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Mescaline Franklin Asks the Crackpot the VQ: 8/10/21
Yesterday after Rick told us his fight story from the gas station, Mescaline asking me, “Do you think any less of me for getting the Vax—It was bend the knee or get fired.”
I responded, “Look, every baron in France bent the knee to the king at one time or another—yet they were not loyal, as old Nick pointed out in The Prince. You need money right now and had to bend the knee or become a hobo like me.”
He said, “But they are going for us. What if they bar you from the trains for not getting vaxxed?”
“They will have to kill me. One reason why I won't agree to medical care again is I do not want to be injected against my will with anything. I have a real problem with misused authority. If I am banned from travel I will hike, drive illegally or get a mo-ped and putt-putt across the evil land. I will not consent to ever go unarmed, which means I will not fly, will never appear in court, will never submit to arrest, will not submit to medical induction. This nation hates me with an officially proclaimed ire as a criminal on multiple levels, despite me never breaking any law but NEWSLAW. Also, I realize that at this point, that my job, the reason that people like you and Rick offer me a bed and buy my books, is that I am an autonomy avatar. So even if I believed in the holy plague, I would avoid vaxxing just to keep faith with my readership.”
This morning drinking coffee with Rick on the verge of another trip west, where I might remain, shamdemic permitting, we watch News Max, the ascendant controlled opposition network. News Max might disagree with CNN, but they play the same anti-masculine, pro-ebony, anti-ivory, tranny dancing commercial as the loyal media networks. This is a total media-warping of reality that even accommodates the dissenting mind.
In the background in each press conference, as the politician speaks bare-faced, his staff stands masked, just as the athletes unmasked are surrounded by masked officials and attendants. We are being trained to obey faces and done the mask, to become he who has no authority not even over his own life—not even in the mirror.
We are slated to become masked meat-puppets, NPCs in the dystopian role-playing zone known as America. The worst complaints this dissenting news organization can manage is to call for the Obama Clan to be chastized for not wearing masks in their We Izz Kangs big tent party. I know numerous people who have gotten vaccinated by something that claims by its producers to increase immunity to Brovid Jiveteen death from 82% [natural immunity] to 87% boosted immunity, for a disease that claims less than 1% for Death who awaits us all in the end.
I do not suspect that The Jab is intended to do damage. Rather, I think this is a vast clinical trial for lowly meat-puppets for life-extension therapy for the elite. Once the kinks have been worked out, a booster round some years down the road—and I am thinking 2025, based on the Spars Pandemic Clinic run by Hopkins—will be a sterilization or death shot.
A key component of this herd culling in the face of gathering Winter and reduced planetary carrying capacity, is going to be to discredit conspiracy theories about a harmful mandatory vaccine. Then, after confidence in vaccination as not been as damaging as feared, buttressed by the lie machine manipulating and misreporting numbers [as has already been done] a special vaccine for the masses will be injected that will do the harm to humanity that The Self Aware System of Control desires.
In the meantime and beyond, we live in Maskland, where politicians, and celebrities will expose their faces as their attendants go masked. This will increase our obedience and reduce our empathy at the same time and make of us more easily manipulated meat-puppets in the dastard dance ahead.
So, for Mescaline and You, when you have been made to get the jab, remain aware that this is a behavioral and biological beachhead that will set your body and mind up for total conquest at some point in the future. If you see a massive food shortage or price increase, and a famine vaccine is put forth to buttress the starving body against the reduced diet, then that is likely to be the kill shot.
Note that the military will be vaccinated despite only 2 Brovid deaths and 27 suicides. So, when doctors point out that forced social control and lockdowns are causing suicide, expect a vaccine against depression. This will probably be a sterilization shot. The ultimate goal of the coordinated and simultaneous mania for:
-Negro deification
-Police repurposing
-Medical heroization
Is control of human reproduction by corporations buttressed by the State.
Note that every head of state on earth, except for three African dictators who were killed immediately after they spoke against vaccination, is on board, including the traitorous Orange Usurper. The entire global ruling class wants the same thing, which should make the human being feel exactly like a hind who notes that every member of a wolf pack has turned their eyes hungrily upon her.
We are food.
I hope only to be of bitter taste and poor nutritional value.
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Posted: 2021-10-26   reads: 70   ©2021  james lafond
Rating Combat Methods for Self-Defense
The Crack Man Cues the Crackpot
[Crackpot comments are in brackets. I will use this as a speed quiz. Began answering at 6:40 PT and finished at 6:52.]

Crack Man
3:40 AM (2 hours ago)
to me
Hello Mr Lafonds,
I’d like to hear your opinion and insight on hand to hand combat in a defense situation.
If you treated this somewhere already - then just point me toward it.
I´ve seen your striking videos already.
How do you rate (in comparison to the classical punch with bare knuckle or palm):
- (Bare knuckle) Body blows
[Closed fist to the body is a great use of the bare fist.]
- (Spinning) back kick
[If you are behind him as he reads his smartphone.]
- Kicks in general
[Not for defense, but for offense. Kickers who use them as offensive gambits are almost always successful, defenders are rarely successful. Kicking against a group is stupid as it fixes your position.]
- Elbow strike
[Good for breaking clinches and for breaking the lower ribs when he has his back to the wall.]
- leg kicks in general
[Bad against blades and groups and best for larger aggressors than for smaller defenders to use.]
- Takedowns/throws
[Throws are the best method for fighting on pavement and take downs one of the worst. Against groups, large men have great success throwing smaller guys around. Takedowns against groups requires their permission not to help each other out.]
What if you could train someone only 1 Move?
[Checking hand.]
What if you could train someone only 1 combo?
[Shield to sprawl and sprawl to shield.]
What if the trainee is female?
[Tell her I don't train women.]
What if the trainee is an average Joe?
[Teach the knife first.]
What if the trainee is doing combat sports?
[Teach the knife—because I would stab his ass if i thought he knew how to fight and threatened me.]
What if the attacker is/seems intoxicated?
[Never talk, with this advice applying to wrangling sober Negroes as well.]
Thanks in advance for any answers on these.
And Sorry if you covered this already.
[No apologies, Sir. These are all worthwhile questions.]
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Posted: 2021-10-25   reads: 227   ©2021  james lafond
Old Devil Part 3: 8/10/21
This occurred, yesterday, August 9, 2021, on the paved banks of the mighty Ohio at a gas station. Rick had returned from training all amped up on caffeine, went to the supermarket, and then forgot my sports drink. He headed back out. When Rick returned to the kitchen while I was speaking with his mother and her friend and Mescaline Franklin in the dinning room, he waved me in and asked me if his nose was marked or bent. Then, as I looked for something, he said, “If you have to look that hard, its fine. Thanks, I'll tell you and Mescaline later.”
Old Devil Speaks:
I headed down to the the gas station where the little Indian guy has been hiding behind the plastic shield for over a year. I get your drinks and say to the guy, “Thanks a lot for taking down the shield—good for you. It's nice to see you.”
I was feeling good.
But when I had parked, I am so used to driving a bigger car since I rented that Charger and didn't want to have to pay for scratching up the fender, that I pulled up kind of far from the curb. But I'm in and out like that.
I get out and I get into the car, and there is this big, fat younger guy gassing his car over by the pump and he looks at me and sneers and calls me an asshole.
I looked at him as I got into my car and he said, “Asshole!”
So I roll down my window and say, “Do we have a problem?” and he says, “You shouldn't park like that, asshole!”
So—I know Jimmy, this as a dick move and I shouldn't have done it and my road rage should be behind me now—but I'm so sick of people hiding behind their glass and flipping me off and calling me names while I'm driving as if I can't follow them home—so fuck this fat piece-of-shit!
I'm not good at estimating land whale weight because of the blubber. But he was about six foot two, since I'm five-eleven and he was fat and pear-shaped, not too sloppy for an American...
[I ballpark the landwhale at 6'1” 250 pounds.]
So, I pull up next to him and say one more time, “Do we have a problem?”
“Yeah, you shouldn't park like that!”
So I get out and step up to him and say, “Why is it any concern of yours? I didn't park next to you or take up any of your space. It's none of your business.”
He steps closer so I went to push him back [with one hand on his throat and the other on his chest] and I'm weak, I have no success. I've always been able to push big fat fucks around. And this thing, with a beard, he is brushing off my hands and running his mouth which pisses me off.
So I hit him twice [two short arm hooks from the shovel angle] and catch him on the face [cheeks] and he staggers back.
Jimmy, my shit was weak. I was pissed. I should have dropped this guy. I need some pointers—because you know what, I liked this, I want more of this. Fuck these white people! A Negro would have at least had the sense not to pick a fight with some guy like me who obviously doesn't give a shit.
So, I got to give it to the fat fuck, he steps to me and I'm not having it. Mind you, I have pushed him once and hit him twice and he still isn't fighting, just running his mouth.
This fat fuck steps up to me, looking down into my face and “Bam!” I head-butted this mother-ficker in the nose and split it open and then he stepped back again, further, where I wanted him.
No, there was no blood coming out of the nose, it was a surface cut. Even then he won't fight, but keeps complaining about my parking, so I took the gas hose out of his car and stepped up to him and said, “Motherfucker, you should leave me alone. I aught to soak you in this shit and light your ass up!
Then he starts begging me to do it, to soak him in gas and light him up!
“Go ahead, do it! Set me on fire!”
What the fuck?
At this point, the clock is running and the cops wouldn't be long, so I threw down the gas hose, got in my car and drove, and while I was driving off he is holding the gas hose like its a light saber and he's going to get me with it. Maybe he'll use the gas hose gambit on some other fat fuck—maybe I improved his game?
This guy was bigger than me, at least ten years younger and was as unwilling to fight as he was willing to pick a fight.
Jimmy, what the hell is going on?
Woke Devil Speaks
Beginning with Brovid Jiveteen Advent, in March 2020, myself and five other older paleface combatants I am close to have been threatened harm and challenged to fights by younger, larger white non-combatants, who all backed way down when evil started to ooze their way. This has happened in Portland, three Pennsylvania towns including this one and in Baltimore.
I am chalking it up to the extreme bitch-titted feminization of the North American Land Whale of the Ivory genus. It is no longer even thinkable for a police officer of ivory hue to offer violence to a person of superior and godlike ebony hue. For the white peasant to affront his dark lord is even further beyond the pale.
So, the sense is, and I think it is mostly instinctive, based on media conditioning, that in this world of ebony godhood and ultimate vaginal authority that our hated kind are the only people anyone can imagine the State backing them up against.
With Americans, everything comes down to mindless worship of the State, the Sacred System of Control. After being locked up like livestock by no means other than media commands, with no need to even send out the army and police to check homes for visitors like in more masculine Australia, the Faggots of Planet Faggatron yearn to be human again and to feel some kind of power—and the only universally hated being in sight is the paleface.
For these reasons, as illustrated by Rick's recent adventures, I have for years been predicting that the target of the toxic wrath of white people [meaning middle class, university eductated and upper class and gay and liberal and tranny and conservative Cuckmericans] will be the paleface. Consider, that the English ancestors of American White People, back when they were called Christians, hated the working class lowlife of European descent so much that they spent fortunes bringing African slaves to this misbegotton nation to displace us, and have ultimately set them upon us in a quest for out extermination.
I Am THE DEVIL hated by the Conservative American Money Church and the Liberal American Media Faith.
But I have at least one equally hated Brother in Deviltry, Rick, the Candide of White Devils, who cannot conceal his nature from the ever-hungry cannibal cunt that is America. For this alone I would love him.
This morning, as Rick and I drank coffee, I looked into the fridge for the sports drink and saw that it was not diet, but regular and said, “Bro, I really appreciate you braving the slings and arrows of the landwhale for my hydration, but I can't drink this shit—it's not on Rick's list!”
Pittsburgh, Tuesday, August 10
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Posted: 2021-10-23   reads: 341   ©2021  james lafond
Old Devil Part 2: 8/1/21
Rick was awaiting his blood drawing for his PT scan to see if he still had cancer. The nurse from the chemo center could not do this, much to his irritation. He did talk her into leaving the port in as he was getting sick of being restuck.
Seated at beyond proper physical distance from the other patients, who had bigger worries that a phony pandemic [downgraded to an epidemic 13-months earlier, but still called a pandemic] Rick decided to get a cup of coffee. There he sat, sipping his coffee, reading, with his mask on his chin, when a finger began tapping the table next to him, '”Sir, sir, sir!”
He looked up and a nurse made a motion that he had to pull his mask up. Rather than drink through the mask, Rick said, “I am drinking my coffee. I'll pull up the mask when I'm done.”
Rick continued sipping and reading until another nurse tapped the table and said, “Sir, sir, sir! We are getting complaints that you are unmasked.”
Rick said, in his classically direct style, which might suit him as a candidate for an ambassadorial post to North Korea, stated, “That is a lie. No one has moved from their seats to complain. I am properly social distanced and I am drinking my coffee. We fucking have cancer here—do you think we care about your fake fucking disease? As soon as I am done with my coffee, I will mask up.”
A few moments later, the supervising nurse approaches Rick with the underling nurse hovering in the background and begins gaslighting him about the complaints from the dying people around him that he is not doing the right thing in the fight against the non-existent pandemic.
Rick stood up without finishing his coffee, repeated his previous points and said, “You know what—I'm sick of you people and your bullshit. This is bullshit and lies—nothing more. I'm done, I'm out of here.”
“But, Sir,” said the supervising nurse, “you can't leave with the port in your arm. We still have to draw your blood. This is your last appointment.”
“I don't care. I'm done. This is bullshit. Take it out.”
“Sir, we cannot do that, not here. Please, mask up and wait. You are next in line. What if we get you your own waiting room?”
“Look, after what I went through, you people are trying to tell me that this thing will kill me, and I can't walk, even though I walked in here, and that your fake fucking disease is going to use me to infect all of these people with some media bullshit that I don't have! Fuck this place—I'm out of here!”
And Rick pulled the plug, just rips out the port and blood shoots on the nurse and he puts his finger on the vein to maintain pressure until the blood coagulates...
“Oh my God, sir, sir...”
[“Jimmy, don't ever let them tell you you cant rip out your I.V. It comes right out with a little bit of blood.”]
And the gaggle of nanny drones take Rick right into an empty room and he is soon attended to by a female doctor who says, “I know how you feel. I'm in the position of having to explain masks to my son, but...”
“But,” Rick says, “you will lose your funding if you don't obey and don't enforce the phony mask rules.”
“Yes, thank you for understanding.”
So, Rick, still clear of cancer after his first checkup since being cleared the first time, is back to the gym every day. As I worked in the yard he asked me if there was anything he could get me and I said, “Yeah, diet Gatorade.”
“Is Powerade okay, it's got b-vitamins in it?”
“Yes sir.”
That set up the very next episode in Rick's post cancer life as he faces his sixth decade of being hated for the crime of being born with both a penis and a pale face.
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Posted: 2021-10-23   reads: 303   ©2021  james lafond
Old Devil
Life Between Cancer and Hate: 8/9/21
In late March, when I returned here to Pittsburgh from the west, my longest held friend, Rick, was sick. He had refused to tell me he was sick, as he didn't want me dropping my plans for him. One of the strongest physical specimens I had known was now unable to carry a water jug up the stairs and shuffled like an ancient.
The tree blown down in the backyard lie there unaddressed. Food that was going bad in there fridge did so because he could not eat it. He had cancer in the sterno-mastoid muscle in his neck that I thought was a training injury last August when I left. The chemo poisoned him and the radiation burned his throat. He couldn't swallow water and had to get it pumped in. He could not talk above a hoarse croak.
Through all of this he refused a ride to the hospital and drove himself. When I left for Jersey in late April, he had just finished his chemo and could barely talk. This had been quite a blow for a man who was following a strict anti-cancer diet in order to avoid the fate of his grand parents, as cancer of certain kinds ran in the family.
Having hauled his water up the stars and done the yard work, I was packing as he lie here in this guest room covered up and hatted, unable to stand the chill of his normal room, resting in the sunniest room in the century-and-a-half old house on the old cobblestone street.
I wanted to lift his spirits some, as he had just returned from his last chemo, juicing, radiation and weighing. I said, “Bro, you look like you're 135.”
“Good guess he croaked—exactly, lost forty pounds of muscle in two months.”
“Bro,” I said, “you could have been a contender! I had no idea you could get this light. You could have wrecked skinnies in the ring.”
“Fuck you!” he hissed—“Get the fuck outta here!”
Punky, his mother, and I hugged and she smiled, “Thank you, Jimmy. My son is coming back to me. Pretty soon he'll be the same arrogant prick he was.”
“Let's hope, Doll.”
Then our buddy Mescaline Franklin took me away towards Jersey with promises to return, and we did.
Rick is still only about 155 pounds, but his voice is back and some portion of his strength. Yesterday, just before the three of us thought criminals went to Mudshark Alley, a local dive bar, to be served by the nice black man behind the bar as the fatty boomalaty ghost wenches chortled and screamed and called for more booze, Rick had related two very recent adventures had as his strength returned. The last of these had him ask me for some pointers on the bag at the gym.
In about two hours I'll be coaching on the heavy bag in a muscle palace.
These will be related in the next posts on this site in late October:
'Sir!': Old Devil Part 2
'Asshole!': Old Devil Part 3
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Posted: 2021-10-22   reads: 395   ©2021  james lafond
Shaka Hulu
Cube 6
The martial music ceased [6], and the CCP anthem took up. There were no words to this song. However, Brett had told him some 14-years ago when he was still in training and was only competing in mat wrestling, that this anthem was actually based on an old national Anthem that Brett had heard often when he was a child, played before fights and various other sports that used to be popular, like baseball.
He had seen Shaka fight seven times. All seven times that Shaka had fought on the undercard of one of his title defenses, Brett had made sure he viewed those fights every day. Since this fight had been made six-weeks ago, Bronson had viewed Shaka’s 7 undercard cube fights—none of the ring, cage or yard fights concerning Brett—for six hours a day during training.
‘I hope this is the last time I have to watch this guy fight.’
-6. An ancient recording from a movie of the age of his templates, all such songs selected from the soundtrack of Conan the Barbarian. Although Bronson had never been permitted to view a movie or video, other than fight videos for training, as he and his kind were meant to represent pre-modern warriors of the Stone Age, the Bronze Age and the Iron Age.
The voice of Kull MacCracken, the former Lightweight Champion, rolled like thunder through the cube:
“Fighters, mouths?”
Both men yawned and showed the roofs of their mouths, the view magnified on the octagonal video feeds which paneled the ceiling above the suspended cube.
Both men clapped their hands.
Both men patted their groin.
Both men jumped up into a plyo areal squat, and as they did so the cube magnetized and they landed with a crash like Thunder’s little brothers rumbling in some cube-shaped heaven.
Kull’s voice rumbled, “Shaka Hulu, are you ready?”
Shaka answered with his trademark screech, “Iklwa!” and the shagboys below screamed.
Kull’s voice rumbled again, “Bronson Caan, World Light-Heavyweight Champion, are you ready.”
“Yes, Sir,” he declared, and an electronic bell tolled as darkness enveloped the amphitheater and the only illuminated space was the suspended cube of magnatronic plexiton, the video angles on the octagonal screens above and a thousand screaming voices wafted up out of the darkness.
Shaka charged him, spun on his heel, and ran up the 18-foot horizontal face to Bronson’s right, hit the ceiling face at a sharp angle and did a superman stomp, aiming to shave Bronson’s shoulder from his body.
Bronson checked the lunging shin with his right palm and slapped the tucked supporting foot from behind the stomping knee and sent Shaka rolling into the corner. He was surprised that his hand was not broken. Of course, Shaka’s gear and the cube protected him from any gravity-based sudden stoppage of his acrobatic antics. The fanboys and fangirls loved this high-flying stuff. Brett always reminded him that it was, “faggot bullshit.”
This was all show, as the magnetized cube only attracted the feet very gently, repelled the head gear and had a neutral symbiosis with the jock. It was feeling like the hands were neutrally symbiotic, at least in the kinetic dimension.
Bronson went to the loose-fisted bare-knuckle guard Brett had always drilled him on, not for this contingency, which neither of them had ever imagined, but in case the CCP Board decided to go in for a retro-cube bareknuckle event.
Shaka shuffled forward, laid in a back-leg front kick that thudded into Bronson’s abdominal wall and drove him back against the airlock, from within which he could hear Brett screaming various barely audible and indistinct commands to do this to the “nigga” do that to the “nigga” and so on according to his inimitable style.
Shaka then sent a shin kick to the head which Bronson checked with his right forearm, which felt almost like it fractured.
A flesh of anger creased like lightening through his mind’s eye and as Shaka’s left leg came to rest, behind which Bronson knew instinctively that the African fighter would shoot for the body lock, Bronson let his hands go loosely, his right cracking into the chin of Shaka, whose eyes started, followed by a left shovel hook which raised that chin and caused the eyes to roll somewhat lazily, to be followed by a right elbow to that chin, a “magnatronic elbow” it would be christened after this bout, as Bronson pushed off the vertical panel of the airlock with his right foot and launched his entire body through the elbow stroke, hurdling past the fallen Shaka, and doing a forward roll and turn-in to face back at his rival in a crouch.
That crouch turned not to be unnecessary. For Shaka Hulu was out cold, a sight that brought a cold chill to Bronson’s spine and gut, until he saw that dark chest raise in a ragged breath and repeat the process.
The cold-sounding tolling of a great magnatronic bell, supposed to have been based on some ancient iron bell, then sounded the end of the fight. The two neutral airlocks then opened—these being next to the fighter airlocks, and two medical technicians sprinted from each, two to check Bronson, the andy his vitals and the herme his right arm.
He absently noted this attention as he looked morbidly, as if from within a fishbowl, at Shaka, who was being fitted with a resuscitation lock, the neck-brace crawling around into its support role like the feet and hands he wore and the respiratory cone being fitted to the distressed fighter’s mouth.
“Is, is he going to recover?” he heard himself say absently.
The sound inside the cube was now contained, no sound entering from outside and none escaping, in case the techs had to conduct verbal procedures or alert the CCP Board via their headsets. The andy [7] working on the RL [8] nodded to the herme securing the vital readings and spoke with some concern, “No anxiety at all, Bronson. You hit the erase button. This might be a coma case. We aren’t supposed to say anything, but the sound lock is on and you are the Champ. You will have to go through the Medical Board to check up on him. We’ll do our best.”
The herme confirmed and expanded, “We are now redacting his availability for bottom lottery. He’s in no condition for a date. So expect the shagboys to be pissed.”
“Roger that…thanks. I know you’ll do your best.”
Then the andy and the herme working on him, touched heads and took turns, the herme leading off, “Micro-fracture to the lower ulna. Lay off the elbows for two weeks.”
The andy taking his vitals said in a softer voice, “Bronze, you’re still registering resting heart rate. Amazing. Hold for cert-link.”
The medical technician then scanned Bronson’s retina with his cert-light, pulled the blue light back, twisted the light pen in his hand, and then applied the now red light to his left rib cage. The top four ribs were all burned with cert-link codes from his after-fight exams, ten each, and the short rib was being marked in red with his 41st post-fight examination confirmation. Each of these codes contained an uplink to his full header fitness readout, as well as post fight bone scan and combat results and would serve as a
-7. An andy or andies are asexual corporate humans, with feminine bone structure and anatomy, except that they have no mammary organs or uterus. They are stronger than females, being of superior acrobatic types modelled after female athletes. They serve in medical and psychological capacities predominantly.
database for the bookies and odds runners as well as the matchmakers of the CCP who subscribed to the uplink service.
The code burned slightly, and always gave him a warm, fuzzy and wanted feeling inside.
The cube was a sacred place and would not be used for post-fight interviews or anything other than medical certification and intervention.
Kull MacCracken was already waiting for him down by the princess throne. He could see, as the cube was drawn down slowly, the shagboy crying on his throne, as the officials informed him that Shaka Hulu would not be released for their planned after party. Likewise, it was obvious that the lotto winner among the shagboys had already been notified about his lucky drawing when the fight commenced, as three other shagboys were holding his soft pale hands and crying into them while he wailed like a very picture of mourning up at the ceiling and goons began separating the shagboys from each other to enforce social distancing.
Up went the wailing of the fanboys.
-8. RL = Respiratory Lock
Off remained the lights of the exec booths, which would normally be lit up after a major fight.
Up, up and up waxed the shrill girlish cries of glee below as Bronson was escorted by the medical techs into the airlock and the shaggirls below danced in ecstasy.
As the airlock was shut behind him and the techs took their own, the voice of his cornerman echoed in the airlock, “Son, there is enough pussy on the hook to last you a year down here. I still can’t get rid of this hard-on and I’m afraid my dick will fall off and my wrinkled-ass old hands is too gnarly ta permit self-love…”
He disliked cutting off his coach, but he knew where this was going, “Find the one that face mask of yours belongs to and she’s yours. Remember, I get one of each class. To put off suspicion, let all three know—I’ll take the dress and the sarong along with Cheryl.”
“Muvafucka, I likes em fat too—ain’ you da thirsty fiend!”
“Okay, Boss! Keep the bikni and the sarong and leave me with Cheryl and the dress!”
“Ma man!” crowed Brett Scott, “Mah man!!”
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Posted: 2021-10-21   reads: 222   ©2021  james lafond
'I Think of You'
Traveling Jeanie Discusses Travel with a Hobo
8/8/21, Pittsburgh, PA, while taking a break from doing yard work with Punky's retired friend, Jeanie.
“There is this wonderful Tim Robins novel titled Even Cowgirls Get the Blues [1]. The main character is a woman, a model with large thumbs and hitchhikes as a way of life. She has post office boxes around the country and when her boss needs to get in touch with her he sends a post card to all six boxes. This made me think of you, traveling around, and how one would get in touch with you—by text, I suppose. It seems a nice life. Have you always wanted to travel, in any capacity, if not by train?”
Jeanie had agreed to draw a cover for the children's book, The Servants of Woodbridge Manor, in exchange for me doing some landscaping.
I answered, something like this:
“All I ever wanted was to be left alone. I did, at age 18, have a desire to walk from Texas to the tip of Chili, with the hope that I would be killed in the process. Then life intervened.
“For 38 years I worked in Baltimore City as a grocer, usually 6 to 7 days a week and rarely took a vacation. If I did not cash in a vacation, I took it reading and resting at home. All I ever wanted was a small house with a library and reading room and to be left alone. But I was hunted from the streets of the city of my birth by packs of young black men, supported by their predatory police allies. On a Monday night in December of 2017 two pairs of men tried to do me harm on my way to work. We were the only five souls across 12 miles of City and County other than the bus driver who piloted the bus empty but for me. I quit working that next morning and had to sustain myself on writing alone.
“My income was thence reduced from $9k to $1.2k a year. This meant that I would have to rent a room in the ghetto from a couple young black girls and that all of my belongings that I left behind anytime I left would be taken by their boy friends and that I would soon be murdered on the street carrying all my worldly possessions of value.
“My library was already gone and I was getting old and fat and unable to fight off my hereditary foes much longer. At the same time readers were offering me lodging if I finally left the worst city in America. So, I took them up on it and here I am on this disorienting merry-go-round, spending more time traveling each season of each year than I had spent traveling in the first 55 years of my misbegotten life.
“I will never travel outside of the country because I cannot tolerate that level of police control at airports. If the trains get that way, I'll start hitchhiking and hiking until my deteriorating health compels me to stop moving. It is a game of musical chairs, as a friend recently noted. This man was willing to let me live in Baltimore for free on the condition that I play a certain war game. But I now have obligations to visit friends spread across the country that hates me—I'm homesick always.
“Traveling was unwanted and is stressful for me and never held any allure other than suicide when I was young, and now, as I expire, my social suicide. My only purpose for living is writing and to help those people—like Punky here—who have helped me to wander about by giving me a bed or a couch to sleep on.”
Jeanie then said, “Well, Jimmy, you are a hard worker, an interesting man—and you're EASY—easy to get along with in this time when we argue and complain so much in this country. So my door is open as well. I place a high value on landscaping and love my plants and I'm getting too old to deal with the heat.”
-1. I may well be off on my recollection from yesterday about the author and title. Jeanie is a sharp-witted Old Dame who has traveled the world and is widely read.
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Posted: 2021-10-20   reads: 474   ©2021  james lafond
Death Cast Down from the Proud Tower
James LaFond – Myth of the 20th Century
Death Cast Down from the Proud Tower – James LaFond – Myth of the 20th Century
In small societies, such as hunter-gatherers, warrior tribes, or rural farmers, honor and reputation form a large part of one’s personal stock and trade. In larger civilizations, however, where power is measured in money and influence, honor becomes an inconvenience to accumulating wealth for the unscrupulous. The last honorable man - in a society of…
The Myth guys and this old runt had a nice talk the other night. I'm now looking at a foot of snow out the near window here in the Rockies.
Here is the Myth link:
Here is the Patreon Plantation America Update link:
Here is the Patreon link for the full podcast:
Attached also find the draft of the Declaration in a word doc.
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Posted: 2021-10-19   reads: 644   ©2021  james lafond
'Another Victim'
A Dante Justine Update: Ocean City, Maryland, 8/3/21
When I wrote The Sunset Saga the few readers thought that the action hero character in the large cast, one of the three main protagonists, Jay Bracken, was based on me, if I were what I wanted to be. I did base Jay's high school experiences on my own. A writer wants to put a piece of himself into every protagonist in order to connect on an empathetic level with his creation.
However, Jay was based on a man who I have known since he was six-years old, who I have written about as Dante. He is the best friend of a close relative of mine and I coached him in boxing a long time ago. You can search Dante using the search function on this site for some of his stories.
Suffice it to say, that to be Dante, I would cash in a decade of my life for a month of his—that if I could swagger in his shoes for the next four months, I would gladly embrace sorrow-winged Death in Her cold forever with gladness. Of course, with my luck, I'd get the four months Dante spent behind bars. Even then, he imposed his will on lesser men. Rather then beat the shit out of his cellmate, who he hated, and earn extra time in The Joint, Dante shit in the dude's pillow case and left that as a parting gift just before walking out...
Next to beating up rival knuckleheads, Dante's main life-long avocation has been acquiring, enjoying and discarding babes who rank between 7 and 9 on the Judgment Scale. But due to these babes knowing that they are not tens, and finding themselves gracing the brawny arm of a man who cuts a wide swath through life, their desire to keep him propels them to a functional 10 on the Usement Scale.
Needless to say, these girls take it hard when he grows as bored as James Bond backstage at a burlesque show and moves on to the next jetty of feminine self-esteem. He is quite notorious for this with his close friends and family developing an immediate tragic empathy for the next girl to walk in on his tanned, jaw-breaking and chest-crushing arm.
As my Eldest Son and I finished posing for a picture with my mother on the beach yesterday, he looked at me and said, “Have you heard the latest in the Dante Saga?
“Well, he grew tired of his latest conquest, that really nice girl he's been seeing for the past five months. So he goes online to find another victim!”
[mutual laughter]
“He finds this chick who he dumped four years ago and he decides to try her out again—you know, let her have a spot on Team Dante for the second half of the season until he sends her back down to the minors.”
My Daughter-in-law smiles and opines, “Dude is a pitiless womanizer.”
“Well, anyhow, he hits this girl up on the app and reminds her, “Hey, we dated four years ago—remember me?”
Daughter-in-law interjects, “Oh, the godlike asshole who ditched me because I fell in love with him—like she's forgetting that right!”
“So, she says, speaking of that: I've been raising your kid for the past three years and three months and I could use a little help here.”
“He's like, 'No way. I just thought you were being clingy when you made up that stuff about being pregnant!'”
“Well, unfortunately they didn't go on Jerry Springer, so there is no footage of him knocking out the security goons in detail...but its his kid. Dante has made sure that Banno [Hero Goon of the Logic of Steel] has left another seed upon the earth.”
This has moved me to a selfish prayer right now:
Dear Grim and Pitiless Lord God Almighty,
One of your undistinguished broken toys here—
If I could be Dante today, or just tonight,
I swear by your Thunder to sacrifice the scalp of my most worthy foe to Your Eternal Glory before they come to take me away to the locked berths reserved for We, Your failed experiments.
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Posted: 2021-10-19   reads: 540   ©2021  james lafond
Sunday, 8/1/21, a Writing Exercise
Shooed and booted for life on the pavement of the world that ate him, his progress up the asphalt street in bare feet feels strange and wan.
At the grassy dunes, behind the slat fence of the sandy walk, a sign proclaimed in solemn holiness:
“Maintain Physical Distancing”
So spake the yawning god.
Having mastered physical distancing as a hunted beast of prey for 38 years, he snorted and grinned thinly.
Behind him walked and whispered two healthy young fawns: a buck and a hind, afraid to pass him for fear of breathing his deadly air.
The low distant roar of the waves, the faint reek of the salty death-pooled deep, and the soft sand at his feet returned him to solitude.
The sky above was light blue and shot with clouds of white and grey, streaked with the yellow rays of the falling sun.
He walked north.
God's work to the right swelled mighty and deep.
Man's work to the left wallowed grimy and weak.
To the right families sat in circles on the moist sand crest thirty paces above the surf-saturated slope.
To the left the sand was soft and deep, rolling up to the rising dunes crested with grass.
Further back the mean towers of man, looked like a calypso singer had been drafted as a housing architect in the 1950s Soviet Union and the product of a rum sodden night at a drafting table in Minsk had been raised here instead of there.
Nearer, games of volleyball, corn hole and wiffle ball were played by families and friends.
It occurred then, how odd and out-of-place he seemed, as not a soul but him was alone. This was where families and friends came together. It was where he grew further apart.
He did not really know why he had always disliked Ocean City so. In this, his fourth visit as a man, still unable to articulate his loathing for the place, he decided that he would not answer the family summons again to gather here. He was too weary to continue coming to this gutter on the map—this walrus colony of sloth.
As much as he hated this sandy sink of consumption for his entire life, it seemed a fitting place to make his departure west. In exactly two weeks, if Wicked Fate agreed, he would look upon this continent's opposite ocean...alone.
So he muses as he watches through his one uncovered eye—the weak one, the good one being afraid of the sun.
He tries to just watch his feet. This is therapy afterall, for his long ago torn ankles. A life in a more savage feed stall has him looking constantly for a syringe to pierce his foot with woe.
This is not a crime zone. He can cast down vigilance from its tyrannous throne and concentrate on killing what is left of the American within.
But he does notice, that some of the colored folks gathered in their families, regard him with fear and pull their children near.
He is alone, he reminds himself, that-in-and-of-itself being alone, makes him suspect in the post-lockdown construct.
A boy is excited to see him, and noticing his eye patch runs across his path and declares boldly, like a leaping sprite with plastic shovel re-imagined as a cutlass in hand, “I'm a pirate too!”
An Asian couple playing badmitten with no net, hurried aside from his path—the loneliest path he can chart on a mostly empty midway in this trash-strewn carnival of a strand—the ancients having named it aptly, so he decides.
A clutch of Latina dolls, between 18 and 24, prance and shake off the salt sea in their bikinis at the sand crest. The tallest, a good 250 pounds and finely made, looking like a mesolithic queen in her net bikini, draws his eye. She stops and smiles, looking longingly over her shoulder, wishing he would continue with his approval, showing a well-posed expanse of brown thigh.
He toddles on, the buried part of him wanting to explore her lack of shame, his undead portion focused only on a remaining ankle pain.
Two teams of boys are coached by two men. It seems forced and untrue—but somehow earnest too.
A Latin man with his woman and child advances in wet suit, surf board under arm. Mother and child stop at the crest of moist sand and the boy cries for his poppa as he walks into the ocean.
A group of Latin boys, youth and men play volley ball. One young man nods to him, “Poppy.” He nods and waves and totters along.
A trio of men with their ghostly darlings, trailing their little dog-children on leashes, wonder at the dolphin frolicking beyond the breakers.
A Middle Eastern man walks buy with his wife and signs a good day with his open hand and the old runt returns it.
A black woman leads her five children, her teen sister and her man slave towards a drear hotel. He swerves to avoid breaking their gaggling line.
Three young white bulls prowl by, with the flexing attitude of youths looking for girls or challenges, eyeing him harshly and then—as the big bearded one grins—dismissing him as unqualified for their spry attention.
A thin, lone youth, a tall boy of perhaps 14, makes an intricate sand structure at the foot of an empty life guard chair. It seems to be a futuristic apartment complex with individual parking garages. He tosses a clam shell onto its ramparts as if testing for an observation of effect.
A couple in their thirties lounge on a towel with their little brown hotdog on a leash between them. The dog eyes the walker with suspicious attention.
A large family sits in a semi-circle, the people of old and in middle years watching the boys, youth and young men in a 20-man volleyball game.
He glances up just enough to make sure he stays outside of their field of play, still stepping gingerly around plastic bottles, lids and caps.
One of the young men says, “Look at this?”
Another mocks, “Arghhh Matey!”
The first one rejoins, “Afraid?”
The mock-man, with a drunk tone, declares, “Bitch.”
He keeps his eyes on the sand, toddling along, glad to remain alone.
Another ten blocks he walks until the ankle pleas for a return.
The sun was streaking its last between the drear hotels as he followed the trash truck back, using the tire tracks as a tiny sand road.
The beach was emptying.
The volley ball punks ignored him this go by.
He walked closer to where the now absent smart boy had been building his garage at the base of the life guard chair. There a matronly woman and a muscular man in middle years took photos of their two children, a boy and a girl about ten, who posed on the ten foot high chair. They seemed like a perfect little family.
He missed his since being fired from his husband post two decades ago.
As he veered around, deciding not to inspect the sand structure, and give the family their space, he heard a deep voice that he recalled, “Look who it is!”
He heard a child peep and the deep voice said, “It's Grandpa.”
He looked up and saw his oldest son grinning at him. The skinny fellow with the white-blonde hair who could never gain weight had a close beard and some 15 pounds of muscle on his frame from a year ago.
They stepped together and shook hands, “How you doing?”
“Okay. How about you.”
“Okay. Hey, say hi to Grandpa.”
His grandson turned away and mumbled something.
His granddaughter hid her face ducked behind her mother, who shrugged toward him an apology of sorts, a softness in her eyes.
The kids are shy and he has grown a stranger—a wanderer. It is not they're fault.
His son asked, “So what are you doing?”
He appreciated the overture of inclusion and decided not to afflict the children with the duty to address him directly, “Headed down the way before I can't see the street sign and get lost.”
“Well, its good to see you. See you for pictures tomorrow.”
He walked away both said and proud, knowing that he might never have a word with the little ones who carried his name; smiling inside, proud that the smart little boy he had adopted when they were both so young, who he had savagely protected from a pack of the negro foe, who he had rescued near death from the clutches of a negro drug-dealer, had succeeded in all the ways he had failed.
He could sense a hidden appreciation, that not all of his before-life had been undone, that he had raised a fatherless man who was now among the last of this demon-haunted world to shake hands. He toddled on like a rusty afterchild, content that he had a strong son.
Too empty to feel properly sad, he decided then, that he would never come to this place again.
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Posted: 2021-10-18   reads: 561   ©2021  james lafond
'Heaven Six'
Pat Cues the Crackpot on FMA and Boxing Crossover Training: 8/8/21
Sat, Aug 7, 1:28 PM (19 hours ago)
A few years ago I taught myself the Heaven 6 from FMA using videos on Youtube. I'm pretty sure you know what it is but I'll synthesize it here for readers who might not :
It's a simple sequence of 3 slashing motions launched alternately from the right and the left for a total of 6 strikes. I won't go into details about it but the thing to know is that each strike can be changed into a thrust, a beat, a parry or a block depending on your needs.
This sequence appears to be the cornerstone of their curriculum. This is how I train it :
1) I train it like shadowboxing - I start slow and relaxed and slowly ramp up intensity/complexity of moves as I go. I do it 20 to 60 minutes a day, everyday.
2) I use plastic wasters made by Cold Steel. I always start with double knives and go slow to drill in proper edge alignment on each hand. At some point I drop one knife and do solo drills using the off-hand to check, push, parry or grab. Reverse grip I consider a fun alternative and practice mostly to change things up. I end the training doing slow and simple sequences with hardwood sticks about an inch in diameter : their lenght and weight makes for a good forearm conditionning.
3) I always move around doing these drills. I keep the hand flow constant as to have a perpetual blade flurry going on while transition between high and low line of attacks. I have good legs so I crouch quite low while moving around : I got this idea from a 52Block guy on the west coast who pointed out that most people are uncomfortable fighting this low.
4) My boxing is pretty dismal. I have no formal training and am mostly going off of what I see in the mirror and on the internet. Incorporating blade work against single and multiple imaginary opponents seem to have improved my body mechanics overall; I move better, am quicker on my feet and am more aware of my surroundings doing these drills. I tend to use more head movement in my workouts, too.
What is your take on this? Is FMA useful or am I wasting my time? Do you have any tips for a loner like me to up his game with shadow boxing?
Thanks for reading and have a nice day.
Pat, boxing and FMA are fast fellows in the combat arts because modern boxing grew out of English stick and blade fighting. However, FMA has been associated with Asian kicking arts for six decades for economic and racial reasons. Therefore, gay terminology like “heaven-six” instead of “high-low drill” in order to appeal to the faggotry at the core of Asian-based martial arts as sold to sissy Americans who somehow believed after greasing the Japs in WWII that only Asians knew how to fight...
FMA compliments boxing because its leverage requirement does not require standing on one foot to kick and encourages constant coiled mobility thereby, which one needs when fighting with weapons.
FMA compliments boxing because boxing footwork is internal to FMA [comprising the close steps] and its coiled aspect, rather than extended kicking or grappling-based reaching, permits the FMA man to move like a boxer without the leverage requirement, which is the prime coaching complication. You see, the leverage requirement in boxing is not needed against a blade and will get you killed and is not needed when boxing defensively.
The stick fighting aspect of MMA is where boxing and FMA meet in the leverage aspect and provides the point of departure for adding sword footwork to boxing and extending mobility by 150%.
Your training program sounds sound.
I will warn you that a good fighter who sparred with you would soon use your low-line crouching commitment to do you in. It is a line rarely explored in detail for the reason that it is hazardous. It is also hard for beginners to deal with as few use it—so it is a trap of a kind that is also a good tool.
Make sure your work high, mid and low, using the crouch as an option for you and a trap for the adversary. If you operate from the crouch you limit your lunging options and low-energy-use low-leg movement. My guess is your boxing is suffering from this crouch in outer range. Crouch boxing is a peek-a-boo style and is very frustrating for those who face it for the first time and takes more thigh use and energy expense. In stick fighting this will make your knees a target. In knife it will compromise your lunge.
So mix it up. We cannot be too specialized in weapon fighting as we can in boxing, the hazards being more varied and unforgiving.
Use your low guard as an option to penetrate deeply on the low line after setting him up on the high line, keeping your feet coiled and not over extended. The best stick-fighter I ever fought was 6' 1” and used his length to penetrate after fighting mostly high.
For remote boxing training Jason van Veldhusen is excellent. I ghost wrote his boxing manual some 7 years ago.
My combat books that coach—as well as pure words can coach—are as such:
Twerp, Goons and Meatshields: stick-fighting
The Punishing Art: Boxing
Solo Boxing: a different writing approach to boxing instruction
Being A Bad Man in a Worst World: stick, blade and fist
The Combat Space: Stick Blade and Fist
On Combat: Stick blade and fist
These books are all long ago written, but are in various forms of publication. If not available on the site e-store or through wamazon, email me for a PDF and send some rum money through the site function and I'll email you the pdfs.
If you buy a fighting book and live in Jersey, MD, PA, Virginia, Ohio, Illinois, Utah, California, Oregon or Washington, I might be able to train with you at some point.
Take care and keep moving, remembering to add changes not just in your position but your posture or guard.
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Posted: 2021-10-17   reads: 607   ©2021  james lafond
Athletic Wearican Rise to Power
Crux Cross Gives a Maskland Update from Crew Ork Citay: 8/8/21
Another mask update:
This week (Thursday?), my building replaced mask signs in the elevator. I think we're on the third or fourth sign.
This latest drops all reference to the CDC, NYC gov., federal or state "mandates" and just says STOP! MASK REQUIRED. with Spanish translation and bright clear graphics—the word stop is in a red octogon stop sign shape, mask required is followed by a drawn profile figure of a male in a mask—and not a friendly gentle emoji round head cartoon but an accurate (harsh?) shadow profile.
Meanwhile the subway broke out these retarded round friendly faced emojis on how to wear a mask and how it's about respect for your fellow man to properly wear a mask.
In sum, this feels boring and somewhat insignificant, but I figured as long as I'm journaling it to you I'd better mark it. 
The noteworthy aspect too is the dropping of the reference to written law or to proper authority in the elevator sign. 
Crux Cross
Sir, thank you for this.
I noted such signage changes in Harford County, Maryland in June.
The Premier of the People's Cuckpublic of Maryland, said, a few days ago, that “There will be no more mandates.” He then went on to chart severe penalties for state employees using fake vaccination cards, charted a parallel social conscience class system, in which the unvaccinated will have to mask up and endure segregation from the vaccinated, which flatly contradicts his statement that vaccines make one immune to death from Brovid Jiveteen.
By the time this article posts, the normal season flu, should have already been misreported in the same way it has been these past two years, in order to make Brovid Jiveteen, which should now be Brovid 21, seem more deadly than ever.
The macro-lies employed by the Premier of my home hive, were then socially activated, when he proclaimed that he would ask “private employers to do the right thing.” In other words, social justice enforcement is being privatized.
This is why the police were defunded and Athletic Wearicans were deified and placed above the law at the exact same time that the shamdemic was raging. Have you noted that for five years, if you said the “N-word” it was okay for an n-bird to harm you?
This happened exactly a year to the day before I saw Dollar Joe beaten by three Anteefas in the Dollar Tree on Foster Avenue in Portland, for attempting to buy a mask while unmasked...
Not only does the Corporation now have the master-servant rule back in force under shamdemic protocals, but corporations have expended in the wake of the crashing of the economy in march 2020 that put mom and pop businesses under the gun. Meanwhile, the “do the right thing” mantra appeals to the Athletic Wearican mob mentality.
In Ocean Shittay Murlind, last weak, Athletic Wearicans were showing open hostility to unmasked people. Police will simply serve to assist corporate security in enforcing company law, which takes police back to their foundational American purpose and to exonerate Athletic Wearicans for enforcing social-medical-hysteria norms with fist and sneaker.
The new normal is here.
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Posted: 2021-10-16   reads: 695   ©2021  james lafond
The Sick Man of Modernity
The Indo-Chinese & Sino-African Wars—Crux Cross & the Crackpot on the History of the Future: 8/8/21
James, thanks, all is well here. 
I have India on my mind a bit when thinking of North American race/ethnicity and geopolitics. Like I wonder if they’re left out of some analysis because, as a group, they’ll be insignificant or if they’re just in a blind spot —just outside of the peripheral vision of the analyst.
In the US domestic situation, even in NJ they’re but 2-3% of the population —and in lots of states they’re not even at 1%. But the ones here, as far as I can see, are capable and thus might have influence disproportionate to their pop numbers. 
I mentioned them to you before. Iirc, you speculated they’ll do ok. 
I agree, and speculate they’ll do ok and that they’re smartest play as a group in any ethnic devolution in the US —or per your recent predictive-speculative essay, would be to basically avoid the limelight, lay low. Whether they will, or even can, is another question.
In terms of geopolitics, I’ve been reading this commenter ‘Malla’ on the site and he makes an argument, pretty strongly imo, that India would have a lot of incentive or desire to push north into the mountains and against China if anything went kinetic with regard to the US and China. So it would not just be the US and Japan and So. Korea (and maybe Australia and NZ and a few other small nations) mostly at sea, but a big Indian army might make a move.
Unz, comment filter ‘Malla’: 
Anyway, yes, all is basically good with family and friends, thank you. Good to hear you are well.
-Crux Cross

Crux, sir, I thank you for reminding me that I had noted on my pocket calendar and had since forgotten, to write on the Scramble for the Future.
As I write Ditcher and Last Whiteman two novels of a corporate American future, I am in need of charting in broad strokes a possible global situation:
-1. Mankind, counter to most science-fiction futures imagined in the past, will be marooned on earth. At this point, the grotesque failure to re-achieve what the mathematics of black janitorial staffers and Nazi scientists did to put “whitey on da moon” has me doubting that we ever landed on the moon. This means a scramble for the remaining resources and space on earth, until we end up like the Easter Islanders.
-2. That scramble, if successful, should follow the path of least resistance and of most potential gain. Never has an African nation resisted successfully against colonization. I do not see the Chinese breaking their teeth in the Himalayas, but doing business with the Afghans and North Koreans for their lithium, and using weaponized diseases [like the Ebola variants being experimented with by Chinese scientists in CuckCanada].
-3. Indians and Chinese alike are culturally better suited for globalism under high tech than are the wan scions of the post-masculine Anglophone world. Even Muslims, living in an iron age mind set, are better suited for inheriting the Anglophone wotrld than the scions of the Anglos themselves. English and American imperialism has always been about naked conquest clothed in the lie of “We are killing you in your hundreds of thousands for your own good and the spread of democracy.” Indians, and Chinese and Muslims have long histories of colonizing societies through passive invasions, very much like the English did in New England, which was an aberrant stroke of dissident religious genius. This fits well within the globalist model made possible by European technology and Anglo-American cultural erasure.
-4. American Wokeness ripping the guts out of the military culture, typified by all of the billboards I saw in Pennsylvania this week being of dismembered female veterans, and all of the MMA promotions pushing female main events, will continue the American reliance on the obsolete bully of the waves—the Nuclear Aircraft Carrier. If the Chinks send one of these fookers to the bottom of the Indian Ocean with a cruise missile, the U.S. Fleet will be repurposed to carry African refugees here to replace us as the Dark Continent is evacuated in the face of indigenous Islam and Chinese colonists.
I see these three factors gelling into an increasingly Chinese, Hindu, Muslim corporate anti-culturalism across the globe, with actual combat between the three in Central Asia, the mountains of the Indian Subcontinent, Italy, France, England, Southeast Asia and North America making for a high tech feudal style of WWIII.
At this point I see America as the Ottoman Turks of 1800, “the Sick Man of Modernity” whose increasingly rancid corpse will be fed upon and corrupted by powers internal and external.
Chinese, Latino, Turkish, Sikh and deracinated American military veterans will serve as muscle for multinational corporations operating in North America as African and American and Western European politicians and media sell-out their remaining folk for Almighty Dollar.
The wild card and future hope for an armed European identity will remain only in Eastern Europe.
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Posted: 2021-10-15   reads: 798   ©2021  james lafond
Cube 5
“Here you go, Cheryl,” he said as he looked into her flushed and tear-streaked face. You can stay the night with me, okay.”
‘I hope I can swing something with Linda over this.’
She looked at him in disbelief, so on impulse he ripped off her face filter and kissed her on the forehead and the fangirls went crazy. The bikini girls were seated closest to the cube and he was being pelted with a storm of tops and G-strings as he turned around, the goons swatting the flying attire away to keep their line of sight open.
This had never happened before. It was not something he had been taught about in the CCP Academy. Pointing towards an already naked and giggling shaggirl seemed to make no sense and waving would have been dismissive and would have resulted in him waving round feminine attire which was far from stoic. He was momentarily stunned by the response. His momentary break in composure was noted by the shaggirls, who screamed in glee and by the shagboys who booed like a base section to their siren leads.
But old Brett Scott grabbed a top from Bronson’s shoulder slung it over his own shrunken shoulders—a huge bikini top with cups that would have served as a hat for each of them, grabbed one G-string and put it on his face like an old-fashioned face filter—causing even the goons to grin like giant children. Brett then stood aside with Thomas and Bobby and motioned at Bronson, who now regained his composure.
The cube-side goon stepped up to the airlock beneath the cube and slammed the big red button, and with a gush of grey smoke his airlock opened and he stepped in, turned and waved to the booing fanboys, pointed and winked to the fangirls, and saluted the execs above in the booths.
The plexi-lock slid shut behind him and he looked down at Cheryl, shivering in a semi-fetal position in the best seat in the house, cubeside, in a princess throne of pink, where she shivered and shrank.
Below he saw Brett take the corner phone and he heard the voice of his only trainer that he had ever known in the airlock, “Dumb fuck! Listen up, don’t roll with dis Mandingo. Dem hands ‘ill grip ya good. Dis shit is calculated to lose you edge. Da higher ups is fuckin’ us, boy! Member you bareknuckle lessons what dis ole nigga taught ya—body of a rock, muvafucka, body of a rock!”
He could hear the fanboys roaring and the fangirls booing as his rival, Shaka Hulu, danced in the cube above, through the bottom of which he could see as the airlock slowly ascended through its base and the lean, ebony fighting machine, used a hula-hoop of silver love dust swirling about his gyrating hips until it achieved the velocity necessary to burst into a sparkling display and the fanboys shrieked like sarong girls. [5]
In the airlock, as it breached the cube and elevated him on the level with Shaka Hulu, who stood glaring menacingly at him from across the cube, Brett snarled, “Boy, you bes’ whoop dis gay nigga’s ass!”
Bronson wanted to grin, but kept stiff-lipped as the airlock opened and the platform slid out above the cube floor by a “cunt hair” as Brett would say and left him standing 18 feet from his rival, both of them undefeated in the cube.
‘Strength and honor, Bronson Caan. Do or die.’
‘Did real men, way back when really say such things in their mind?’
‘Sure they did—I can feel it echo within.’
-5. Sarong girls are women too fat to wear a dress. Dress girls are women to fat to wear a bikini. Bikini girls are selected for their athletic or shapely forms and placed at cube-side near the princess throne as her attendants.
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Posted: 2021-10-14   reads: 377   ©2021  james lafond
Destination Lockdown
The Social Control Clinic Down Under Hints at a Cuckmerican Future: 8/8/21
I do not have the courage to post this news in a timely fashion. It is my opinion, here in the rotten heart of the gaslit East, under the heel of the White-throned Beast it is very disorienting to see how slavishly devoted to the medical lies proffered by The System that its chattel are. Even among Christians and anti-immigration conservatives, every person frames their life within the precincts of the sacred disease. I cannot wait to get up into the Rockies—where I should be when this posts—where the first social instinct is not to bend the knee.
I know very little about Australia. But I know it was founded as a penal colony when America finally balked in 1804, against its own founding dynamics as a human waste dump. Australia is the youngest of the abused orphan children that are the nations of the deeply evil Anglophone world, the world based in three-fold disharmony:
-first on debt as crime,
-secondly on class-based enslavement of same-race minds
-thirdly on sacred lies that the above two conditions were something else or were done to someone else
I suspect, that in this first homoginous global initiative, in which all heads of state [except for three Africans who were assassinated as soon as they suggested that the global Brovid Jiveteen campaign was not for their people] agree that vaxx is a must and lockdown is a plus, that in the Anglophone sphere, Australia will be the key clinic trial on how hard the state can push to erase us. The military is being sued to lockdown healthy people and keep families separate in Australia. I would remind the freedom loving “Murican” that U.S. Troops have been recalled, that 70 tanks are being left for our erstwhile enemies to use in Opiatstan, and that elements of the three best combat divisions in the U.S. Military occupied Northern Virginia with zero news coverage in January of this year.
The boys are coming home and any of us who disagree with NEWSLAW and blaspheme against the cult of SCIENCE and afront the priesthood of EXPERTS will be counted as their enemies.
Prediction, unvaccinated people, because of their demonstrable lack of care for public safety, will be prohibited from buying or owning guns.
You heard it here.
– People are being restrained and murdered in Sydney Hospital Covid Wards
-Anonymous Downunderling
Thank you, James!
This will help to preserve what’s left of my sanity here in Australia. We are all (still) under house arrest here no thanks to the force of the neoliberal tidal wave holding our local elite to its most orthodox expression.
Masculine Axis excellent so far. Your thoughts on testosterone levels and environmental expectations are probably spot on. You’re not gonna cuck a bunch of army rangers by giving them plastic water bottles (not that it helps).
I arrived at the conclusion that masculine behaviour and quantity of the male hormone is definitely a bidirectional relationship. With both driving the other positively.
Mandrill monkeys made for an interesting case study when I was trying to get to the bottom of the ubiquitous low t situation. These guys are hierarchical, with a single alpha male and a whole load of betas. The alpha bangs the females whenever he likes and the betas might sneak in a poke when the alpha isn’t around. The alpha male is also distinguished by very obvious physiological demarcations, namely a bright red face. The rest of the males resemble the females in that they have a sort of dull facial appearance. What’s interesting is that when a fight between the alpha and a beta occurs and the the beta wins, the domination of the alpha kicks off some psychology which results in a massive T boost in the beta and a corresponding decrease in the alpha. This all culminates in profound physiological changes too; the alpha loses his badass red face and the beta, according to Wikipedia can enjoy “increased testicular volume [and] reddening of sexual skin on the face and genitalia”. You may even have discussed this phenomenon in MA so forgive me if so, but again lends credence to environmental/behavioural driver.
Anyway, thanks again for the book.
Adam S. another locked down Downunderling
White Indian Bob, noting biblical flooding in his High Desert:
10.14.21   Ruben — james,

lad. How are ya? I just came across this character at my online library. Are you familiar with him? I think he's mining your turf. I'm gonna check it out. Praise for John Dermot Woods:

Electric Literature 25 Best Novels of 2014

"Poignant and unsettling, and much like a good short story collection these tales resonate long after the book is closed."—Largehearted Boy

"An accomplished artist and writer, in addition to being an entertaining and often an electrifying one. John Woods does something very original in his combining of the arts in this collection, and my hat's off to him in his two-hat achievement."—Stephen Dixon

"Like a lost season of The Wire directed by Richard Linklater, The Baltimore Atrocities beguiles, bemuses, often horrifies, and never fails to impress. John Woods renders small moments of intimacy and violence with remarkable compression and eerie calm; together they form a rich disturbing portrait of the city-as-zonked-out-slaughterhouse, its denizens both the butchers and the butchered."—Justin Taylor, author of Flings

The Baltimore Atrocities is a mordant, deadpan collection of more than one hundred murders, betrayals, heartbreaks, suicides, and bureaucratic snafus—each with a half-page illustration by the author—that tells the story of a couple who spends a year in Baltimore in search of their respective siblings, who were abducted decades earlier as young children.

John Dermot Woods is a writer and cartoonist living in Brooklyn, New York. He is the author of a collection of comics, Activities (Publishing Genius, 2013), and two previous illustrated novels, No One Told Me I Was Going to Disappear (with J.A. Tyler) and The Complete Collection of people, places & things. He and Lincoln Michel created the funny comic strip Animals in Midlife Crises for the Rumpus. He is a professor of English at Nassau Community College.
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Posted: 2021-10-13   reads: 920   ©2021  ruben
A Silver Voice in the Darkness
Return of the Crackpot—Dis Pale-Ass Negro Gotx Loose?
Today, on the first day of snow in the Rockies, the woman with the silver voice called me and we began to speak... and... does dis dude live in a cave?
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Posted: 2021-10-12   reads: 857   ©2021  james lafond
Muzzle Watch
Impressions of the Counterfeit Olympics: 7/31/21
The Olympics where sacred to Zeus Almighty and ran from about 800 B.C. To about A.D 500, with documentation of specific athletes and their achievements extant from 756 B.C. thru A.D. 383 when Prince Varzadates of Armenia won boxing.
I do not know why the modern version was invented, at least not why it was stated by it's sponsors. I have found, in all things to do with Modernity, that avoiding the stated reason for a large scale social initiative is key to understanding its essence.
I will hazard a guess that there were some good intentions proffered and that organizers saw themselves as civilizers and high culture influencers seeking to edify an increasingly rampant and senseless money-chasing society.
Let me pause for a moment and read on their inauguration:
I had the stomach for the first three paragraphs only.
Yes, it seems that this was the dream of a French aristocrat, which is to say a member of a nearly extinct elite, to preserve some spirit of European vigor in the face of industrialization, almost as a counterweight to the lineal march to Man's godhood marked by the World Fair. The choice of resurrecting a long ago slain, sacred, pagan tradition even as the new God of Science and His attendant ideologies pushed Christianity into crisis or compliance, is of note.
I loved the Olympics as a boy and yet marvel at some of the events and athletes. But since the Olympics ruined boxing in my lifetime by withhold point awards for power and effect and demanding that not only clinching but defending against the clinch is a foul, I have been suspicious. I am suspicious of an organization that tarnishes what I know best in sports. What else has it corrupted that I know naught about?
So, I avoid boxing and watch track and field, gymnastics and swimming.
I noted the extreme cuck muzzling of the athletes and attendants, that masks, even outside in the sun, were everywhere. Science as fakery abounds in the Tokyo Olympics. The best woman swimmer ever has to give an interview in a wet mask, her chest heaving from her 16-laps, and she expels water visibly through the mask. And still the meet-puppet world watches and believes that though visible mater can pass through a mask that matter so tiny as to be microscopic and invisible “May not pass!”
Superstition has never left the human herd.
The pack who rule us know this.
Obviously, in Maskland, the mask is a social muzzle, a funerary vestment for the corpses of a spiritually dead race, whose wearers worship thereby that which devours them on its audiovisual altar. [1]
Then the stud, Dressler, I think, a man who has a better vertical leap than dominant NBA players, who swims without breathing like a dolphin. Everything about this man is positive and positively American. He seems to be married.
This crackpot wondered, “Did the Japs make these people get vaccinated? Did they commit the dysgenic crime of Tesla [2] by sterilizing these athletes?
More important things were afoot.
There was total inconsistency of mask wearing by the athletes, making it obvious that off-camera mask police were herding them about.
The human dolphin is victorious and takes to the podium and the camera is on him alone as he stands in his all white warm-up suit with his gold medal around his neck. The bronze and silver medal winners are not videoed as was traditional across my life.
I think it was an attempt to salvage some human emotion by the camera artists. For the beautiful man, who Aristotle might have held up as a paragon of discipline, was masked in a great white muzzle that left only his eyes visible—his only human aspect. The camera zeroed in to catch perhaps a tear before it immediately plunged below the mask—maybe a little welling.
This disgusting muzzling continued for exactly the length of the U.S. National Anthem. Then, as soon as the song which I will forever now dread to hear, stopped, he ripped the hated mask off, held up the medal with the other hand, and smiled at some unofficial camera for his mother, who was watching from a designated viewing center back in Florida.
There is no clearer proof that masking is nothing but a dominance ritual than the interview with the best woman swimmer in history, which could have served a grade school science class as clear proof that masks cannot stop viruses, and the clear and intimate muzzling of America's best man.
As an interesting footnote, Dressler later anchored a mixed men's-women's race in which the lead American woman's googles came down across her mouth and prevented her from breathing well enough to keep up.
That thing, that man-made society that the 1896 Olympics were instituted to preserve is certainly near death. But when something rotten dies, is it such a bad event?
America the Scoundrel, which dominates most Olympics, including the very first, demanded of its prime athletic representative a mask that almost erased his face, a white muzzle to match his white suit—the aesthetic that screams lack of distinction. I do not see in this any conspiracy, even though I am a conspiracy advocate, but see the instinct of the self-aware System to negate its slaves with an increasing hunger for domination—a hunger that grows apace with the very emptiness of the degraded human souls it dines upon.
-1. Leonardo's teacher Verocchio, made funerary masks for the wealthy dead.
-2. Tesla, smartest man of his age, who refused to marry and pass on his genes.
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Posted: 2021-10-12   reads: 837   ©2021  james lafond
Into the Outer Dark
An Apology to Robert E. Howard: A Well of Heroes Epilogue 5
Forty-five years listening to your dark whispers.
Forty years wondering how like you was the friend I cleaved with a sword.
Thirty years seeking a story-threading place.
Twenty years now lost-and-found in driven haste.
Ten years gone since I learned that we shared the dark.
Seven years to break a promise to curate your voice.
Thank you so much, for luring me out after the shadowed truth, away from the devil-rooted dream flower in its venom-lit stalls; thanks so much for chiding a lost boy out into the night, where he might, like a man, fall rather than crawl.
-For the Poet who wrote of himself twice as Rinaldo...I do not even know how those he knew addressed him as family or friend
-James LaFond, Central New Jersey, Tuesday, 6:52 PM, June 29 2021, as the first hot sun of summer falls
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Posted: 2021-10-11   reads: 811   ©2021  james lafond
'Oh King'
Reconsidering the Much-Maligned Father of History
As a young man, trying to educate myself, I wished to follow academic standards and avoid the wonder-reading of my youth. The single most maligned of the ancient historians, who we call their father, because we are unable to name his fathers named his book “Inquires.” Herodotus declares on certain subjects, that he will not conduct an investigation of his own, as so many books have been written on them, books so common that they need not be named for the reader.
We amateur historians should remember, that Herodotus is our father—the one we know—for he was not an acredited and indoctrinated teacher and he questioned and inquired rather than taught a course of indoctrination. Like he, we should also respect the now lost records of those who inspired and taught him.
It is an addiction of modern folk of most kinds to demean the ancients, to point to their follies and claim they lied, that they made up the numbers of the enemy to boost their own status. The Romans are clearly free of this blame as they admitted to vastly outnumbering Hannibal and still being slaughtered on numerous occasions.
The blame for this “exaggeration” falls most squarely on Herodotus. Thus, after reading him once as a boy, and data-mining his unabridged Loeb editions for boxing and wrestling references in 1999, and reading an abridged edition of his work for the onset of this project in 2018, I obeyed academia and left Herodotus “the folklorist” for Thucydides. Thucydides is acclaimed by current military historians as the real father of scientific history, Herodotus a mere fabulist.
I read Thucydides twice, once annotated and unabridged and once unabridged. Then I listened to his unabridged account of the Red-face-island War three times on audio-book. That done, I listened to Herodotus twice—some books thrice—on audiobook. The accounts of the crossing of the great Persian host from Asia to Europe I listened to five times, in amazement, and the account of the final battle at Plataue thrice.
What I discovered, is that Thucydides and Herodotus used the exact same methodology, using multiple sources to chart chaotic war activity, having sources from the opposing sides—including an exiled Spartan King, Krotonian doctor and an Athenian citizen, as members of the invaders advisory board!
The numbers of the Greek combatants are scrupulously confirmed, by this history written by a man who was talking to survivors of the war from both sides. When historians declare that proof that Herodotus was biased and inflated the numbers of the Persian invaders, was his claim that the Persian army was so vast that it drank rivers dry, we see a modern distortion.
Actually, what Herodotus mentions on at least three occasions, all in the same region of northeast Greece, was that with certain rivers 'The Waters Failed to Sustain the Host.' That is different from drinking a river dry. In this period of the campaign, numerous earthquakes, numerous storms that wiped out fleets and even drowned an army, and also the flooding of a wetland that drowned a besieging army with an unusual tide, are all related. I have been in the Rocky Mountains and seen rivers and lakes drunk dry by man and beast because they also suffered from a lack of resupply in the from of rain.
Some profound natural calamities, like those related by Thucydides a few decades later and those inscribed by the slaves of the Hittite King and the Egyptian Pharaoh around 1190 B.C., a time of multiple warlike migrations, were occurring in the specific area where the rivers failed to meet all of the army's needs. This was just across the narrow seas from the area where Achilles famously battled a river.
Might that have been a symbolic account of rivers effecting man's efforts at making war?
The numbers of the Greek host at the final battle were agreed upon by the participants, as were those of the enemy, both sides citing the accuracy of these armies that were unprecidented in size—and in disorganization and ineffectiveness. Herodotus notes that the Greeks could have marshaled many more than the over 100,000 strong force [which modern historians claim was too large to sustain in the field]. Indeed, tens of thousands of the Persian host were Greeks, like the Thebans and Macedonians.
The coursework on why Xerxes could not have marched between a quarter million and 2 million men into Europe, involves bringing supply by beast of burden, and that the beasts themselves eat so much that this is grossly inneficient. Such an army would melt, the historians tell us.
Well, according to Herodotus it did melt!
Nowhere in his account, does the Persian King show any concern for the well-being of the soldier or sailor, who were his slaves. He cared only for a handful of close “friends,” his trusted advisors. Even these, prefaced their every statement with “Oh King” in dread of his disapproval. There is no reason to suppose, that the great king cared at all to sustain his army in the field.
Indeed, there is ample evidence throughout the account, that the vast army was mostly comprised of hostages, soldiers in national divisions, commanded by Persians, and whipped into battle by overseers and punished by “those whose business it is to perform such unpleasant tasks.”
Before going on to how this host was counted—for Xerxes had no idea how many men he had “at his behest,” one should keep in mind that the Persian army itself was a mere fifty thousand men, that they had beaten nation after nation over three generations since Cyrus, and kept the conquered nations in line largely by taking their best fighting men away to fight other nations as part of an army that was a migratory prison of sorts.
It is clear from the evidence proffered by Herodotus that Xerxes took as many men into Europe as he could get there, with three contingencies:
-If he won he would leave the non-Persian troops to garrison Europe under a Persian commander with a core Persian division of horse and foot each.
-If he fought a marginal punitive campaign of the type Darius had, he could maroon many of these racial aliens among mutual enemies to destabilize Europe. The Persian dominance in horse among their “allies” made desertion of the latter problematical.
-If he lost, which he did, he could leave with a core of loyal followers and leave behind in Europe the man most likely to challenge him at home—the headstrong Mardonius—at the head of a still vast throng of unmotivated slave soldiers.
This morning, in Ocean City, Maryland, on a thronged beach, I noted how a few dozen lifeguards, actually fit people, herded a vast multitude of useless eaters from raised chairs not unlike the raised throne Xerxes viewed his army and navy from one day, when he decided to have them counted.
The army had been marched through outer provinces which were stripped bare of food, men and money, in rude Napoleonic fashion. The vast army, once it arrived at the margins of the empire, was initially fed from vast supply dumps brought in from seven nations by ship. This vast hoard of food was barely enough to get the army into Europe. And, as his trusted advisor warned him, a man who he sent back to Persepolis because he liked him and wanted him safe at home, this army would surely die in Europe. This host was not fed by food carried by animals, but from supply dumps filled by a fleet which was four times reduced to splinters by Gods and men, most of the ships and crews gone by campaign's end
I think that this was a forced migration of slave soldiers in national hostage contingents, with the intent of using his captive enemies as tools against his free enemies and then marooning them in Europe as colonists or corpses.
The host was measured by crowding together a set number of men, 1,000 or 10,000, surrounding them with a fence, and then marching men in and out of this enclosure like so many steers and multiplying. The numbers were very exact and included many Asian horsemen serving as infantry—a genius move that left these potential rivals in Europe and on foot while their pastures and herds were left behind to serve the King.
The bone pile after the final battle was a stupendous artifact of what I now suspect was an abrupt, few-years long human extinction event managed by a cruel King over Kings who seemed to be under migratory pressure from without and settled on the solution of using internal enemies against external enemies.
For a person familiar with the shipping of millions of underclass Europeans to North America to reduce population pressure in the British isles and subdue alien lands in one stroke, this was no difficult leap of reason—but obvious to me as well as it had been to Xerxes.
Alexander of Macedon was the great grandson of a Macedonian king who served Xerxes as a war slave. As a final army of 60,000 Persians and “allies” retreated through his ancestral lands, it was not able to sustain itself while retracing its ravaged course. On the way into Greece, at the beginning of the campaign, most of the animals had been eaten. 150 years later, Alexander the Younger, would settle on an army of about 35,000 men as sustainable as an operational tool of war and maneuver. I suspect that Xerxes himself knew these logistical realities in his day, and that his great host was marched to its death as a goal as much as a tool.
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Posted: 2021-10-10   reads: 986   ©2021  james lafond
The Door Into Winter
Musings on the Mechanics of The Holy Lie
8/2/21, Ocean City, Maryland
Here he sits, a once hunted hoodrat, now a haunted counter-social brat, wondering about his biological fellows as they titter along the gaslit halls of a prison called freedom...
It seems a simple thing, really, the weather; that one could not lie about the weather and get away with it, for he would be found out, even by the stooge-worthy among us.
This morning I look at a text from Bob in Utah, concerning record flooding event in his area of the Rockies. This follows on unusually high summer temperatures and abnormal snows in portions of Colorado and Utah back in March.
But only the high temperatures are reported nationally. The record lows and snowfalls are not reported nationally, only locally. It is interesting but not remarkable that we are lied to on a local basis, being assured that our experiences are odd and that the rest of the world is warming relentlessly even when our slice is cooling.
I have noted this since becoming a hobo, that people are shocked when I tell them about weather elsewhere, tending perceive the opposite type of change, that which they have been informed of as NEWS—sacred lies vested with the force of mob law.
But surely, one cannot lie to people about the weather outside their own front door?
Last Monday, when Mister Grey rolled into town for a visit before I head west, he noted, “The crickets are out. They're early this year.”
“Yes,” I agreed, “I usually don't notice them until late August, and in September they are singing up a storm.”
I don't know anything about crickets. But since Jimminy Cricket in Disney's version of Pinocchio was obviously a black dude, and musically inclined, I assume the crickets wax rhythmic with their chitonous fiddles to announce to their sisters, “Come on out en dance girls—y'all know it's gonna be too cold ta be cuttin' da rug up in here b'fo long.”
Then, a few mornings ago, I stepped outside of Mom's place in Harford County, Maryland, when her plush and regal Collie, Zoe, wanted to enjoy the cool morning air. As she yawned in the cool mist, I checked my texts and one came from Mister Grey up in Pennsylvania:
“It was 55 degrees this last day of July. May the Frost Giants awake soon...”
Learning my lesson about sending spring snow pictures to Easties who think I photo-shopped them, or contradicting their national weather news with actual experiences, I have confined my discussion of the weather to my experience in Pennsylvania, Jersey and Maryland this spring and summer. These experiences have been identical in all three states:
-Higher than normal humidity
-More than usual thunder storms
-Unusual quick cooling after storms, by 20 degrees
-Cool days until the very eve of summer
-NEVER a hot night
This last, the fact that since summer broke in normally sweltering Baltimore, I have not experienced a single night that was uncomfortably warm, and that until July we were wearing jackets and sweat shirts outside at night, has raised a yeti eyebrow and lowered others.
You see, all anybody in Maryland has been talking about weather wise, is how hot it is, even though the days are slightly cooler than normal and all have a cool breeze. Normally, through my life, Baltimore nights are unbearable without air conditioning for all of July and shade offers no relief from the high humidity and heat during the day.
But this year, a trend that has been accelerating over the past three, the summers are cooler. Yet, everyone is yammering about how hot it is because we hit 101—even though for decades having high-90s to low 100s for weeks on end was the norm.
What gives?
It is two things:
Everyone got fatter and they feel the heat more.
No one goes outside at night, unless they are down here in Ocean City. Baltimore is just too dangerous to sit on the porch. The air conditioners run all night and then when I go outside, it is cooler out there than in the house.
This traces back to lockdown recently and over deep time, our general separation from nature and thence from reality.
I tell people I live with, how cool it is outside, during the day in the shade and at night.
And they do not believe me, do not step outside their door to fact check my fakery, but look at their handheld altar and achieve an auto-correction of my anti-science blasphemy.
They believe the news, the NEWSLAW that is so powerful that it reshapes they're experience into something perceptually different.
We have literally become creatures of the news—self-extinguishing fires kindled by a wonderless Prometheus.
10.09.21   Emmerich W — I too noticed the early crickets this year. They were evident by early July, when they are usually heard only late in August. The summer was very odd. It was extremely hot and dry during the Jupiter-in-Pisces ""white boy summer", but then strangely alternating between hot and cool from July and August with megadrought conditions during the Jupiter-Retrograde-to-Aquarius with Saturn "summer of discontent". Regularly, huge smoke clouds blew in and the light took on an apocalyptic red cast. It was the most remarkably sinister summer I can ever recall.
10.10.21   Terres Rouges — Funnily, here at 50N in Europe, we also had a very hot, arid week or two in the spring, followed by a humid and unusually cold summer. Tomato harvest was poor, the vineyards I visited were not looking good, mold was the reason in both cases. The media only mentioned (apparently) record high temperatures in Italy and Spain.
10.11.21   NC — Dark winter is coming....GSM is upon us. Hope you are 'sort, stock and stick to the plan'
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Posted: 2021-10-09   reads: 1055   ©2021  nc
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