder would surely empty itself and reveal me to be the coward I was.” […] During the Normandy invasion, a group of American soldiers came upon a paratroop sergeant caught by his chute in a tree. He had broken his leg, and shit and pissed himself as well. He was so ashamed that he begged the soldiers not to come near him, despite his need to be cut down and taken care of.

No one wants to hear that shit, man. Let’s watch Apocalypse Now again! How can anyone not like its surfing scene? “It’s not about Vietnam. It’s Vietnam.” Coppola has never been anywhere near Vietnam or a war.

By comparison, Communist propaganda is goofier, uglier and touchingly innocent. Bombastically masculine, it doesn’t know how to deploy sex, unlike Uncle Sam, that ultimate pimp.

The inclusion of Trần Vy Trâm, though, added not just a female spirit but childish innocence to a martial display. She softened and sweetened it. Ring girls do the same between boxing rounds. Naked outbursts of male sexuality must be balanced.

Just before Tet of 2021, the American ambassador to Vietnam released a music video with a local rapper. Though professionally filmed at multiple locations in two cities, it comes off as lighthearted and casual, as if spontaneously done. In one scene, tallish Daniel Kritenbrink is seated on a low plastic stool, with his coffee on another. Westerners are almost never seen this way in Vietnam. They prefer swanky, air conditioned joints. That Kritenbrink is in a suit and tie adds to the incongruity. As intended, Vietnamese were charmed and seduced by such a down-to-earth big shot, so unlike their own.

Americans, too, are often suckered. Millions swooned over Obama playing basketball or slow jamming. He’s one of us! Trump’s very crassness snares a different crowd.

Though newspapers have been around for centuries, most people couldn’t read them. Mass media, then, is just the broadcasting of bullshit to those who can barely read. Willing fools, we can’t get enough of illusions and lies. Right at the start of his 1928 book, Propaganda, Edward Bernays maps this out:

The conscious and intelligent manipulation of the organized habits and opinions of the masses is an important element in democratic society. Those who manipulate this unseen mechanism of society constitute an invisible government which is the true ruling power of our country.

We are governed, our minds are molded, our tastes formed, our ideas suggested, largely by men we have never heard of.

Living with constant lies destroys mind and soul, at best. Often enough, it kills.

[Apocalypse Now]

[US Ambassador Daniel Kritenbrink rapping with Wowy in Hanoi just before Tet in 2021]

[victim of Agent Orange]

Sex Education for the Sexless

As published at SubStack, 5/10/24:

[Washington D.C., 7/29/17]

Last month, a cosmetology teacher at Klein Cain High School in Texas was arrested for an enterprising prostitution ring. With her precocious 15-year-old son, 42-year-old Kedria Grigsby lured teenaged runaways with free hotel rooms, from where they could ply their new trade.

Forty-three years ago, my Northern Virginia high school didn’t have a cosmetology teacher, much less one who doubled as a job counselor. If we had an en suite whore house, I wasn’t aware of it. Paying attention to trigonometry and physics, we were so backward. After school, I merely practiced lefthanded layups.

We did have a biology teacher named Bado. If you think I’m just making shit up, consult Thomas Jefferson yearbooks from 1979 to 1982. Always upright, Master Bado never did anything unseemly.

According to the Houston Chronicle, two other Klein Cain teachers had also been snared recently for kiddie porn, with another snagged for indecency with a child.

Fox News in New Orleans on 5/2/24, “In March, police launched an investigation over complaints that 35-year-old Alexa Wingerter was having ‘inappropriate relationships’ with and ‘sending inappropriate photographs and messages’ to her male students at Slidell High School.” 

Minneapolis Star Tribune on 5/6/24, “Madison Lynn Bergmann, 24, of St. Paul, was charged last week in St. Croix County Circuit Court with first-degree sex assault of a child under 13 in connection with contact with a fifth-grader at River Crest Elementary School.”

Also in Minnesota, 42-year-old Brandon Bunney of Savage was arrested for sex with a 16-year-old student. Months earlier, this same teacher was released by Hmong College Prep Academy over “boundary concerns with a student.”

So what, you say. Male and female teachers the world over have always stumbled across soft or bushy borders with boozed up students. Immigration is a human right.

Sherwood Anderson’s Winesburg, Ohio of 1919 has a teacher, Adolph Myers, who’s nearly lynched for touching students’ hair and shoulders:

Here and there went his hands, caressing the shoulders of the boys, playing about the tousled heads. As he talked his voice became soft and musical. There was a caress in that also. In a way the voice and the hands, the stroking of the shoulders and the touching of the hair was a part of the schoolmaster’s effort to carry a dream into the young minds.

Dream my ass! In the rain, a mob with lanterns in hands march to Myers’ rented room, but he’s so pitifully small and white, they let him escape.

In the same story, “Hands,” there’s also this passage:

The berry pickers, youths and maidens, laughed and shouted boisterously. A boy clad in a blue shirt leaped from the wagon and attempted to drag after him one of the maidens who screamed and protested shrilly.

Sounds like attempted rape! Why hasn’t Sherwood Anderson been canceled? Students from kindergarten to 12th grade would be better off just reading Shinta Cho’s The Gas We Pass—The Story of Farts and Debbie Levy and Elizabeth Baddeley’s I Dissent: Ruth Bader Ginsburg Makes Her Mark. Inspired by four glorious women of color, boys will less likely become homicidal incels, just gay, transgendered, asexual or aromantic. Useless eaters, they won’t breed.

Even butterfaces demand alpha males, though there ain’t none. Going their own way, men date sexy chatbots, with big spenders already rolling with robots. In this context, screwing students, pedophilia or sex tourism makes perfect sense. The powerless must fuck down. It’s best, though, to just die.

With this earth overloaded, fatherhood is misogyny, ecocide and genocide. You murder several whales and rape Greta Thunberg with each diaper you buy.

Even before arriving in the US, I had a taste of American television, but my indoctrination only began from July of 1975 to June of 1982. I’ve seen very little TV since. I remember my high school buddy Brian saying of The Love Boat, “It should be called The Fuck Boat.” America was still so tame. Now, preschoolers are enlightened about sex change and much more.

In Vietnam, there’s a controversy over Ocean Vuong’s poetry. An 11th grade girl at International School Ho Chi Minh City was given a Vietnamese translation of Vuong’s collection, On Earth We’re Briefly Gorgeous.

With its vivid homosexuality, it freaked out her mom, “Though I’m a woman over 40, I still blushed, so you can imagine my little girl who’s only in the 11th grade and so innocent. Reading it, I was shaking and had to wonder why did the school assign such a decadent work, with its pornographic contents, to students?”

Charging 11th graders $35,000 a year, this school promises to “train each student to become a global citizen, a future leader, and a lifelong learner.” Since less than 25% of its pupils are actually Vietnamese, this lady’s daughter has been dunk into a deracinated stew. Screw Vietnamese values. Soon, we can only hope, the girl will come home with a new pronoun and a functioning penis.

Unlike her, I’m still very much in Vietnam. It’s extremely hot at 2PM, so time to dip my body and soul in salt water. The ocean is almost visible from Cóc Cóc Coffee.

Yesterday, I tried to straighten out its masked barista, “I’m old, but guess how many times I’ve been jabbed?”

“Three? Four?”

“None! I was in Africa for nine months during Covid. I hung out and shared glasses with strangers, but none of us died, so you shouldn’t worry.”

Today, she’s still masked, though alone behind the counter. Oxygen deprived, she’ll lose braincells or even die young, but perhaps her life is already more meaningful and fulfilling than yours or mine. Masked, she still has the brightest smile.

Shamed, Adolph Myers changed his name to Wing Biddlebaum, so he, too, self mutilated. Now, I go swim.

[San Francisco, 10/15/10]

[Denver, 6/21/10]

[London, 11/22/15]

[Pattaya, 1/21/23]

Checking in with Robert Jefferson in Kamakura, Japan

As published at SubStack, 5/9/24:

[Robert Jefferson on 11/23/23]

You’ve been in Japan for over 40 years. How did you end up there?

-This is my third time in Japan. I first arrived as a sergeant in the United States Air Force, working for the American Forces Radio and Television Service. I came to Tokyo in 1982 from the Portuguese Azores Islands. Prior to Portugal I worked under the Air Force European Broadcast Squadron. In Tokyo, my assignment was with the Air Force Pacific Broadcast Squadron, the Far East Network.

After two years I decided to go back to the states, but only as far as Honolulu, where I worked at two radio stations. I also spent two years in Philly at WHYY Radio.

When I asked to interview you, I had no idea how similar we are! Though you have a twin, I might just be your double! We’re college drop outs, dislike systems and are drawn towards the unknown, even the dangerous. Unlike you, I never wanted to be a war corresponsdence. Maybe it’s because I was born into a war, so I have one on you! We’re also from Philly, though I only arrived there as a young adult, and you were raised in Montgomery County. That’s like some distant jungle, man! You did teach for years at Temple University. Our takes on what’s happening also overlap quite a bit. Is it hopeless?

-Yes, and no. For a lot of people, those who cluelessly allowed themselves to be jabbed, even multiple times, have little hope of living a natural lifetime. They’ve shortened their time on this planet by minutes, hours, days, weeks or years. But if it wasn’t this gene therapy, it would have been fentanyl, other street drugs or alcohol that took them out well before “their time”. 

In 2020 I suddenly got clear vision (pun intended). I quit drinking alcohol when I noticed how similar what’s happening to the mass murder committed by Tony Fauci in the 1980s and 1990s during the HIV/AIDS culling. I wasn’t about to let that happen to me. I doff my hat to the many doctors and independent journalist who sounded the alarm starting in 2020 and tried, with some success, to warn us of the dangers of the experimental MRNA gene therapy. The work done by Professor Mark Crispin Miller, Jon Rappaport, Gary Null and so many others has saved thousand of lives. Millions of people are today dead who need not have had their lives cut short by capitalistic greed.

The United States of America is being robbed blind, its people killed off slowly and surely. In the next ten years or so, the USA will look and be totally different, and it won’t be a good place to be. I’m glad to see that you’ve returned to your birthplace. Vietnam is still hanging on despite the damage done to it mostly recently by its ignorant leaders’ decision to inject poison into the populace. 

In Tokyo a while back, I met an idol singer who had grown up in Indonesia, so had an English based education. Returning to Japan, she had to disguise her English proficiency to not show up her Japanese English teacher. As an idol singer, she also had to adopt a childish persona that was completely at odds with her real sophistication. Though every culture is about assuming fake appearances, I, as an outsider, think this is especially pronounced in Japan, and I speak as a great admirer of Japanese appearances! As a long time resident there, what do you make of the gap between Japanese appearance and reality?

-The gap in Japan between appearances and reality is a wide expanse that has to be measured carefully in nearly every encounter. That measurement is important to preserve what the natives here call “Wa,” or harmony in society. It makes for great, courteous service(s). But in personal relationships it has it hazards; one doesn’t know if anyone is being real or just putting up a facade for good looks and impressions.

After living in Japan a while, one can discern through experience whether appearances are real or fake. In the service industries, it really doesn’t matter so long as the service is good. We all know that service in Japan is some of the best in the world. Would that Americans could produce the same results, widely and consistently!

As for personal relationships, appearances and reality can be like negotiating one’s way through a heavily-laid minefield. Courtships that turn into relationships only do so—and only last—once one gets deep into the minefield as mentally intact as at the beginning. Many a divorce can be attributed to having stepped on an explosive device triggered by irreparably hurt feelings.

After 42 years here, and a number of relationships that never lasted longer than four years, I’ve found that living alone makes life so much easier… though I’ve left the door slightly ajar just in case. 

So after four decades, you’ve given up on marriage to a Japanese! What about friendships? Are Japanese ways so different? Many Japanese themselves, though, have given up intimacy. They do have the best sex dolls! In Tokyo, I saw a man singing alone at a karaoke parlor. Japanese friends told me it’s not unusual. In Donald Richie’s accounts from half a century ago, they were still intensely communal. What went wrong? Are they even lonelier than Americans?

-Friendships in Japan have been rewarding for me, but now that I’m nearly 64 years old I find the types of friendships I had in my 20s onwards are/were different than they are now. I guess it all boils down to not needing to be intimately involved with someone or groups now that I’m older, and no doubt more set in my ways.

Japanese society seems to have changed for the worse over the decades, from being very communal back in the early 80s to today, when people seem to want to be left alone, free of societal bonds, responsibilities and norms, e.g., family, neighborhood, work. There’s even the “Hikikomori”, people who shut themselves indoors, away from others—sometimes even family members. A lot went wrong. Lifetime employment is no more.  Families aren’t as tight as they used to be. Japan seems to have become quite “Americanized” in many ways that are  quite negative for society: namely, a plunging birthrate as young people aren’t dating (or having sex) as much as before, let alone marrying and having children. 

With soccer stars in Europe and baseball ones in the USA, Japanese have become much more visible in the West. Outstanding Japanese have moved to the US for decades, however, but scientists, academics and entrepreneurs aren't too visible. Do you see this exodus slowing down or reversed? There’s a nuisance streamer, Johnny Somali, who made the news recently. No country needs that guy, but are American immigrants welcomed in Japan?

-Regarding visibility of Japanese celebrities—sports stars vs. others—it’s true the former do get more of the spotlight than the latter. But whenever a Japanese national is honored with, say, a Nobel Prize, or the Palm d’Or, a big fuss is made of it for at least one news cycle. As Japan weakens further I foresee a continued outward exodus of brains to all points worldwide. Meanwhile, Japan needs immigrants/migrants to do the jobs that can’t be filled by a dwindling Japanese population. Therefore, all educated/trained foreigners, Americans included, are being welcomed with all kinds of special work/residency visas.

You’ve lived in Philly, Portugal, Turkey, Hawaii and Japan. I’ve also spent extended time in various countries. Further, we agree humanity’s immediate future isn’t exactly sunshiny. As everything worsens, I’d rather be Vietnam, Cambodia, Laos, Indonesia, Serbia, Albania or even Lebanon than the US! Are you in the right place for what’s ahead, and why? Philly ranks at the bottom of my list. Would you live there again for any reason?

-I agree, Philly ranks at the bottom of my list, too, as a place to live and I have no desire to ever even visit there again. I do have family member who still live in the suburbs north of Philly, in Montgomery County, and life seems to be far safer for them there than in the city.

Here in Japan, I think the government had done a good job of controlling immigration until they allowed thousands of Ukrainians to come ashore. Isn’t it odd that they would allow entry to people from the other side of the globe, caucasians from Eastern Europe, when they’ve never opened the border to fellow Asians from war-torn countries? A most sickening display of virtue signalling I’ve ever seen.

Still, I can only hope that I’m in the right place for what’s coming. I foresee an economic downturn on a global scale, that’s why I’ve done some stockpiling and really got into prepping about 15 years ago. I learned how to grow various kinds of food year-round. I have monthly expenses that can be reduced if necessary, but no debt.

The casualty and death tolls from the mRNA jabs are rising; AstraZeneca just pulled its poison off the market, but it’s too little too late. The killing fields in Ukraine and Palestine are covered with the dead of innocents. Myanmar’s killing fields are quite bloody, too. 

As long as Japan’s government can remain uninvolved in these global conflicts ,and stay true to its (imposed) pacifist constitution, I think this will be a good place to watch the foolish gladiators elsewhere do battle. I understand, as a military veteran, the importance of defensing one’s own borders. But what the USA has been doing for well over 100 years has to come to and end, either peacefully or violently. Where are the saner minds in government, and are there any left after the purges of the Obama years? We’ll see.

Continue to take good care of your health, Linh. In the last four years since I quit drinking I’ve never felt better, at least not since I quit once before in my late teens when I lived in Turkey.

If you like, I can send you my daily nutrient supplement list. What the heck, I’ll tack it on here: Oregano Oil, Glucosamine, Aged Black Garlic, Fish oil, Vitamin D3, Vitamin C, Vitamin E, Bcomplex, Coq10, Alpha lipoic, Magnesium/calcium/zinc, Beta carotene, L-Carnatine, Benfotiamine, L-lysine, Curcumin, Natto extract, Resveratrol, Dandelion Tea, Pine needle Tea and Chaga Tea.

Gertrude Jekyll, “A garden is a grand teacher. It teaches patience and careful watchfulness; it teaches industry and thrift; above all it teaches entire trust.”

Hard Folks Still Sweet

As published at SubStack, 5/8/24:

[itinerant seller of lottery tickets at 5:07AM in Vung Tau on 5/7/24]

Waiting for Sacombank to open, I’m sitting at a nearby cafe. There are three in this neighborhood I prefer. At the next table are three men and a woman, all past 50. Speaking in a low, conspiratorial voice, a man with a northern accent addressed the woman, “When young, you must have been terrifying!”

“I was evil,” she laughs. “There were eight men in my neighborhood. I tried six. The other two were too ugly.”

“If alive, they must have nightmares about you. You were terrifying!”

Drawing on her cigarette, she pauses as if to consider if she’s insulted or flattered. Then, “At fifteen, I already knew what to do. I hung out at a gambling den to do whatever that’s needed. I served drinks, food, shuffled cards.” She smiles. “I ate well.”

“You’re lucky the cops didn’t raid it.”

“If the girls were arrested, who would raise their children?!” Then, “I didn’t just do that. I could sell 300 lottery tickets in a day.”

“You never stood against a wall!”

“That, I never did.”

Second man, “At this age, I’ve tried everything. Dead, I’m daddy!”

Tiny ants have just bitten my toes. I pause to rub them out. Since the coffee here is true, I order a second glass.

Woman, “Today, I’ll have to put the Westerner in the hospital. His kids have stopped sending money. Oozing all over, he stinks up the house. He’s near death. Last time he stayed in the hospital for just over a month. It’s a hundred dollars a night. His kids can’t afford it any more.”

“So who will pay this time?”

“Maybe his embassy. I can’t change his diapers for free.”

“He’ll die soon anyway.”

“We’ve reached the end. I did all I could.”

Running into the street, she spits onto the asphalt then returns. Some people are hard, and it’s not just from what they’ve been through. My Scranton buddy, Chuck Orloski, was in the army, then got a job cleaning toxic spills or picking up bits of flesh from suicides hit by a train. On his hands and knees, Chuck had to pick out the least bloody bit a quarter mile away. After some lovely lady had decided to give this world her finger, Chuck had to make sure none of her brain splatters was stuck to a corner of the motel ceiling. Still, Chuck is soft as shit, man, and if you’re reading this, that’s a compliment.

Chuck’s buddy, Jack Reese, though, is lethal. You can tell from his voice alone. Most mortals are terrified to shake Jack’s hand. Though I would certainly want Jack on my side in any fight, he might just kill me afterwards, out of pity or disgust. Laughing off his twenty years locked up, Jack would rather talk about freezing Kensington whores after a slow night, when a sweet discount could be had. Keep in mind also people’s survival instinct. Those well fucked over are more likely to fuck you up.

It’s the next day. No, not after the bomb, just the earth’s rotation. I’m at a sidewalk cafe on Tú Xương, named after a poet. In Novi Sad, Serbia, I ran into statues of poets Đura Jakšić, Laza Kostić, Jaša Tomić, Mika Antić and Jovan Jovanović Zmaj. Granted, two of them were also politicians, but still. Corruption of language heralds implosion of society.

The 55-cent coffee here is excellent. When I asked the lady about her blend, she said vaguely four or five kinds, without naming any. She wouldn’t even divulge if they were domestic or foreign. Perhaps she’s fearful I would steal her secret to destroy her business. Tomorrow, she suspects, I’ll open my own cafe right across the street. Though smiling, my glaring eyes will tell her she’s been had. Charging 54 cents, I’ll toll her death knell.

At the next table, there’s a man with a meticulous tattoo of an anchor on his neck. Growing up in Saigon half a century ago, the only tatts I saw were crude, such as “SÁT CỘNG” [“KILL COMMIES”] on the arm of a South Vietnamese Marine at my uncle Bao’s funeral. Thumping, anxiety inducing music has also made it to these shores.

There’s much to worry about. On my block, a bakery and a bar have sunk. The owner of my homestay, Trọng, used to clear $4,000 a month, though much of it came from planning top notch weddings. With his income shrinking, Trọng will emigrate to the USA. He’s scored a visa. Once in paradise, Trọng will find ways to promote his Vung Tau businesses. It’s all very vague. When I asked where he intended to settle, Trọng couldn’t even name a state. Heaven is a concept and fable.

Desperate for guests, Trọng is allowing a methhead to rent long-term. Three days ago, this asshole went berserk and damaged a door. He also did something on the street which got him arrested. I have no idea if he’s released. His wife and kids are still in the room. Two kiddie bikes in candy colors are still there.

DC Homestay suits me fine. Before heading out each dawn, I now swim in its shallow pool for maybe twenty minutes. In the dark under a faint moon with only sporadic clicks from geckos, I heal. In the afternoon, I can soak in the ocean. There are no bikini babes at Front Beach, only those who are just grateful to still be bobbing. In conical hats, masks and pyjamas, hags giggle and splash. Wrinkly men with sunken chests don’t have to look at themselves.

Hard shells conceal sadness and fear. Even Jack Reese is essentially a melancholic boy. Most touchingly, children man up.

[Chuck Orloski and Jack Reese in Ashland, PA on 6/16/15]

[Vung Tau, 5/6/24]

[Vung Tau, 4/29/24]

[Vung Tau, 4/25/24]

No Love for Losers

As published at SubStack, 5/8/24:

[Tirana, 4/1/21]

I write often about ordinary people just trying to get by. After an article mentioning a retired lifelong worker in Philly who slept for free on someone’s floor, I got this comment:

I bought a camera at a yard sale over near the tire factory. I paid $6 for it, but the worker who bought it in 1963 paid $189 for it. I did the math. $189 in Coca Cola stock in 1963 would be $538,000 today.

Poverty is not a problem that money can solve. Most every yard sale I go to, even in the crappiest hoods, are festooned with Karaoke machines, G Foreman grills, flat-screen tvs, and boxes of movies on DVD. Poor people are poor because they follow the book “How to be broke forever, you Dummy” to the letter.

1) Do drugs 2) Get pregnant out of wedlock 3) Get divorced 4) Get arrested 5) Get tattoos 6) Borrow money 7) Gamble.

Since there’s no indication the man I described was a drugged or tatted up felon, borrowed money, gambled or was ever pregnant out of wedlock, why did “Anonymous” leave this comment? Granted, he’s divorced, but most American marriages end that way, often without the wish of one partner.

As for anyone’s failure to buy Coca Cola stocks in 1963, that’s just retarded. $189 back then equaled half a month’s wage for many people. After paying rent and buying grocery, there’s nothing left to invest. Plus, the national mood was optimistic. No one anticipated America would turn into a burning, half sinking ship filled with the angry, desperate or smug.

In 1982, I barely graduated from Thomas Jefferson High School in Northern Virginia. This was before it became an elite institution. My three closest friends were Brian Robertson, Phil Brenner and Kelvin Nash. Brian and Phil were freaks, meaning they smoked pot. It was easy enough to buy it at school. Kelvin, I played basketball with.

The Beatles’ “Lucy in the Sky with Diamond,” released in 1967, was a classic, as was Eric Clapton’s “Cocaine” (1977). Cheech and Chong’s Up in Smoke came out in 1978.

Another close friend was David Logue, a Beatles freak. Lennon was his favorite. The murdered singer’s responsible for “Tomorrow Never Knows” and “She Said She Said,” both inspired by LSD. “Doctor Robert” is about Lennon’s pill dispenser. “You’ll pay money just to see yourself.” Only nerds shun self-discovery.

In college, I smoked pot in the dorm and did coke with a professor. Later, I dropped acid at Dirty Frank’s. My main mood enhancer, though, was alcohol. I never liked clear liquor. Jameson was no nonsense and cheap enough. Hennessy was too expensive. Bailey’s was a comfort beverage reserved for special occasions. Liking its name, I guzzled Southern Comfort but found its sweetness embarrassing, so I stopped. Mostly, I drank local cheap beers Rolling Rock and Yuengling. When I could afford it, I ordered Guinness.

Growing up in America from the 60’s onward meant sampling, at least, all sorts of alcohols and drugs. As for pregnancy out of wedlock, it’s common enough with nonmarital sex constantly pushed. Incels don’t yearn for a spouse, just many fuckmates. As for incurring debts, it starts with going to college, then buying a car and house. The system is designed to keep you paying compound interest for life. Tattoos didn’t become a fad until the late 80’s, but now, every American child wants to be fabulously inked, just like his favorite singers, actors and athletes. Wanting or needing more than they can afford, many lapse into crime, starting with shoplifting and stealing from your boss. If the president on down is a thief, why not pinch a few items?

Growing up in the USA is mostly about conforming to a tribe, as defined by pop culture. At Jefferson, most kids belonged to the heavy metal one, as inflected by the South, so they listened to AC/DC, Led Zeppelin, Van Halen, Lynyrd Skynyrd and Charlie Daniels, etc. If you were into the Bee Gees, Chicago or KC and the Sunshine Band, you could expect to eat lunch alone. Despite all this, one could still define oneself independently. Two kids I knew were into Devo. Hearing Lester Bowie’s “Great Pretender” on WPFW in 1981, I was so excited, I called the station to gush. Brian and I listened attentively to Bix Beiderbecke, Jelly Roll Morton and Thelonious Monk. We saw his long-time collaborator, Charlie Rouse, in DC.

The increasing depravity of American pop culture is intentional. Concurrent with this is an indifference or hostility to high arts. There’s not much thinking left either. The mindless are easier to steer and stoke. Doped up and distracted, most have no idea why they’re going broke.

Broker than anyone is Uncle Sam. He spends money he doesn’t have on wars for Jews and Israel. With “FREEDOM,” “DEMOCRACY” and “HUMAN RIGHTS” tattooed on his neck, Samuel rapes the Statue of Liberty to spawn millions whose only hope is to enlist to kill and die for Lockheed Martin, Black Rock, Boeing, Raytheon, General Electrics, Goldman Sachs and Jews.

Illegal immigrants flooding in ensures there’s a constant pool of the desperate fighting over shit jobs. Dazed, impotent, isolated and overly horny, they’re liable to ingest anything just to feel a bit better after another impossibly long day. Thumping, monotonous music with idiotic or nonsensical lyrics reflects their scrambled brains.

The average rent for a Manhattan apartment is $4,831. In Los Angeles, it’s merely $2,691! Smirking at tent cities sprouting all over, there are those who think it’s still 1963. If a president could be shot without consequence, anything is possible.

Anyone with memories of 1963 has his finish line in sight. Raising his arms, he exudes over all he has achieved. Feeling so virile suddenly, he has to refrain from dropping his pants to show all these whiny losers what he’s made of.

When I was your age, I had already fought in several wars, started a profitable business, married a virgin and fathered kids who didn’t turn out homos or rappers. I also bought a fine house in a negro-free neighborhood for just $13,000. I only tried pot once and, just like Bill Clinton, I didn’t inhale. As online porn became widely available, I’ve limited myself to just one jerk off a day. Unlike you, I have discipline. My generation went to the moon.

[Cape Town, 8/31/21]

[Podgorica, 7/15/21]

[Beirut, 12/15/20]

[Beirut, 12/1/20]

Di Nic’s in Deep South Philly

As published at SubStack, 5/4/24:

[Di Nic’s in South Philly, 3/22/15]

The way we were:

3/22/15, with elaborations in 2024—I came in hoping to see Johnny, the gangster and meth dealer who had been locked up for 29 years. Three weeks earlier, I had said, “Are you Polish?”

Glaring, Johnny seethed, “I ought to kill you!”

Johnny is Sicilian. He has enlarged nuts plus other medical problems. Johnny admires the Irish, “They can outdrink you, outfuck you, outfight you. I wouldn’t fuck with the Irish.”

Today, I met another Johnny. This one’s 67 and sleeps on the living room floor for free at this lady’s house. They hadn’t known each other before.

Is it just pity? What is she getting out of it? If she doesn’t have to feed and clean after Johnny, she’s not losing anything but privacy. Maybe she’s had too much of it. Countless lives are filled with meaningless privacy. In her underwear or naked, she again watches TV alone on her flabby sofa. Its springs she can feel with her bony ass. If her sofa or ass had lungs, it would sigh along with her.  

To not get in her way, Johnny sits in Di Nic’s as much as possible. I bought him beer. After the second mug, Patty the bartender yelled at me.

“Can you believe she fuckin’ yelled at me for buying you beer?”

“I wouldn’t worry about it. She’s just acting like a woman. There’s no rhyme or reason to it. My wife was like that.”

Johnny gets $500 a month in social securities. His divorce left him broke. For 30 years, Johnny worked for the phone company. He climbed poles. He was also a caddy, plus this and that.

Patty had two other reasons to be pissed off at me. As she was getting my beer, the cooler door fell on her toes and cracked a nail. It hurt so bad, she was sobbing and, frankly, most people would have gone home, if not sued the bar owner. Patty worked through it because she couldn’t afford to lose the day’s income. As she hobbled back and forth, her right sock turned red from the blood.

Hours later, she finally dabbed some vodka onto her messed up toes and changed socks. A customer had gone home to get some gauze. He had also bought for her three pairs of socks.

When some broad showed excessive concern for Patty’s toes, she snapped, “I’m tougher than you’ll ever be.” Indignant, the broad stormed out, but she’ll be back soon enough, I’m sure.

Lastly, Patty got angry because a customer had played some Sun Ra for me.

“What is this shit?!”

"Sun Ra. We were talking about Sun Ra, so I played some for him.”

Patty shot me murderous eyes. At Di Nic’s, they prefer Billie Joel, Elton John, Jim Croce, Sisters Sledge, Sam Cooke, Marvin Gaye, Beatles, Rolling Stones and Cat Stevens, etc.

Among Philadelphians, Sun Ra was even weirder than Father Divine. An alien from Saturn, Sun Ra led the Arkestra. His musicians lived in three houses in Strawberry Mansion. That’s also Coltrane’s neighborhood. I caught just one Arkestra concert, a few years before Sun Ra evaporated from this cosmos.

The man who played Sun Ra for me had a son at Evergreen College. He was delighted I had even heard of the Olympia, Washington college. His kid wanted to become a writer. I told him I had given a poetry reading there, and had twice been featured on its radio station. Evergreen’s most famous alumnus is Rachel Corrie. After she was crushed by an Israeli bulldozer, the US did nothing.

Born in Port Richmond, Patty pretends she’s a Kensington bitch. With its nodding zombies, skanky whores, gun and knife homicides and overdose galore, Kenzo is edgier. With her frizzy hair, tired eyes, dangling cigarette and solid, no nonsense boobies, Patty appears tough yet sexy enough.

Catching me sneaking a shot, Patty commanded, “Take a picture of my ass, and make sure it looks good.” Starvation, trauma, boredom, skin tint or just a clogged sacral chakra, so much goes into how you perceive eyes, lips, sibilants and butt cheeks, with or without jeans. Staring in the mirror, she fixed her bra and said to no one in particular, “I’ve got to make sure my nipples are lined up.”

Jews moved out of South Philly decades ago, then the better off Italians. To replace them, Mexicans, Chinese, Indonesians, Vietnamese, Cambodians and Laos now live in tight rowhouses that were austere enough when new. With their old ways, each wave of immigrants cheers up sidewalks. Sick of suburbs, yuppies and trust funded hipsters have also surged back. In boulangers and wine bars, they lounge along Passyunk below Dickinson.

Stepping outside, I could see the Melrose Diner. Around since 1956, its menu has evolved, so along old timey classics like corned beef hash, creamed chipped beef, Reuben sandwich and butter cream cake, there are stir fried chicken over rice, chicken quesadilla, lamb gyro and frappucino.

Chrome on diners pointed to a future with flying cars, robotic maids and three-day work week. At Melrose, its charming sign with a clock on a coffee cup belongs to that hopeful past.

In 1638, John Wilkins already imagined that, within his lifetime, man could explore space in a winged chariot. Such long distance travel without access to earthly food wouldn’t be a problem. Free from gravity, man wouldn’t need to eat. On the moon, earthlings would likely discover inhabitants. “How happy shall they be,” Wilkins said of the first to reach the moon.  

If there’s YouTube in heaven, Wilkins must check out that Apollo 11 Post Flight Press Conference. Triumphantly returned to earth, Neil Armstrong, Buzz Aldrin and Michael Collins were oddly morose.

Falling far short of Saturn, they had reasons to feel like losers, if not phonies. Sun Ra kicks ass.

 

[Maria and Marco in Di Nic’s on 3/30/15]

[Patty in Di Nic’s on 3/22/15]

[Erin at Fatso’s in South Philly on 5/27/18]

[Fatso’s on 6/3/18]

Jewish Music for the End

As published at SubStack, 5/1/24:

One “Linh Dinh” has just pointed out Jack Yellen’s masterpiece, “Happy Days Are Here Again!” was released as the Great Depression started. Predictably, a Holocaust denier and violent Hamas supporter leapt in to spew, “Jews will compose the score for the end of the world.” Batty Dinh then released Happy Days Are Here Again!

At $16.99 for 192 pages of AI generated or copy-and-paste garbage, I can’t imagine any fool buying his “book.” Its pitch is bad enough, “Read here about Katy Perry, Bob Dylan, Chris Chan, Barbra Streisand, Ron Unz, Jewjabs…” Three Jews followed by “Jewjabs” exposes this “author” as just another Jew basher. Slyly, he wedges a white supremacist pervert, Chris Chan, between two Hebraic geniuses.

Evoking the Great Depression, the idiot implies something is wrong with the economy, but consider this 4/14/24 Wall Street Journal headline, “‘Envy of the World’—U.S. Economy Expected to Keep Powering Higher.” Would you believe some self-publishing clown or the Wall Street Journal? The US economy isn’t just strong, but the universe’s envy.

Jewish Nobelist Pau Krugman concurs, “When it comes to economic news, we’ve had so much winning that we’ve gotten tired of winning, or at any rate blasé about it. Last week, we got another terrific employment report—job growth for 39 straight months—and it feels as if hardly anyone noticed.”

Enough with the economy, let’s talk Katy Perry! I never tire of admiring that fine shiksa in “Bon Appetit”! Celebrating female beauty and empowerment, it’s a feminist classic. Just 27 seconds in, we get a crotch shot of Perry under a plastic sheet, a lovely carcass ready to be butchered, but no, this blonde babe is still alive!

Nine men enter the creepy, blue lit freezer, but it’s no gang bang, so don’t fap yet. These dudes of color are just cooks! A chef’s knife comes down hard near her triangle. Perry’s curving hip rises in the half dark. To whiten her further, this pale chick is tossed into flour, you know the joke, but she ain’t fat. They knead Perry’s ass, twist her doughy legs impossibly then lift them up, so a tantalizing cunt tease can be seen from above. Since pricks do point up, but not that, this vaginal vista is artfully blasphemous. Hallelujah!

Thanks to Lucian Grange and Sherry Lansing, Perry’s transformation from some gospel singing girl to world class whore is complete. Her sick Christian mother forbade Perry to eat Lucky Charms since “luck” sounds like “Lucifer.” In her insane household, deviled eggs became “angeled eggs.” These broke assed crackers got by on foodstamps and their church pantry.

Without the music industry, Katy Perry, Justin Bieber, Taylor Swift, Miley Cyrus and Lady Gaga would be eating dogfood.

With flaxen hair extending to her elbows, Perry lies on a chopping board, singing, as chopped onion, tomato, carrot, yellow squash, parsley, celery and pointed cabbage are bombarded onto her prone body. Tilted, she slides into a boiling crock pot. With her eyes glazed orgasmically, Perry settles in as if she’s in a jacuzzi. Shiksa has never had it so good. High living for entertaining plebians has its price.

So you want some more?
Well, I'm open 24 (woo)
Wanna keep you satisfied
Customer's always right (woo)
Hope you've got some room?
For the world's best cherry pie (woo)
Gonna hit that sweet tooth, (ayy) boy

Her meat is basted as you bate. Perry’s stuck out tongue is scorched by a culinary torch. Shot with a purple flame, her pink lingual papillae bluely smoke. That’s hot!

Suddenly we see a tattooed Oriental in a baseball cap. Since anyone can be inducted into Satanism, why not go along? Every politician, journalist and academic has.

Wheeled into a darkly opulent room, Perry is ready to be served. The cannibal diners are richly attired, bejeweled whites. We haven’t seen any besides the shiksa. Too old to be tasty to anyone, they must stuff their faces before the end.

Lording over them are three rapping blacks with their stacks of cash and bling. If you ain’t bejeweled, you ain’t shit. So cool, the Migos wear shades in the dark. Quavo:

I grab her legs and I divide, aight
Make her do a donut when she ride, aight
Looking at the eyes of a dime, make you blind
In her spine and my diamonds change the climate (yeah)

 

American poetry has never sounded better. Licking their chops, the white cannibals sit down to their feast, but suddenly, they’re strapped to their chairs when a golden eagle is turned by black hands. This Marxist twist means these evil whites are to be eaten, not the lavishly prepared shiksa.

A metal pole rises between Perry’s legs, so she gets up to expertly perform a lecherous dance. With crimson lips and heavily made up eyebrows and lashes, she leers demonically. As money showers on the laughing blacks, sous chefs of color come out to butcher. White blood splatters. It’s all wholesome, though, because there’s a cherry pie at the end, albeit with pink fingers, toes and ears sticking out.

A conspiracist theorist like “Linh Dinh” would point out that most the video is just shiksa porn, a Jewish specialty, and though Perry isn’t eaten, other whites will be, to the blacks’ delight. Seven years ago, this Dinh nutcase wrote about Rihanna’s “Bitch Better Have My Money”:

In the video, a rich white blonde is kidnapped, stripped, hung upside down, forced to drink vodka and inhaled pot, knocked out cold, submerged under water and generally humiliated nonstop by Rihanna and two sidekicks, a Hindu and another white woman, the last inserted to blunt, not too convincingly, the song’s anti-white thrust. An idiotic, leering white cop also appears, and at the video’s end, the kidnapped blonde’s blonde husband is tied up and stabbed to death.

Again, Dinh misses the Marxist, thus hopeful, logic. After being stiffed by evil whites, a sexy and intelligent woman of color is exacting some belated payback, not just for herself, but all people of color.

Dinh’s takes are so ridiculous, he’s routinely attacked by anonymous and pseudonymous whites. Even Muslim Kevin Barrett mocks his “Jewjab” nonsense. Pfizer and Moderna mRNA vaccines are perfectly safe and effective.

Just yesterday, Dinh posted this at his trafficless blog, “K-Pop Star Park Bo Ram Dead of Cardiac Arrest at 30.” Somehow, this is further proof there’s a “Jewjab genocide.”

So paranoid, Dinh’s fled to the Third World. Leaving American freedom, prosperity and hygiene behind, he’d rather eat rats among half naked savages. Meanwhile, our winning streak continues. America will keep kicking asses for centuries.

Lactating Men Ready For War!

As published at SubStack, 4/28/24:

[New York, 4/10/14]

When Victoria Nuland resigned, many commentators saw this as proof of her failure in Ukraine. If her objective was not to beat Russia, but to have as many Slavs killed as possible, then Nuland succeeded spectacularly. This was my contention all along. Nuland’s death count is still rising.

For three years, Steve Kirsch has spoken against Covid “vaccines.” Though he has proven they’ve killed millions, Kirsch sees official denial of this as ignorance or wilful blindness, not criminal culpability. How long will it take for Kirsch to concede Jewjabs aren’t mistakes, but deliberate weapons?

Worse than Kirsch, Ron Unz attributes Jewjab deaths to Covid or long Covid. To make his point, Unz cites the Economist!

Since 2020 The Economist has maintained the most authoritative account of the human toll and by its reckoning, the total number of “excess deaths” worldwide has nearly reached thirty million, while many billions more had their lives greatly disrupted by the lockdowns and economic dislocations.

To those unfamiliar with the Economist, consider this 4/24/24 headline, “Finally, America’s Congress does right by Ukraine.” Above it is this curious tag, “Praise the Lord and pass the ammunition.” From the article:

After months of bitter wrangling, the House of Representatives passed a bill to appropriate $61bn to help Ukraine defend itself against Russia. It also passed three other bills: one to help Israel; one to deter China from attacking Taiwan; one a grab-bag of measures including forcing the sale of TikTok to a non-Chinese owner. All four bills are now expected to pass the Senate within days, and President Joe Biden will sign them.

In other word, the Economist wants more American tax money to massacre Slavs and Palestinians, while provoking China by arming Taiwan and hijacking TikTok. In article after article, it’s the voice of the global elite, so of course it would push the Jewjab genocide. Jewish Ron Unz approves, and shame on Muslim Kevin Barrett for mirroring Unz’ stance.

To “help” Ukraine, Israel and Taiwan is to rush America into WWIII, so the Economist wants war. To fight one requires strong men, social cohesion and a robust economy, none of which America has. The Economist’s stances on illegal immigration and gender dysphoria aren’t helping. On 2/23/24, it asked, “Can transgender women breast feed?” By terminology alone, it misleads, for humans without ovaries aren’t women. Near the end of its 696 word article, the Economist concludes:

Breastfeeding by transgender women can help them bond with a baby. However, it would be prudent to assume, at least until there is more evidence, that their milk might not have all the nutritional benefits of female breast milk. If it did, evolution would probably have favoured its use some time ago.

Why compare nonexistent male breast milk to a mother’s? There’s no need to prefix mother with “biological” or “natural.” Until bullshitters like the Economist came along, everyone knew mothers to be women.

As for illegal immigration, here are two recent Economist headlines, “Italy needs more migrants, but has trouble admitting it” and “Migrants contribute more to Britain than they take, and will carry on doing so.” There’s this subtitle after the second, “Reducing immigration will hurt now, and in the future.”

Despite its name, the Economist covers every facet of society, including fashion and music, so it has many articles celebrating Madonna, Diddy, Taylor Swift, Justin Bieber and Miley Cyrus, etc. These industry whores’ appearances in such a respectable mag for clueless squares go a long way in legitimizing them. Reading the Economist, even Ron Unz knows all about grime, drill rap and twerking.

Of that most violent genre, the Economist reassures us “there is little evidence that drill songs lead directly to offline aggression.” Jewjabs are also perfectly safe and effective, even for infants and pregnant women.

America’s key enemies are Russia, China and Iran. Unlike Uncle Sam, they don’t push crossdressers, lactating men, illegal immigration, degenerate music, blasphemy or hatred of one’s heritage. They don’t have 8-year-old drill rappers glamorizing flash robberies, bearded drag queens confusing kindergarteners or a naked man on stage at an award show. As for Jewjabs, they’re not available in Russia, with distribution in Iran very limited. In China, only Germans can be Jewjabbed! Rejecting America’s social agenda, these countries have a clear advantage in any confrontation, so what in hell is high heeled Samuel doing?

Civil War has just been released. In Vietnam, its title has been changed to Ngày Tàn Của Đế Quốc, or An Empire’s Last Days. After its civil war, Vietnam has more or less recovered. Reverting to their age old habits, good and bad, Vietnamese worship Taoist gods, visit fortune tellers, run red lights, eat out often and can sit for hours in alleys or cafes to watch life goes by. Though canned music and the cellphone have eroded their sociability, they still have a sane appetite for yakking.

Though Civil War is billed as a dystopian depiction of a future America, that war is well underway. Everything the US does harms its citizens. Its mind scrambling, economic crippling, Jewjabbing and literal castrations are just the beginning. Ridden hard, Uncle Sam wants most of you gone.

Since most Americans don’t know they’re in a civil war, almost none is fighting back. Plus, that’s too much to ask from those thoroughly cowed, if not cross dressing and trying their best to squeeze some nipple discharge from their flabby or sunken chest, as they twerk to Sexyy Red.

Self-Love in the Age of Resource Depletion

As published at SubStack, 4/25/24:

[Chris Chan in 2008]

This week, I got a message from a French buddy stuck in Cambodia. He’d rather be in Vietnam but, having overstayed his visa the last time, he’s not allowed in. Resource depletion means war:

I’m OK in Kampot, preparing popcorn for WW3. Fuck.

French Legion division headed for Odessa it seems.

War economy, war time media crackdown underway in Europe, and I’m sitting here urging a Cambodian Army colonel to push his country to join BRICS.

France is basically at war with Russia, I can’t believe it.

My family and I have had strong ties with Russia. My mother went to USSR twice and my brother learned Russian and studied one year in Moscow […]

Sucks. I wish peaceful coexistence was possible. Competition around remaining fossil energy reserves are the main obstacle.

The world has unfortunately entered a rat race for the remaining fossil fuels, while the West is feeping its population false narratives to stoke anti-Russian, anti-Arab and anti-Persian hatred. No wonder. They collectively have more than 80% of commercially available remaining fossil fuels.

US tight oil and gas production relies largely on subsidies, but this can’t last forever. Thus Biden’s freeze on new LNG export projects for the near future. Europe is poised to stand naked. Macron is playing all-in: no other possible way out.

It’s not just fossil fuels being depleted, but everything except population growth, so there isn’t enough land, minerals, ground water, top soil, trees, seafood and unspoiled vistas for spoiled and overweight useless eaters with redundant skills.

Yuval Noah Harari, “What will happen to the job market once artificial intelligence outperforms humans in most cognitive tasks? What will be the political impact of a massive new class of economically useless people? What will happen to relationships, families and pension funds when nanotechnology and regenerative medicine turn eighty into the new fifty?”

Science will only extend life for the elites. For the rest of us, millions in their prime are already gasping, hobbling or contorted like old men, if not dropping dead, due to “perfectly safe and effective” Jewjabs.

A brilliant people, Jews have so much to teach us morons. The Jewish state itself is a continual lesson. With deception and force, it’s a white backed genocide to serve Jewish aims. Much worse than the Belgians in the Congos or Germans in Namibia, non-Semitic Jews have been slaughtering Palestinians in full view for decades, as racist and cowardly whites cheer. Uncle Toms in the West have also joined in.

Vivek Ramaswamy, “I personally hope for a successful in-and-out operation, and would love nothing more than for the IDF to put the heads of the top 100 Hamas leaders on stakes and line them up on the Israel-Gaza border as a sign that October 7, 2023, will never happen again, and then use all of its saved resources to rebuild its border defenses for the future.”

More, “Now is the moment for Israel to return to its founding premise: the Jewish State has an absolute right to exist. A Divine gift, gifted to a Divine nation, charged with a Divine purpose. Israel has an absolute and unequivocal right and responsibility to defend itself to the fullest, applying the only language its adversaries understand: the language of force.”

Pussified Christians ignore coreligionists being spat on and beaten up by Jews where Jesus once tread. What do you expect from those who can only jerk off online pseudonymously as their homelands are wrecked by Jews? “I wouldn’t want to dox myself,” declares a quaking white nationalist! Meekly, they wait for the next “election” to “vote” for a Jewish sanctioned clown. Trump, Biden, Kennedy, Ramaswamy or Hillary belong to the same glee club as penile pianist Zelensky. It’s the same three chords over and over.

Demographics is destiny. Nationalism diluted or demonized leads to suicide. Jews know this well, but so do Vietnamese, Thais, Chinese, Russians, Serbs, Hungarians and every African tribe. In every field, men compete against each other. So do nations. Only the jejune or hypocritical deny this.

Stay clear of Jewish taboos and you’re freer than ever! Sick fantasies are fine, and fame has never been cheaper. Hairy priapic men with shotput balls for nuts can suddenly declare themselves Marilyn Monroes. Those who have a problem with that are trapped in a racist, sexist, transphobic and Fascistic past, with the older more likely to cling to an obsolete “normal.” If Jewjabbed and boostered, they’ll die soon anyway, so who cares?

Dead before the internet, Warhol famously said, “In the future, everyone will be world-famous for 15 minutes.” And, “I’m a deeply superficial person.” We’re living that world, where appearance trumps reality. To be seen is all that matters.

“Fame” should be America’s new anthem:

Baby, look at me
And tell me what you see
You ain’t seen the best of me yet
Give me time, I’ll make you forget the rest

[...]

I’m gonna live forever
I’m gonna learn how to fly (High!)
I feel it coming together
People will see me and cry (Fame!)
I’m gonna make it to heaven
Light up the sky like a flame (Fame!)

Fame, then, is attaining heaven without dying. Michael Gore, née Goldstein, is right on!

As for the quintessential American, I’d like to nominate Christine Chandler. Though all you doddering farts may be unaware of this larger than life lady, Chandler has a vast Wikipedia-like website devoted to her. Moreover, she’s a collective creation of countless Americans. With astounding ingenuity, they have guided and prodded Chandler through all her emblematic transformations.

They had him sing, “I sexually identify as an attack helicopter” and “I’ve been involved in numerous secret raids on Al-Qaeda, and I have over 300 confirmed kills!” Chandler’s an American hero non pareil.

To much hoopla, Bruce Jenner only came out as a transgendered woman in 2015, but Chandler was already in his mom’s bra and panties in 2008. Granted, Chandler had never won the decathlon or accomplished anything, but he would outdo Jenner spectacularly. With denial of reality America’s religion, Chandler thought he could grow a vagina just by thinking about it. When this didn’t happen quickly enough, Chandler slit his taint so his cunt could emerge. Only the bravest can be so bold. Caitlyn Jenner wouldn’t dare.

“Love is Love” must replace “In God We Trust” on dollar bills. Brave and candid, Chandler wrote in 2016, “Anyhow, who among Everyone in this world has not had a dream of having sex with one of their parents? Never acting on them ever, I, myself, Did have dreams of having sex with my mother.” No later than 2021, Chandler acted on this frank desire. His mother, Barbara, was 80-years-old. In 2020, Chandler had already labeled her Mother of the Year. His love for her is unequivocal and total.

Still responsive to the human touch, Chandler is already passé perhaps? Progress never stops. More cutting edge is Thaddeus McMichael:

The human would be a pain in the ass. She would get on my nerves and bleed every month from her pussy. Mai waifu does none of that, just 24/7 of loving and she’s soft as a pillow at night. I love sleeping with her. Can you say the same for your “real” women?

Self reliance has always been an American value, and nothing is more iconically American than the lone hero. After Buffalo Bill, Billy the Kid, the Lone Ranger, Clark Kent and Rambo, we can now celebrate Thaddeus McMichael.

[Thaddeus McMichael with his “waifu,” Kotonoha]