…white liberals, stop blaming us po’ ‘lil’ mino’s…
Here’s an article by the venerable Advocatus Diaboli…
Everyone’s favorite condescending liberal chimes in in the comments section…
MikeCA write’s…
“Ronald Reagan got 55% of the white vote in 1980 and won in a landslide. John McCain got 55% of the white vote in 2008 and lost. Mitt Romney got 59% of the white vote in 2012 and lost. Trump got 58% of the white vote in 2016, lost the popular vote but won in the electoral college by carrying several Midwestern states by small margins. The reason Trump won in 2016 was a decline in the non-white vote.”
Read that last sentence…
“The reason Trump won in 2016 was a decline in the non-white vote.”
Yeah, why don’t you white liberals tell other white people how to vote instead of telling everyone else they need to vote for some shyster like crooked Hillary or sleepy Joe…
I didn’t vote for Trump the Chump, if you must know, I voted for the Alepo, wha, What? Guy, Gary Johnson… Please make some joke that I voted for a dude whose last name is slang for penis. It is almost as appropriate as making jokes about Anthony Weiner…
But the point still stands, these liberal scumbags like Bill Maher and the like want to blame guys like me that their shitty party doesn’t win.
…people punish you when you do not fit into their stereotypes…
…a little birdie, err, I mean a little troll left this meme on the venerable Advocatus Diaboli’s blog…
…to break down humor is to kill it. But for the purpose of this post, let’s do that…
AD brags about spending his money on prostitutes and has links to naughty pictures all over his blog. He presents himself as a hypersexual male who is a bit desperate, err, uh, thirsty for female companionship. Just like the slimy liberal in the meme above, AD is said to come from India. There are many populations in India, Sikhs, Muslims, Hindu’s etc. Some people are vegetarian and some are meat eaters. But, whatever specific population AD comes from, just like Aziz Ansari, the “dudebroe” in the meme above, it does not matter what population AD comes from. His individualistic characteristics don’t matter. It is how the people in the Western country he now resides in perceive him. He is either seen as a “doctor” type-one who is studios, rule following, smart but afraid too make waves. Or he is seen like the Apu character on the Simpsons. Willing to do back breaking labor for pennies on the dollar just to chase the elusive “American Dream.” He likely had miserable experiences “dating.” He probably met many gold digging racist womyn who thought feminism was great and expected expensive free dinners. He probably noticed that man of other ethnicities weren’t held to the same standards as himself. He describes going to the “dark side” and paying lots of money to get similar feminist womyn to touch his peepee.
The great fella, err, uh, insidious, filthy troll who made the aftermentioned meme likely realized that the racist white ladies AD and Aziz both reduce their dignity pursuing see them as disgusting. Said troll also decided to make a cliched rference to that Covid shit, but I digress… Likely AD has enough self awareness to realize this, not so sure about that Aziz guy though…
There was a story that the Aziz Ansari “dudebroe” was “rapey” whatever that means. And on the same coin you have racist white feminists like Amanda Marcote bragging about how much bad sex they have had. (Yeah, if there was ever anything to rub salt in the wounds of so-called incels, it’s an ugly woman bragging about how much bad sex she has.) Let’s get something straight. If a white dude did this shit, no one would question the “ethics” of it. Hell, even a middle eastern dude like Roosh V wouldn’t be held to the same standard.
Aziz Ansari was expected to be meek, to buy this status seeking leech round after round of free drinks. And when he said, “Let’s go back to my place.” She wasn’t forced. Hell, even a backwards troglodyte like myself who has the social skills of a feral dog knows what “Let’s go back to my place” really means.
The humor in the above clip (yes killing the joke by dissecting it) is that George passed up on some hot and steamy sex because he missed a social cue. Now back to he Aziz story, I don’t dispute that the broad had the right to end the encounter. And even though Ansari was persistent (like every scumbag PUA says you NEED to be) he did ultimately accept “no.” What I think really happened is an East Asian dude who is expected to be meek, obsequious (especially towards white women) and submissive broke the expectation. He acted like a dude from another race isn’t just allowed to act but expected to act. He broke people’s stereotypes about how someone from his race is expected to behave. And that is what caused controversy…
…a simple observation…
…you may have heard an old saying…
…you can get stuff good and cheap, you can get stuff fast and cheap or you can get stuff good and fast…
…what you can’t do is get stuff good, fast and cheap…
While you *may* be able to find a killer deal that ticks off all three boxes, this old saying acknowledges the idea that such deals, for the most part aren’t sustainable for businesses…
…let’s change gears here…
FWIW, I don’t care very much who wins the next election…
…let’s take a look at guns and police…
…you can be pro gun and anti-cop…
I suppose the libertarian tough guy MGTOW’s might fit into this camp. But I suppose the only guns Barbarossa and Stardusk have fired off were the mini pee-shooters in their yoga pants whilst looking at transgendered pr0n. Yeah, I used shaming language. Fuck those guys and the way they shit on low status men.
…you can be pro gun and pro cop…
Just think of all those “law and order” Rethuglicans. Yeah, I’m pretty sure that if you looked at their “businesses” they broke plenty of laws. But it “sounds good” when they say things like “when the looting starts, the shooting starts.” They would just be sad if one of their operatives like Nate Damigo or another fag from Identitty Evropa gets shot whilst playing antifa at BLM…
…you can be pro cop and anti gun…
I suppose this was the old
school Democratic ideal. Have a strong police force that generally takes care of the public and restrict the public’s access to firearms…
…but, anti-gun and anti-cop is as unsustainable as “good, fast and cheap…”
This seems to be what the loudest voices in the Democraptic party are now suggesting. Realistically, most of them live in gated communities with private security.
…what I suspect will happen is that many will put Joe Biden stickers on their bumpers and BLM posters in their windows. The reason they do this is they don’t want their windows smashed in. What they do in a private voting booth (if they even show up) will likely be very different.
…good ole movie…
..just like Bulllit, I’m surprised I haven’t seen this one before…
…comic shops didn’t kill george floyd/white liberals really don’t want to end white supremacy
…okay, guys, this shit pisses me off…
…all this is going to do is kill off small shops and leave Amazon in a more powerful position…
…comic book stores didn’t kill George Floyd but those goddamned protestors don’t care…
….I suspect that this is one of the reasons someone like Jeff Bezos is all “BLM.” He doesn’t give a fuck about delivery drivers being attacked by protestors. He just knows that with a lockdown and violence on the streets, more people will click online. He’ll get richer. His competitors will go out of business or have their business burnt to the ground. He is loving all the chaos…
…another thing I’ve noticed, many liberal white protestors are quite racist. They would knock you in the head, rob your business and attack you whatever your skin color because they know they won’t get in any trouble when they get in front of a judge…
Look at this image. It actually plays into a stereotype of black men being virile and having large penises. Basically it falls in line with what HBD weirdoes like Steve Sailer promote. Blacks are high testosterone, low IQ. Asians are high IQ, low testosterone. But whites have the perfect mix. Enough intelligence and testosterone to built “start-up companies” but they are not meek like the Asians or low impulse control like the blacks. Yes, liberal racism intersects nicely with what the alt-right say. I made memes mocking Richard Spencer and Jack Donovan. I thought everyone would laugh. Hell, even some of the right wing white guys did laugh. But the liberal white guys lost their shit. Just look at how angry that lunatic Tamerlame and his pro (white) male collective insulted me. That’s because you cannot question their claim to white supremacy. They will say all day long how “anti-racist” they are but they expect you to accept their incompetent leadershit and do the shitwork they are too lazy and incompetent to complete themselves. They see themselves on the top of a racial heirarchy and low status non-white and mixed men are supposed to submit to them regardless of their competence or motives. That’s why so many white people are drawn to these crappy protests. They don’t have too give up any power, they act as if they are righteous and they can attack people and destroy shit with very little risk of real life consequences…
There was an old saying…
During the Civil War, one guy tried to unite both the North and the South. He wore a uniform that was mixed with both elements from the North and the South. What the fuck do you think happened to this fool?
He was shot to death by soldiers from both sides.
By being born mixed race, I am inadvertently put in the position of this guy. No one will watch out for me in a race war. I am pro-gun and I am pro me. I don’t stand alongside the MRA”s, BLM, Antifa, Liberals or the Alt Right. None of these faggots would stand up for me, they can all go to hell…
…staying alive…
…so I stumbled onto this song I ave not heard in many years…
…sounds great, and the lyrics have a whole new meaning with covid.
and the guy’s voice sound like that Jack Donovan inspired character on Family Guy…
…let’s trigger some bigoted “mra’s” and some racist liberals…
…posterity pt.3…
…okay, I’ve been trying to track down slimy Jack Donovan’s “rub elbow’s with WN’s” “article.”
I found one dead end…
It only has part of the article and a dead link when you try to go to Donovan’s blog…
I did find this and wonder if it is shortened or modified from the original…
One wonders what Donovan is trying to hide, will he also try to send his articles glorifying violence and praising Richard Spencer down the memory hole?
Well, here it is at Archive.is…
…posterity pt.2….
….was able to find the Hugo Schwyzer “drug fueled rage” story that all the progressocrites would rather bury…
Here it is:
What you need to remember, what you need to forget: on self-acceptance after doing something truly awful
Happy New Year!
The first post of 2011 is a rather heavy one.
My friend Bill, who requested the post below about Hugh Hefner’s engagement, weighs in with another suggestion. In an email today, he relates a story of having accidentally left open a door through which a dog he was sitting escaped last night into the coyote-dense Hollywood hills. He describes a tense 25 minutes of searching, fearing the worst, before the dog returned safely. Shaken up, Bill writes:
What I’ve been hearing over and over again is, ‘Nothing happened, don’t kill yourself over it’. And the thing that keeps coming up is, ‘something could easily have happened’.
I know you’ve had big near misses in your life. I know you’re big on forgiveness and sixty-second chances. But honestly Hugo could you have just as easily forgiven yourself if something HAD happened. Or conversely, let’s say that an accident involving the most unutterable thing that could happen to you happened, could you honestly ever forgive the person involved, however accidental things may have been.
Really? REALLY?
An anecdote. It’s a long one, and it’s a painful one, so it’s all below the fold.
The last time I used drugs and alcohol, I wasn’t alone. I was with a young woman who was, at the time, my ex-girlfriend. This ex and I had had a turbulent history: we’d met in a sober living house in 1996 (during one of my many abortive attempts to get clean), fallen in love over a shared passion for W.H. Auden and Marlboro Reds, began the affair that would be the final nail in the coffin of my second marriage, had a mutual relapse, and moved out of the sober living and into a little apartment together all in the space of ten days. Neither of us could stay sober for long, and I couldn’t stay faithful. We had dramatic and emotional rows, breakups and reconciliations again and again over the next two years.
On the afternoon of Saturday, June 27, 1998, this ex called me. I was in a tailspin of depression that day, medicating myself with vodka and Percoset. My ex’s voice — I hadn’t seen her in weeks — reached right through that haze and pierced me. She sounded sad and frantic; she was, she said, “somewhere in El Sereno” (a working-class area near East Los Angeles). She wasn’t sure how she’d gotten there, but needed someone to pick her up. I had her figure out what street she was on, and I drove (loaded) to go pick her up. When I found her, she smelled of sex and sweat and alcohol; as she climbed unsteadily into my truck, I noticed rope marks on her wrists and bruises on her arms and throat. She’d been with a dealer, and had paid a debt in a way that young female addicts sadly often pay it — but things had clearly gotten uglier than she’d expected.
She nestled next to me as I drove back to my apartment. She murmured softly, “I want a pizza. And I want you.” We got back to my little place on Sierra Madre Boulevard, stumbled in the door, shed our clothes and had the desperately hot, desperately heartbreaking sex we had had so often. And then I ordered the pizza. While we waited for the delivery, sitting naked on the floor of my little place, we went through our mutual stashes: we were each pillheads, and had formidable collections we kept in Ziploc baggies. We traded and mixed and discussed, and began popping combinations, washing them down with vodka and cranberry juice. When we heard the knock, I wrapped a towel around myself to pay the pizza guy and collect what he’d sent, but we never opened the box. Our appetites were gone, lost to booze and benzodiazepines.
Soon we passed out.
I woke up a few hours later, about ten in the evening. My ex was unconscious on the floor, curled up in a ball, gurgling softly. I looked at her emaciated, broken body that I loved so much. I looked at my own, studying some of my more recent scars. (I’d had a binge of self-mutilation earlier in the week, and had cigarette burns on both arms and my torso.) And then it came to me: I needed to do for her and for myself the one thing I was strong enough still to do. I couldn’t save her, I couldn’t save me, but I could bring an end to our pain. My poor fragile ex would never have to wake up again, and we could be at peace in the next life. As drunk and high as I was, the thought came with incredible clarity. I remember it perfectly now.
I walked into the little kitchen only steps from where my ex lay. I blew out the pilot lights on our gas oven and on the burners, and turned the dials on everything up to maximum. I pulled the oven away from the wall, leaving the gas line intact, positioning it so that the gas was blowing directly at the passed-out young woman on the floor. Then I swallowed one more handful of pills and vodka, lay down beside her, spooned her, and lost consciousness.
But there was something else I did, something I don’t remember. Some other part of my divided self apparently picked up the phone, called up a friend in San Francisco, announced “We’re checking out” and hung up. I don’t remember dialing the number, but clearly, part of me wanted to live. That friend did what the small sane part of me wanted her to do, which was call the L.A. County Sheriff’s Department (I lived in an unincorporated area at the time). Less than half an hour later, I was awakened by deputies kicking down the door.
Long story short, I survived. So did my ex. We both spent 24 hours in ICU, and then were transferred to separate psychiatric units. I never saw her again. The sheriff’s department didn’t arrest me because they assumed that the two of us were in a suicide pact. But I knew differently, and in a fit of remorse, confessed what I had done to a hospital psychiatrist. My ex, once she regained her faculties, was devastated. As bad as things were, she didn’t want “out” — and felt shocked and unfathomably betrayed by our my unilateral decision to kill us both. My ex’s parents, who were prominent and powerful, were furious. They had known me, and for a time, liked me. They certainly never imagined I would try and kill their daughter. But both parents and daughter also made it clear that they didn’t want to press charges. They just wanted to make sure that we never saw each other again. And we never have. (I’m happy to say that through mutual acquaintances I have learned that this ex got sober, turned her life around, and is married and living happily in the south.)
I’ve checked with a couple of attorney friends of mine, and according to them, I’m at no legal risk for disclosing now what took place in 1998. (And yes, as part of my amends process in recovery, I even disclosed this story to my supervisors at the college, and told it to the college president.) I share it now not to shock or disgust, but because I want to make it clear I live with a keen sense of what my friend Bill is talking about when he talks of being haunted by what might have been. No one died on June 27, 1998, largely through luck. Enough gas was released to blow up the apartment and perhaps kill our neighbors as well as my ex and me. I attempted a serious crime that miraculously caused no lasting harm. Intoxicated or not, I could have easily been charged with attempted murder, and it was the decision of my ex and her parents (as well as the sheriff’s department) to spare me from what could have been a wrenching but deserved legal penalty.
For years afterwards, I was haunted by fears that my ex’s family or the district attorney might bring charges. Far worse was the guilt, the sense of horror at what I’d tried to do. What if I had succeeded in killing us both? What if, perhaps worse, I had killed her but had myself survived? Could I forgive myself? It was hard enough forgiving myself (and seeking forgiveness) for what I had tried to do. It was incomprehensible to think about what might have been had I not made that drunken phone call, or the door not been kicked in in time.
The sheer shock at what I had almost accomplished was one of the things that got me sober; the fear of ever doing something like that again kept me on the straight and narrow for a long time. In due course, however, I began to accept that while what I had done was horrible and inexcusable, it was something I couldn’t change. The past, as the saying goes, is the past. All I could do was be a radically different person, so different that that action would come in time to be the impulse of a man who was no more, a man who had so thoroughly transformed himself as to be unrecognizable as the naked addict who turned on the gas that hot June afternoon.
That transformation doesn’t immunize me from consequences; it doesn’t mean I have a right to go to that ex and her family today and parade my new self before them in the hopes of being reassured that “it’s all okay now.” For my ex and her family, it isn’t okay — the last time I heard anything from them, they were still furious. They could forgive, but never forget, and I understand that they never want to speak to me again. I live with that, knowing that it is only because of their forbearance that I’m not perhaps still in a jail cell somewhere. But I also live with the knowledge that I have to focus on my ongoing transformation even if there are people from my past who, for excellent reasons, can’t be in relationship with me or believe in me. I need to accept that, and focus on the ongoing amends of living the best life I possibly can. That means serving the ones who need me in the here and now. And it means living out the lesson I learned, without endlessly reliving what was and might have been.
Wisdom, I think, is sometimes discerning the difference between what you need to remember and what you need to forget. The alternative is a kind of bootless incapacitation to relentless remorse.
Because of the rock bottom I hit nearly thirteen years ago, everything was changed in my life. I don’t drink, don’t do drugs, don’t contemplate suicide, and I strive to live with radical sexual integrity. In your case, Bill, may the horror of what might have been lead to gratitude for what wasn’t, and may that gratitude for what wasn’t lead to two things: a greater sense of responsibility, and a greater sense of self-acceptance. So forgive yourself, and close the damn door next time.
