Americans do not pay into Social Security beyond yearly earnings of $127,500
Posted by DanielS on Friday, 28 April 2017 01:33.
Group of blacks savagely beat 2 fleeing White men in East London “no-go zone”
Posted by DanielS on Thursday, 27 April 2017 05:33.
Alt-Right cannot be trusted to represent Whites, ethnonationalists on crucial matters
Posted by DanielS on Wednesday, 26 April 2017 14:18.
Remembering The Life of ‘Mandy’
Posted by DanielS on Wednesday, 26 April 2017 10:44.
Imperialist Israeli Air Force Bombs Anti-ISIS Forces in Syria
Posted by DanielS on Wednesday, 26 April 2017 09:33.
See Caracas Then Die
Posted by DanielS on Tuesday, 25 April 2017 09:43.
Minister: Russia hacked Danish defence for two years
Posted by DanielS on Monday, 24 April 2017 12:46.
Fresno Shooting Highlights America’s Anti-White Murder Plague
Posted by DanielS on Sunday, 23 April 2017 13:28.
GW’s Best Friend, Arthur Scargill (well, not really his best friend at all).
Posted by DanielS on Friday, 21 April 2017 18:11.
In search of a nationalist majority
Posted by Guessedworker on Friday, 21 April 2017 07:19.
No more than 12 migrants for Czechia
Posted by DanielS on Thursday, 20 April 2017 14:34.
Hardly The Battle of Cable Street: What Berkeley Doesn’t Mean
Posted by DanielS on Wednesday, 19 April 2017 12:16.
After the Referendum it’s the Brexit General Election, or perhaps not
Posted by Guessedworker on Tuesday, 18 April 2017 06:26.
Thread Wars: Armed Reconnaissance Edition, versus EGI Notes and AWPN.
Posted by Kumiko Oumae on Monday, 17 April 2017 20:19.
Silk Road News: Qui Non Bono?
Posted by DanielS on Monday, 17 April 2017 02:33.
That’s it, who’s a good goy now?
Posted by DanielS on Saturday, 15 April 2017 15:23.
Italy: 2,074 Seaborne African Invaders Land in One Day
Posted by DanielS on Saturday, 15 April 2017 00:10.
Trump no longer appears sympathetic to student debtors
Posted by DanielS on Friday, 14 April 2017 02:29.
WHY JOHNNY ROTTEN CAN GO F*** HIMSELF - corrected for the Jewish red cape and misdirection of terms
Posted by DanielS on Thursday, 13 April 2017 02:29.
The Paleocon agenda behind the Alt-Right & Trump becomes explicit with Trump’s attack on Syria
Posted by DanielS on Wednesday, 12 April 2017 14:58.
When a scientist (at the Annenberg School of Communications) asks the wrong question…
Posted by DanielS on Tuesday, 11 April 2017 13:55.
Silk Road News: First demonstration cargo train departs London for Yiwu, China.
Posted by Kumiko Oumae on Tuesday, 11 April 2017 09:23.
NASA invests in 22 visionary exploration concepts, including asteroid mining
Posted by DanielS on Sunday, 09 April 2017 15:30.
The Coalburner’s Daddy: Inter-Ethnic Family Implodes
Posted by DanielS on Saturday, 08 April 2017 13:44.
Donald Trump authorises reckless airstrikes against the legitimate government of Syria.
Posted by Kumiko Oumae on Friday, 07 April 2017 12:25.
Stockholm terror attack: Four reported dead as hijacked truck ploughs into pedestrians
Posted by DanielS on Friday, 07 April 2017 11:15.
Bashar Al-Assad, a proper Left Nationalist, a socially conscientious man.
Posted by DanielS on Thursday, 06 April 2017 10:15.
Sexual Psy-Ops through the gaze of Helen Mirren(off): from Caligula to Prime Suspect and Worse
Posted by DanielS on Tuesday, 04 April 2017 18:06.
London Attack on Kurd: 5 Fast Facts You Need to Know; and another they were reluctant to tell you
Posted by DanielS on Tuesday, 04 April 2017 00:04.
Trump administration ‘will be having restless nights over Flynn testimony offer’
Posted by DanielS on Monday, 03 April 2017 17:15.
The Visegrád Group Will Not Yield to Blackmail, and Hungary Strengthens Anti-Immigration Policy
Posted by DanielS on Sunday, 02 April 2017 04:20.
Why Trump’s ties to Russia would be way worse than Watergate
Posted by DanielS on Saturday, 01 April 2017 08:31.
It’s time to put an end to classical liberalism.
Posted by Kumiko Oumae on Friday, 31 March 2017 11:47.
Majorityrights Central > Category: I Bismuth
The forces of evil will enjoy every word of it.
by I Bismuth
STAR Date 6530993002.362083825051397 (See Footnote)
As I crossed Richmond Lock Footbridge I saw a smart suit loitering on the silly side of the railing. Its wearer, youngish, male and pale, was frowning at the river, and one by one was nodding out the seconds, a jumper on his final countdown.
“Good afternoon,” I said as I reached the launch pad. “It’s not a bad day, is it?”
The countdown aborted, he looked over his shoulder.
“No, it’s not a bad day—as last days go.”
“But the forecast for tomorrow is not so good,” I said.
Perhaps this was not the most tactful observation I could make.
“Of course,” he went on, ignoring it, “I have no right to assert it’s not a bad day as last days go. What do I know about last days? I have no personal experience of them. Like everyone else’s last day, this is my first.”
He sighed at the river, preparing to start again from ten.
“May I ask you a personal question before you go?” I said.
“You are not a man who makes a religion of minding his own business, are you?”
“I just want to know why you decided to drown yourself.”
by I. Bismuth
Semi-jogging home along Market Street this afternoon, I passed a lone beauty at a bus stop. And after passing her, I mused to a halt, for I had heard her, or thought I had heard her, speak certain words into her mobile, words that are totally unacceptable in a decent society. Taking a breather (of which, inhabiting the body of a man half my age, I had no need) I made a show of staggering back towards the suspect, and leaned against the stop.
My intention was to monitor the remainder of her call and catch a possible repetition of the offending vocables, but by the time I could sag within eavesdropping range, she was saying good bye, love you, and now here was her bus.
This was frustrating. I did not have much on her, but letting her go would send the wrong message, if only to her loved interlocutor. Besides, she was guilty all right. She was guilty of having made herself a suspect. It was unthinkable that there would be no consequences.
Feeling I could gather more evidence from an entrapping interview with her before turning her in, I followed her on board and to the upper deck. She sat at the front. Waiting for my chance, I occupied the seat directly behind her and breathed on her hair.
But once the bus had moved off and I looked behind us, I saw that, after all, waiting was unnecessary. I had assumed I would have to let the other passengers disembark before I could tackle her in peace, but there were only five of them, and they were already gone. They were well gone. The first was shouting in Swahili up his sleeve, the second was being spasmodic to rhythms throbbing from his headphones like off-shored industry, the third was snoring, the fourth was cutting his toenails, and the fifth appeared to have been dead for several days.
So, satisfied I could go to work on her unmolested, I leaned slowly forward, tilted my head reassuringly, and whispered in her ear, “Don’t be frightened.”
by I. Bismuth
December 27: This evening, despite my pleas for a little quiet Scrabble, Rose treated herself to yet another orchestral concert. Lying on the sofa, legs comfortably crossed at the ankles, hands palms downward at her sides, eyes shut, and chin pointing to heaven, she was a soundbather. And as she received her ear-tanning, I was jealous of a periwigged composer. She was in his company, not mine. I was intruding. Here was a scene for two, and I was some poor devil at a keyhole. Once the last movement had finished with her, though she opened her eyes at me, her smile was for my rival in the machine.
But young old Mozart finds she is hard to please. The music lover is a greedy lover. The brief life of her illicit composer makes her peevish. She reproaches him with having breathed his last long before his inspiration was feeling even slightly run-down. The filling to capacity of Köchel’s catalogue is not enough for her. Only up to K626? No further? If he had employed better time management techniques to his last twenty-four hours on earth he could have dashed off a couple of divertimenti between death rattles. He had disappointed her.
No, even worse—his early departure was criminally inartistic, a kind of burglary. He is a note-thief who sneaked past her too young to his grave, his brain stuffed like a pocket with her rightful musical pleasure.
December 28: Though Rose turned me down yet again and I was expecting no triple word scores this evening either, I was in for a surprise.
She was still on the sofa, but her infidelity differed in three ways from yesterday’s: the concert was televised, and the untimely dier was not periwigged but bespectacled (Schubert was deputizing for Mozart). The third difference was that I came to see my misgivings about her relationship with music not as discreditably personal and motivated by resentment at her canoodling with the spectral masters of sonata form, but as socially responsible and motivated by the moral imperative of stamping out all traces of racism, wherever they may be found. Let me explain how I found them in the insolent beauty of a symphony.
The symphony in question was Schubert’s in C major, nicknamed “Great” for the benefit of the tin-eared.
by I. Bismuth
November 10: It should have been a productive morning. At nine o’clock I was due to chair a meeting of the Over-Whiteness Monitoring Panel, at ten to act as facilitator in a workshop on the standardization of difference celebration, and at eleven to give the Board of Governors my latest recommendations on the Hidden Attitudes Self-Accusation Guidelines. It should have gone all the more smoothly for taking place in the inspiring setting of the newest university building, the Tolerance Tower, fifteen storeys of hope not hate, its design by the leading architects Peter Schlemiel Associates meant to suggest the soaring tip of a gigantic assegai. However, Sunlit Uplands and society as a whole were robbed of those three hours of equality-promotion. A chilling incident was to propel the morning in quite another direction.
It was ten minutes to nine and I was about to enter the Tolerance Tower when my attention was caught by a long streak of studiousness topped off with a crest of startled hair. He had paused to contemplate the statue of Jambo Owambo that stands before the main entrance. There was something troubling about the angle at which he was holding his head that made me watch him. True, any admirer of the bronze statesman at close quarters must have an elevated chin, but it should not be elevated so as to suggest a 1930s propaganda poster and a hero fixing his gaze on the resurgent Aryan future (though admittedly this hero’s heroism was compromised by his resorting to styling gel).
Never one to rush to judgment, I waited for Gel-Head’s next move. And how unsavoury his next move turned out to be! After only a few curt seconds he grounded his gaze, and I was horrified to see him quit the presence and lope away in the direction of the library, setting his coiffure aquiver with each stride.
by I. Bismuth
October 10: Rose and I were at my uncle’s house today. His cantankerousness is as great as his antiquity, so we space our visits to him as widely as my nephewly sense of obligation will allow.
In fact, it was war that was the source of the trouble during the second cup of tea. Somehow the topic of the distant death daily in the news came up, and Uncle O felt we needed a slice of his opinions to supplement the chocolate sponge.
“What are all these wars for?” he said. “Our being in them makes no sense. The disputes of alien races may be interesting to us, but they ought not to be important to us. If they are, something is wrong. That something is either that we are intervening in their affairs or they are intervening in ours. A third and equally unhygienic possibility is that each has a finger in the other’s pie.”
“I’m sorry, that is a complete—” I began, only to be kicked in the shin by my ever-peacekeeping wife.
“You certainly knew what you were fighting for in the Second World War,” she said, fancying she was putting us back on safe ground.
“We thought we did,” said Uncle O, looking grimmer than ever. “War is a gamble. But not a normal gamble. In a normal gamble, you know what you will win if you win and what you will lose if you lose.”
“Have you done any more paintings recently?” said Rose, getting a little shrill, I thought.
by I. Bismuth
September 24: We spent this evening side by side on the sofa doing what we are underpaid to do. While I was busy marking the work of my undergraduates, Rose was tapping away at a re-telling for pre-school tolerance workshops of the traditional African tale of the entire Yoruban kingdom that yearns to be re-located to a nice part of Oxfordshire.
She had reached the point in the narrative just after the Brits-to-be have finalized their plan to apply for a grant to open a Yorubas-This-Is-Your-Lucky-Day Dating Agency, the first ever in rural England, only to receive the devastating news that there will be a delay of a fortnight in issuing their new passports. She was uncertain about the most appropriate characterization of this chilling hitch. Was a delay of two weeks best described as fascist, racist, or Nazi?
With my wide experience of the struggle against evil I was able to offer her an authoritative guide to correct usage. Fascist would be a delay of three weeks. Racist would be a delay of four weeks. And Nazi would be a request to consider the consequences of the re-location of an entire Yoruban kingdom to a nice part of Oxfordshire on the inhabitants of that nice part of Oxfordshire. Le mot juste for a delay of two weeks in issuing the passports is extremist.
She nodded and agreed that this captured the exact nuance of hate involved, and I reapplied myself to the essays of the next generation of the professionally sensitive.
By I Bismuth
September 5: I am hung over from the flu, or a flu, or a flu-like illness, or a viral infection, or a don’t-bother-to-bother-an-overworked-medical-professional-self-limiting-mystery-malady. Whatever it was, it utterly prostrated me. I was flat on my back for a week. And even to an overworked non-medical professional, a bandying of words with an unsavoury brother-in-law does not seem indicated in the latter stages of convalescence.
But I have a sister who was irresponsible enough to graft herself on to a skin specialist (that is to say, an SS man) and who lives just around the corner, so bandyings of the kind I had this afternoon are an all too frequently paid price for my not disowning my relatives.
While Rose and Meg and a cross-section of my nephews and nieces amused themselves in the garden by worrying worms, Walter amused himself in the sitting-room by worrying me.
“Now, Bizzy,” he said, his fingers closing on a wine glass belonging to me filled with wine belonging to me, “you are very hot in your rejection of discrimination on the grounds of race, and yet you admit you are not in principle opposed to discrimination.”