In Richard’s case, fate had him stuck next to one Randy Scheunemann. Despite the discomfort, it was instructive (for me, anyway) to learn who this man was - an insider neo-con, influential during the W. Bush Administration and in fact, a member of Project For A New American Century, a.k.a., Operation Clean Break (to secure the ‘realm’ around Israel). Scheunmann was one of its loud voices advocating all of its wars and military operations going on behalf of Israel, using The U.S. and any other nation it could press into its service. But once out of a job with the “neo-cons” out of office, there he was, helplessly hovering, captive with an enemy.
My own experience in the fate of helplessly hovering did not have me placed in the company of an enemy, but with a man who was on amicable terms, could have been a good friend. Instead I ruined his day and caused a very uncomfortable, seemingly endless ski-lift ride to the top of Aspen Mountain. As this particular episode did not highlight the large fall of a once prominent man, but the pathetic bungling of normal relations, I intend to examine rather what I believe to be a non-trivial aspect – and that is the connection of fate. It is not my purpose to state that I have anything like a sufficient explanation yet for the meaning of fate. Rather, that I am compelled to believe in its more or less possibility – whereas I had not, and would not take the notion of fate seriously prior to experiences which I will recount.
Unlike Richard Spencer, I have been skiing exactly twice in my life. The first time was in the White Mountains of New Hampshire. Having taken my ski lessons and mastered what was called “the intermediate slope” quite handily, I developed a bit of hubris in my ability – at least for the intermediate slope. I tried the advanced slope once and could not even stand before falling and being jettisoned downward. Nevertheless, even little kids were whisking down past me and I could not believe how they did it – I only realized that I could not handle the advanced slope.
Satisfied nevertheless, I returned to my hostel that evening (but did of course I see an interracial couple on the way, in case anyone believes New Hampshire is immune). One of the townies was there talking about how he advocated Pat Buchanan, who was running for Presidency (was that the year he had a Negro running mate? Perhaps); it struck me as strange for a kid that young to be promoting Pat (whom I never thought to be very good - “rather than ‘the sewer of multiculturalism’ all Americans should integrate as English speaking Christians” - good thinking, Pat. No wonder the mainstream media kept you around as a convenient foil all those years), but I appreciated his defiant conservatism. New Hampshire was one of the few places where Buchanan could win. Fate was kicking in, the trance recollections before and during my recent trip to Europe from which I’d just returned were prompting me..
There were some English skiers there at the hostel. A couple of young lads and an older English gent there solo. I could not forget his name, as it was Hamilton. We talked candidly about race. He expressed his admiration at how Germany had built their country right back up after World War II. When discussing the problems of our respective European nationalities, he gritted his teeth and said, “Jews!” I was not ready to go there. I still needed to hold breadth that this may be in some part, if not primarily a distraction from deeper issues. It was probably not in that moment but somewhere in that evening that I felt myself being aware that I was outside of my normal consciousness, castigating (laced with the vilest profanity) the girls running the hostel, one from France in particular, for being a nation of feminist bitches. They apparently understood that this was a trance as they calmly instructed me the next morning that I had to visit North Hampton - as I had told them that they were going to tell me to go to North Hampton in the next few days to meet my fate among the greatest concentration of lesbians in The U.S., North Hampton being the proximity of two of America’s most prestigious women’s colleges – Smith and Mount Holyoke.
The parting with Mr. Hamilton did not go as I might have liked. It was clear that we were both dearly committed to defending Europe against liberalism and non-Europeans. I had told him in the trance state the evening before that you can trust a man if you can look him dead in the eye and he does not look away. The next morning Mr. Hamilton had a big smile on his face as he saw me (my trances always seemed to have a healing effect on people); we shook hands in parting, he looked me dead in the eye; but I turned my eyes away and a puzzled frown came across his face. Though I regret making myself didactically untrustworthy in that instant, I know now that I did that because I did not yet know enough to express full enough agreement with him. That day, Hamilton, a Thomas Hamilton rather, massacred school children in Dunblane, Scotland. So it must have been the 13th of March 1996.
Hubris meets Nemesis
My hubris in prevailing over the intermediate slope of the White Mountains is humbled by the Nemesis of Aspen’s “intermediate” slope.
The next and last time I went skiing was in March again, four years later, in 2000, a few weeks after my father passed away. I had to drive his car from New Jersey to my brother in Arizona. On the way I decided to try skiing again – this time in Aspen, Colorado, on Aspen Mountain precisely. I must have made an awkward sight in my Carhartt pants amidst all other people equipped in proper skiing attire. But such was my hubris, I had mastered the intermediate slopes in The White Mountains. I could do this, just as I am. I rented my skis, took a day pass and hopped on the ski-lift next to a guy maybe around my age, late 30’s, obviously a nice guy – as one who clearly had experience, he nevertheless told me not to worry about my pants; and gave me some tips; to watch what other people were doing and encouraged me to have fun. We proceeded to talk and he said that he enjoyed hot air balloon racing.
I quickly chimed in with the story of the two balloonists who had accidentally drifted over Belarus the prior September, only to be shot as helpless sitting ducks. As I recounted the story to him, I did what many of you would do - I laughed, because it was so ridiculous and pathetic: the thought of these two sitting ducks, helplessly hovering there, American passports in hand, pathetically shot down as they dangled above the doltish force of nature that is a neo-Soviet mentality.
My raucous, cynical humor was not well placed. A sudden pained expression came over his face. “These were my friends” he said..
Posted by DanielS on Sunday, November 16, 2014 at 10:36 AM in European culture, European Nationalism, European Union, Feminism, Humour, Immigration and Politics, Liberalism & the Left, Marxism & Culture War, Media, Popular Culture, Social liberalism
Dr. Graham Lister:
Tob Shebbe Goyim Harog Eli:
In a few weeks thousands of people will gather in New York to celebrate the passing of another year. Thousands of confused people, joining together to recognize the passing of 2010. In some way, it is still the end of a century. We wave goodbye to the 20th century and welcome in the 21st. When that sphere touches the pavement, it will signal to us the onset of a new era. We hope its an era where our peoples receive acknowledgement of what we have to do to remain what we are. Time will tell.
Kievsky’s blog had an article mentioning high-fructose corn-syrup, which as far as I can tell, seems to play a central role in modernity, particularly the large rolls of fat which envelop modern persons. They say that if you throw an average American into a large vat full of corn-syrup, that he will free himself by consuming all of it. Anecdotally, this is what happens even if the lid of the vat is low enough to allow escape.
People’s body shapes tend to change with the times. In the old days of classic 50s civilization, men had little pouches of fat on their stomaches. Perhaps these men were 10 pounds overweight or 20 pounds on average. The pouch was small enough to contain a 1 L jar of marbles. The pouch began to extend through the 70s until 1985, becoming too prominent to be sucked in anymore. The pouch had now become a proper belly, and signified about 30 pounds of excess weight. Going into the 90s the belly began to extend into other body-areas, subsuming what were previously separate structures. It used to be easy to tell, for example, where someone’s belly ended and their legs began. There was also a clear line of demarcation between ‘belly’ and ‘chest’.
But as the 90s rolled on, it became more and more difficult to tell what was legs and what was belly. Because at a certain point the belly starts hanging and overtakes the groin area, and in persons who are 50 pounds overweight, the belly, groin and upper legs fuse into a one big flabby region that is no longer clearly demarcated. The belly was on the move, and not only downwards. Its roundness began to take over what had previously been ‘chest’, to the point where it became difficult to tell where people’s abdomen’s would be. The ‘chest’ began to take on some of the bulk that was creeping up from beneath.
But they succeeded only in making me more “prejudiced” than ever.
Why haven’t we seen the horizontal transmission of Jews into the Far East?
As the sunburn season approaches, please consider the health benefits of becoming a summertime Neonazi.
Or, How I Learned To Stop Worrying And Embrace The Ocean’s New Diversity’
by The Narrator
The symbolism in the gulf oil deluge is profound. Greedy corporations willing to do anything to increase their profit margins unleash a natural substance into another natural substance, causing a catastrophe of near Armageddon-like proportions.
The similarity to immigration (both legal and illegal) is obvious. The sad irony is that everyone acknowledges that the corporations which run this world, care little for it. And that they will do or say anything to turn a profit.
Take this piece by the New York Times very own black columnist:
RACE-REPLACEMENT THEOLOGY PRAYER
New immigrants who art in Africa,
If Majority Rights can be said to have a defining characteristic, then that would have to be the earnestness of its contributors and commentariat. That observation is not intended in a pejorative sense, indeed many blogs with a political orientation share that characteristic. What is somewhat perplexing though is the extent to which (over-)earnestness prevails, given the nationality of its proprietor and a goodly proportion of its readership.
This particular exegesis has been prompted by an exchange in a currently-running marathon thread in which the topic of British humour was briefly introduced. This involved two estimable contributors, neither of whom are English, as far as I aware, who raised cogent points about its psychological interpretation. So, rather than creating an unnecessary diversion I have attempted to provide some minor insight into that question here, and perhaps stimulate some lively debate in the process.
British humour or, more precisely, its English strain, is a peculiar beast, often mystifying to continentals and colonials alike. For the latter, exposure to the genre has consisted in the main of an unleavened diet of Benny Hill and Monty Python, both of which were correctly viewed as being untranslatable yet superficially accessible exemplars of broad slapstick and high pantomime, respectively. Most other offerings along the wide spectrum of English comedy, from the likes of ‘Til Death Us Do Part’ to ‘The Office’, when not confined to cultural ghettos such as PBS and BBC America, have had to be ‘localized’ to render them palatable to a mainstream audience. Some (much?) English humour is neither translatable nor transportable, especially that which is really critical social commentary or touches on awkward sensibilities.
An example of the latter can be seen in the following clip from the hugely popular ‘Spitting Image’ series. Many will be familiar with a similar parody from Monty Python in which Mr. Hilter together with chums Reggie Goering and Heinrich Bimmler are discovered in a Cornish boarding-house planning for a surreptitious invasion of the resort-town of Minehead. But the encounter here between Frau-Führerchen Thatcher and Herr von Wilcox is much darker in tone and typical of the Spitting Image oeuvre, being by design overtly political, borderline libelous and often, as here, merciless to sacred cows. To my knowledge Spitting Image has never found an audience in the US and is still unavailable on home video there.
Sound Advice from Herr von Wilcox
... Or, “Burkha me, it’s got a beard”
According to Hannah Pool at The Guardian, this is an example of offensive black face intended to equate black skin with ‘exotic otherness’.
Surely, Herr Kramer has also spotted the subtle variation on the Kühnen-Gruß:
is Eva-Britt Svensson ... not Kafka’s pin-up but a Swedish Member of the European Parliament who serves on the Committee on Women’s Gender and Equality Rights. The Committee is seeking a Europe-wide ban on advertising which features exiguously dressed women possessed of that quality once known as “it”.
Today Ms Svensson is reported to have said:-
And this ...
is Eva Herzigová pictured out of her straitjacket. Miss Herzigová‘s “resources and abilities” include making such observations as:-
So be honest now. Which of these statements would you prefer to discuss? With the speaker in person, of course.
From The Guardian
The man’s a spiritual chav*.
But wait ... from a blog named Stuart’s Short Trousers (with thanks to Troy Southgate for the link):-
Devon, that English county of idyllic villages, haunting sea-cliffs and wild, empty moorland, might not seem at first to be a cauldron of white racism (is there any other kind?). But that’s all wrong. We racist whites simply lack the insightful wisdom and beautiful souls of those good men and women of the Rural Racism Project, south-west.
And this ... is what ... they do:-
Well, quite. Or as John Cleese once said, “This is an ex-parrot .”
A strange wind is blowing from Norway….New York City Councilman James Oddo will have none of it.
A contributor wants to add a bunch of videos, to be served from MR. I need to test some options.
Some silly conservatives talk about there once having been a Golden Age of morals. This is nonsense of course, as any Phd in dialectical sociology or contemporary feminist thought knows. Such absolute nonsense in fact that, just to prove what nonsense it is, I’ve decided to look for examples of that ol’ time morality today.
Looking down the Ten Commandments, I discarded the first four as being to do with God, or G-d, or Shiva, or non-culturally specific, non-judgemental deity of your choice. Then we had number five: honour thy father and thy mother. So, I went to google, typed in father and the name of the first pop artist that lept to mind, to discover some modern parable of reverence for the past generations.
Here it is, children:
Now, two thoughts occur. One, did he just have a puff, or did he ‘swallow’? And secondly, how many young people take this travelling circus seriously when they come out with stuff like this.
Memo from the office of the Home Secretary,
To: Liam Byrne, Minister of State, Immigration
Date 7th March, 2007
My dear Liam,
Under the circumstances, then, I thought it best not to text you with this question: Which one of your brilliant minions dreamt up this garbage? For God’s sake, Liam:-
This was just giving Davis an open goal - which, needless to say, he did not miss:-
So how does the James Bond of Bangladesh cut such a deadly swathe through blonde California? Obviously not by stealing the delicious if brunette Lana Wood’s line from Diamonds Are Forever: “Hi, I’m Plenty ... Plenty O’Toole”.
But enough of that. This is a serious blog. So, erm ... would Phil Rushton agree that Nature’s dispensation of wedding tackle in downtown Mumbai runs counter to r-K?
Stories that begin with the words, “You couldn’t make this up,” abound, I know. But this one has that extra something: swanism.
It began when a gentleman whose home overlooked West Shore boating pool in the seaside town of Llandudno, North Wales looked out of his window and:-
The alarmed gentleman called the police who duly arrived to find 52-year-old Shamshu Miah with blood on his clothes and feathers in his beard.
Psychiatric reports indicated Miah was not mentally ill at the time of the attack. But we must be, to abide with Miah for 40 years.
I haven’t seen the video yet. I’ll update this post as I get new info. (I’ve yet to confirm rumors that Richards was responding to being called a cracker, or that he told the negros “that’s what happens when you interrupt a white man”)
Update: Richards is a Jew:
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