SOME MALES ARE MEN                                                                                    2 March 1998 
The purpose of interaction is not to sound off because one loves to hear his own voice nor to impress people with the breadth of one's useless knowledge. It is not a matter of trying to convince others that I, for example, possess all of the truth and righteousness. No, my friends, it is to listen, learn, filter, modify one's own views, and arrive at a consensus which indicates the general tenor of the group. Thus arrived, we can be said to have a survival philosophy. The notion that people can join together for a purpose greater than merely bludgeoning all of the nignogs, by simply saying we can all believe any bit of folderol we choose – as long as we bring along baseball bat – is shear immature nonsense. The blight-wing has failed – and is still failing – for one-half of a century. This almost unbelievable disaster seems to elude everyone.

Blight-wingers, as I see them, simply cannot cooperate for a higher purpose because each "leader" is his own higher purpose. Weak egos absolutely prevent anyone from admitting that they might not just be the answer to anything. This is, perhaps, a function of our society where every ugly moron is taught – principally by his mother – that he/she/it is beautiful, precious and intelligent.

A wise leader listens to his followers and gravely contemplates what he hears. Merit often flows from unexpected places and only the stupid, or egocentric, will turn a deaf ear. The jews are great brain-pickers and that's part of the reason for their successes.


Let's face it mates. Anyone who enjoys inserting his finger, tongue, or penis into the large intestine – an excrement staging area – of any animal, human or otherwise, is certainly one who can be labeled bizarre, at the least. People like this are absolute perverts – they stand condemned both by having no counter parts in the rest of the animal kingdom, and by Biblical dictates. Labeling such creatures "gay" changes nothing – anymore than changing the label on a bottle of Clorox to one reading "root beer," would change it into a pleasant beverage. People who wallow in feces are notorious disease spreaders and to retain a society's health, morally and physically, they should be dealt with appropriately.

Featured on a recent TV propaganda program was a harpish mother who became incensed when she found out that her cherished son enjoyed activities which made his sex organ turn temporarily brown. He was a faggot. Indignant mom, through some strange mental flip-flop similar to those demonstrated by the born-againers, soon mounted the band-wagon yodeling for "gay rights," that is, special treatment for the AIDS-spreading daisies. (When anyone voices "rights" then you can be assured that it means special privileges for anyone non-White and/or perverted.)

One could wonder where all of these throw-backs to the sewer came from. As a boy, our home-town had perhaps three of them and they were very careful not to get in anyone's way lest some odd accident occurred. In all cases, these three men grew up without a father in the home. Mama was their world. At that time, most husbands and fathers actually directed the family. They accepted input from the rest of the family, mulled it over and then made some decision. All in all, they were men of their word – as my father was and as his father was. My blue-eyed, red-haired grandfather always had a pleasant look upon his face. He was gentle, soft-spoken and everyone "knew" that to cross him was about as safe as examining gunpowder with the light from a match.

Stub and Vince – two of my uncles – often fooled around at the dinner table, especially when whipped cream was passed around. One, or the other, would flip a spoonful of it in the direction of the other. After a few "missiles" darted back and forth past grandfather, he could be counted upon to rap his glass a few times with his knife. The silence was punctuated by his glances toward the razor strap hanging near the sink. All whipped cream launching abruptly halted.

Later on, I recall asking grandmother if grandfather ever used that strap on anyone's behind. She replied, "No, not ever, but everyone knows he would." That, dear folks, is the foundation of all power and control.

But what do we find in the "men" of today? In my experience, it is very, very rare to find a man of his word. A man who cannot live up to his word is simply a man who cannot control himself and therefore not to be trusted with anything. As an instructor in the hard sciences, I have had much experience in the observation of young men at work, study, and play. Most of them, it is sad to say, have little will power – especially when it comes to what we used to refer to as "crotch itch." Few had the mental energy to control this urge and thus went on searches to find some orifice to stuff. While "on the prowl" not one thought was given to family, marriage, or even the effects upon their foolish, and usually immature, targets. If a little "I love you" lying didn't work then perhaps a little physical persuasion would be invoked. In any event, "getting one's rocks off" was of paramount importance. Men so driven cannot be called upon for anything requiring a measure of will power.

Today, these men of the crotch take orders from women who, in turn, take their orders from their brats. Mom is terrified of "losing" the love of her offspring and therefore appeases her immature tyrants at every opportunity. Dad, living in fear of losing his handy piece of pussy, appeases his wife whenever his "need," or whatever, arises, or rises, as the case may be. The typical American family is little more than a bad joke and all the rationalizations in the world will never put it back together again. What will put it back, is for men to again become men and through inner control become masters of their own destinies. If we had a nation of such men – men who had backbones, that is, balls of brass – then there would be no room for harpies, or other bitches from hell, to misdirect the heading of society. When females again have to become women, out of necessity, then we shall find that the family would be back on the road to recovery and with it, the nation.

Those male elements of the blight-wing – those apparently interested in retaining what is White in this land – had first better secure a program to develop men. With the countryside coated with self-indulgent batches of protoplasm, – all seeking some sort of physical gratification at the cost of losing their honor – they have little chance of "saving" anything. As the problems grow, the mental weaklings will continue to blame someone else for their sorrows.

White resurgence depends upon male resurgence and that can only occur when men again become masters of their emotions: their word must be their bond and the brain should be master of the gonads. Until that occurs, the rot shall continue. 

The American people (Boobus Americanus) simply cannot handle two TV spectacles at the same time. Therefore, the up-coming "war" with Hitler-Hussein will be postponed until after the snow-ball Olympics at which time the focus will change from sleighing to slaying. Poor Iraq – equivalent to a poverty-stricken Nebraska with a mosque – will again be the target of American sportsmanship. The kind where "sportsmen" equipped with LASER sights and high-powered rifles, using a helicopter as a platform, descend upon unwary mountain sheep, or other un-armed grass-eaters, and proceed to "blow them away." Perhaps Larry King told them that the sheep were really reincarnated Hitlers. Anyway, stay tuned for Turkey-Shoot II directed by the ever-popular draft-dodger from his Washington D.C. bomb shelter and condom warehouse.