What To Say To A Liberal Female

“You’re a terrible person.”

Depending on your relationship and the context, you can say it scornfully, in a concerned voice, facetiously, or to really fuck with her, say it non-judgmentally. For subtle trolling, lead in with “I’m starting to think that you’re a terrible person.” A commenter at Vox Popoli writes:

Women are PC because of (1) peer pressure and (2) virtue signaling. You fight peer pressure by unplugging from the media.

Virtue signaling is something else. It’s the female version of men acting tough — showing you’re valuable to the tribe. Everyone knows this instinctively: You’ll never embarrass a woman by showing she’s weak, no matter how much feminist brainwashing she’s received. But point out she’s evil and you’ll cut deep.

Don’t treat them like they’re good but misguided people. That just reinforces their behavior. Don’t let them think they’re getting some kind of status or good reputation from PC platitudes. Treat them like the traitors they are. Tell them outright that what’s happening is their fault. Because it is.

Insightful. Like he says, don’t backpedal by saying that she’s good but misguided. No, she’s either a terrible person or she’s a good person. She can’t be both at the same time.

Women will seek to validate the goodness of their liberal attitudes. The day before the election, a liberal acquaintance huffed “So-and-so said that voting for a Democrat is a sin!” “It’s true,” I agreed with no need to amplify and walked on to get my coffee. She didn’t know what to make of my tone so she giggled, then chattered ingratiatingly with me when I came back.

Traitoresses get their heads shaved. They are cut from our lives and frozen-out in the street. If you have one you’re not ready to write off, telling her that she’s a terrible person might be the cure for her toxic vanity.

Speaking of, check out these clown-world Mother Teresas:



It wasn’t called “bullying” when I was in school. We called it “picking on.” The b-word may have been popularized by the film Bully (2001), or maybe two years earlier in the aftermath of Columbine High School killings. The concept of bullying is now politicized. I won’t dwell much on that aspect here except to note that anti-bullying campaigns don’t do much to protect White or Asian kids from race-based attacks in Black schools. But what I want to look at here is the dynamic of bullying among boys on its continuum that spans from legitimate in-group correction or rite-of-passage hazing, on to its destructive excesses.

Here is an anecdote: I made friends easily at age 13, having just arrived in the United States. It was a neighborhood with blue collar families and young couples with starter homes. There was also a tall 14-year-old mesomorph Brady (all names have been changed) and his sidekick Darren. We were on guard around Brady. He’d ride up on his dirt bike — sometimes alone, sometimes with Darren — and joke around, and then look squarely at one of us, for example at Jason, crack a grin and tell him that his mom is a fat pig. Jason wasn’t stupid so he lowered his eyes and kept his mouth shut.

Brady was a fact of life, like the elements. It was validating when he rode up to us because he was cool and the high school guys liked him. He in fact mostly hang out with them. But his visits were also tense because you did not want to say the wrong thing, and he baited us to say something wrong. One day his buddy Darren mouthed off to me with an ethnic insult. I ignored it and that’s how trouble started with Brady. Darren thought I was afraid of him, so he then repeatedly challenged me to a fight (but only when Brady was around). I blew off the challenges as comical because he was smaller than me.

My being scared of Darren was not in the realm of the possible. Back in Poland boys fought all the time. We had these gangs with formal rank structures and at one point parents intervened because a boy was karate-kicked in the throat. It was a retaliatory ambush that I organized, though the potentially lethal strike wasn’t part of the plan. What I was afraid of though, was my family getting deported. My parents warned me to stay out of trouble in America and I took that very seriously. So hell no, I wasn’t going to beat up a weaker kid.

The interval of time between Darren’s first challenge to a fight and my eventual response, a period of several weeks, was what you could call “being bulled.” Or picked-on. It was just Brady’s physical intimidation and Darren’s name-calling, I got along well otherwise. But my pacifism was starting to look bad and people were letting me know it.

“Fine, we’ll fight when we get off the bus,” I told Darren. We got off, the school bus left and everyone formed a wide circle around us. This is ridiculous, I thought, sizing up the boy’s puny frame. I squared up to Darren as he’s dancing around and taunting me. I swung halfheartedly, grazing his face as he dodged my strike. He then ran screaming — and my predator instinct switched on. I caught him, took him down like a baby gazelle and started pummeling. An adult pulled me off him and the crowd laughed at Darren as he paced in circles sobbing.

I didn’t get deported, but I did graduate to Brady. He sticks his finger in my face and says: “You and I. Tomorrow morning. Bus stop.” This was serious. I couldn’t sleep that night and intentionally missed the bus in the morning. Wuss move… I knew it then and rightly took flak for it that afternoon on the bus ride home. So, next morning it is.

The ground was hard and covered in frost. Brady and I faced each other on someone’s lawn. People from two neighborhoods had come to see the fight, even the girls. I’ve only known his eyes for their mocking glint when he wasn’t otherwise laughing about something else. Now, they were cold and deliberate. The jackets come off.

As it goes with fights, you don’t remember much. It’s all tunnel-vision. You don’t hear anything because your brain regresses to reptilian form. We’re on the grass, elbows pumping as two-way punches bruise the gut, sides, ribs, face and head. Somebody separated us. I stand in a daze, a warm stream flowing from my nose. I rub my lip and my fingers are covered in red. He’s facing me, face crimson and crumpled. He’s wiping blood from his mouth and chin… and crying.

He cried, I won — the older guys called it and so it was. The next day I was walking and a man leans out of his front door and shouts from across the street: “Hey PA, I heard you kicked Brady’s ass! Way to go man!” Let me tell you folks, the sun was shining bright that day. I’ve had successes in the decades that followed, but that kudos stands out above most to this day for me.

Soon after the fight, Brady and I became friends. For the next three years until he moved out, we hang out at each other’s houses and during the summer took our ten-speeds out on long rides. His parents once took me out on a trip where I first smelled pot. In the summer of ’85 we rode bikes to a construction site where his older brother worked and hung out with the contractors during their lunch breaks.


Bullying serves a valuable function of regulating wrong behavior and keeping boys sharp. An example of a simple correction: I once saw a group of guys bust their friend’s balls because he was absentmindedly eating a banana like he was giving a blowjob. He caught on and stopped.

Brady did me a favor. He found my weakness and hammered on it until I did something about it. To earn self-respect and the respect of others, you have to face your fear and walk through it. Anti-bullying campaigns, in short-circuiting White teenagers’ system of hazing and censure, are a reason why there are now so many Gammas — weaklings who deign take a shortcut to status by running their mouths like fiat currency.

But — bullying can spiral out of control and indicate adult intervention. Healthy boys have more aggression than wisdom so things can became a Lord of the Flies jungle. Examples:

1. Some instances of bullying do not offer the mark any avenue of redeeming himself. The kid hadn’t done anything to deserve being a target of cruelty for sport, and fighting back only makes it worse. For a boy to go through that is comparable to a girl getting gang-raped. There is a reason why survivors of wartime interrogation never talk about the experience and some later commit suicide.

2. A lost-cause like Gomer Pyle in Full Metal Jacket. Some can’t be helped and for them, a USMC boot camp becomes a tearing-down, but with no prospects of then building-up. Sure, Pyle didn’t need to smuggle in that jelly doughnut… but would he have had it any other way? Just cut him loose. Otherwise you’re destroying a human being and pushing things toward murder-suicide.

3. There are videos from schools in Germany. Smaller, younger native boys getting slapped around by Muslims. That’s not bullying — that’s lambs in a labyrinth. It’s the nation itself being bullied, being dared to do something about it. Will the adults do what needs to be done or will one of these boys step forward as their Theseus?


There is either a metaphorical or a real moment in a boy’s life when he approaches a ball field. Maybe he’s in a new school. The guys notice him. One chucks the ball at him. A sharp kid will catch that ball. He who drops it, might have a hole to dig himself out of. And if honor is challenged, it comes down to prison rules: throw a punch.

TL;DR: Sometimes you’ve got to fight when you’re a man.

“Hey! This Is Library”

Sometimes all it takes to humble an enemy, be it an army of soldiers or a squad of freaks, is a simple statement. The tanks at Tienanmen went on to do their jobs but somehow I doubt that malformations with megaphones are equally unstoppable.

The library incident may well become iconic. It is going viral because it illustrates civic courage — and the power of conviction behind it that is both intrinsic to the man’s character, and extrinsic as far as the confidence that comes with aligning oneself with civilization’s claim on public space. There is a wall between civilization and savagery, as well as between personal dignity and dissoluteness.



Let’s sort out this crazy little thing called hate, and be clear on what it is and isn’t. Hate is not evil or dark. Hate is an integral part of a healthy human soul. It is best understood as an impulse to protect the things you value. For example, you love your grandmother, therefore you hate anyone who’d knock her down and kick her in the face. Hate motivates you to be proactive about securing an environment in which nobody batters your grandma. There are two kinds of out-group hate, and I dub them Existential and Sensory.

First, just a few words on Existential Hate. It comes from the fear of annihilation at the hands of one’s equals or superiors in intelligence, organizational skill, or cunning. The impulse can also be expressed as hostility toward anyone more successful or beautiful. Existential Hate functions as prudent vigilance against predators and high-functioning parasites but unchecked, it becomes paranoia.

The other kind is Sensory Hate. It comes from the fear of contamination rather than subversion or organized violence. One feels it for his perceived inferiors whom he sees in some way — aesthetic, moral — as repellent, but doesn’t take them seriously as rivals. In today’s forcibly desegregated West, this is how Whites feel about liberated Blacks when we get close enough to get on each others’ nerves.

Whereas Existential Hate can keep one up at night, with Sensory Hate it’s “out of sight, out of mind.” If you’ve gone for a stretch of days without seeing a mudshark couple or hearing a ghetto female shrieking into her cell phone, your feelings toward Blacks revert to benevolence.

But when you find yourself captive audience to the object of your odium, your hate will spike. For a hypothetical example, imagine a scenario that will no doubt ring secretly familiar even to liberal Whites: elementary school-aged Black kids from the nearby apartments are hanging out on your street, making noise with their electronics and skateboards. You wait until they leave on their own, visions of Raid cans in your head.

A neighbor slowly drives around them as they are certainly not stepping out of her car’s way, and averts her eyes as they glare at her. And then you see that there is a little White girl with them, and you wonder about her parents, possibly a divorced mother. Your hate is dialed up another notch, firing right over their heads and straight for the heart of the organizing principles of the liberal order.

You ask yourself — how are we going to build communities when they get to run free right here while we do play-dates? It’s a thing to snark about, but… I ran free and rode buses alone or with friends as a child in 1970s Warsaw and would now consider it insanity to let a seven-year-old White kid leave a parent’s sight in the borderless land of strangers… like that girl hanging out with the black kids. And this train of thoughts leads toward a suspicion that we live in an open-air extermination camp.

Under full rights of association along with local vigilance, everyone’s freedom was maximized because everyone knew where he belonged and had full sovereignty there. And now with the boot of the state entirely on Whites’ necks, freedom has become a zero-sum game, with us holding the goose egg. Hate just got hotter.


Don’t run from your hate. It’s a sign of life. But you have to control it — hate is napalm against those who’d harm that which you love, and such a potent fluid mustn’t overflow its holding tank and burn your soft tissue.

And if you feel like hate is making you go crazy, it is. Do something about it. Keep in mind that life in captivity doles out feelings of helplessness, so any hate that is not steadied by a substrate of testosterone and riding on a sense of direction and purpose, will turn inward and degrade to despair. The fast remedy against despair: go to the gym and max it out. If going to a gym is not possible, do fifty slow perfect form push-ups. It will transform rage into a sense of perspective, along with a look of I got your number, boy.


Will the European race survive the 21st century? If that boot stays on our necks, then barring unknown developments, it doesn’t look good. But even the lowest bug fights against its annihilation once survival protocols kick in. In fat times, old folks waste their grandkids’ inheritance on travel. But during famine, these same grandparents would pass on the food and die so that the toddlers can eat.

Things may not need to come to a ruthless final solution (an Ace card that we hold). The ascension of Donald Trump to U.S. Presidency has been championed by freedom-hungry men of every Western nation and beyond, riding on our aspirations that in our lifetimes, we will extricate ourselves from the corrupt twin visions of globalism and amalgamation.


Google’s picture to mark the federal holiday:


Just another affectation of solemnity that creeps one out with its trappings of a cult ceremony.

Human societies are constructions with breathing micro and macro structural systems. Globalism would dynamite them until they’re ground up into powder. But the adversary is damned to his sisyphean labors — our social bonds can remain self-regenerating longer than the Leftist can fool us with his latest human mask.

As to the commemorated historic figure: there are Black physiognomies that project kindness and integerity. MLK’s is not one of them. Since my first acquaintance with the iconic portrait at age 13, it’s struck me as showing a liar’s face.

As to the picture, I’m not holding hands with any Muslim female.


Analysis of propaganda is a useful habit to cultivate. To throw out some thoughts on the doodle in support of my overall impression that they are pulling it back a bit:

  • There are only two men, a White and a Black one, and they are of equal stature. No males of other races.
  • They are showing adults. These doodles are aimed at Whites and at this point, and an excessive taking of liberty with the representation of children triggers our protective instincts.
  • Per SOP, the Black male is next to a White female but they drew her middle-aged “so who cares.”
  • What’s with the foreign pattern on an African-American’s shirt?

Idle Thoughts on Sincerity in Songs

Why, what could she have done, being what she is?
Was there another Troy for her to burn?
— William Butler Yeats, “No Second Troy”

Mylène Farmer performs “Ainsi soit je.” She keeps us waiting until 2:00, only to break down sobbing. Art is not about expressing the artist’s emotion (nobody cares about that), but about evoking an emotion in the audience — and they cry with her. Suburban_elk once wrote:

[Art] it is about creating a tone of mind, a frame that includes both emotion and reason, and then that thing above those that is both and more.

A beautiful woman is art. Marie Laforêt performs “Viens, viens.” The darkness within draws a girl to men who leave. It makes her miserable when things are tranquil so she complicates her life until it hurts and only then she is satisfied, because only then she feels like she has a soul. What do Katie Piper, Vanessa Münstermann, and Gessica Notaro have in common?

The first task of civilization is to forbid children to play in the street. You know what is most tragic about ‘sharks? It’s the loss of feral genes. If there is one thing I shout as I hold you by the shirt collar, it’s this — we need our left half!! The capacity for great madness is the creative fount of a great race. We need our cunts, deviants, drunks, criminals, freaks and self-immolators. But as long as we’re in this straitjacket, the pigs are vacuuming up our wild eggs.

There’s a kid who had a big hallucination
Making love to girls in magazines.

In Pink Floyd’s great underrated song Final Cut, closet fash Roger Waters asks the kinds of questions that shouldn’t be asked and bellows against the swelling wave of strings:

Thought I oughta bare my naked feelings,
Thought I oughta tear the curtain down.
I held the blade in trembling hands
Prepared to make it but just then the phone rang
I never had the nerve to make the final cut.

I like Elk’s thoughts on what art does. But how does it become? I think there are three elements. One: the artist’s sub-rational openness to the transcendent; you can also call that authenticity, or sincerity. Two: artist the man as a medium; his purity or corruption, his originality in filtering the intangible on it way to material expression. Three: his technical skill to deliver the artifact faithfully to intent.

Here is another de profundis performance:

Oh, I love you
God, I love you
I’d kill a dragon for you

Bachelorette Parties

*phone rings*

PA: Hey Ace, what’s up.

Ace: I have a story for you. Today at lunch I overheard a conversation so fucked-up, I was simply unprepared for what I heard.

You know the herbivore phenomenon in Japan, right? Well, this is worse. So I’m having lunch at a restaurant and there are these two young guys in the booth behind me. They are talking about a friend of theirs getting married — specifically, they found out that his fiancee had gotten carried away at her bachelorette party and made out with some men.

Here is the twisted part: these two fellows I’m eavesdropping on, they agreed that — ready for this? — they won’t say anything to their friend about it, to not ruin the wedding.


Ace: Are you there?

PA: … speechless …. this is too surreal to even call it a violation of “bros before hos.” This is so… new…

Ace: Remember, I noticed this fifteen years ago: America is going to shit because bachelor parties are becoming tame while bachelorette parties are becoming wild.

PA: You were perceptive. Not long after you pointed that out, I traveled through upstate New York and stopped in Batavia. Went to the hotel bar to have a beer after my long drive. There was a bachelorette party at the bar, and some twat in a tiara was prancing around flirting with male patrons. Her drunk friend cornered me while commenting on my wedding band. I was disgusted with the whole scene so I paid for my unfinished beer and went up to my room. Anyway, go on.

Ace: That’s not the end of it. Their conversation continued. I pick up on the fact that these two guys are graduate students — or should I say graaaaduate thtudenths — in North Carolina. And they’re going on about how Durham, Raleigh, and Chapel Hill are the only islands of sanity in that state. The rest of the state, as they put it, is a wasteland of ignorant Trump-voting rednecks.

PA: The dweebs don’t even know their own host-state on their terms. You’d think they’d at least give a shout-out to Blowing Rock.

Ace: They remind me of your Stockings Man archetype — a person who gives up on life. Except that your Stocking Man had started out with a fighting chance and either never tried or tried and failed, and he’s is well aware of his degraded condition — while those two buddy-fuckers are healthy, they have freedom and money, but they have no idea of how … hollow they are.

PA: There is a “dead man walking” quality to men who are so compliant to the feminine imperative that they won’t even alert a friend before he makes a catastrophic mistake. It’s an atrophy of the spirit. To such a degree that if someone came to execute them, they’d go along with it passively.

Ace: Except that when, for example, cartels execute someone, they first torture him for days. Come the knife, he’s broken and welcomes the cut.

PA: Those two haven’t been tortured, they just never cultivated whatever it is that torture beats out of a man. If a killer told them to go behind the restaurant to get shot, they’d be afraid, but they’d obediently walk. Their eyes wouldn’t even be darting sideways to make a break for it as they are led around the building.

Ace: This comes down to each generation’s place in history. Boomers were sentimental — “all you need is love” they sang, and forgot about hate. We GenX’ers never saw what hit us and we got it good and hard — but at least we remember what a blue sky looks like. Those two had lived their entire lives in a cloud of gas.

PA: But there are also positives in every generation. We all do our part, even those two idiots.

Ace: A time to every purpose under heaven. Teenagers are now unanimously for God-Emperor.

PA: A time to love, and a time to hate; a time of war, and a time of peace.

Ace: The kids who are now in elementary schools will laugh at equality. They are Generation Trump.

“Hey, Falcons!” — Folk Songs

European folk songs: each nation has songs that sometimes date back centuries. Here, we looked at an ancient Latvian hymn “The Sun, the Thunder, and the River,” performed not for, but by a thousands-strong stadium crowd.

“Hej Sokoły” or “Hey Falcons” is a Polish/Ukrainian song written the early 19th century. The video below features the Winged Hussars of the Siege of Vienna fame in dramatized battle scenes. Mild NSFW for brief nudity.

The song varies in tempo in this arrangement. Another thing I find common in folk songs is a contrast between sorrowful lyrics and a spirited melody, or vice-versa. The lyrics:

Longing, longing for my girl,
Back in my green Ukraine,
Sorrow, grief, the heart is crying,
I will never see her again.

Refrain x2:
Hey, hey, hey falcons!
Fly past the mountains, forests, rivers, valleys
Ring, ring, ring, the bell
Across the steppes, ring, ring, ring.

She stayed back alone
My nightingale
And here I am in foreign fields
Days and nights I miss her

[Ref. x2]

Wine, wine, give me wine
And when I die bury me
In the fields of green Ukraine
Next to my beloved girl.

[Ref. x2]

The Death Pool

When Sen. Traitor “Ted” Kennedy croaked in 2009, I bought a bottle to celebrate the event. We take human death with due gravity but we also cheer the removal of a stain. Whom will a flight of demons carry off next?

George H.W. Bush — Backstabber (age 92, no known illnesses)

George Soros — One insect that damaged so much grain (86, no known illnesses)

John McCain — Traitor (80, skin cancer, dementia)

Jorge Bergoglio — Foot-fetishist (80, no known illnesses)

Dick Cheney — Profiteer (75, no known illnesses) CORRECTION: heart attacks/transplant

Bill Clinton — War criminal (70, lifeless eyes)

Hillary Clinton — Failed tyrant (69, substance abuse, seizures)

Angela Merkel — Perpetrator of genocide (62, likely to be tried and executed)

Al Sharpton — Liar (62, extreme weight loss)

Paul Ryan — What do they have on him? (46, family history of heart failure)


“Soon, my dear…” — The Lord of the Flies