RETREAT TO THE WOMB

by Robert Frenz

5 March 2000

Formally, it was called Dudie's Grill, a taproom where the workers gathered on payday and weekends. It was owned by two brothers, Ray and Roy, both married and both to quite attractive Northern European types. I was a boy at the time and relied heavily upon my father's information and advice. Being puzzled as to which brother had which wife, because I observed them paired one way this day and paired another way on the next, I consulted my father. Dad said the "boys" had a sort of arrangement which allowed them a certain flexibility when it came to certain activities. I let it pass as being a little odd but then again, Dudie's Grill was odd. The locals always referred to it as "the gymnasium" and jokingly spoke of going there for their weekly "work out".

With foam pouring out of the taps and free sandwiches, popcorn, pretzels and peanuts for all, Dudie's was always a busy and noisy place full of laughter and greetings. Every once in a while, two men would cross each other and a brawl would break out. There seemed to be two kinds of brawls; a general mayhem and the personal. The personal fights were always taken outside into the alley where a permanent "ring" was positioned in the corner of two building and always kept clean. The disagreeing parties would then hammer on each other until a mutual decision to quit was made. On occasion, the local patrolman Art Luplow would pass by and ask if everything was proceeding according to the wishes of the fighters and the watching crowd. After getting the "OK" Art wandered into the alley behind Grundler's Bakery before disappearing from view. No arrests were ever made because it was viewed as nothing other than two men agreeing to settle their differences in an agreed upon fashion. This was the ultimate freedom, a freedom long since relegated to the dust bin of an expanding tyranny.

My great-grandfather was once summoned to appear before a magistrate in response to the fact that he had used a shotgun blast to remove a neighbor's toes. Asked why he would do such a thing, great grandfather replied, "The no good son-of-a-bitch went out of his way to trespass upon my property and subsequently hunting down and killing my old dog Sailor." The magistrate dismissed the whole thing as a personal matter set upon the stage of law-breaking by the complainant. In those times, trespassing was indeed a serious offence as opposed to today where anyone has a "Constitutional right" to do as he well damned pleases regardless of whether he is violating someone else's property rights. Protection of private property is also a part of true freedom.

Dad, as well as grandfather, had a large gun cabinet which was never locked. At the floor of the display, which usually consisted of a shotgun, rifle and a few small caliber revolvers, was stacked boxes of ammunition. As kids, we'd peer through the glass knowing full well that looking and touching were entirely two different matters. One entailed little other than a visual curiosity while the other would bring down the wrath of the captains of our families – the men. We were never beaten, screamed at or otherwise abused. There was the "belt" which was never used simply because no one dared to precipitate an event which would invoke its use. We knew that our fathers would do as they outlined if we dared even in little measure to touch anything in anyone's gun cabinet. I cannot ever recall even one hair on the head of anyone ever being harmed due to a child's access to firearms. In a masculine society this sort of thing is never a problem.

Mom ran the house as dad's lieutenant. If a matter arose which she could not handle, she never attempted any punishment. We'd be referred to dad – something which was never welcomed and so disagreements with mom were indeed quite few.

It was the Great Depression. Food and jobs were scarce but I never heard one gripe, sniffle nor excuse. Families did the best they could with what they had and what they could scrape together from sketchy employment. Often loved neighbors would die but not one of the living ever succumbed to an emotional collapse with its wailing wall tantrums, counseling sessions and memorials to remind us of a loss. When my young brother died, dad stood at the grave tears partly filling his eyes. After a short silence, he quietly remarked, "It's time to go home. There are many chores to be done."

This was the generation which supplied people such as Audie Murphy, Colin Kelly and Roger Young – heros of that jew-initiated degenerate conflict which saved international communism from total defeat. Today, their memories are tarnished by the sad wails of the "heros" of that one-sided massacre called the Gulf War. There they stand, blubbering something about joining the Army so they could receive a free college education. To call people such as the sock-sucking emotional cripple O'Grady, a soldier, is to defame the memory of everyone who ever shed one drop of blood for his country. We've come a long way, baby and it's all been down.

The euphoria of the 1950s decayed and metamorphosed into the sewer of the 1960s and filth was crowned as victor. This was when that disgusting piece of garbage we now refer to as president was hatched, pot smoke and all. The end of the American man was at hand and with him went the family and the nation.

Shirley Kirschner was well-known for her ability to quickly drop her panties. I was not surrounded by a virtuous citizenry and sex outside of marriage prospered as it always has. The older boys, those unfit for military duty, had a field day during the early 1940s. There was a scarcity of men and a bountiful supply of young women with nervous thighs. My long time, now deceased, friend Dick Wilkes was known to have regularly serviced one or two women a night. Dick was a muscular blond haired fellow who was a pot of honey to those female bees who never stopped swarming in his direction. His father owned a large piece of agricultural land and Dick received a deferment on that account. No war duty for him. As Nature always has the last say, Shirley became pregnant. The community knew what the next event would be. Not an abortion nor the man skipping town as is the usual case today. Not even an untruthful denial ever was issued from Dick's lips. It was what we called a "shotgun wedding". The two were married and stayed that way until death rendered them apart. They were survived by two sons and two daughters, all four of whom were the embodiment of White beauty. Richard, like those in similar situations, was man enough to accept the responsibility of that which he created. This is always the mark of any man.

It did not enter as some contamination of something dropping in from above, but remained as a subtle decline in masculinity. Men turned their affairs over to women and gladly welcomed the relief from responsibility and even elected some to office. It should never be forgotten that all "female power" operates within the vacuum of male absence. When the White male abrogated his position as head of the family, he rendered not only an extreme disservice to his wife but fractured the welfare of his children and destroyed the community of his Nation. He rationalized this away with blather about "equality" and consoled himself with material things. Once deluding himself by believing that tossing a few dollars at his children represented the ultimate in "love"and paternity, he then immersed himself in diversions such as watching niggerball and washing his SUV.

Women now tried to be fathers, heads of the household as it were. After all, their crotch driven husbands could now be easily directed by a turn-on or turn-off of sexual privileges. Women, basking in the phantom of an imagined power, now became quite comical in their behavior. Fearing to lose the love of their children and not caring about that of a husband who could be counted upon to return in the event of another erection, they proved to be incapable of governing their children. One only has to witness the comical spectacle of some female, with mounting emotion and hysteria, first plead with her child and then enter into a hollow threatening mood. If, for some rare reason, the woman decides to supply a modicum of corporal punishment, it is always administered with the rod of anger – the worst possible scenario. It is comical to witness and so very, very tragic.

Children, now sensing that neither parent is capable of anything beyond condescension and dollar tossing, entered upon what we see today. Without fear they open dad's gun cabinet and do as they momentarily see fit with its contents. Having no true parents, that is, parents who care more about the family than they do for a quickie in the shower or a new tile bathroom, the kids then blossomed into a community problem. No matter what depth their atrociousness reaches, mom and pop underlings could be counted upon to defend them.

In all fairness to men who feel their shackles, some of them self-imposed, I'll mention that I am fully aware of the laws which now forbid any man from being an effective father. In it all, there still is that solitary control which can keep any man from enslaving himself: keep your zipper closed and your eyes peeled for that ever increasing rarity, a good woman.

Man's descent has now passed below that of being effeminate. He is now rapidly becoming infantile. He breaks down in uncontrollably weeping fits if he loses his job, his house or witnesses the death of a son. He can no longer, like a child, gird himself against the assaults of his enemies. He wants to "be liked". He wants to be kind and show emotionally that he cares. He has raised the child's part of a woman, the breasts, to a fetish. He wants to be cared for, stroked and soothed if the world's events happen to hand him a raw deal. He buys a car for "safety" reasons and surrounds himself with the paper of that multi-million dollar racket called insurance which protects against nothing put passes out ZOGbucks as compensation for a mishap. He wants care, protection and all of the other chains and bars of institutionalism. He accepts responsibly for nothing and willingly votes for people like himself – those of low and mean character. He watches alien enemies occupy his territory, impregnate his women and slowly weave the cords which one day will render him immobile. Thus finally restrained, he imprisons himself in a womb of his own choosing where he hopefully assumes he'll be kept warm and safe from all of those terrible bogey men which form a part of the real world of freedom.

Thereon lies the defeat of our people and the extinction of the God-given beauty of the sun as found in golden hair; the richness of a clear blue sky, drops of which are displayed in the White man's eyes; and the cleanness of fresh fallen snow and majestic clouds – the White skin. Indeed – in God's image.