Don't you just feel so sorry for the poor zionist and his family, quaking in fear in besieged Ashkelon, while Palestinian *rockets* reign down upon his head, and the heads of his wife and five children and eighty year old parents? I marvel at the zionist's courage, and his commitment to zionism, that he can endure such hardship and terror. Isn't it obvious who is suffering more? Don't you just want to sign some fucking petition and demand Obama send Israel some more missiles, and some more Iron Domes to give the poor zionists half-a-chance against those frightful *terrorists?* Meanwhile, of course, the *terrorists* talk a lot of shit from the comfort of their homes, while hiding like the yellow-belly cowards they are behind that big fence which they built to keep the zionists from discovering their top secret rocket laboratories. . .
Anyways, once again the genesis of this latest round of Satanic violence is clouded in AmerICKa under the smoke of the pathetic Palestinian diy *rockets*. . .for that's always the simpleton's picture presented by Media: the Palestinians, for no apparent reason, just wake up on the wrong side of the bed one day and decide once again to start launching *rockets* upon poor nerve-wracked zionists.
There are a few independent journalists out there who try to get it right. . .here's about as clear and easy-to-read article as you can get about the origins of this latest round of Satanic violence:
Washington Post, 13 November 2012: The FBI probe into the sex scandal that prompted CIA Director David Petraeus to resign has expanded to ensnare Gen. John R. Allen, the commander of U.S. and NATO troops in Afghanistan, the Pentagon announced early Tuesday. According to a senior U.S. defense official, the FBI has uncovered between 20,000 and 30,000 pages of documents — most of them e-mails — that contain “potentially inappropriate” communication between Allen and Jill Kelley, the 37-year-old Tampa woman whose report of harassment by a person who turned out to be Petraeus’s mistress ultimately led to Petraeus's downfall.
Ha ha ha. . .another *hero,* another of AmerICKa's Warrior Priests, another of those who are never questioned, never criticized, never judged, a commander of troops whom we must always support, is shown to be just another swinging dick.
This General apparently never actually fucked his Temple Prostitute. I guess he just played pocket pool while he banged out flirty email after flirty email to his Florida milf.
20000 - 30000 pages!!!
And you wonder why the war in Afghanistan has dragged on for nearly a dozen years?
Apparently the Command Staff isn't quite as dedicated as the Media Wing of AmerICKa's Military Media Complex would have the civilian sheeple believe.
20000 - 30000 pages!!!
One can only conclude General Allen spent a little too much time chasing tail instead of chasing the Taliban. . .
AmerICKans idolize their military, they revere their Generals, hold them in childish awe. . .they are considered *Suffering Servants,* the best and the brightest, who have made the *ultimate sacrifice* for their country. In reality, they are bored bureaucrats, killing the tedious hours at work by sexting. In short, instead of being a cut above, they are cut from the same cheap cloth as you and me and the nose-picker who runs the corner convenience store. Regular slobs, not particularly dedicated to anything but hoping for a hot piece of ass every now and then to make the dull days a little more tolerable.
There is really nothing noteworthy in the General Allen story. . .just another midlife crisis. . .and a rather timid little one, at that.
But it's worth commenting on for the shame it sheds on AmerICKa. . .for it is a God damned shame these 4 star paper shufflers are only made to squirm over some penny ante adulteries. How much blood these 4 star bean counters have on their hands! And for that they are made deities. In AmerICKa the unpardonable sin is blasphemy against the military. The troops must be supported, that is the first and greatest commandment. The Generals kill thousands, the Generals cripple and blind thousands of children, regularly based on bogus or flimsy *intelligence,* for there's not enough time to properly investigate military targets because the General is bored and wants to sext a Florida milf. Blood is spilled casually and thoughtlessly, and for this the Generals are worshipped by a grateful nation.
It ought to be an ashamed nation. We ought to be ashamed by our military. Especially for a nation in which so many claim it Christian. Years of senseless wars featuring the mendaciously labeled *collateral damage* provoke only adoration from a *grateful nation.* Sick.
Petraeus and Allen are feted for Satanic violence by the grateful nation. . .they chase skirt and a few of the hardcore Pharisees in the AmerICKan Sanhedrin make them confess their most piddling sin.
AmerICKa is a nation of the blind, straining gnats, swallowing camels. AmerICKa the beautiful, the sheeple boast, but within full of dead men's bones and all uncleanness. The meaningless investigations into these irrelevant scandals are meant to make the military outwardly righteous, while within it remains full of hypocrisy and iniquity.
Ha ha ha. . .look at all the shit-eaters of AmerICKa, feasting on the twin turds of Benghazi and Petraeus.
"There's something more than meets the eye," the shit-eaters say as they examine the crap they are about to swallow. . .
While licking the feces from their fingers, they spout cant and bombast about *conspiracy* or a *cover-up*. . .
But what possible conspiracy or cover-up could there be?
Obama is trying to hide something, and Petraeus knew about it.
That's about the gist of it. . .really. A vague hope in the rubble of the embassy in Libya and in the rubble of the General's personal life there can be found something to tar our tar-baby President's second term.
This thin reasoning is expressed, for example, in the dramatic-but-empty *tweet* of Laura Ingraham:
COINCIDENCE?! Petraeus is set to testify NEXT week at a closed door session on Capitol Hill abt Benghazi. Did BHO push him out? This stinks!
The only thing pretty talking air head Ingraham got right is that it stinks. But it stinks not because of some vaporous conspiracy, but because Benghazi and Petraeus naturally stink. . .they are the natural waste products of the AmerICKan Beast System.
Benghazi is the shit that naturally results from AmerICKa's deranged War Machine, and Petraeus is the shit that results whenever some phony AmerICKan hero is exposed for the regular swinging dick he is.
Of the two, Petraeus is the more foul-smelling, for he embodies the idol worship of the War Machine. Petraeus is a white Colin Powell, mediocre at everything except self-promotion (how proper that he is undone from fucking the cunt propagandist who authored his lie-ography. . .which is about as close as you can come to fucking yourself).
How many millions of dumb AmerICKans believe this nerd is a hero!
He leaves ruin in his wake. . .which, if one were a secular AmerICKan would be fine, if AmerICKa could only just profit from the ruin. . .but the ruin has bankrupted the AmerICKan economy. Yet the AmerICKan infatuation with Military, with Violence (which are, of course, both anti-Christ) is so complete, all sins of the bumbling Warrior Priests are excused and forgiven, as shown in this pathetic, groveling apology for General Petraeus:
which concludes with this amazingly blind and nauseating stool sample of hero worship:
One thing is for sure, there doesn't seem to be a single person, other than Petraeus's wife and possibly Broadwell's husband, who holds this against him. Despite this ungraceful exit, General Petraeus is still going down in history as an American hero and one of the greatest generals in our nation's history. He completely rewrote the book on how our country runs wars and is one of the few people who truly changed the world.
Ha ha ha. . .look at all the shit-eaters of AmerICKa!!
For one last laugh, go here and read all the numerous glowing reviews shat out by various *luminaries* from Television, Literature and Academia for Temple Prostitute Paula Broadwell's Petraeus lie-ography.
I used to enjoy the theatre of the AmerICKan presidential election. The differences between the democrats and the republicans are like the differences between Tide and Cheer. But still, with all the Marketing Dollars enchantments, we become convinced one brand is superior. We will look down our noses at those who favor the other brand. . .
The presidential ritual was an amusing community theatre. . .for one day, we all got to pretend we were important, walking around with our *I Voted* stickers. It was re-enactment. As faggots go to Renaissance Festivals for re-enactments of courtly dances, we entered the cheap cardboard polling booths for a re-enactment of democracy. . .
Theatre is diversion. . .but Obama - Romney does not divert me. With the economy now wholly and openly at the service of Usurers, and Perpetual War now accepted as Pure AmeriCKan Dogma, I find it impossible to suspend disbelief to the degree required to allow one to sit through the stage show *campaign.*
This is AmerICKa's first Post-Mortem election, in which we vote not for a figurehead, but a funerary mask. . .
The Priests of Baal:
This has been AmerICKa's summer of naked, flesh-eating madmen. . .a sign of the times? Unquestionably. Sometimes those of us who want to be Christian suffer from tunnel vision, seeing only the sad state of so-called *Christendom,* which is daily abused by false prophets (zionists, hucksters and self-hating faggots). But this summer we see the other side has fallen on hard times, too. Look at the sorry state of the cannibals (Priests of Baal), wandering naked through skid rows, devouring the faces of the garbage people. The Decline is all-encompassing. . .
I finished watching the five seasons of *Big Love,* the HBO series about a Utah fundamentalist polygamist Mormon family. I expected the series to be an oddball dramedy, a circus sideshow from the surreal world of Four Corners AmerICKa, where mainstream Mormonism (a kOOk's cult everywhere else) seems positively Anglican. While the series had its David Lynch-like moments, particularly the Green family subplot, featuring the bizarre gender-bender Selma, it continually surprised me with its sympathetic and convincing portrayal of the struggle to stay in faith while pilgrimaging through the world. Indeed, the tag line for *Big Love,* the story of Bill Henrickson and his attempt to shepherd his polygamist family through the AmerICKan wilderness, could very easily be taken from Proverbs 21: Every way of a man is right in his own eyes, but the Lord pondereth the hearts. Christians watching *Big Love* ought to take pause, for shouldn't The Way seem as strange in the eyes of the world as fundamentalist Mormonism? But Christianity isn't even noticed, it's become part of the fabric of the world. Christians gape in wonder, just like infidels, at Mormons and Muslims and any other *extreme* believers, bewildered anyone would adhere to a faith that conflicts with the world. Anyway, *Big Love* had a sterling cast, including great supporting roles for offbeat Hollywood legends Harry Dean Stanton and Bruce Dern. *Big Love's* real acting eye-opener, however, was Miss Chloë Sevigny. I'd always thought of the *Kids,* *Boys Don't Cry* and *The Brown Bunny* girl as a Traci Lords-lite. . .but she steals the show episode-after-episode as the damaged, conniving ice queen Nicki Grant, charmingly eliciting both *Big Love's* most humorous and heartbreaking moments.
Scientology's Two Biggest Faggots:
Speaking of kOOk religions, Scientology's two biggest faggots, Tom Cruise and John Travolta, have been in the news, lately. Why don't these two queers do Scientology a favor, and bring L. Ron Hubbard's prank into the 21st century by marrying each other?
I noticed this article a couple weeks ago:
Fifteen years ago, in a little magazine titled The J M** T****, a certain social scientist prophesied exactly this. I wish I still had my copy. Anybody got one laying around? If so, scan it and send it to me, and I'll post it here. . .
Every now and then I watch a *critically acclaimed* AmerICKan film to see if Hollywood’s thirty year decline into stupidity has been reversed. Based on the Academy Award nominated The Descendants, the Tinsel Town slide into imbecility continues. This confused dramedy tells the pseudo-poignant story of Matt King, a soon-to-be fabulously wealthy Hawaiian landowner whose life is turned upside down after his wife suffers a tragic accident which leaves her in a vegetative state (how many mediocre Hollywood scripts of the last twenty years are dependent upon the tragic accident gimmick?). King is saddled with two bratty daughters whom he must somehow learn to parent in the absence of his wife (not that her absence could matter that much, anyway, considering how obnoxious the daughters already are). King is played by movie starGeorge Clooney, who tries hard to look perplexed and overwhelmed--for this he was nominated for Best Actor. OK. Anyway, in another stale Hollywood plot twist, Clooney’s King learns his comatose wife has been unfaithful (not while she was comatose, no, she was committing infidelities before her tragic accident. . .but having a comatose wife carrying on an affair would have been a refreshing plot twist), and thus instead of feeling guilty for neglecting his marriage and his family, as he had felt when his wife was just a vegetable, and not a slut vegetable, he now feels victimized. Clooney’s King soon learns there’s no hope for his brain dead whore, and the plug will have to be pulled. The movie wanders on, with Clooney’s King having to tell family and friends the sad news, while he also searches for the man who was fucking his wife. Inexplicably, if this were the real world, but for forced comedic purposes in the celluloid world, Clooney’s King is accompanied on both missions by his bratty daughters and the oldest bratty daughter’s moronic boyfriend. Lots of inappropriate behavior ensues. The Descendants is a bizarre mix of tear-jerker sentimentality and Apatow-esque rude. I never could quite figure out the point of this thing, other than to refute the old maxim: a slice off a cut loaf is never missed. Adding to the film’s woes are the wooden acting of Clooney’s supporting cast, beginning with the girl who plays the oldest bratty daughter, a mannequin named Shailene Woodley. Woodley is blandly attractive--she looks as if she could have been a swimsuit model from Target’s Memorial Day circular, but she lacks personality and delivers her admittedly awful lines as if she were the one in a coma. Even worse is a fellow named Nick Krause, who plays the bratty daughter’s simpleton boyfriend. His character is so dumb, ill-mannered and rude, he’d even be shunned at Ridgemont High. One supposes the lame script intends for this character to be some sort of lovable dimwit, but Krause plays him with all the subtlety of a claw hammer. The only thing more baffling than the point of this horribly off-key soap opera is what the fawning critics saw in this misfiring mess.
Day after day I drive past this downtrodden damsel. I have to do more. I have to do more than give a one or a five every now and then. She troubles my spirit.
I have compassion. But I also have morbid curiosity. Here’s a chance to reflect the love of Christ. No. I don’t know what that means--the love of Christ--it’s become a cliché. Here’s a chance to minister to Christ. Of course, my motives aren’t pure. There’s something about this sad-sack’s depression, her forlorn demeanor, her surrender to misery, that attracts me. Not sexually. I mean, there is not an extraordinary sexual attraction. There is, of course, the always present ordinary sexual attraction. . .in that I would fuck anybody, given the chance. But I must be given the chance. . .meaning there is no attraction present that would cause me to work for a chance to fuck her. Ordinarily, we will fuck anybody--given the chance. But we are rarely given the chance, so we live and die having fucked relatively few, as most people aren’t worth the bother.
Anyway, this roadside supplicant’s despair appeals to me. I imagine myself sick and tired, chained by responsibility to this mortal coil. But every time I drive past this doleful creature, I realize I’m only at the beginning of my descent--I have to fail MORE before I can genuinely welcome cancer or a lightning bolt. The beggar woman’s thorough defeat is seductive. As the Sodomites had a carnal lust for the angels of the Lord, I have a spiritual lust for the fallen angel of I-94. Her broken spirit is admirable. It is the gateway to the Kingdom. So as I drive past, I decide to feed one of the least of Christ’s. I will feed her body, and in return, she will feed my soul.
I park in Maple Village and walk back to the Jackson Road exit. The pathetic panhandler seems wary as I approach.
“Hey, how you doing?” I ask as I hand her a five.
She stares at me with her usual blank expression, then a flicker of recognition, as they say, seems to cross her heavily made-up face.
“I haven’t seen you in a while,” she says, taking the five.
“I’ve been gone for about ten days. You OK?”
“Yeah. Kind of.”
“You want to go get some lunch? There’s a Wendy’s down Jackson. I got my car over there, and I can bring you back when we’re done.”
“I’m not allowed to leave like that, cuz, I don’t know, I was in the paper--I don’t know if you read it in the paper?”
“No,” I lie.
“This guy had offered me some work a couple weeks ago when I was standing here and I like got in his car to go with him and. . .he attacked me.”
“Oh, gee, I’m sorry to hear that.”
I notice the people driving past, staring at us. How many of them read the story in the paper? Maybe they figure I’m trying to pull a similar stunt? Am I?
“I reported it to the Ann Arbor police you know, and then they told me I could stand here but I couldn’t go with anybody. Not that I wouldn’t appreciate the food or anything, I just can’t afford not to stand here and make what I need to make so that I have a place to sleep, so. . .”
“I understand. No problem. What happened, anyway, to cause you to be out here like this in the first place?”
“Um, I was working at IHOP on Carpenter Road in Ypsi, got in a fight with my manager, got suspended for two days, went to come back to work and was told I was fired.”
“That’s terrible,” I say, thinking her story is not nearly as tragic as I had hoped.
“You know I was a waitress, I counted on the money I made every day. I lost my apartment. It was eight hundred twenty five dollars a month, you know? You know, I had a little bit of money saved up, but not much. It’s me, my mom and my daughter. It’s like, how much can I really save? Eight hundred and twenty five dollars a month?”
“Where are you staying now?”
“I been staying at the Harmony House out in Ypsi, you know? This guy charges me forty five bucks a night.”
Forty-five a night? I wonder if she realizes that’s way more than eight twenty five a month? And the Harmony House is a dump. Crack whores ply their trade there.
“If I can’t make the forty five, I’ve got two friends, one’s on Section 8, so I can’t stay with them, but if I don’t make enough money for the hotel room, then they’re like my last resort for a place to at least flop my head for a night with my baby, and, you know, I don’t want to burn them out. I can’t let them lose their Section 8 because I need a place to stay, it’s so hard to get on Section 8, so I only sleep there when it’s absolutely necessary, and then, there’s tent city, but I don’t want to take my kid there, she’d be so scared.”
“Yeah, that would be awful,” I say, thinking the Harmony House is a thousand times more frightening than tent city.
A wave of depression rolls over me because her story is so lacking in pathos. The story of a pancake house hothead who couldn’t kiss the manager’s ass. She’s not the punching bag I’d hoped she’d be, the punching bag I needed her to be to lead me to the love of Christ.
Still, I’m here, might as well try to make the best of it.
“I come out this way every day to pick up my kids at school, and I see you standing out here, and I wonder what happened, and if you are all right. I hope God will take care of you. Are you a Christian or anything? You got a church you could go to?”
“I mean. . .” And the tears burst forth. “I don’t have anything like that,” she sobs. “Not that I don’t believe, I believe. I have some faith, you know? I pray all the time. I feel it’s all I ever do these days, is just pray.”
She dabs her eyes, the garish make-up smears into a hellish mess. I feel a little better, now. Like we are both getting somewhere.
“First Baptist Church in Ann Arbor might be able to help you out, if you got any way to get down there.”
“Bus. That’s how I get around. I had a car,” she continues to sob, “until three weeks ago. I got into a car accident on 94. Somebody hit me from behind, totaled my car.”
“You’ve had nothing but bad luck, lately,” I observe.
“Yeah, I feel like it’s just kinda. . .I don’t know,” she weeps.
“Well, let me write down my phone number. If you ever need a ride or something, call me. Or if you just need somebody to talk to. I’ll do what I can to help.”
I have a pen in my jacket pocket, but no paper. I open my wallet and take out a one, and write my phone number on that, and give it to her.
“Thank you! I feel weird about calling people, though. I don’t want them to think. . .you helped me out, I don’t want them to think I am asking for more.”
“Don’t worry about asking me for more. It won’t bother me at all.”
“Thank you. Is it all right. . .er?” she asks, holding out her hand.
“Sure, we can shake hands.”
We shake. I tell her my name, she tells me her name. We exchange God bless you's, and that’s it. I go back to my car.
It was a let down. Ever get the feeling you’ve been cheated? It’s not her fault, of course. It’s not her fault she’s not much worse off than me. I had hoped her misery would be so total, we could meet at the doorway to the Kingdom, that I could draft in after her. But, no. I have the feeling she could get a job next week waiting tables at Denny’s, and she’d feel born again. It’s unfair of me, I know. It’s not her fault, my spiritual doldrums.
Of course, we’re never really depressed. . .We know nothing about real depression. . .We’re melancholic. . .Who wouldn’t be? Melancholic, vaguely rueful, knowing we should not be where we are, that we’ve been allowed too much, overindulged. . .And for what? With what result?--Lars Iyers, Spurious.
Coming down the stairs from the third floor of the parking garage at Fourth and Washington, I heard a snippet of a conversation between two *businessmen* from a couple floors below. I whipped out my camera and caught a few seconds of their banalities. Their enthusiasm for *business* sickened me. In their urgency, in their fervor, in their bearing, they gave the impression of importance. In truth, the clodhopper who shovels shit behind the horses in the 4th of July parade is more important. I thank God by the grace of God I am not a *businessman,* deceived by the hollow trade of the world. All the energy of the *businessman* is devoted to that which moth and rust doth corrupt. The *businessman* sacrifices his life on the altar of cant and bombast. What a blessing: to be poor and miserable. . .
AnnArbor.com, 22 March 2012: A man sexually assaulted a 29-year-old woman he picked up near an Ann Arbor freeway exit where she was panhandling, police said. The woman accepted a ride from the man after he informed her he could find her work, police said. Ann Arbor police went to the area of Interstate 94 and Jackson Road about 1:45 p.m. Wednesday after being notified of a woman who was holding a sign and appeared to be upset and crying, Lt. Renee Bush said. The woman told police a man had offered her some work and she got into his car, Bush said. It’s unknown where the woman is from, and the police report indicated she is living out of a hotel, Bush said. While in the car, the man touched her chest and genital area through her clothes, Bush said. The man drove the woman to his home and, while in the garage, slapped her buttocks three or four times, Bush said. The woman then ran away and returned to the exit ramp, Bush said. Bush said the woman refused medical treatment but gave a detailed enough description of the man’s truck and home that Officer Jaime Crawford was able to find the residence and identify the man. He has not been arrested, but Ann Arbor police detectives are investigating the case.
She was out there again yesterday, at the Jackson Road exit off 94 West. I take that exit when I pick up my kids at school, and I’ve seen this woman quite a few times since she has taken up panhandling there in the last month. Before she was assaulted, she would stand catatonic, staring at her feet, holding a cardboard sign (“Help. Single Mother. Need Rent Money.” A picture of her daughter at the bottom). She gave one the impression of being a severely depressed zombie.
I saw her last Wednesday, the day she was assaulted. And if the timeline in the news article was right, despite her near rape, she was back out begging a little over an hour later, as I saw her, a sobbing wreck, at 3 pm. I was startled to see this previously emotionally mute mendicant looking so animated. I wanted to ask her what was up, but the light at the exit was green, so I rolled on by. . .
She was bawling her eyes out again yesterday, her tears bombing her Jan Crouch-like make-up. I hit a red light, so I lower my window, and as I hand her a five dollar bill and a copy of Jack Chick’s The Word Became Flesh, I ask her:
“What’s wrong? Did you get assaulted again?”
“Nooo,” she blubbers, “a state trooper run me off earlier, and I’m afraid he’ll come back. I’m just trying to get money for my motel.”
My wife has seen her a couple times while taking the kids to school in the morning. The kids ask her why she doesn’t give her any money, like I do. The old lady says the panhandleress would just spend the money on drugs. The old lady reads a lot of articles which state the best way to help the homeless is to give money to shelters, soup kitchens, etc.
It’s obvious this poor creature is not a drug addict. Or if she is a drug addict, she is addicted to Seroquel, Wellbutrin and/or Klonopin--made an addict by ethnic witch doctors exponentially increasing her natural depression with their hellish prescriptions.
I prefer to give money directly to bums. Let them spend it as they may. I’m not going to cure a bum of alcoholism by giving a couple of bucks to a shelter. I feel good giving cash to bums, I feel my life has purpose. Writing a check to the Shelter Association leaves me cold.
Our Lord said:
Give to him that asketh thee.
Can you imagine our Lord and our God demeaning a bum by commanding:
Morally examine him that asketh thee, and if he be found worthy, then give to him. But if a spot be found, then give thine alms to the poorhouse. . .
No, when someone asks of us, we are the ones being tested. . .
But anyway, I dream of winning the Mega Millions Lotto and giving this poor woman, whatever her state may be, a duffel bag stuffed with a hundred thousand dollars. . .
What miserable lives so many of us lead. . .
Look at this born loser in her orange hoodie, devastated by the workings of filthy lucre. . .riddled with anxiety and depression. . .ill-equipped to deal with the children of this world. Left vulnerable by her simpleton’s gullibility. . .a gullibility exacerbated by her penury. Her mind soft. . .disabled by the effects of generations of human sin. . she’s left psychologically defenseless. . .unable to see the wolf in sheep’s clothing. . .her gullibility exposing her to a cynical molestation. Any sharpy promising a job can use her like a bowling ball: pick her up, finger her, throw her in the gutter.
The awful lives. . .hard. . .pitiless. . .despairing. And there is one, standing by the road, hoping for the kindness of strangers.
As the years go by, my wonder increases: why aren’t there more suicides? Why do people persist?
Satan can attack the faith of Christ (and these are they by the way side, where the word is sown; but when they have heard, Satan cometh immediately, and taketh away the word that was sown in their hearts). . .but there is a faith Satan has very little success against:
Things will get better. . .
This is the faith of the world. . .
Now faith is the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen. . .
Countless millions around the world get their ass kicked from sun up to sun down, and they return to life the next day for more of the same.
This poor woman at 94 and Jackson would kill herself immediately if she had no faith things will get better. . .
Mass suicide if the world lost its faith things will get better. . .
Satan molested this poor woman, and yet here she stands, still believing things will get better. . .
Only a few lose the faith of the world and kill themselves. . .
There’s more evidence Jesus rose from the dead than things will get better. . .yet the vast majority of mankind reject Christ and hope for the best. . .
He that believeth on Me, the works that I do shall he do also; and greater works than these shall he do. . .
So where are the miracles today? No miracles, no faith of Christ. No one asks Christ. The weary masses rise every day and ask life for things to get better--and they have faith it will.
People live hard, joyless lives. . .lives full of worry. . .they stare at empty futures. Yet they start again every morning, praying to life to bring them something better.
People survive on self-deceit. . .
The faith of Christ died on the cross. . .the miracle generating power of His faith only experienced by a few followers for a few years after His death. The crippled do not get up and walk, the blind do not receive their sight--this is our right by faith, but it lays buried under centuries of unbelief, compromise and the traditions of men. . .
Government handouts and scientific and technological cures are the miracles people seek from the faith of the world. . .
But the faith of the world will leave you standing by the side of the road, broken, anxious, fretting for tomorrow. . .
Christ doesn’t want His people to live like that:
O Jerusalem, Jerusalem, thou that killest the prophets, and stonest them which are sent unto thee, how often would I have gathered thy children together, even as a hen gathereth her chickens under her wings, and ye would not! Behold, your house is left unto you desolate.
Desolate, that is the condition of the world. . .
Desolate, that is the condition of the woman in the orange hoodie. . .
Things will get better. . .
Worse is ahead. God wrote it that way. Unless we give up the faith of the world, the misplaced faith things will get better, we will all be partakers of Babylon’s plagues:
Come out of her, My people, that ye be not partakers of her sins, and that ye receive not of her plagues. . .
The woman in the orange hoodie needs to pray and fast, and find one with the faith of Christ to pray and fast with--otherwise she dies slowly, day by day, sin by sin blotting out the light, until she's left in darkness, standing by the side of the road, catatonic or hysterical, suffering abuse waiting for the god of this world to get her a motel room.
Her faith is a marvel! To stand by the side of the road and endure misery and molestation, and still believe through a vale of tears things will get better.
I have not found so great faith, no, not in Israel. . .
Imagine if Christ’s people had this kind of faith! A Kingdom could be built. . .
France24.com, 19 March 2012: Four people, including three children, have been killed after a man opened fire outside a Jewish school in the French city of Toulouse Monday. Police say the bullets came from the same gun that was used last week in the murder of three soldiers. The shooting occurred at about 8.10 am, just ahead of the start of classes in most French schools. The shooter, wearing a helmet, fled the scene on a black scooter. On Monday afternoon, judicial sources confirmed that the bullets fired at the school had been fired from the same weapon used in last week’s deadly shootings in Montauban and Toulouse. The shooting on March 15 in nearby Montauban saw two soldiers killed by a gunman riding a scooter. The soldiers, of the 17th Parachute Engineering Regiment recently returned from operations in Afghanistan, were killed outside their barracks. Four days before, a soldier from another airborne regiment was killed in Toulouse.
“All the soldiers who were killed were from ethnic minorities,” said a government spokesman. “So this is looking like a series of racist killings. One of the soldiers killed in the earlier incidents had been of Caribbean origin and the other two Muslims.”
The French government, the *Authorities,* have crafted a plot starring a scooter riding racist zipping through the south sniping *ethnic minorities.* This is drama from the 21st century political Theater of the Absurd. The story cannot withstand the barest scrutiny--yet this will not cause the *Authorities* any concern, for the sheeple, in matters of VIOLENCE, do not question what they are told. Segments of sheeple may question economic policy, especially if entitlements which provide a soft lifestyle are jeopardized. But when BLOOD is spilled, the sheeple embrace the *we are good, they are evil* fairy tale, which absolves them of any moral responsibility.
The French *Authorities* would have it believed, just after an AmerICKan soldier slaughtered sixteen Afghan civilians, a *racist* spontaneously generated in the south, killing coloreds--and completely coincidentally, at a French military barracks which houses soldiers who *served* in Afghanistan. We are told the scooter spree killer is racially motivated, killing coloreds out of hate. The killings, the sheeple are taught, are purely racial in nature, and are not related to political policy.
But, in fact, any individual capable of even a brief consideration of the facts will have to reject the French government’s *racist* propaganda, for it seems incredible a scooter riding racist could know for certain the ethnicity or religion of soldiers loitering outside a barracks. One might suggest the *racist* was just looking for any darky--but if so, why choose a military barracks when, if the scooter shooter truly was racially motivated, he could have made his mission much less risky by picking an easier and more purely racial target, as the scooter shooter did in his second attack?
The *Authorities* know the *racist* is killing for political, and not racial, reasons. But they cannot confess to the sheeple there is any concrete risk (instead of the flimsy and abstract, but never-ending *terror* threat) of any blood consequence for the Judeo-Christian War Complex. The decades long Judeo-Christian crusade against Palestine, Lebanon, Iraq, Afghanistan, Libya, Syria and Iran are marketed as cheap wars--cheap in Western blood. The French *Authorities* cannot afford to tell the sheeple the truth, that sheeple blood may be required at the brazen altar of the Judeo-Christian War Complex.
Here is the simple, psychologically valid truth of the scooter shooter:
The merciless killing of the sixteen Afghan civilians, mainly children (on the heels of the Koran bonfire) inspired a French muslim to take up arms against the Judeo-Christian War Complex. The scooter shooter, whose methods seemed fused from those of the Mossad and John Muhammad, is not an enemy of darkies, but an enemy of Western states. Last week he killed soldiers who fought in Afghanistan, and today, to make clear his declaration of war against the Judeo-Christian alliance, he killed Jews (the Jewish school children no doubt as *an eye for an eye, tooth for a tooth* response to the killing of the Afghan children by the AmerICKan soldier).
There is no psychologically valid reason why a racist intent on killing coloreds would select a military barracks as his first target, a much more difficult and less racially obvious target than simply riding into a southern slum teeming with coal black North Africans, or, as today, an ethnic institution.
One might ask, if the scooter shooter is a politically motivated French muslim, why he killed two muslims at the military barracks? He either made a *booboo,* or he didn’t care what religion the soldiers were, because their participation in the Judeo-Christian War Complex invalidates any supposed religious identity.
We note the scooter shooter has not been termed *deranged.* When he is apprehended, there will be no chance of him being anything other than a cold-blooded killer (no doubt he will also be called *cowardly,* as any individual who dares to stand alone against the trillion dollar Judeo-Christian War Machine is illogically labeled). This is in contrast to the AmerICKan soldier Robert Bales, who killed sixteen (mainly children) Afghan civilians. Bales has already been pardoned for crimes and returned to AmerICKa as a *hero* who *snapped.* In the bizarre AmerICKan interpretation of the actions of Bales, it was his own *heroism* which caused him to murder Afghan women and children. The *stress* from serving so heroically in Iraq and Afghanistan exacted such a toll on Bales, it was only *natural* and *inevitable* that he *snap,* become *deranged* and kill sixteen Afghan civilians. His heroism is confirmed by the murders. Bales lay down his life for the Judeo-Christian War Complex, and the sixteen Afghan victims are his witness. Only in a country of perpetual war, where the sheeple have long since forgotten the humanity of the other, could such an outrageous biography be published.
In any event, MARK MY WORDS, when the scooter shooter is caught, he will explain his actions as POLITICAL, not racial. . .yet he will not be heard, his testimony will not be received, as the French *Authorities* have already framed him as a *racist.*
The snot-nosed autistic negro looked bewildered. He was trying to make his one free call on the inmate phone, but he could make neither heads nor tails of the (simple) directions.
I had compassion.
“Come over here, guy. I’ll dial for you on my phone.”
With a stiff gait, the dark brown oddball slowly makes his way to my station.
“Who are you trying to call?” I ask.
“What’s your grandma’s name?”
The snot on the snot-nosed autistic negro is dried. It looks like he has chalk marks under his nostrils.
I pick up the handset.
“What’s your grandma’s phone number?”
He’s eighteen years old. He was brought in for a domestic assault on his mother.
“Uh, what’s the rest of the number?”
“The rest of the number?”
“Nine. Nine. . .nine. Nineninenineninenine.”
“Uh, I don’t think that will work.”
“That won’t work?”
“No. No, that’s not a good number.”
“That’s not a good number?”
He stands there staring blankly at me for several seconds. These are the moments I wonder how I ended up here. Fifty-two years old, working in a jail, which is nothing more than a 24-hour-a-day adult day care facility.
“Why don’t you have a seat there and try to think of a better number. We can try again a little later.”
He stands there, staring, for a few more seconds. I’m about to tell him again to take a seat when he abruptly turns and lurches away. He sits hunched, head down in the front row, rocking back and forth.
I watch him for a little bit, thinking what’s this poor bastard ever going to do with himself? Just as he starts to bore me, and I’m thinking about checking the news headlines on the internet, he bolts out of his chair.
“I WANNA GO HOME!” he shrieks.
He half-runs and half-stumbles to the I2 door. He tugs furiously on the handle. I guess he’s trying to escape, but I2 only leads to the sally port, where they bring in the new arrests. Even if he could somehow manage to open I2, he’d only find himself locked in the garage, like a dog with muddy paws.
Some of the inmates laugh at the spectacle.
“That silly ass nigger ain’t got no pride,” one says with great scorn.
“Pride ain’t got nuttin to do wit it,” another says wearily. “He a retard. He as dumb as you, nigga.”
This gets the whole room laughing. One of the corrections officers barks for everyone to quiet down.
Two corrections officers drag the autistic kid into Holding 2.
“Grandma! GRANDMA!” he shouts as the door slams shut.
I watch him on the monitor. He circles crazily, like a squirrel in traffic, then sits Indian-style on the concrete floor, rocking back and forth.
Fifty-two years old, I think, yet at this point in time and space, I’m no better off than this colored misfit. . .
WHITE TRASH FEVER
I confess I find a certain allure to some of the white trash women brought into the jail. Some of the older ones. . .in their late 30s or 40s. . .the thin ones. . .not the fat ones. . .the thin ones, with their ragged voices and battered looks.
If you’re hungry enough, you’ll eat a bruised banana. Under the rot, there is still a trace of sweetness, of what was once a ripe fruit. And so with the bruised white trash women.
Long ago, before environment and bad decisions devastated them, some of them must have been the heart’s desire. In the flower of youth, roses. Now, weeds. Preyed on by goats.
Their lives wasted. Their beauty ruined. God’s gifts profaned in taverns, motel rooms and trailer parks.
There would be a comfort in laying with these wrecks. No more pretending my life wasn’t wasted, also. Wouldn’t it be more pleasant to await the Judgment half-drunk, two losers made one flesh in a sagging bed?
Cain began human civilization in the land of Nod, on the east of Eden, x thousands of years ago. With a small number of mostly minor exceptions, nothing of value has resulted.
One of the exceptions, of course, is French literature. The French have been the best at chronicling human futility. . .
In the videos above and below, we meet Michel Houellebecq, the personification of French literature. . .
Just look at the reprobate way Michel smokes his cigarettes. . .
Dissolute, disheveled, despondent, he appears to have stepped from the pages of Huysmans’ À Rebours to remind the 21st century sheeple of the hopelessness of their condition, that capitalism and their electronic devices won’t save them, and the new gods of Science and Technology will ruin even fornication and pedophilia for them. . .
Reading Houellebecq will get me through another six months. . .