Biological Envy

One way of relating to your natural superiors is to recognize that their attributes validate the ideals of excellence that you also aspire to as a human being. But Left-leaning people do not like high standards. A self-described “fat, ugly” woman writes:

Your DNA is an abomination. Beauty will be over because we want it to be. Ontologically speaking, your death will mean liberation for all… Until then, remember this: I hate you because you shouldn’t exist. You are both the dominant apparatus on the planet and the void in which all other women, upon meeting you, die…

Oh, wait. I got that wrong. Correction: Texas State University’s student paper ran a genocide-inciting, anti-White op-ed by a Hispanic male student, Rudy Martinez. Actual quote:

“Ontologically speaking, white death will mean liberation for all… Until then, remember this: I hate you because you shouldn’t exist.”


The writer exhibits what I call “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.

Steve Sailer’s “Coalition of the Fringes” is bonded together by its constituents’ biological envy of their betters. Under European patriarchy, the classes of people that are virtuous, accomplished — or superior by certain universally recognized criteria — serve as an aspirational example to everyone else. The hack of cultural Marxism was to turn the skyward-gaze of the masses forward, liberating them to repudiate high standards and yearn for the day when anyone who reminds them of something they can never fully become is destroyed.

“Better to reign in Hell than serve in Heaven.” — Satan, Paradise Lost

The Things I Like In This Video

… as Dominic the Donkey brings Christmas cheer:

  • Paisans
  • Northeastern U.S. autumn
  • The flourish in the refrain
  • The architecture
  • The sports coat with jeans
  • Leaves everywhere
  • I can dance like that!
  • I can’t sing as well as that guy though
  • Mother Country words peppered in
  • The ‘stache
  • The amiable fat dude (every cool group has exactly one)
  • The city park and ‘hood
  • The derby cap
  • Christmas

Forced To Stand

“[I]f there’s no place to hide, we’ll be forced to stand. People bring up South Africa as an example of a White population that wouldn’t defend itself, but don’t neglect the crushing psychological impact of knowing that the Entire World was against you. That won’t be the case everywhere, always.”  — S.J., Esquire

As reported, a 24-year-old homeless English man named Mickey Sage “hunted” for enemy-occupants in London and was sentenced to prison, saying that he would become a martyr for his country. He was arrested before injuring anyone. If lone wolf White-on-Vibrant attacks are the future, it’s because a cornered animal has nothing to lose. After all, the politicians have signaled clearly that compliance with race replacement only makes them more sadistic. When such bad faith becomes common knowledge, many young men in target-rich environments will be compelled by their pride, and old men by their reckoning with personal legacy, to think globally and act locally.

I do not attack anyone, therefore I am not telling others to do so. What I am saying is, that in the “lead, follow, or get out of the way” schema of opposition to our genocide, I get out of the way of those who lead or follow. This means that I don’t disavow any of our action heroes and I expect others to not do that either. I also refrain from armchair-quarterbacking these missions. Some rush to criticize the activist for attacking non-Whites when, as they put it, it’s the traitors at the top who deserve the wrath. They cite Corneliu Codreanu:

If I had but one bullet and were faced by both an enemy and a traitor, I would let the traitor have it.

No disagreement with the great Romanian but in the context of our challenges, the sentiment is misused as a crutch to rationalize inaction and sometimes even to signal anti-racism. The “enemy-traitor” distinction is an impractical dichotomy in two ways. One, a foot-soldier does not have physical access to traitors; he kills the enemy grunt that’s right in front of him. Two, someone with Breivik’s talents can strike at the enemy’s heart, but very few people can pull off such a sophisticated operation.

Some missions fail due to inadequate planning, along with the fact that the fighter is doing something new and entirely on his own, without sergeants, captains, generals, ministers of war, and prime ministers guiding him along. But one learns from others’ experience and so it’s lone wolves today, hunting parties tomorrow. Prison today, glory tomorrow.

Some ask if action heroes are strategically counterproductive, but it seems a strange question, given that fighting for your home is how you keep it. So I go with “No” because anti-Whites have slapped away our every peace offering. At the very least, respect on the street is better than no respect. I don’t know whether action heroes are sinners that spill innocent blood or soldiers of Christ. But I know that life is not the Christian’s highest value. Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends. — John 15:13.

The Counter-Bix Nood

A black fellow explains to the world why it was a mistake to give him equality:

Key observation on the video: none of that squaring off with dukes up, tough-talk, reasoning, or appeals to decency. Like in the earlier post — a line is crossed. One strike. Offender down.

People are territorial and forcing legal equality where there is no natural equality requires the suppression of our territorial instinct. But there are ways of claiming your public space. I’ll give a recent example from a family-friendly restaurant in a White-demographic, largely blue collar area. The place was packed and I felt at home with all the patrons and visible staff being our folk. We’re standing with friends in line for a table.

Then a black man comes in, pushing past us toward the hostess. You already know his hostile vibe, no need for me to paint a picture. After a few words with the hostess, he decided to forgo waiting and turned back to leave. I wouldn’t say he was outright rude as he worked his way through the standing crowd toward the door. But he was not respectful, either, snarling “excuse me” past each person. So I eyeballed him. He notices this and fires an aggressive glance back as he passes me. He has been conditioned to expect us to drop the gaze. I maintained the eye contact and he looked down.

No, we are not one nation. He should have walked on eggshells in someone else’s home. Public space, places where people take their families, is an extension of home. It’s where you want to relax and make memories for the kids. I hope that I convinced him, going forward, to support African-American businesses instead.

You have to use your own judgment. I understood the variables at instinctual level and knew that escalation on his part was unlikely. I also knew what I can handle.

Also related, from this short dissertation on two kinds of Hate:

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.

Everyday Rhetoric

Our job is to bridge the gap between us and the ordinary people who are captive to the liberal frame. Our challenge is compounded by the fact that we are outside of the mainstream. Herd-behaving liberals can out-group us, while it’s generally not an option we have because they are the polite society and we are the party-crashers. This will change, but for now the burden of social proof is on us.

The Red Pill is bitter so it must be given in measured doses. I went into that here as well. That said, people are hungry for the truth and they are unsettled by the environmental poz. Also, most people are followers and need properly worded dispensation, from the right source, to trust their own eyes. Here are examples of real and hypothetical conversations:

Choosing sides

He believes that right wingers are mean and liberals are nice. He says: “Man, I think Trump went too far this time. Did you hear about [some trite fake-news bullshit]?” You drop the smile, look at him and say: “Listen brah, there’s no more debate. There is no more politics. Things are coming to a war. And I know what side I’m on.” He might well slip out of the conversation at this point, probably with some flippant quip. If he doesn’t, and he asks you what side that is, nod in the direction of his kids and quietly tell him: “The side that wants them to be free men and women, not slaves.”

Electroshocking the liberal

Saw this out there: “Bernie would have won if not for the goddamned n_____s.”

Velvet gloves

I knew a young chick some years back, a good girl in a big city. She’s telling me about a fellow in her apartment building who pesters her is a really sweet guy. She is squirming on about how nice and smart he is, along with a few additional positive attributes. She adds an afterthought: “… and he’s an immigrant from Africa… I feel bad for blowing him off because he’s so sweet, do you think that’s wrong?” I reply: “Cross-cultural relationships never work out.” Her relief is palpable. My thoughts, telegraphed to her dad: You’re welcome, mister.

Notice what I did. I spoke matter-of-factly. I said “culture” rather than “race” to bypass her indoctrination infrastructure. Finally, my rhetoric was absolute — “never” rather than “rarely.” Of course some intercultural relationships do work out. But that’s not the point. The point was to give her what she came to me for, which was permission to say No.

Elementary self-reliance

Your eyes tell you who is speaking the truth and who is lying to you.

Your heart tells you what’s kind and what’s cruel.

Your brain tells you what makes sense and what doesn’t.

Your gut tells you what’s healthy and what’s sick.

This is the time…

This is the time to be a young White boy. Your formative landscape is roadside Trump signs. You are a generation of boys that has a bona-fide hero as role model in public life. No one can take that from you.

You also have the perfect foil to everything that’s beautiful and true: Hillary, a word now-synonymous with witchery and decrepitude. As you and your friends laugh about your SJW teacher, the punchline comes naturally: “She probably likes Hillary.”

I said “witchery.” The notion of the toxic female has come back, and this is where you lump in every woman who is not a mother, not a nun, and not a prostitute.

Related posts:

So, What’s Our Choice?

Lawrence Auster once threw his hands up in exasperation and asked his correspondents, and I’m paraphrasing from memory: “If Jews can’t live in the diaspora and they can’t live in Israel, then where can they live?”

We can ask globalists a similar question.

If our tolerance is rewarded with this:



Immigrants protest against racism









… and our nationalism makes you oy-vey:

Poland’s leaders have let an evil genie out of the bottle. What we’ve witnessed on the streets of Warsaw represents a threat not only to liberal democracy in Poland but also to the stability and welfare of the European Union.

… then it almost sounds like reasoning with you is not within the realm of options.


Idle Thoughts On Misheard Lyrics

Everyone has his story on misheard lyrics that illustrates some biographical quirk. My three:

1. Boney M — “El Lute

I heard a bit of Disco as a kid in the late 1970s and El Lute was one of my favorite songs, even though I didn’t speak a word of English at the time. That campy Euro-Caribbean band would not cross my thoughts again until two decades later, when I came across their Greatest Hits in a music store. Now fluent in English at almost thirty years old, I bought the tape and took a trip down memory lane. When I got to El Lute, I played it again because the song’s lyrics captured my attention, with its story about the famed Spanish outlaw.

Eleuterio Sánchez is either a murderer as convicted, or an innocent man per his steadfast claim. Only he knows the truth. He was born in 1942 to a dirt-poor peasant family in northern Spain, remaining illiterate until adulthood. He learned to read, earned a law degree, and wrote two books while serving a thirty-year prison sentence.

Because they own the recording industry, the song is anti-Franco propaganda. Nevertheless, you might still have a brain, but you don’t have a heart if your pulse doesn’t quicken to that story. See Point No. 8, short excerpt here:

Do you believe that a race has its destiny? If so, then ours is to build and destroy, at turns… “The European soul craves more; it needs more. If necessary, it will upend and destroy the world to get that ‘more.’ It will even destroy itself.”

I don’t mind stealing communist propaganda toward my ends. After all, I’m just taking back what’s ours: they co-opted our talent, they hijacked our folklore, so like cultural Viet Cong, we salvage the usable parts of the enemy’s equipment. Like in this bit of fun with El Lute:

And he wanted a home
Just like you and like me
In a country where all would be free

“Free love” vs “date rape” is the dividing line between Baby Boomers and Generation X. The dividing line between the previous generations and Millennials is that the latter never had a country of their own.

Though he taught himself
To read and to write
It didn’t help El Lute

The modern pursuit of an education is like grabbing a dancing reflection on water. Ancient Greeks called the program of learning that was essential to carrying out the duties of a citizen “liberal arts.” (Latin: ars liberalis, “the mastery of practices fitting a free man”). John Milton wrote that the ultimate purpose of education…

“… is to repair the ruines of our first Parents by regaining to know God aright, and out of that knowledge to love him, to imitate him, to be like him, as we may the neerest by possessing our souls of true vertue, which being united to the heavenly grace of faith makes up the highest perfection.” (1644)

At my university seminar, we poured feminist grievances over Beowulf. In a twisted way, that was still education because education is as much revealed-desire to know, as it is acquired knowledge.

This is analogous to elite military training. A bus full of Army Special Forces trainees on their first day, all of them hand-picked by their respective company commanders as cream of the crop, pulled over on the side of a road on its way to the selection school where ruthless weeding-out is done up-front. The bus driver was uncommunicative with the soldiers, who were growing restless with the delay. What they didn’t know, is that the driver is an instructor who evaluated his passengers on their behavior and the first round of people, complainers and such, was cut before they even arrived at the school.

To be taught, a man must be teachable. I had a few excellent professors but on balance, it was my frustration with the corrupted learning that constituted my education. The Alt-Right is similarly self-educated in that by discovering the Red Pill, we reclaimed the accumulated wealth of Western wisdom, the path to which for us was a labyrinth.

With the prize on his head
People still gave him bread
And they gave him a hand
For they knew he was right
And his fight was their fight

Lead, follow, or get out of the way. Or to put it differently: if you’re a guerrilla fighter, never harm your friendly civilians. If you’re a civilian, show your fighters some appreciation. At the very least, never rat them out.

On walls every place
They had put up the face of El Lute
And he robbed where he could
Just like once Robin Hood

Every nation has its populist myths. There are ballads of Pretty Boy Floyd begging a meal from struggling farmers in Oklahoma during the Great Depression, then leaving one thousand dollars on their dinner table under his napkin before disappearing.

El Lute’s story ends well for him, but what does that have to do with us?

And then freedom really came to his land
And also to El Lute
Now he walks in the light
Of a sunny new day

2. Pink Floyd — “Another Brick in the Wall, Part II”

A quick gloss over an autobiographical matter: during my almost-teenage years, my family and I spend several months in Austria. This was at the beginning of the 1980s, and we were part of a wave of Eastern European asylees en route to their ultimate destinations in the Western Hemisphere. We were put up in a lovely Gasthaus in an Alpine village, but also spent a total of about two weeks at refugee camp outside of Vienna, at a facility that for me is the touchstone of dignified state architecture.

It was built in 1900 as a training academy for Imperial artillery officers. After WWII, the occupying Soviet Army used it as barracks. In 1956, it served as shelter for Hungarians after their crushed uprising, and the center continued to process Soviet Block refugees through the end of the Cold War. You can guess what kinds of refugees came through there more recently. That building today:


One chilly morning, my dad took me into town outside the camp’s gates, to a breakfast diner. The small town was overwhelmed with foreigners, who were mostly from Communist countries that shared their borders with Austria. A man my dad’s age, a fellow-Pole, hears us talk and asks if he can join us, all tables being taken. Leaving the two adults to their conversation, I turned my attention to the busy scene inside the restaurant.

The jukebox comes on, playing a catchy, unfamiliar song that I correctly judged to be in English. When the song ends, a strangely behaving, possibly-drunk young man approaches the jukebox, drops coins into the slot and that same songs begins to play again. He shouts something in German to nobody in particular and guessing by his look, he was an East German refugee. This cycle repeats several times, with the song ending and the young man loudly announcing something as he puts it on again. I didn’t mind the repetition, as I was becoming captivated by the song’s bass line and the sneering intro vocals.

A twelve-year-old travels with wide-open eyes, absorbing every detail of a new country. This being Austria, I was fascinated with the Nazi lore I’ve grown up with behind the Iron Curtain, now being a guest near the epicenter of that legacy. The reason my thoughts went there is because the shouted line in the song, just before the refrain (in reality “Hey! teacher!”), had me convinced to be “Heil! Hitler!”

And that, my fellow AltRighters, is how I ended up right here with you.

3. Nirvana — “Smells Like Teen Spirit” 

Ten years later I’m a student, doing my brief stint as a waiter in a mid-Atlantic college town. The evening shift had ended. A wad of cash in my pocket, I was in the mood for loud music and a buzz, so I told a co-worker: “Let’s go to X.” He and I walked one door over to a pub/dance club and we grabbed a table.

With our white dress shirts, now comfortably unbuttoned at the neck, we were indubitably the only dudes in the place not wearing flannel. It was difficult to talk over the noise. Doesn’t matter: a peculiar new song came on, its opening power chords halting the conversation. Then the hello, hello, hello, hello as the shell is chambered, then boom! goes the payload:

With the lights out!
It’s less dangerous!
Here we are now! …

“… undertakers?” — asks my colleague, quizzically arching his eyebrow.