untethered

Here are a couple of recent posts from James:

Our junk, or shacks, our asphalt tracks, our concrete streets are all aspects of our divine space wherein the Faith of Civic entitlement and ancestral guilt hover like Apollo Helios in his shimmering aspect about the braided head of Delphi’s drugged, bimbo Pythea. Our civic space is our holy place, where we worship at the altar which has swallowed all others, the altar of consumption. 

So today, on the way to Boomer Fred’s Baltimore County digs, the bus drove me through a construction site in Whitemarsh Maryland, where five six story, hotel sized low income housing projects are being placed dead center in the middle class urban flight zones where two generations of Baltimoreans have fled from the seething urban crime of the Citay. Each of these buildings is a barracks for the invading forces of occupation being removed from Baltimore City to make room for hipster homesteader bug people to serve the dark lords 30 miles down the rushing road… 

Here lives Boomer Fred, a father of four daughters, injured, retired, guilty, nearly expired. The eldest girl lives with a working paleface in rural Pennsylvania, the two fled rather than dead. 

The three younger girls are all hoodrat incubators, impregnated owned, and abused by Knights of the Master Race. 

Fred wants to keep the family together and has the slacker sperm donners who hate him for the terrible guilt of his race over for dinner. 

Yesterday, for Sunday dinner, when the youthful incubator showed up with her knightly master, the Ebon God, Kenny the Kang, insisted on calling Fred’s daughter vile names, threatening Fred’s wife and otherwise disrespecting Fred in what might once have been imagined as his house. 

Fred is flummoxed, wondering if he should have a fatherly talk with Kenny the next time he visits, suggesting decorum, perhaps going so far as to suggest that Kenny should not scold his daughter as a bitch and a whore in his house. 

It was painful to be regaled by the old friend about his fall from knight to serf and the elevation of a member of the race who had hunted him in the streets as a youth into his honored place. 

What was more painful was Fred’s guilt-mired lack of appreciation for yesterday’s incivility. He actually thinks this young man attacked his daughter and his wife out of some lack of impulse control, some quirk in a parentless upbringing, when in fact, an intact and unguilty paleface could tell at a breath, that Fred had been usurped from his throne, stripped forever of the dignity of the only office he has ever aspired to. 

So withers a wretched folk in the civic space of America, the Cemetery of Races.

Indeed, I’ve long thought of our situation as akin to, say, early European hunter gatherers being conquered by Aryan invaders, with our men emasculated and enslaved, our women their concubines and breeders. Of course, if we were allowed to put up a fight, we wouldn’t be having this humiliating conversation. Here’s a recent book review from James:

2017, St. Martin’s Press, NY, 199 pages

Reading Navy SEAL memoirs is a pastime of mine—having read five. However, Discipline Equals Freedom was leant to me to read by my friend Dante, who spoke of it as an inspirational book which helped his son overcome some hard times. So, I dove in with both feet and found that Discipline Equals Freedom is the most uniquely formatted book I have read and, it appears, fits very well with the military mind set of the author. Whoever the ghost writer was was brilliant. This book is a tome of bullet points, mantras, positive declarations and can-do/don’t do interpretations of dilemmas we all face. 

Coming from a certified Deep State ass-kicking machine who trains with top MMA pros like Tito Ortiz [pictured in training photos] Willink is very convincing and to-the-point without being mechanical but rather inspirational. His advice on what martial arts one should train in according to what priority and in what order is excellent, but does reflect the budget of a high-earner and is something I never could have pursued as a low life in Baltimore, Maryland when I was the age of the guys he is writing for. But then again, Willink is all about positive energy and outcomes and would possibly remark that he doesn’t write for losers, but for winners. 

If you are an anti-statist, a free-thinker, a questioner and investigator of the human condition, and you have not served as a slave of the most effective military machine to ever stalk the earth, that is the U.S. military which holds nearly 1,000 war bases in foreign nations and is the virtual Lord of Hosts and God in Heaven summoned and called down by people of all classes, factions and nations to smite the Unbeliever, to displace those governments and murder people who do not worship the Divine American Body Economic, than you should partake of this strong man’s pitiless perspective. For, the servants of evil are very often good. They must be to be effective, to be good men in a vile cause. Wallink and his ilk have battled the world over to install rapacious engine of economic extraction, to install tyrants, implement and facilitate crimes against humanity, facilitate drug shipments to their home nation, promote pornography-based cultural values, and in large measure, such men prevail, succeed and survive because they are better quality people than the poor bastards who are the unwilling recipients of our good intentions. 

In the end, I care not a lick about the murder Americans commit across the world in my name, at the hands of men like Willink. What I do care about is that one day, if some infotech company’s censorship functionaries decide I need to die, that all they will have to do to accomplish it, is to quote this article and snippets of various other pieces I have written critical of America, present me to Willink as an Enemy of Freedom, and he will dispose of me in some manner for a handsome fee, and I will have been declared as having shot myself in the back of the head with a hunting rifle. 

It took 2 hours over 2 days at Bear Lake, Utah to read Willink’s book, while resting between my labors building Dante a retaining wall, and, as I hefted each block, flipped each railroad tie, dug each shovel full of earth, I’d imagine how Willink would kill me “right now” and if I’d even know it happened, and in the end decided I was so easy to kill while working that he’d probably send a Mexican to do it. 

Do yourself a favor and read Discipline Equals Freedom, a mantra I live by, and keep in mind that the man that wrote it and his brand of high-resolution postmodern warriors, have been hunting U.S. citizens in the U.S. since at least 2016 and probably earlier. This is the kind of man that will be called in on you when you swerve out of your lane in the long night to come. Willink’s premise and title, Discipline Equals Freedom is profoundly true, as is his mantra Hesitation is the Enemy. These are both internal concepts.  

However, as noted above, discipline such as that demonstrated by apex warrior types is the ultimate external enemy, for such men have the capacity to discipline their mind to such a degree as to serve naked evil in the shadows of the human sheepfold. My friend Tony Cox has a profound distrust of such discipline, for he has seen it manifested by mega-PIGs in criminal settings. 

As always, there is a third view. 

What have Tony [a barbarian], myself, a disciplined barbarian advocate, and Willink [a highly disciplined agent of Civilization] in common? 

We have actionism in common and Willink’s existence demands that Tony and I be better.
None of us hold commonality with the bleating flocks and folds of sheeple or even the puppet masters—wolfish minds in sheepish bodies—which deploy men like Willink to further their many evil desires. In the end, in my simian mind, I only have meaning because someone like Willink is training to kill me [as an anonymous “bad guy”] for stepping out of my assigned lane, when and if the order comes. And even then, if I had been granted a moment of clarity before the end, I’d admire my killer and some part of him would know jealousy for me as he left me dead in the dirt and walked away wondering if he could have been free like I had been and if his bid would have ended as finally. 

What use is an enemy to the combatant if you cannot salute him?

Okay, but it will be only my cold, dead hand that salutes the Dindu tools that tie me to the stake. For, they are not my real enemy. My real enemy hides, in comfort and splendor, and the magnificence of his blind, stupid hatred.

He’s not worth saluting either–because he doesn’t really fight.

Please join us tomorrow.

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13:38 Jewish comedian Dave Smith on the “alt right”
1:02:20 Democratic debate

Intro:
Video, The Turin Horse, opening scene.
Music, “Dumb This”, Odd Nosdam.

Talking about stuff. Subscribe to my channel

Shit-for-brains is the best manure for bad ideas.

Lizzie Borden took an axe 
And gave her mother forty whacks 
When she saw what she had done 
She gave her father forty-one 

Lizzie Warren has a scheme
To take your guns and mute your memes
After this is made a fact
It’s reparations for the blacks 

 Elizabeth Warren has a plan:

Taking investigations out of the hands of state and local jurisdictions and shifting all hate crime referrals to the FBI.

Directing federal prosecutors to seek tougher penalties for individuals who commit hate crimes “regardless of their race, ethnicity, or supposed ideology.”

Expanding background checks for gun ownership and keeping firearms out of the hands of those already prone to violence.

2020 is gonna be lit, yo.

queertarch, kweer-tark, n, One who rules from authority granted by homosexual status. Usually a celebrity, often minor.
From queer, homosexual (from Proto-Indo-European terkw- “to twist”) + archon (Greek, from ἀρχ- “to rule”)

“Some queertarch I’ve never heard of just got my favorite YouTube channel shut down, the fucker.”

 Also, see here.

Finally, a genuine refugee:

DADAAB, Kenya — Hamdi Abdullahi stands outside the United Nations compound in this dusty, sprawling camp — home to more than 200,000 Somali refugees — and throws stones at its barbed wire fence and heavy gates.

Though the U.N.’s refugee agency, UNHCR, is known everywhere as the chief protector and spokesman for most of the globe’s 25 million refugees, Abdullahi shouts as she hurls the stones, accusing the agency of stealing her children.

She has been protesting outside the compound off and on for years.

The Somali refugee’s four children are now 8,000 miles away in Minnesota, with her former husband and his new wife. She last saw them in 2014. They were among the less than one percent of refugees in the entire world chosen to be resettled in a new country and given a chance to start their lives again.  

Abdullahi said that while her family’s need to resettle was genuine, she was left behind because of false information fed to the U.S. government by a UNHCR resettlement officer, David Momanyi, to whom her ex-husband paid a hefty bribe. “I always remember his face,” Abdullahi said.

Like any divorced male the joke occurred to me right away: did he have to pay more to leave her behind? But when you get to the end of the quote above you realize he very well may have bribed the corrupt UN official to hamstring her so he could skedaddle with wife number whatever. The sympathetic account from something called “100 Reporters” linked here isn’t interested in refugees scamming the system but in corrupt African officials working for the UN Refugee Agency (UNHCR) shaking them down for bribes.

Whatever the case, the husband sounds like someone who has indeed found refuge:

Reached by phone, Abdullahi’s husband confirmed he had been resettled in Minnesota, but said any allegations of corruption were “false information.”  

 “The U.S. government gave me resettlement to come to the United States but that’s it. There’s no bribe. … She was rejected by the United States government. That issue, it’s over… You know (in) America there’s no bribes.”

Eight thousand miles. Eight thousand miles he put between himself and his rock-throwing ex. Sir, we salute you. Cue up a parody of the old Budweiser Real Men of Genius campaign for this guy.

Refugees who are part of the Nakivale settlement in southwest Uganda said UNHCR staffers and officials from organizations that work with them demand bribes for everything from medical referrals to food rations to contacting police, and it can cost $5,000 in bribes to resettle a family. 

In the Dadaab refugee camp, whose residents are almost all Somalis, 19 refugees said it used to cost as much as $50,000 to resettle a large family, or roughly $3,000 per person, before the Trump administration effectively stopped resettlement of Somalis in the U.S.  

Refugees who cannot afford to pay bribes report that unscrupulous resettlement workers will sell their case files, often compiled painstakingly over years, to others with more wealth.

When I see Africans claiming to be displaced coming up with cash a lot of working Americans don’t have in their bank accounts I suspect it’s because extended families pool their money to send over one family with the expectation more will be brought over via family reunification later, without having to bribe the other Africans.

It’s an old story now, part of the larger story of corruption in UN efforts in Africa:

However, exploitation of refugees by the UNHCR staff is not new. Frank Montil, a former senior UNHCR investigator and narcotics detective, uncovered a refugee extortion racket in Kenya in 2001, in which the agency’s staff may have made millions of dollars by taking bribes at every stage of the resettlement process. 

“We’re 18 years later, and it’s even worse now than ever before,” he said, after hearing the results of this investigation… Like several other former U.N. investigators and insiders who spoke to NBC News, Montil compared the UNHCR to the Catholic Church, in how he says it repeatedly tries to avoid admitting or tackling wrongdoing by staff, and will not allow skilled independent investigators to get involved.

Everyone involved in refugee resettlement is unsurprisingly less affected by corruption than the apparent true-believers at 100 Reporters.

Refugees, current and former UNHCR employees, aid workers and two former U.N. investigators say bribery and corruption are common in a variety of services the UNHCR and companion organizations are charged with providing, but report that it is especially unavoidable in resettlement — a precious opportunity for the world’s most vulnerable refugees to restart their lives in safe new countries, usually in the West.

Eliminating corruption would spoil a “precious opportunity”; the UN and others are in the business of facilitating migration; the best face you can put on their program is of a dunce who views it as global poverty alleviation. The others are all more sinister and ugly.

The report elaborates, without noting it, how much refugee resettlement has become a racket, with those taking advantage not the most desperate but the most cunning.

In Dadaab, where resettlement is known as “boufis” — or “the urge to move abroad,” resettlement is associated with wealth. “A poor man has no place in resettlement,” said one Somali refugee in his 50s who has been in the camp 16 years. “So many in the diaspora, when I ask them [how they were resettled], they say, ‘It was my money.’”

In Kakuma, northwest Kenya, home to almost 200,000 people from a dozen countries, refugees said it is possible to pay some of a resettlement bribe by signing over ownership of your shelter. “If you don’t have money, you need to hand over your house, if it’s good,” said a South Sudanese refugee, who paid $600 to forward his own case. “If your house is bad and you don’t have the money, you will never go.”

Settling refugees in neighboring countries with an eye toward sending them back would put an immediate stop to this, because nobody’s really paying to escape their home as much as they’re paying to come to a US they see as a consumer wonderland, what servicemen abroad used to call “the Big PX”.

But one more nod of respect on the way out, to the man who put his ex on the other side of the world. “All your exes live in Texas, you say? Phhhhht!”