Anti-Christmas Messages

Christmas is a moment in the year when we put aside the ugly and the contentious, and remind ourselves of the aspirational beauty and peace. It is therefore not surprising that globalists should opportunistically attach their own messages to the celebration of Christ’s birth. The devil wraps his poison in attractive packaging. Below are two Christmas-themed commercials that sell the bestialization and emasculation of the Western man:

The Allegro Commercial

Allegro is an online buying and selling service, similar to eBay. The commercial features an old man in Poland who orders an English for Beginners book and teaches himself to speak the language. He travels to the U.K. and arrives at an upper-middle-class house, where he is greeted by his son and his black daughter-in-law. He then uses what he learned to introduce himself to his mixed-race granddaughter.

Comments on Polish-language articles about the ad are overwhelmingly woke. One heavily up-voted comment says: “couldn’t he have just gone to the zoo?” The more dialectical comments point to a myriad other moral failings of the ad, from identitarian to commonplace ones like “why was it the grandfather who had to do the traveling and why didn’t his son even pick him up at the airport?”

Mrs. Santa Delivers

In this English commercial, a boy is an incessant nuisance to his sister and ruins her favorite shoes. Overwhelmed with feelings of worthlessness (which are confirmed by his father), he writes a letter to Santa Claus to replace those shoes. The job is accomplished by the oblivious Santa’s sharp-witted wife, who secretly delivers the shoes and all is “well.”

There are limits of the extent to which shit can be concealed by its pretty veil. Despite the trappings of tradition in the above ads, the unease lingers in anyone who will have watched either of them. Wherever someone’s disgust threshold lies, one can only gorge on so many Big Macs before he vomits it all up.

The Chaser

Here is something to wash away the poison:

Why Is The Sky Blue?

  1. Is there transcendence in intoxication?
  2. Is Rock dead?
  3. What is your purpose in life?
  4. Was the 1944 Warsaw Uprising a mistake or a sacrifice with long-term recompense?
  5. Why am I not a liberal?
  6. Can one step into the same river twice?
  7. How did my 18th century paternal great(xN)-grandfather look and what would we talk about if we met?
  8. What is the most beautiful thing today?
  9. What happened to all of the masculine Leftists?
  10. What is the prettiest female name?
  11. What would an AltRighter’s public response be if he were for some reason victimized by nationalists?
  12. What is the most elusive thing?
  13. Do Islam and Mormonism have anything in common?
  14. Is it wrong to have so few regrets?
  15. Does haste ever not make waste?
  16. What is white Supremacy — or White supremacy?
  17. Is art more perfect when true to life?
  18. Are Mulattoes tragic?
  19. Which popular song contains the most wisdom?
  20. Will it be peaceful or bloody?
  21. Is there a foreign agent behind the racial cuckoldry?
  22. What is friendship?
  23. “Grandpa, what did you do during White Genocide?”
  24. Have you ever journeyed into the Underworld and if so, what did you keep?
  25. What can a quadriplegic man do to live his best?
  26. Can a mudshark find redemption?
  27. Have you ever scaled Olympus and if so, what did you keep?
  28. Should I be afraid of death?
  29. How do we value something without it first having to be gone?
  30. What do you want?

To All The Girls I’ve Loved Before

I’m a face-man. Then, its on to appraising her everything else. #whitegirlsaremagic — celebrate their rich diversity right here:

Gilded Siren. Designer stilettos. Elbow bumped; red wine trickles down her naked forearm.

Goofy Girl. Trips over her own feet running up to me. Wants to titter but snorts instead.

The Feline. Always so serious! but make her laugh and she can’t keep her hands to herself.

The Keeper. Her touch is light even when nobody is looking. Don’t spoil her.

Wounded Hollow. What’s so great about darkness anyway? A ballad is all that’s left.

Artsy Chick. Dainty shoulders under an unfashionable t-shirt. Lost and looking.

Earnest Naïf. Watery eyes, pale cheeks. “Men listen because they want to fuck you, dear.”

Dark Lady. Smart and brittle. In passing, our gazes hold longer than is allowed.

Ebullient Flirt. Giggles like an explosion at a chimes factory. A rump made for spanking.


John Berryman (born John Allyn Smith, Jr.) is on the outside, looking in:

Filling her compact & delicious body
with chicken páprika, she glanced at me
Fainting with interest, I hungered back
and only the fact of her husband & four other people
kept me from springing on her

or falling at her little feet and crying
‘You are the hottest one for years of night
Henry’s dazed eyes
have enjoyed, Brilliance.’ I advanced upon
(despairing) my spumoni.—Sir Bones: is stuffed,
de world, wif feeding girls.

—Black hair, complexion Latin, jewelled eyes
downcast . . . The slob beside her feasts . . . What wonders is
she sitting on, over there?
The restaurant buzzes. She might as well be on Mars.
Where did it all go wrong? There ought to be a law against Henry.
—Mr. Bones: there is.

“Dream Song 4” (1959)


Czesław Miłosz also learns that some things cannot be possessed:

I looked at that face, dumbfounded. The lights of métro stations flew by; I didn’t notice them. What can be done, if our sight lacks absolute power to devour objects ecstatically, in an instant, leaving nothing more than the void of an ideal form, a sign like a hieroglyph simplified from the drawing of an animal or bird? A slightly snub nose, a high brow with sleekly brushed-back hair, the line of the chin – but why isn’t the power of sight absolute? – and in a whiteness tinged with pink two sculpted holes, containing a dark, lustrous lava. To absorb that face but to have it simultaneously against the background of all spring boughs, walls, waves, in its weeping, its laughter, moving it back fifteen years, or ahead thirty. To have. It is not even a desire. Like a butterfly, a fish, the stem of a plant, only more mysterious. And so it befell me that after so many attempts at naming the world, I am able only to repeat, harping on one string, the highest, the unique avowal beyond which no power can attain: I am, she is. Shout, blow the trumpets, make thousands-strong marches, leap, rend your clothing, repeating only: is!

She got out at Raspail. I was left behind with the immensity of existing things. A sponge, suffering because it cannot saturate itself; a river, suffering because reflections of clouds and trees are not clouds and trees.

“Esse” (1954), transl. Czesław Miłosz and Robert Pinsky


But other things can be:

You lead me on with those innocent eyes
You know I love the element of surprise
In the garden I was playing the tart
I kissed your lips and broke your heart
You were acting like it was the end of the world

U2, “Until The End of the World” (1992)


White Liberal, Who Are You?

Thordaddy asks a liberal:

Could anyone here articulate your first principle? State your metaphysical truth? Define your core religious belief? Identify your race with certainty?

No, no, no and no are my answers.

Those questions strip the contemporary White liberal to his core. Is it solid or hollow? To begin answering that question, it’s instructive to follow the progress of his speech over the recent decades:

1980s: [cue Mr. Van Driessen’s voice] “Reagan is a dangerous warmonger. It’s cruel to deport California’s illegal immigrants. The environment should be protected from greedy developers. Homeless people need shelters. Be more open to life’s experiences.”

1990s: “Gay people have the right to serve in the military. Her body, her choice. I never signed your mean-spirited Contract with America. Immigrants enrich us with wonderful restaurants, you ignorant loser. We’d make progress on racism if not for Jesse fucking Helms!”

2000s: “Fuck Bush Fuck Bush Fuck Bush no war no profiling Fuck Bush Fuck Bush Fuck Bush Fuck Bush Fuck Bush open borders you bigot Fuck Bush Fuck Bush Fuck Bush islamophobe Fuck Bush Fuck Bush 911 was an inside job Fuck Bush Fuck Bush Fuck Bush!”

Today: “I’m gonna get your ass fired, you fucking transphobic asshole. Drone the Bundys. Trump hates women. Racist bitches oughtta be raped. Go back to whatever rock Mike Pence crawled out from under.”

In my adult lifetime the White liberal has devolved from someone who is following a more or less coherent set of conservationist, compassionate, and risk-averse beliefs into somebody consumed with a hate that strikes whatever lightning rod draws its attention.

For his sake I hope that the liberal does have a positive identity and a coherent vision because otherwise, the amplitude of his emotion (and the fury with which he is hurling himself toward a very lonely place) is best explained by the fact that he’s become nothing more than a thrashing, wounded animal. Such a creature longs for death to bring relief from a pain whose source is beyond his ken. John Keats expressed that feeling two centuries ago:

Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget
What thou among the leaves hast never known,
The weariness, the fever, and the fret
Here, where men sit and hear each other groan;
Where palsy shakes a few, sad, last gray hairs,
Where youth grows pale, and spectre-thin, and dies;
Where but to think is to be full of sorrow
And leaden-eyed despairs,
Where Beauty cannot keep her lustrous eyes,
Or new Love pine at them beyond to-morrow.


Darkling I listen; and, for many a time
I have been half in love with easeful Death,
Call’d him soft names in many a mused rhyme,
To take into the air my quiet breath

As someone on Twitter put it — and which in my opinion is a brutal but accurate interpretation of the speaker’s angst in “An Ode To A Nightingale” — maybe what White liberals pine for is to be shot, just like their hero Fidel Castro used to execute them:


How America Can Be Made Great Again

By restoring the country’s ethnic balance to what it was before 1965. Those who came here since the signing of the Hart-Celler Act would have to go home, details to be hammered out. Yes, this could include me. Wait — someone’s calling. It’s the Momentum of History. She’s asking if my feelings would be hurt. I tell her “No.” “Terrific!” she says, “then I’ll just plow ahead.”

That superficially assimilated Somalian girl with the Valley Girl accent and a White boyfriend — yeah, she’d be going home. Don’t feel bad for her though. She does not vote in line with your interests and once awake to the deportations, she’d show her true allegiance. Every alien is capable of acting friendly so long as you don’t scratch his ethnic pride, and as long as you keep on with the “give” end of your give-and-take agreement and never the “take.”

For historical perspective, there were many fine Germans who nevertheless had to leave in 1945. Some were put into westbound freight cars after being stripped of every material possession, even their photo albums.

Legacy Blacks of course would be grandfathered in, but only under either full subordination to White norms within integrated spheres or autonomous under segregation. In the Eisenhower era, America’s racial protocols were framed as an international embarrassment. But in the age of Twitter and global muh dik, it is the Westerners’ filicidal tolerance that makes the world laugh at us.

America is in a transitional period. What’s going on is neither stable nor permanent. If you’re not White, then you have no idea how much we hate this multikult dictatorship. How it feminizes our character, stunts our freedom-loving spirit, and how sour it feels, under current political dictates, to see one of you walking freely within two hundred yards of our home. How the sun shines brighter and the sky is more blue when every face we see is like ours.

In short:

Blacks would stay, but they had their shot at equality and they can’t handle it. They are what they are, no less the crooked timber of humanity than anyone else. Whites don’t have to live like this, is what it would come down to.

And those who came here after Hart-Celler and their descendants would go home. Given that the Constitution of the United States was written for the posterity of those who were here before 1787, consider the 1965 cutoff date a bicentennial amnesty.

And then it’s on to greatness: walk on Mars, cure paralysis, extend a hand of friendship to the Afrikaners, and once again become who we are.


God helps those who help themselves, as goes the saying. But sometimes things happen, for good or for ill, that defy our understanding of cause and effect. They remind us that the best perspective on life is one of gratitude.

The stories below happened as described, I just changed people’s names.

The Hydroplane

We were going too fast. Jake drove, I rode shotgun, Jake’s brother Randy and his girlfriend were asleep in the back seat. We were heading up to Boston, Rt. 24 northbound. It was late evening, torrential rain, and all you could see was the red smear of the taillights ahead.

There was no prelude, the spin-out was instantaneous. As the car spun with zero apparent resistance over the layer of water it was gliding on I saw the headlights of oncoming cars, then nothing as the we spun away, then headlights again but much closer. I braced for my rib cage popping on impact (that’s what flashed through my head) and hoped that it doesn’t hurt too badly. Then white light flooded everything.

We are in the left lane, facing the wrong way, the engine stalled. No other cars around. Sheets of rainwater cascade down the windshield. Jake starts the engine, turns the car back north and chastened, we continue at a cautious speed with blinkers on. Randy and his girl are now awake and are asking what happened. Jake and I are in a state in which it is difficult to speak. He said: “I don’t know. The car hydroplaned and I was tapping the brake to get control of it.” “What about the other cars?” I asked, “they were right on us.” Jake says “I don’t know.”

The Trampoline

My droogs and I storm a backyard trampoline. Randy (same one) jumps around erratically and lands next to me just as I was launching myself into a flip, causing me to lose control of my jump. Mid-air I twisted my torso and landed on my shoulders. Legs swung hard in a wrong direction and a lightning bolt shot down the backs of my legs. I crawled off the trampoline and stooped over, shuffled toward my car and sat there for about an hour, smoking one cigarette after another until the rhythmic pulses firing down from my lumbar vertebrae quieted down.

During that same time, my sister was spending a week at the beach with her boyfriend. When she came back, I asked her how it was. “Awful!” she said, “on the first day I was picking up a seashell and this pain just shot down my lower back. Keith had to carry me home and I was on the couch for the next bunch of days because I couldn’t walk!” Then I remembered my trampoline mishap and told her about it. When comparing notes, we were startled to discover that my incident and hers happened on the same day, and quite likely at the very same time. I believe that through some mechanism or agency she absorbed just enough of my trauma to keep me from injuring my spinal chord.


What a year. We’re either the world’s luckiest bastards, or God is with us.

Bill White’s Comment On The New Role Of WN

Bill White is an inmate at U.S. Penitentiary Marion, Illinois, serving a 25-year sentence for a number of convictions associated with his White Nationalist activism. His Wikipedia and Infogalactic pages provide some background information.

I remember Bill from college in the 1990s. We didn’t know each other personally but on two occasions when hanging out in front of the student union I’d catch him in an open-air debate with an evangelical Christian preacher. He was militantly atheistic and anti-police at the time, not yet a WN. He called himself “utopian-radical” and led an organization called the Bill White Student Group.

Flanked by his supporters, in baggy jeans and a sweatshirt and a grin from ear to ear he made his entrance, dropped his book bag with a flourish, and squared off with his unsuspecting debate partner. The preachers (there were two such occasions I witnessed, a different preacher each time) were no easy marks. Each held his own, and a mutual respect developed between each of them and Bill over the course of their separate dialectical clashes. There is a breed of man that thrives on showmanship, at his best when under the eye of a throng of spectators, and both Bill and his adversaries were cut from that cloth.

Around 2003, I came across his Overthrow blog and at one point mentioned something to him about his debates with the preachers back at the university. He LOL’ed about that, saying “good times” and laughed it off as youthful silliness. His writing was excellent. Much of it was philosophical but he also posted hilarious personal accounts, such as of his interactions with the colorful characters in the low-income rental properties he owned in Roanoke, Virginia.


Harold Covington posts Bill’s letters from prison on his Thoughtcrime (downwithjugears) blog. Below is an excerpt from Bill White’s much-longer commentary on the role of White Nationalism under Donald Trump’s administration, posted on November 16, 2016:

Regardless, what Trump may give White Nationalism is something that we desperately need, if we can be sensible enough to use it: peace. In return, White Nationalism should give Trump the same thing. This would not be the time for White Nationalists to continue to attack the policies of the federal government, even though Trump will almost certainly not be radical enough and confrontational enough — no matter how radical and confrontational he is — for our tastes.

The role of white nationalism under a Trump administration, if Trump keeps to his promises and attempts to pursue a White, working-class agenda and Trump also does not continue to misuse the internal security agencies to attack us, should be to act as a language for Trump’s policies.  Our position should be to support and demand further extension of these policies, to educate the people, and to give the people an ideological basis to support further extension of what the government (we hope) is going to do.

When facing his latest series of legal troubles, Bill conceded on his blog that he gives the law plenty of rope to hang him with. He is convicted on a number of charges, the gravest of which involve the posting of threats to public officials. But from what I’ve read about him, Bill never actually hurt anyone. In an interview with Roanoke Times, he said:

I wouldn’t be out here buying and fixing up houses if I had some agenda against the black community…The Jews, I despise. They hate me. I hate them.

When President Trump looks at a list of people to pardon, William Alexander “Bill” White, a talented man doing 25 years in prison over words, is a case well worth a review and a consideration of clemency.


Bill White. Source: Thoughtcrime blog