White Racism

We are all racists now. Every white s-o-b of us. The EEOC has recommended an investigation into the allegation of intolerable racism committed by a white man who wore a cap to work with the iconic Revolutionary War flag flown by the US Navy, a flag depicting a coiled, segmented snake, with the legend, Don’t Tread On Me. The EEOC did not toss the complaint and the complainant into the wastebasket, they took it seriously. Such is the tenor of our times. All it takes to open an official investigation is one person making a ridiculous complaint of racism, and the wheels of government grind a man who wears a hat with a Revolutionary War flag on it into the dust.

Together must we racists stick
Or separate we hang
The other side is very slick
They claim to have a pang
Of sheer discomfort when they see
A flag that they despise
A look’s enough to make them pee
With hatred in their eyes
They know the government’s with them
They know that just a word
From any addled looney Dem
No matter how absurd
Will launch a punishment to hurt
The poor white innocent
And grind poor whitey in the dirt
They truly do resent
The presence of us white folks here
In land they claim their own
But surely they must sometimes fear
The hatred they have sown

The Miracle Of Chance

On the morning of 16 December 1944, German guns opened up Operation Herbstnebel, Autumn Mist, Hitler’s counter-offensive designed to smash through the lightly held Ardennes, cross the Meuse and take Antwerp, isolating the British Army and fracturing the alliance. It didn’t quite work out that way, but life has a strange way of unfolding. An enlisted man in the 106th Infantry Division, the Golden Lions, was taken prisoner, along with many hundreds of others, and sent back to Germany. His name was Kurt Vonnegut, and he was in Dresden when it was firebombed. Vonnegut was put on a detail collecting the burnt bodies, and the result was Slaughterhouse Five, required reading to this day. So you never know if a seeming catastrophe is in actuality a once in a lifetime chance for success. Is Donald Trump’s catastrophic several weeks where he fell ten points behind Clinton in the national polls? Or is this the catastrophe that propels him to the presidency? Is this Austerlitz or Waterloo? We will know the Tuesday after the first Monday in November.

The Donald, rocked back on his heels
Once confident that all his deals
Turn out to much advantage him
But now he’s face with sink or swim
He’s in the big leagues now my friend
And we shall see how it will end
He’s up against the reigning champs
The Dems have staffers in their camps
Who know how campaigns should be run
Know what it takes to see them won
Contrast the Donald’s solo flight
That sees him knifeless in this fight
His only chance is to convince
The voters that it’s been long since
An honest man has held the reins
And felt the economic pains
Of honest folk who’ve lost their jobs
And sickened by the hostile mobs
That chant that whitey’s got to pay
For what was done one yesterday
We need a campaign smartly ran
But can the Donald be that man
Can Donald take us to the dance
We need the miracle of chance

Let Your Laughter Fill The Room

Forty years ago Van Morison recorded a whimsical song, the tag line of which was Let Your Laughter Fill The Room. The line is no longer whimsical. For thirty years now the Left has been slowly taking away, salami slice by salami slice, our constitutional right to free speech. It matters not that you tell the truth, what matters is that someone is not offended by what you say. The president of Harvard lost his job because, in answer to a question as to why women do not do as well as men in science and math, he said it was because men were better at science and math than women were. Women faculty in the audience fainted and grew hysterical, unable to hear the truth. And so he was fired. In our universities, other protected victim groups demand, and get, safe spaces where they need not hear words they deem offensive, a category that includes most words in the English language. A man can lose his job with a casual and inoffensive remark that offends someone in the many victim classes now determining what we can say and what we cannot say. Free speech is a thing of the past, and will get worse. The First Amendment is the guarantor of our freedom, and it no longer applies to anyone not belonging to a recognized and officially designated politically correct victim group. We are not permitted to laugh at the stupidity and the absurdity of political correctness, for the stupid and the absurd are now in charge, and the destruction of the white male is their goal.

Let the sunshine of free speech
Brighten up the stygian gloom
Laugh at all pc in reach
Let your laugher fill the room
Laugh at those who claim safe space
And deride the ones who fume
That mere words are out of place
Let your laughter fill the room
Laugh at fake left victim groups
Laugh as their dark shadows loom
Scorn them, call them leftist dupes
Let your laughter fill the room
White men cast the shackles off
Show them we postpone our doom
Trample them to dust and then
Let your laughter fill the room

The Bright Side Of The Road

We have lost our way, and have left the bright side of the road for the shadowed and sinister dark of the progressive mind. Black Lives Matter, a domestic terrorist group that fosters race war by ambushing and killing police officers, is praised by the president of the United States and invited to the White House. The leftward slide from what we were to what we are now is gathering speed, and soon, if we do not return to the lighted path, we will die.

We’ve traveled long since Valley Forge the bright side of the road
We’ve welcomed in the tired and poor to share the heavy load
We’ve fought for freedom here at home and all around the globe
We’ve never dressed our leaders in a royal purple robe
We’ve led the world in science and invention and the arts
And lately we have led the world in crying bleeding hearts
Who’ve changed our way of thinking of the nature of a man
From free men to dependency on the progressive plan
Dividing all into disparate and unequal groups
Of victims and oppressors and the chosen and the dupes
We’ve traveled down the Leftist path that many tyrants strode
Let’s kick the bastards out and walk the bright side of the road

Glue

It is being reported that General Motors is now gluing its cars together, apparently because it’s cheaper than welding or maybe because cardboard is cheaper than steel. To be fair to Government Motors, they are probably building the cars out of composite materials now instead of steel, so gluing is the only option, unless they try sewing. In any event, if General Motors is run like every other government entity, I foresee trouble ahead. I spoke to a man who had just bought a glued together GM car and he shook his head sadly and said,

All seemed okay just off the lot
The salesman said it wouldn’t rot
Like rusted steel was surely like to do
But in the carwash, sad to tell
She came apart as pieces fell
Off every place hot water met the glue
The carwash people they were kind
They gathered all that they could find
But still I’m missing parts unfound as yet
I called the White House to complain
And I was told that in the main
It was my fault for getting it all wet
Insurance does not cover rain
And I don’t fear a little pain
But my next car I’m surely gonna lease
Till gummint cars can do just fine
And hold together rain or  shine
And gummint workers know what’s glue from grease

Prince Of The Misty Isles

We are nearing the end of the second term of President Barack Obama, and it is well that we look back on how he got here.

Deep in the barren frozen lair, beyond the starry realm
Beyond belief, beyond compare, so steady at the helm
The ruler of all he surveys, a man of many styles
Barack the First, of magic ways, Prince of the Misty Isles
His castle built of tinseled lies, a moat of lawless acts
Where courtiers to no surprise, spin forth uncertain facts
In darkened corridors of stone, lay bodies cold to touch
They dared to speak in vulgar tone, or love him not as much
As is decreed from banners hung without the castle walls
Demanding that bronze bells be rung to chanted muezzin calls
Deep in the gloomy Misty Isles, the Magic Negro works
At lists of names that he compiles, where deadly treason lurks
He plans destruction for the land his parents clearly loathed
But time is running out of hand, so only partly clothed
In princely garb of silken rag, of ermine and of wool
His emblem on his battle flag, the feces of a bull
He left the Misty Isles by train, to huzzahs and to raves
And thus began his two term reign, his house once built by slaves

Owning The World

Lots of guys have owned the world, at various times and in various places, yet that ownership was not only ephemeral, but largely unnoticed by the presumptive subjects of the owner, be it Caesar or, laughably, Putin. Vladimir Putin appears larger than he is because he is fortunate to be compared to pygmies. In my own lifetime I have seen three such owners of the world, Hitler, Stalin and Mao, beside whom Putin is a cartoon character, wrestling bears and causing tigers to tiptoe softly around him. Does Putin have Hillary’s emails? Of course he does, and so do the Israelis and Iranians and Chinese and North Koreans and precocious schoolboys. Is Putin trying to get Trump elected? To even consider such a question is to accept the panicky Democrat talking points as even plausible. If anyone hacks into the computerized election results to steal the election it won’t be Putin, it will be the Democrats, who have a long and storied history, dating to JFK, of stealing elections. They are good at it, and I suspect that the missing voters who didn’t vote for Romney in 2012 actually did vote, but had their votes erased electronically. Paranoid? Damn right. But as the man said, just because you’re paranoid doesn’t mean they’re not out to get you. Josef Stalin said the people who cast the votes decide nothing; the people who count the votes decide everything. No method of voting is safe from fraud, including paper ballots, but paper ballots at least have the potential to be more honest than every other method. Electronic voting machines are much in use, and much hacked, the votes manipulated to suit the needs of the hackers. The best thing about voting machines that send the voting data to a central server, according to a Democrat friend, is that the votes are there to be counted any way you want them counted, so easy it is to break into the servers and manipulate the totals. He winked and said, “But of course we would never do such a sneaky, underhanded thing.”

The Dems come out attacking
The guy they want sent packing
The guy that Putin’s backing
Because they know the score
Adept at vote hijacking
In ballot boxes packing
In recent years it’s hacking
That wins the race for sure
The server locks they’re cracking
They’ve ducks lined up and quacking
Pub totals they’re unstacking
And placed in the Dem store
The RNC is wracking
Their brains at the shellacking
And cry as they’re unpacking
Their victory once more

Dream Weavers

By definition, half of every population is below average in IQ. This is true in the United States as elsewhere, and in the United States, as elsewhere in the First World, the number of low IQ jobs is far fewer than the number of low IQ people. The problem of government, then, is what to do with these low IQ people who had no say in what intelligence level their DNA has assigned them. Enter politics and technology. Politics weaves dreams of the good life through government granted access to universities to which the low IQ are not intellectually equipped to attend, and technology weaves dreams of an alternative life of virtual reality. The question is, which is more likely to succeed, the falsely woven hope of the politicians or the virtual but false world of Pokemon Go and its successors. From all indications the false hope of the politicians is collapsing from the weight of enormous personal debt and unrealized expectations, while the equally false world of virtual reality is succeeding due to something the Romans, faced with a similar surplus of low IQ people, solved by giving them bread and circuses. The only difference between us now and the Romans then is that we have done away with the need for colosseums, for technology has created the colosseum of the mind. Thus, government is turning away from trying to improve low IQ people by giving them houses in the false belief that owning a house makes you middle class, and sending their low IQ children to college where they experience failure, and joining the technocrats by providing the bread for the technological circuses. Half the country works to keep the other half amused and thus less likely to turn to violence against the State, though more likely to increase the violence among the low IQ as their virtual reality becomes more real than the real world itself.

The sturdy looms of government where woven dreams were made
The looms where dreams of summer homes and boats upon the lake
Were fashioned for the working man whose unions made the trade
Of freedom for security and bread for chocolate cake
Have come at last to end of dreams as labor is no more
And manufacturing is done by robots without rest
Who do not dream of summer homes and boats upon the shore
Or go on strike for better pay at union boss behest
With welfare and with food stamps most sit out the working day
And with their smart phones and devices enter newer dreams
Of virtual reality where they are kings at play
And worlds are theirs for taking or at least that’s how it seems
Free bread and circuses work well but not for very long
For man gets restive and the dreams turn ugly at the end
And sees that bread and virtual reality are wrong
And in despair sees that the weavers break but never bend

No Problems At All

In the 1960s, during the racial tensions of the time, a British observer said that if the United States did not have a Negro problem they would have no problems at all. Race relations steadily deteriorated over time, stoked by the racist anti-white rhetoric of such as Jesse Jackson and Al Sharpton for their own political and financial benefit, and led to the election of a black man, Barack Obama, in the hope and belief that such an election would heal the widening racial divide. Instead, President Barack Obama ratcheted up the racial tensions to such a fever pitch that we now have open anarchy, with blacks ambushing police officers and shooting and killing them, to the applause of anarchist groups such as Black Lives Matter, who have called for the killing of cops despite being invited to the White House, or perhaps because of it. Barack Obama has blood on his hands, and, like Pontius Pilate, he washes his hands, smiles, and says, What is truth?

We have no racial problems, none at all
Says President Obama who will call
On Black Lives Matter to reduce their chants
Demanding dead police and to advance
A policy of healing racial scars
By calling on all racist rapper stars
To stop their racist anti-white man rags
And wrap themselves in hated white man’s flags
At least until we’re strong enough to win
This nice ongoing race war that we’re in

The Burkini

The beaches of France are seeing Muslim women in full body bathing suits, dubbed by the locals The Burkini. The problem arises when non-Muslims are perceived by Muslim men as perverts, lustfully ogling their presumed zaftig women. Fights ensue, and injuries accrue, though so far the lenient French authorities are loathe to accuse Muslims of injuring people. I see no problem here. Take a look at a 1910 phot of an American beach and you will see every woman dressed in full body swimsuits, and look at them just fifty years later in an itsy bitsy teeny weeny yellow polka dot bikinis. I predict that the Muslim world will also progress, though at a slower pace, and that itsy bitsy teeny weeny yellow polka dot bikinis will be de rigueur on North African beaches in another two or three thousand years. It only takes one courageous woman to change the world.

Yes she wore a hot burkini
For the first time worn today
But through eye slit teeny weeny
Lustrous eyes began to play
Then she pulled herself together
With her husband taking care
She debated as to whether
She should show a little hair
Just a headscarf, bright and cheerful
The burkini hit the sand
Knowing she would get an earful
And from husband, back of hand
Worn beneath the hot burkini
She had dared to show her spunk
Was a yellow teeny weeny
For she knew Islam was bunk