Imagine there’s no mercy
It’s easy if you try
Traitors hang on lampposts
Above us righteous God

Imagine all the coloreds driven from our lands

Imagine there’s no leftism
It’s the easiest thing to do
A time to kill or die for
And separation too

Imagine our people free and true again

Hope burned in the hearts of dreamers
Who saw another way to live
So many have since joined us
The world is starting to believe

Imagine there’s a future
I wonder if you can
No need for nihilism
An awakening of man

Imagine Europeans’ glory yet untold

People said that I’m a dreamer
But I’m just a woken man
For a brotherhood of nations
And White children face the sun


UPDATE: The Mamas & The Pepes have set my take on Lennon’s “Imagine” to music. It’s fantastic:




A few words on why John Lennon’s original is the most anti-human song ever written.


The 16 Points that describe the Alt-Right’s core philosophy.


Something about this man’s words (read them closely) and his face struck me as proof that we won’t be homeless forever:

A homeless [Manchester] man, called Steve, described the moment he had to ‘pull nails out of children’s faces’ following the shocking attack.

He said: ‘Just because I’m homeless it does not mean that I haven’t got a heart and I’m not human still.

‘They needed the help and I would like to think someone would come and help me if I needed help.

‘It’s your instinct to go and help and it was children and it was a lot of children. We were pulling nails out of their arms and from a little girl’s face.

‘It had to be done, you had to help. If I didn’t I wouldn’t be able to live with myself for walking away and leaving kids like that.’


(Story above). Source of top image unknown. Alternate lyrics to “Imagine” written by me.

This Is Not “A Time To Come Together”

Good mornin’ America, how are ya?
Say, don’t you know me? I’m your native son

Donald Trump’s victory is daybreak for all of the forgotten core Americans — and mourning for the cracked Obama coalition. And no sooner did the election losers’ histrionics die down than they began their disingenuous calls for us to “come together as a nation.”

Even in defeat, they can’t stop lecturing us. It’s the Alinskyite game of holding us up to gentlemen’s rules while they plot to undermine Trump’s presidency and get back into power. Don’t fall for the scorpion’s plea to take him across the river. We are plenty united — among ourselves. As for the others, it’s time for a housecleaning with a flamethrower.

If you’re tempted to be magnanimous with them, stop. First, they are still dangerous. Secondly, think two weeks ahead to all the empty place settings at Thanksgiving tables for the people taken from us by Social Justice scum. Let the libs twist in the wilderness. Reflection will do the misguided liberals good and the SJWs are dead to us anyway.

This is not a time to come together. This is a time to break the anti-Whites into submission and uncuck the culture. A president can do a lot — defund programs and smash the student loan racket, trust-bust the media monopolies, and above all, build the wall — but he needs creative volunteers who aren’t afraid of getting dirty. The Alt-Right has a talent for mass-persuasion and the game just got bigger. It’s not low-energy Jeb or crooked Hillary we’re up against this time, but the entire cultural agenda that had been set in motion decades ago.

There are everyday ways for a veteran Shitlord to lead the way. As Suburban_elk writes:

The entire Leftst position is based on there being a substrate of competent White men (and women) who keep on lights and pay their taxes, and all the while don’t complain. And when they do complain, it’s whining.

That Frame has to be smashed and disregarded. And that requires explicit White Pride. There is not way around that. White Pride can be humble and quiet and modest, but it has to be what it is, it cannot be covered in gay principles of Republicanism and Inclusion.

Commenters over at Château Heartiste chime in as well. Ryan Whitecock (heh) stays with the big picture:

Today is indeed a great day; a battle won against the cuckening, the shitlibs, the diversity globohomo order.

But the war is not won…

Fellow alphas, we must go into the world and make America great again. Find a poor, downtrodden, meek man with a low spirit, and show him the way to alphadom. Teach him as a master teaches a student, so that he will pass that knowledge on as well, to his friends, to make his sons strong young men, to teach his daughters to be worthy and loving women, and to reign in the women of his life from their angry, feminist ways.

Trump has turned the tide. Now the responsibility is on us to follow headlong into battle and win the war.

“Dude” takes it to the ground level:

Buns in ovens bros. Educate friends/ family on media. I got my whole family to cut the cable cord. They used to call me crazy/ nazi, all that shit. They choked/ coughed/ laughed when I spoke up for Trump in the very beginning. Now, my mom was in tears of joy last night when I called her after the big win. My nephews are little shitlords in training because of me. They in turn will spread it to others. I lead by example, stay lean, stay clean, work my ass off and don’t pedestalize. I promote White pride at all times. It can be done.

And a few words from Plumpjack:

help your brothers find the light. we need every one of them. the great uncuckening begins today.

Meanwhile, President Trump just checked another item off his list:


The Three Stages of the Red Pill

Fear — Blue Feet, Red Ears. “I’m not a racist, but…” he says. He stands planted in blue-pill zone but reaches over the boundary to hear out the red-pill points. Or to put it differently, he is emotionally and intellectually at home with the establishment-approved worldview but it no longer feels like a home. He is unsettled by what he’s seen his country become but he is not ready to challenge his beliefs.

The red pill is bitter, so limit its dosage when he seeks you out because as soon as you tell him that the World Trade Center towers were taken down with controlled demo or that women shouldn’t vote, he will think you’re crazy and run back to the safety of conventional platitudes. It’s best to let him do 90% of the talking. Actively listen, ask gently-leading questions, and fire off exactly one simple, memorable maxim. He will work his way toward the red pill because nobody stays long in a place that keeps him afraid.

Anger — One Foot On Blue, One On Red. Intellectually, he accepts the non-liberal truths but emotionally he is not ready to separate from the security of old thinking. When sufficiently fired up, he can be fully on board with the even most racist dialectic. But here is the dead-giveaway of a half-footer: he talks red pill not so much to find answers but to unburden himself. He will sincerely apologize, should SJWs attack him for something he had said.

He is in transition, seeking the emotional release of hard-hate ranting, only to settle back in blue-pill calm when spent. His ideological home is unwelcoming but as much as he wants to leave, he can’t quite yet. But he will; perpetual anger is exhausting, and eventually circumstances will force him to make the leap to the next stage.

Peace — Both Feet On Red. He has made a full separation from old blue-pill illusions, which is another way of saying that he has returned to Western tradition. That naïf who once “supported the troops” or exalted over the goodness of women — that was someone else entirely. He understands that while the here-and-now is a comedy, it is not a game. Reluctantly or otherwise, he has accepted responsibility for the people and things that he claims as his own and has cut his obligation to those that aren’t.

He does not live on a rarified summit. He simply understands that he’s on firm ground while blue-pillers either noisily thrash or quietly sink in the quicksand.

Hillary’s Alt-Right Speech

Spokeswoman for the criminal globalist syndicate Hillary Clinton has just formally declared her party’s war on White America. She also denounced every man and woman in the West who is disgusted by the dispossession, the ruin, the mass murders, the rapes. She called out White genocide by name and mocked it. She pinned school bullying on White children.

Mr. Trump: she unloaded with all they’ve got. If you are sincere in the beliefs that she ascribed to you, then she just gave you the election.


The Alt-Right’s Settled Debates

Why Define a Consensus on what’s been Settled?

To move forward with our proper focus, the destiny of Western civilization. To distinguish between the legitimate revisiting of old assumptions and the distracting rehashing of old arguments.

When were those Questions Settled?

Between 2008 and 2013. The great debates on male-female dynamics, race, and the future of our nations shifted into high gear in 2008 at Chateau Heartiste and related blogs. I single out the Chateau because that’s where the passion and the new ideas churned and then fanned out to the broader culture. The July 13, 2013 acquittal of George Zimmerman was a watershed moment for us and it marks the anti-White narrative’s Stalingrad collapse. That date is a fitting marker for when the big questions were internally settled.

What is the Alt-Right’s Baseline Consensus?

The points below are what all but the most eccentric among the nationalists, manosphere writers, traditionalists, and libertarian neo-reactionaries agree on. Most of these points come across as moderate relative to much of the writing out there, being that they represent an overlap in the sometimes competing visions within the Alt-Right’s big tent.

So here is the Alt-Right consensus:

Blacks. They require assistance in achieving and maintaining a level of civic and material comfort on par with that of other races. Quantity + Equality = Can’t Have Nice Things.

Christianity. It is not an internally settled matter. For some, Christian faith is a non-negotiable foundation of our identity with implications on the afterlife. Others see it as detrimental to our vitality.

Democracy. In its present form, it is the rule by those who control the formation of public opinion and whose interests are not aligned with the interests of the voters. The two-party system in the United States is real, just like pro wrestling.

Family. While the role of extended families varies by culture, the traditional patriarchal model is the only one that provides a healthy environment for raising children.

Immigration. It is harmful to Western nations at present levels, low-skill immigration in particular. Manifest incompatibility between host and guest populations belie the economic- or demography-based arguments in favor of mass immigration.

Institutions. Traditionally conservative or masculine institutions such as the Republican party, the military, large corporations, mainline churches, and professional sports have been coopted by liberalism.

Islam. Don’t let it in.

Jews. As self-identified minorities with an enduring identity, they have acquired — justly or not — a reputation for subverting their host nations. Israel is a model of practical nationalism.

Multiculturalism. Diversity is not our strength. The involuntary comingling of disparate peoples is not “enriching.”

Race. It is a fundamental element of a human being’s identity. The human biodiversity model is predictive on the macro scale.

Religion. A purely materialist philosophy is insufficient as a pillar of a culture or an ethical system. Nobody wants to die over a contract.

Russia. It is not a potential threat to any Western nation beyond her near-abroad European neighbors. An enemy-of-an-enemy is an ally, and our common adversary is U.S.-led globalism.

Sex. The female is attracted to male power, charm, and confidence. She has contempt for male weakness or supplication. The male is attracted to the female’s youth, beauty, and femininity and is repulsed by her physical or moral decay.

USA. Her foreign and domestic policy is controlled by interests whose ambitions are at odds with the welfare of her own citizens, the existential question of Western nations, and geopolitical stability.

Whites. Interracial obligations do not justify self-destructive sacrifice on the part of the White benefactor, nor are they mandated by any notion of historic debt. Charges of racism fail to explain the disparity between the achievements of Whites and others.

Women. They crave male leadership and go batshit without it. Given the power, they will destroy their world, especially from the voting booth. Don’t listen to what she says — watch what she does.

Songs About Neoliberalism

Thirty years ago you told them that they are a fungible commodity. You dumped monkeys, rats and snakes into their beds. You drugged them with corn, sold them brittle plastic trinkets, blew off their legs overseas and liberated their women’s gutter impulses.

Neoliberals like Ronald Reagan and Margaret Thatcher shouldered the burden of delivering their respective nations from the devil as they understood him and the fruits of the work that they began are all around us.

The songs below show the impact points of tradition colliding with neoliberal progress. In one of the posted videos, a Welsh mining community protests Thatcher’s closing of coal mines with slogans “Coal, Not Dole.” Think about how those three words metonymize the proper function of a national government. In another song’s intro, young Indiana farmers explain to John Mellenkamp’s video crew that another loan is just another bill to pay and that there has to be another solution:

I think the politicians are playing games with us. It doesn’t cost them anything to change the rule, you know, embargo another country.

In these songs, we see what neoliberalism looked like at the beginning of its ascent three decades ago, its arc a rainbow with someone’s pot of gold at the end of it.

These songs or their videos render the disorientation of people who don’t know what is happening to them. They aren’t privy to the things that we in the current year know. But they also remind us of things that we had forgotten over the past thirty years so rather than playing them for nostalgia, let’s listen or watch for what to reclaim as the system exhausts itself and lets go.

Here are the songs:

Industry. Bruce Springsteen “My Hometown” — Bookended by the speaker’s own arc of life from childhood to fatherhood, the song is a witness to an American town’s ruin caused by racial integration and loss of manufacturing jobs. There was nothing you could do. Except pack a U-Haul. Before they emigrate, he tells his son “This is your hometown.”

Mining. Manic Street Preachers “An Anthem for a Lost Cause” — The video is a personal story amidst the Welsh “Coal, Not Dole” protests. Music itself begins at 1:50.  I am giving the video’s feminist subplot a pass because it is not essential to the story. Also, the song and the video are beautifully made.

Farming. John Mellencamp “Rain on the Scarecrow” — Was there another way? The world changes, new generations want new things, but people still need to eat and there will always be folks who want to work their own land. Yet thirty years ago it was decided that small farmers are to be phased out.

Four hundred empty acres that used to be my farm
I grew up like my daddy did, my grandpa cleared this land
When I was five I walked the fence while grandpa held my hand

And son I’m just sorry there’s no legacy for you now.

Government. Ministry “N.W.O.” — The lyrics… they kick in near the end and deliver the payload. What I get from that song, other than an appreciation for its dulcimer whimsy, is a natural harmonic of its riffs with the silent pulse that’s awakening in us now in the terminal days of this neoliberal rainbow of mud.

We Don’t Have to Live Like This

The School. Exasperated parents are talking with Ryan’s second grade teacher. “I am completely sympathetic, Mr. and Mrs. Clark. Other parents also complained about the disruption. I wish I could do something. I tried to get those new boys moved into an ESL program but the county won’t let me. I’m sorry.” Later at home, Mrs. Clark says to her husband: “we don’t have to live this way.” They begin contacting the other parents about forming that private co-op they’ve talked about earlier.


Social Media. It was June of the previous year, the John Roberts court had just passed its three rainbow rulings. The old man thought that he had mostly normal people on his Facebook friends list but then some acquaintances, along with his daughter, did the rainbow thing on their profile pictures. He considered finally closing his Facebook account, except that stirrings of anger came. He unfriended some disgraces and thought: I’m done scurrying in the shadows, done ceding every manner of public space. I don’t have to live that way. I am here too, fuckers—and I’m gonna have some fun. And he started browsing alt-Right twitter feeds for memes to post.


An Evening’s Walk. Michael and his girlfriend are walking down London’s street when a swarthy man, walking with a friend in the opposite direction, swats at her bottom. Alertly, she dodges his hand and the two offenders laugh. Michael stops and turns to face them. The two men taunt him in their guttural accents: “What are you gonna do, White boy—you want to get cut?”

Michael’s girl tugs on his arm but he shrugs her off and takes a step forward. How long are we going to live like this, he asks himself. Hands in his coat pockets, Michael looks at the two men and tells them: “Bugger off, you monkeys.” Stunned, the smaller man fumbles for his cell phone and sputters “Fucking racist, I will report him!” The girl whispers “Michael, no…” The larger man fixes him with squinted eyes and hisses “What did you say, chirp?” He steps up to Mike, raises his arm high and—he lets out a hideous shriek as he falls to the ground, writhing and babbling, hands cupping his eye. His friend steps back uncertain as Michael walks up to him. He looks at Michael’s blood-speckled hand and runs. The fallen man is sobbing. Michael leans over him and wipes his mess-covered car key on the fellow’s shirt. Then he tells his girl: “Let’s get out of here.”


The Television. Two men on television kissed each other and the boy in the room laughed uneasily. “Enough. We’re not living like this,” his father said. He called the cable company to cancel their account and posted an ad on Craigslist for the television set. Somebody came to buy it the next day, $200 cash. The dad helped the buyer load the TV into his truck, took the money, and took his family out for a nice dinner.


The Bridge. Early evening, she walked along the bridge, tap tap tap omg lol tap tap tap texting. A creep on Tinder. Tap tap tap texting and more lol omg tapping on the glowing glass screen subliminally framed by the rhythmic impressions of rushing sidewalk panels and an even fainter view of her feet going left right left right as she tapped away swipe left. A bloody sky hung over the unreal city. She blinked and looked over the guardrail at the masses of water destined for somewhere. Like an arrow, a formation of birds streamed overhead. The sun had sunk beneath the line of distant buildings, its last ray an orange band across the sky. You don’t have to live this way said the air and the water. A bicyclist ding! ding! shot by. Buzzzz buzzzzz! the phone insisted. Eyes closed, she saw a big table with lots of children around it and she tossed the buzzing creature into the river.


The Statesman. The year is 1990, the time is 7:56 in the evening and the bustle of spring fills Budapest’s streets. A young Soros Foundation scholar thinks about his past four months in England, contemplating the new united Europe and its direction. Fast-forward to 2012. Now as prime minister, Viktor addresses a large crowd of supporters at Kossuth Square and tells them: “Hungarians won’t live according to the commands of foreign powers.”


The Pick-up. Alex sees her in the college cafeteria. He takes a deep breath, straightens his posture and walks toward her. “Hey, Kristine…” he says. She looks up and furrows her brow—”Oh, hi Alex” her eye darting back to her iPhone. He clears his throat and says “Nice phone.” “Thanks,” she says. He’s about to say something witty when from direction unknown comes a tall student with an insouciant mien who throws his book bag on Kristine’s table and tells her “Hey, I’m gonna borrow that chair” and sits in it. The stranger looks up at Alex and points to Kristine: “Is she your girlfriend?” Alex shakes his head with a dumbfounded look.

“No! -no,” Kristine chokes out the words, flustered and blushing. The interloper talks with her for a minute, then “Gotta run, I have a class,” he says. He tells her his number—”dial it now and I’ll text you later. I’m Matt,” he smiles and squeezes her hand. Now an avalanche of giggles, she taps at her phone and a moment later his rings and he gets up. “Keep her out of trouble” he pats the stunned Alex on the shoulder and leaves.

“Do you know him?!” asks Alex. “No…” she says dreamily. Alex stands silent. I don’t have to live like this—the thought shoots through his mind. He picks up his book bag and walks away, picking up his pace. Nearly running now, he sees him—same jacket, same careless waves of hair. Alex catches up with him and says “Hey, Matt.” Matt turns around and looks quizzically at Alex, who says: “Let’s go talk. I want to learn how you did that. I’m buying the drinks.”


2 Corinthians 4:16-18. For which cause we faint not; but though our outward man perish, yet the inward man is renewed day by day. For our light affliction, which is but for a moment, worketh for us a far more exceeding and eternal weight of glory; While we look not at the things which are seen, but at the things which are not seen: for the things which are seen are temporal; but the things which are not seen are eternal.


Honor. A man tells his daughter: “I did the best I could to raise you right. When you were old enough I told you that there are things your mother and I will never accept. But you had made your decision. There are ways in which I will not live. Being a grandfather to a child of another race is one of them. When you leave today, leave for good.”


The Troll. Enraged over what the African refugees did to that child, a young Swedish blogger named Stefan wanted to tell the world about the way that Swedes live. He excoriated his country’s open immigration system, at points even flirting with nationalist advocacy. More posts followed, as he accused the Polismyndigheten of ignoring witnesses and criticized the criminal courts for levying barbarically lenient sentences in similar cases. His posts grew increasingly angry—and unfamiliar phone calls had started coming. He thinks that he is being watched. As a precaution, he keeps a metal baton by the door in his apartment. There is a knock on his door one Sunday morning. He looks through the peephole in disbelief, recognizing a media personality who is famous for exposing xenophobic internet users. The film crew stands behind him with cameras and microphones aimed at Stefan’s door. His gut impulse is to throw the door open and beg that it is all a misunderstanding, he is a good person and not a bigot.

But instead, he reaches for the baton. Maybe he thought about that poor child. There were shooting stars in the sky last night, one of them was so bright and then it winked and disappeared.

He unlatches the door and opens it. The cameras are rolling. The show’s host opens his mouth to say “Hello, troll!” but his face freezes in an amber-encased grin as Stefan strikes him on the head with the baton. He drops to one knee, still with that smirk. The crew stands frozen. Stefan begins raining rapid-fire blows to the screaming man’s skull. The visitor’s hands slip off his head. He collapses, his screams fading to moans. Stefan swats at a hysterical film crew woman who runs at him, breaking her forearm. He understands that there is no turning back and that he is now a folk hero. The visitor is on the floor, blood spreading over the vinyl tiles. Stefan swings once more, and this time he splits the coconut. Then, it doesn’t matter what happens. He did what he was born to do. Peace, like he had never felt before, fills his heart.