If I had to pick the absolute worst thing that the Jews have
done to us, I would say that they have driven a now almost insurmountable wedge
between White men and White women.
Nowhere else is the clearly genocidal and anti-human nature of Judaism more apparent. Nothing else has caused more suffering, anguish, disruption to Western civilization or loss to the world Aryan gene pool than the creation of a society where White men and women view one another as adversaries instead of partners. The instigation and propagation of this hatred between White men and women is their greatest success story, possibly in the long run a greater victory for Zionism than the destruction of the Third Reich or the creation of the artificial, criminal state of Israel.
When White men and women hate one another the number of White babies born drops like a stone and we get closer and closer to that point of no return where our racial extinction becomes inevitable. And always bear in mind that is the ultimate goal of the Jewish people—to exterminate every man and every woman with a White skin from the face of the earth.
But I’m not going to talk about that right now. I’m going to talk about my sex life. Or rather, I am forced by the whole nature of this issue to open any discussion of it with a lengthy full disclosure statement.
There is an overriding reason for this, and that is the nature of the ridiculous zoo which we so laughably call the Movement. My views on women in society are entirely racial and political, they are methodically and carefully thought out, but not one in ten of you are going to accept that. In the immature, inane, politically powerless, politically retarded and neurotic tendency we refer to as the Movement, any recognition of political principle in the commonly accepted sense of the term is almost non-existent.
Because we are by and large weak, neurotic, and mentally paralyzed units of production and consumption instead of men and women, with us everything is personal. Always, always personal. The concepts of loyal opposition and constructive criticism simply don’t exist in the Bowel Movement. Any criticism, no matter how well-founded or how well-intended, is taken as a deadly insult. The immediate response is to attack the critic and impugn his motives for saying whatever he is saying, rather than consider its content or validity.
We are, in short, a feminine movement, an odd thing for me to say in view of the topic for tonight, but true, when you think about it. It is ironic that we should be accused by our female comrades of being Neanderthal woman-haters who want to bash them on the head, drag them to the bedroom and after we finish there chain them to the stove so they can’t get into the voting booth. Frankly, we could do with some more guys of that type than we have. With the exception of certain localized sects of the Ku Klux Klan who operate in areas of the rural South largely untouched by Political Correctness as yet, a visit to your typical right wing or racist meeting in a rented motel banquet room hardly reveals a ravening band of tattooed Road Warriors ready to rumble with the bike chains and slavering lasciviously over the waitresses.
Generally, right wing and racist groups have a membership which is 95% male; about 60% over the age of 50 and 85% over the age of 30. These consist of very elderly conservatives; middle-aged men with big bellies and two or three divorces under their expansive belts; and a third type predominant in the National Alliance and other intellectual racial groups: youngish to middle-aged men, thin to the point of being gaunt often due to strange dietary habits or health problems. They have strange rolling eyeballs and facial tics, either obsessively neat and dressed like undertakers or else smelling like goats due to non-bathing, and generally with some very, very strange ideas on a lot of subjects, including women.
[Do you see now why people like Pierce and Metzger get apoplectic over Horrible Harold? We’re not supposed to say things like this is public, however true it might be, never mind try to change all this like Horrible Harold does. And yes, this is germane to the women issue. Bear with me, please.]
Anyway, when I speak of my purely political and racial National Socialist views on the subject—and yes, that is what they are—as in everything else I try to advocate, I am going to be accused by the Usual Suspects of saying these things because I myself am sexually weird or repressed or I allegedly can’t get girl friends or some such effluvia. Our female comrades, who are presently most of them in a state of high dudgeon with Your Friend and Humble Gensec, are going to say the same thing, something to the effect of “No wonder you’re not married; you don’t know how to treat a woman, you’re a failure as a man, etc.” In every case this will be an effort to avoid dealing with what I am saying, which is par for the course in the Movement.
But this topic is important, as I have stated before. Unlike religion, it is solvable if we can somehow re-acquire the art of thinking instead of feeling and thinking right at that. Unlike religion it must be thrashed out and solved now, not put aside for the time after the revolution when we have power. So in order to clear away and hopefully stop-punch the vicious personal attacks which will result from my assertion of what I believe to be clear and evident political and racial truths, I am going to give as brief as possible a history of my own relations with the Fair Sex.
I will be 45 years old in September. In my time I have had three very serious relationships, including two marriages, four or five semi-serious relationships, and possibly a total of about two dozen casual relationships and or one-night stands, including one prostitute whom I picked up purely for the sake of saying I had done it. My attitude towards prostitutes is similar to that of Voltaire, who was invited by the Marquis de Sade to participate in an orgy, which he did with such great vim and vigor that the Divine Marquis asked him to attend another such event. The philosopher declined, saying, “Once was legitimate intellectual curiosity. Twice would be perversion.”
I think my sexual past is probably about average for a man of my age in the times in which I live. I have never bought into the “Playboy philosophy” that a man is somehow less than a man if he doesn’t go leaping from bed to different bed every couple of nights. This has spared me a hell of a lot of grief. Usually relationships with women have been fairly low on my list of things to do at any given time in my life. There are some who think this makes me odd. Screw them. They're idiots. Human beings have other purposes in this world other than to engage in endless acts of copulation with as many partners as possible. Animals can do that. We are more than animals.
In junior high school and high school I had the usual going-steady type relationships, although fewer than the average. Many of the kids were constantly involved with a string of adolescents from the time they were twelve; I was never in that league, nor did I make plays for the cheerleaders or the overdeveloped sexpots with the hot reputations. (This was back in the Brady Bunch days, remember. I actually remember sock hops, the Beatles, and bell bottoms.)
Not only was I unable to compete with the jocks and the BMOCs, but that super-model type simply didn’t attract me, and still doesn’t. I tended to hang on the outskirts of the female herd and pick off the stragglers, so to speak, the girls who walked through the halls alone and not with a standard gaggle of five or six other girls, the skinny ones with glasses and long, straight hair, a bit of acne and straight-A averages, you get the idea. The result was that I got my share of stolen kisses in the band room and fumbling feels under the bleachers, but I was plagued with a lot of just plain, pesky bad luck. Not to mention the girls themselves having worse luck, lest you think I’m a totally insensitive clod.
The first girl I ever “went all the way” with, as we said in those days, I got pregnant. We were both thirteen years old when it happened and 14 when the baby was born and given up for adoption. I still have a daughter somewhere who turned 30 in May; it’s odd that I may be the father of an Ally McBeal someplace. The second one, a hillbilly Lolita from Tennessee, gave me a dose of syphilis, and I had to cop a fake UNC student idea and go to the medical clinic on campus for almost a year for injections and check-ups. The girl I was unofficially engaged to in my senior year was killed in an automobile wreck one week after we graduated from high school in 1971; I was in Florida, her hippy-dippy and/or preppie friends hated my guts and didn’t bother to inform me, so I missed her funeral. I was batting a thousand, I can tell you. By the by, for those of you who are utterly fascinated by the story of Harold’s weird and wonderful yoot, I recommend you order my novel Fire and Rain, set in Chapel Hill. Parts of it are autobiographical.
I have been married two and a half times to an eclectic set of ladies, one American, one Irish, and one New Zealander. I therefore have enough practical experience to understand that every man/woman relationship is different and it is dangerous to try and generalize, although not impossible. There are certain common themes, especially in today’s society where everyone hangs their most intimate details in their private lives out to dry for the National Inquirer and Oprah, but every individual case is unique.
My first marriage was a teenaged mistake. I was 19, Lucie was 18. We neither of us had any business getting married, and we damned sure had no business getting married to each other. That one lasted about five years, from 1972 to 1977, and we were separated for the last eighteen months or so of that. I put Lucie through a lot, dragging her to Rhodesia with me, and we lost one baby by miscarriage and another died at age 4 months from a viral infection when I was stationed at Llewellin Barracks, Bulawayo. Chalk up another victim for sanctions; we got our water from the Umgusa River and were constantly being told by the base command to boil it when the ancient purification plant broke down and no spare parts were available.
Lucie had a mental breakdown after the baby died and for a time was locked up in the rubber room at Ingutsheni; I was off in the bush half the time and off doing stuff for the Rhodesia White People’s Party or SAFOM the other half, not to mention being drunk most of the time (which is the normal Rhodesian condition) and I wasn’t much help.
You see that I am perfectly willing to take responsibility for the bulk of this particular failed marriage, although if we’d stayed in the States I doubt we would have made it either. Lucie and I did spend one weekend together in the spring of 1980 after the divorce, when she flew down from Chicago. I dropped her off at the airport on Monday to fly back to Chicago, wished her cheerio, and we both said, “We must do this again sometime,” but we knew we never would. We actually had a pretty good time, and I was glad we were able to “obtain closure” as today’s psychobabble calls it. One final comment on the Lucie Era: the bedroom was the one place where we did get along, and I can tell you from personal experience that you can’t keep a marriage going purely on the basis of sex.
My next marriage in Ireland came apart for two reasons. First off, my incredibly bizarre family situation in North Carolina became involved and entangled in my marriage through my Irish children and their legal rights to one of the largest privately held fortunes in the South, which is something I don’t intend to get into here. Suffice it to say that if the story of my family were made into a TV series it would be about one third Dallas, one third Millennium, and one third Married With Children. Or maybe Leave It To Beaver Meets The Borgias. Or possibly The Simpsons Halloween Special On Speed if you tried to animate it. (Hell, I suppose I’d better shut up before some Jew writ Hollywood decides he wants to do a few pilot episodes.) Order Fire and Rain if you’re curious; the sub rosa tale is pretty much all there.
Where was I? Oh, yes, Louise. Well, the second reason Louise and I broke up, long run, is the most ancient of all male-female conflicts: who wears the pants in the family. I did, but Louise never stopped trying to seize the wheel. What infuriated her (and other women I have lived with) is she couldn’t make me angry. I never raise my voice during an argument. I use words rather than decibels, and if and when the situation gets out of hand and it is obvious that nothing is to be gained by continuing, I simply tell her I will not discuss the matter further under those conditions and I leave the house. This, of course, drives them crazy. It took me a long time to realize that if you really love her and want to keep her you don’t want to drive her crazy.
I have never been one for scenes, shouting, threatening, name calling, etc. When I am confronted with a female partner who is having a hissy fit over something I try to talk it out with her at first. I won’t say reason it out, because I know full well that nine times out of ten reason has nothing to do with the real problem and the subject under discussion is not why she is really unhappy—I have at least learned that much about women down through the years. Many men make the mistake of trying to convince their women one way or the other with reason and logic on the subject of discussion; usually that’s not what the problem is about, and the men end up baffled and hurt because they don’t understand why nothing they say or do seems to make any difference.
Good example: time after time Movement men come to me and bang my ear about their troubles with their wives or girl friends who are giving them grief over their racial involvement, usually with the final ultimatum to choose between them. “Lips that touch racism will never touch mine,” blah, blah, blah.
In most cases, that’s not what it’s about. What it is about is that she senses a rival for your time, effort, money, and affection. It would be the same with anything you were devoted to that intensely: fishing, Establishment politics or a vocation like being a cop (cops have this problem a lot,) an artistic vocation like painting or writing (I get a lot of typewriter jealousy from my ladies,) anything like that. She demands to be the center of your entire existence—and in today’s politically correct world, she has been taught that she has the right to make that demand and that you are at fault if you do not accede to it.
Sorry, I’m getting off the track here again; all of these things are for future installments of what promises to be a long series. Anyway, my marriage to Louise might have survived our personality conflicts, or it might have survived my father’s assorted conspiracies to cheat my children out of their rightful inheritance, but it could not survive both and didn’t. I’ll take about 25% of the blame for the failure of this one—I should never have married her in the first place. Louise needs to take about 25%, and the Prince of Darkness from the cypress swamps needs to take the other half. What was bad about this one is that four innocent children got caught in the crossfire, so yes, when you hear me pontificating about women, bear in mind I have had that experience as well.
Jan from New Zealand I do not propose to discuss; her I loved, and she was taken from me by the evil which I continue to battle to this day in all those e-mails and newsletters which some of you tell me you do not want to hear. All I can say is that while I do not deny my many personal motives in battling the thread of vileness and corruption in the Movement which begins with Benny Klassen and continues down to the present day in the person of a few involved individuals, I do not believe those motivations disqualify me from fighting that vileness or invalidate what I have to say. Because one is personally victimized by evil, does that mean one can never speak out against it because one is not “objective?”
There have been other semi-serious relationships. Judy the Holy Roller was a true Southern lady, but those Jesus freaks did a number on her head you wouldn’t believe, and I am sure some of you have had that happen to you. The Tattooed Lady of Rockwell Hall has become something of a legend, as has Barbara the Drunk who streaked one of Glenn Miller’s rallies. Eileen from Donegal and Mary from Cork were two who got away and I’ll always wonder what might have been. (By the by, as a totally irrelevant aside, I have noticed that when a man is married, all of a sudden other married women start coming on to him. Has anybody else had that experience? Sorry, digressing again.)
In the post-Jan era I’ve slowed down; I have had two more or less casual relationships with female co-workers at my several places of employment and one platonic friendship with a really fine thing in Seattle who was one of those real cases where some bastard first husband beat her black and blue and used her like a doormat, and she couldn’t bear to be touched physically by a man. (I have found that most of these stories gain a lot in the telling, but not all, and don’t have a fit, ladies, I am not claiming that men never abuse women. I know they do.)
For those of you who are just insatiably curious about the physical side of my career as a Lothario, go take a cold shower. I am not Bill Clinton, I am not a locker room jock, I show respect for my ladies and I do not talk about intimate subjects like that. It is my experience that sex is like combat in the military: the more a man boasts about it, the less of it he has actually done. I will give you one hint: it’s the little things that count with women. A single rose is not only less expensive than a whole sheaf, it is more effective, at least with the kind of lady I become involved with.
I do not try to seduce women or get them parked on a lonely lane and start pawing them, nor do I drop my drawers like Bill Clinton and say “Kiss that thang, honey!” My technique, if you want to call it that, is very simple. I take my time. Softlee, softlee, catchee monkey. I listen to them, I become their friends first, I get them to like me as a person, and then I ask. I find it works about 50% of the time. In all of my teenaged and adult life, I have only had one woman blow up on me when I popped the question, which when you consider the readiness of women to fly off the handle over these things, is not doing too shabby, I think. What other technique do you know of that can claim a 50% success rate?
And if it doesn’t work, remember this: a gentleman can always take no for an answer. A man who forces his attentions on a woman after she has clearly indicated that she is not interested is a damned pig.
Some people have asked if I tried to put the moves on Christy at UNC, the one I wrote about in 1996. The answer is no. I honestly believe that it is undignified and unfair for a man of my age to pursue women young enough to be their daughters; obviously our Illustrious Head of State disagrees. Others have asked if the demented Sharon Mooney was ever my girlfriend. The answer is no; I only met her once and it was obvious to me she was so badly mentally and emotionally damaged that she was virtually useless to the Movement; besides, she was too young for me.
The last affair I had was in Chapel Hill where I became involved with a really beautiful Russian woman, a grad student, whom I might add already had her green card and who therefore didn’t need an American husband to get one. Anna seemed amenable to a permanent relationship, although it was always tentative; she made it clear she wanted me to get a normal job and bring in a much bigger buck, which was fair enough from her point of view. She had no qualms about National Socialism, being very Jew-aware herself as most Eastern Europeans are, and one of her major pluses was that we could discuss racial politics freely. She once told me, “Three of my family were killed by the Germans during the war. Over fifty were killed by Stalin.”
[Section redacted per federal court order]
One of the reasons I am so passionate about our Movement changing our ways is so that we can create a kind of subculture or world of our own wherein it is possible for our people to have some kind of normal life. I have got lawsuits, contempt of court warrants, telephone threats, vandalism, whole websites on the internet smearing me, NA weirdos creeping up to my windows at night trying to videotape me naked, phony websites being put up allegedly showing me committing homosexual acts, weird psychotics who have shrines of hate in their homes where they burn candles before my picture and babble to themselves, plus of course what ZOG itself may dish out to me some day when it finds out these tactics do not work. I am as poor as a church mouse, and not being dishonest like Pierce or Metzger there is no chance I will ever be able to offer a woman 345 rolling acres and a Bavarian hunting lodge built on my supporters’ donations. In all good conscience, I cannot ask any woman to share this life and no longer have any intention of doing so.
I have been asked where the above famous expression “vive la différence” came from. I understand it happened thus:
In the 1890s France was considering giving women the vote, and some famous French feminist whose name I can’t recall was given the honor, almost unique for a woman at that time, of addressing the National Assembly in full session, all male of course, and all of whom sat there attired in their full formal dress suits with the white gloves, wide shoulder sashes, decorations, top hats and other such 1890s politicians’ fripperies. The lady was up on the podium haranguing them with her feminist rap, which was listened to in polite silence. She concluded her speech with “Really, monsieurs, you must acknowledge that when one comes right down to it, there is very little difference between men and women.”
At this remark, the entire Chamber spontaneously rose to its feet as one man, and shouted out, “Vive la différence!”
Men and women are different. Not inherently inferior or superior to one another, but different. To say that one sex is in any way inferior or superior to another is like saying that apples are inferior to oranges or vice versa. They are two different fruits and any such comments are a matter of personal taste and outlook, not scientific or pragmatic fact. To say that an apple is in some way “better” or worse than an orange has no relevance or meaning in the real world.
The differences between men and women are about 20% environmental and psychological, that 20% being subject to a certain limited degree of possible manipulation and alteration but by no means as much so as feminists would like to have us believe, and about 80% biological, physical, and biochemical. It is therefore pointless and absurd to try and create in men and women two “equal” humanoid organisms. It cannot be done.
Men, on the whole, are physically larger and stronger than women. Yes, there are individual exceptions, more so in today’s politically correct culture as White males degenerate into Dilbert-esque cubicle dwellers and women become more masculine in character, which seems to somewhat augment their physical size. One of the most sinister developments in recent years have been several statistical surveys and studies indicating that sedentary American White males are actually losing their virility in the physical as well as the moral sense; White sperm counts have been dropping for almost twenty years. We are becoming less than men in every sense of the word.
But in all non-yuppie, more or less organic societies of all races, men are the larger and stronger. Some of this has to do with diet. In any business or work environment where there are large numbers of illegal aliens, for example, compare the size of Orientals who were born and raised in China or Southeast Asia on nothing but rice and a little fish with the size and weight of Asian-Americans who were born here and grew up on plenty of fruits, grains, vegetables, and good old-fashioned cholesterol-packed meat. Native-born Chinese women especially are tiny things, between seventy and eighty pounds, although actually stronger than native-born White valley girls due to having been forced into manual labor from birth. But most of these exceptions are individual, culture-specific, or otherwise idiosyncratic.
Men are physically bigger and stronger than women because Nature has given human men and women a natural division of labor, one which cannot be repealed by feminism, by affirmative action, or by anything else. That natural division is simple: the man provides the food, the shelter, and the protection from enemies for the family unit. The woman bears and raises the children. This is how human beings are supposed to live; indeed, the only way they can live past a couple of confused and chaotic generations of the kind we are experiencing now. It is innate. It is biological. It cannot be changed, and any attempt to tamper with it produces disaster and destruction, as we are now learning in Politically Correct America.
No baby creatures are more helpless than human infants. Snakes and alligators are self-sufficient from the time they hatch, birds and kittens and puppies are up and functioning and providing their own food in a matter of weeks. Human babies must be fed initially by a mother’s milk for a period of months, and then on specially treated and prepared food for another year or so. They cannot defend themselves or escape from an enemy unaided. Children cannot really live on their own with any hope of survival for the first ten or eleven years of life.
The whole “traditional nuclear family” so hated and railed at by liberals and feminists is an institution ordained by God/gods/Nature/The Force/the Great Pumpkin or whatever to make sure that the human species continues to exist. The primary purpose of the man-woman relationship is to produce children and care for them until they are adult enough to fend for themselves. The emotional and cultural side benefits to marriage are valuable and have produced our whole civilization, but they are in fact incidental by-products of the central process of continuing the human species. The father and the mother are not the most vital part of the picture, although they are essential. The children are.
This arrangement is not unknown in other species, and in all mammals at any rate the male is always larger, stronger, faster, and more combative. In many cases, such as lions and wolves, one alpha male practices polygamy with a number of females and kills off other male competitors until he grows old and weak and is in turn killed off by a younger male. Primitive non-White societies in Africa and the Third World still follow this pattern. Aryans, for the most part, have generally mated for life down through the years; there are some records of polygamy in ancient Aryan cultures but not as many as elsewhere.
The ancient Norse and Germans practiced it, but gave it up about the turn of the last millennium. For good or for ill, once the Aryan race became Christianized, polygamy vanished. (No comments about Mormons, please; they are not typical and their polygamy is not organically rooted in history but in conscious chosen behavior.) One reason for polygamy was extremely high male mortality rates in time of war; an interesting modern example from the Third World is Saddam Hussein awarding large cash bonuses, automobiles, and homes to Iraqi officers who take a widow from the Iranian or American wars as their second or third wife. The Iraqi gene pool has been decimated by the slaughter of almost twenty years of continuous warfare, and Saddam is quite open about his determination to ensure that Iraq is not depopulated. I wish to hell Germany had created some similar kind of polygamy status after both World Wars.
Men and women are two halves of a whole. Neither can or should exist without the other. The idea of two halves of the same organism competing with one another, dominating one another, or existing in enmity with one another is an obvious recipe for destruction. This is why the Jews promote the idea that men are some kind of natural enemy to women, as they promote any and all things which are destructive and poisonous and breed confusion and unhappiness among our people. They hate us and want us all dead, and they use every weapon they can to bring this about, including feminism. Quite simple, really.
Homosexuality is a loathsome perversion. It is absolutely and utterly wrong, because it denies the natural division of labor between man and woman and because it precludes the production of children. The instinctive loathing that the overwhelming majority of normal people feel even today for faggots and dykes is an inner recognition on the part of our genetic makeup (or souls, if you are Christian) that what is going on is unnatural and counter-survival (or sinful).
This is why politically correct brainwashing and social engineering, relatively successful in obtaining a grudging acceptance of mud people as equals, seems largely to have floundered when trying mentally and emotionally to coerce people into accepting the open practice of sodomy. This is especially true when it involves a sodomitic threat to children: Whites are still capable of anger and action when the local school board tries to bring in Heather Has Two Mommies, about the only thing left they will react to. Millions of years of genetic codes triggering biological survival behavior cannot be overwritten by fifty years of Hollywood propaganda or suppressed by hate speech laws.
National Socialism seeks to re-create a world based on natural order, and that most specifically includes, as it did in Germany, a return to what are referred to as traditional family values, with the gainfully employed father as the head of the family and the full-time mother and homemaker as the family’s heart. This does not in any way involve enslaving women; in the very real sense it liberates them from feminism and Judaic values and the true slavery of the marketplace.
The Aryan women of the future will have a freedom which they have all but lost today—the freedom to be real women. What largely Jewish and lesbian feminists want, claim, or advocate is not relevant to anything in the real world. They more than liberals as a whole are doomed to eventual defeat and disappointment, however much they may have achieved a very temporary and very slight, superficial success in the English-speaking world. Feminism is essentially a form of sexual perversion, because it distorts what is natural in the sexual roles of men and women. Feminism, like integration and all forms of liberalism, can only be imposed on both men and women at the point of a gun, literally or economically.
Remove the force of ZOG’s law and the economic necessity for women to work simply to make ends meet and feminism. like racial integration, will die.
Nowhere else is the clearly genocidal and anti-human nature of Judaism more apparent. Nothing else has caused more suffering, anguish, disruption to Western civilization or loss to the world Aryan gene pool than the creation of a society where White men and women view one another as adversaries instead of partners. The instigation and propagation of this hatred between White men and women is their greatest success story, possibly in the long run a greater victory for Zionism than the destruction of the Third Reich or the creation of the artificial, criminal state of Israel.
When White men and women hate one another the number of White babies born drops like a stone and we get closer and closer to that point of no return where our racial extinction becomes inevitable. And always bear in mind that is the ultimate goal of the Jewish people—to exterminate every man and every woman with a White skin from the face of the earth.
But I’m not going to talk about that right now. I’m going to talk about my sex life. Or rather, I am forced by the whole nature of this issue to open any discussion of it with a lengthy full disclosure statement.
There is an overriding reason for this, and that is the nature of the ridiculous zoo which we so laughably call the Movement. My views on women in society are entirely racial and political, they are methodically and carefully thought out, but not one in ten of you are going to accept that. In the immature, inane, politically powerless, politically retarded and neurotic tendency we refer to as the Movement, any recognition of political principle in the commonly accepted sense of the term is almost non-existent.
Because we are by and large weak, neurotic, and mentally paralyzed units of production and consumption instead of men and women, with us everything is personal. Always, always personal. The concepts of loyal opposition and constructive criticism simply don’t exist in the Bowel Movement. Any criticism, no matter how well-founded or how well-intended, is taken as a deadly insult. The immediate response is to attack the critic and impugn his motives for saying whatever he is saying, rather than consider its content or validity.
We are, in short, a feminine movement, an odd thing for me to say in view of the topic for tonight, but true, when you think about it. It is ironic that we should be accused by our female comrades of being Neanderthal woman-haters who want to bash them on the head, drag them to the bedroom and after we finish there chain them to the stove so they can’t get into the voting booth. Frankly, we could do with some more guys of that type than we have. With the exception of certain localized sects of the Ku Klux Klan who operate in areas of the rural South largely untouched by Political Correctness as yet, a visit to your typical right wing or racist meeting in a rented motel banquet room hardly reveals a ravening band of tattooed Road Warriors ready to rumble with the bike chains and slavering lasciviously over the waitresses.
Generally, right wing and racist groups have a membership which is 95% male; about 60% over the age of 50 and 85% over the age of 30. These consist of very elderly conservatives; middle-aged men with big bellies and two or three divorces under their expansive belts; and a third type predominant in the National Alliance and other intellectual racial groups: youngish to middle-aged men, thin to the point of being gaunt often due to strange dietary habits or health problems. They have strange rolling eyeballs and facial tics, either obsessively neat and dressed like undertakers or else smelling like goats due to non-bathing, and generally with some very, very strange ideas on a lot of subjects, including women.
[Do you see now why people like Pierce and Metzger get apoplectic over Horrible Harold? We’re not supposed to say things like this is public, however true it might be, never mind try to change all this like Horrible Harold does. And yes, this is germane to the women issue. Bear with me, please.]
Anyway, when I speak of my purely political and racial National Socialist views on the subject—and yes, that is what they are—as in everything else I try to advocate, I am going to be accused by the Usual Suspects of saying these things because I myself am sexually weird or repressed or I allegedly can’t get girl friends or some such effluvia. Our female comrades, who are presently most of them in a state of high dudgeon with Your Friend and Humble Gensec, are going to say the same thing, something to the effect of “No wonder you’re not married; you don’t know how to treat a woman, you’re a failure as a man, etc.” In every case this will be an effort to avoid dealing with what I am saying, which is par for the course in the Movement.
But this topic is important, as I have stated before. Unlike religion, it is solvable if we can somehow re-acquire the art of thinking instead of feeling and thinking right at that. Unlike religion it must be thrashed out and solved now, not put aside for the time after the revolution when we have power. So in order to clear away and hopefully stop-punch the vicious personal attacks which will result from my assertion of what I believe to be clear and evident political and racial truths, I am going to give as brief as possible a history of my own relations with the Fair Sex.
* * *
I will be 45 years old in September. In my time I have had three very serious relationships, including two marriages, four or five semi-serious relationships, and possibly a total of about two dozen casual relationships and or one-night stands, including one prostitute whom I picked up purely for the sake of saying I had done it. My attitude towards prostitutes is similar to that of Voltaire, who was invited by the Marquis de Sade to participate in an orgy, which he did with such great vim and vigor that the Divine Marquis asked him to attend another such event. The philosopher declined, saying, “Once was legitimate intellectual curiosity. Twice would be perversion.”
I think my sexual past is probably about average for a man of my age in the times in which I live. I have never bought into the “Playboy philosophy” that a man is somehow less than a man if he doesn’t go leaping from bed to different bed every couple of nights. This has spared me a hell of a lot of grief. Usually relationships with women have been fairly low on my list of things to do at any given time in my life. There are some who think this makes me odd. Screw them. They're idiots. Human beings have other purposes in this world other than to engage in endless acts of copulation with as many partners as possible. Animals can do that. We are more than animals.
In junior high school and high school I had the usual going-steady type relationships, although fewer than the average. Many of the kids were constantly involved with a string of adolescents from the time they were twelve; I was never in that league, nor did I make plays for the cheerleaders or the overdeveloped sexpots with the hot reputations. (This was back in the Brady Bunch days, remember. I actually remember sock hops, the Beatles, and bell bottoms.)
Not only was I unable to compete with the jocks and the BMOCs, but that super-model type simply didn’t attract me, and still doesn’t. I tended to hang on the outskirts of the female herd and pick off the stragglers, so to speak, the girls who walked through the halls alone and not with a standard gaggle of five or six other girls, the skinny ones with glasses and long, straight hair, a bit of acne and straight-A averages, you get the idea. The result was that I got my share of stolen kisses in the band room and fumbling feels under the bleachers, but I was plagued with a lot of just plain, pesky bad luck. Not to mention the girls themselves having worse luck, lest you think I’m a totally insensitive clod.
The first girl I ever “went all the way” with, as we said in those days, I got pregnant. We were both thirteen years old when it happened and 14 when the baby was born and given up for adoption. I still have a daughter somewhere who turned 30 in May; it’s odd that I may be the father of an Ally McBeal someplace. The second one, a hillbilly Lolita from Tennessee, gave me a dose of syphilis, and I had to cop a fake UNC student idea and go to the medical clinic on campus for almost a year for injections and check-ups. The girl I was unofficially engaged to in my senior year was killed in an automobile wreck one week after we graduated from high school in 1971; I was in Florida, her hippy-dippy and/or preppie friends hated my guts and didn’t bother to inform me, so I missed her funeral. I was batting a thousand, I can tell you. By the by, for those of you who are utterly fascinated by the story of Harold’s weird and wonderful yoot, I recommend you order my novel Fire and Rain, set in Chapel Hill. Parts of it are autobiographical.
I have been married two and a half times to an eclectic set of ladies, one American, one Irish, and one New Zealander. I therefore have enough practical experience to understand that every man/woman relationship is different and it is dangerous to try and generalize, although not impossible. There are certain common themes, especially in today’s society where everyone hangs their most intimate details in their private lives out to dry for the National Inquirer and Oprah, but every individual case is unique.
My first marriage was a teenaged mistake. I was 19, Lucie was 18. We neither of us had any business getting married, and we damned sure had no business getting married to each other. That one lasted about five years, from 1972 to 1977, and we were separated for the last eighteen months or so of that. I put Lucie through a lot, dragging her to Rhodesia with me, and we lost one baby by miscarriage and another died at age 4 months from a viral infection when I was stationed at Llewellin Barracks, Bulawayo. Chalk up another victim for sanctions; we got our water from the Umgusa River and were constantly being told by the base command to boil it when the ancient purification plant broke down and no spare parts were available.
Lucie had a mental breakdown after the baby died and for a time was locked up in the rubber room at Ingutsheni; I was off in the bush half the time and off doing stuff for the Rhodesia White People’s Party or SAFOM the other half, not to mention being drunk most of the time (which is the normal Rhodesian condition) and I wasn’t much help.
You see that I am perfectly willing to take responsibility for the bulk of this particular failed marriage, although if we’d stayed in the States I doubt we would have made it either. Lucie and I did spend one weekend together in the spring of 1980 after the divorce, when she flew down from Chicago. I dropped her off at the airport on Monday to fly back to Chicago, wished her cheerio, and we both said, “We must do this again sometime,” but we knew we never would. We actually had a pretty good time, and I was glad we were able to “obtain closure” as today’s psychobabble calls it. One final comment on the Lucie Era: the bedroom was the one place where we did get along, and I can tell you from personal experience that you can’t keep a marriage going purely on the basis of sex.
My next marriage in Ireland came apart for two reasons. First off, my incredibly bizarre family situation in North Carolina became involved and entangled in my marriage through my Irish children and their legal rights to one of the largest privately held fortunes in the South, which is something I don’t intend to get into here. Suffice it to say that if the story of my family were made into a TV series it would be about one third Dallas, one third Millennium, and one third Married With Children. Or maybe Leave It To Beaver Meets The Borgias. Or possibly The Simpsons Halloween Special On Speed if you tried to animate it. (Hell, I suppose I’d better shut up before some Jew writ Hollywood decides he wants to do a few pilot episodes.) Order Fire and Rain if you’re curious; the sub rosa tale is pretty much all there.
Where was I? Oh, yes, Louise. Well, the second reason Louise and I broke up, long run, is the most ancient of all male-female conflicts: who wears the pants in the family. I did, but Louise never stopped trying to seize the wheel. What infuriated her (and other women I have lived with) is she couldn’t make me angry. I never raise my voice during an argument. I use words rather than decibels, and if and when the situation gets out of hand and it is obvious that nothing is to be gained by continuing, I simply tell her I will not discuss the matter further under those conditions and I leave the house. This, of course, drives them crazy. It took me a long time to realize that if you really love her and want to keep her you don’t want to drive her crazy.
I have never been one for scenes, shouting, threatening, name calling, etc. When I am confronted with a female partner who is having a hissy fit over something I try to talk it out with her at first. I won’t say reason it out, because I know full well that nine times out of ten reason has nothing to do with the real problem and the subject under discussion is not why she is really unhappy—I have at least learned that much about women down through the years. Many men make the mistake of trying to convince their women one way or the other with reason and logic on the subject of discussion; usually that’s not what the problem is about, and the men end up baffled and hurt because they don’t understand why nothing they say or do seems to make any difference.
Good example: time after time Movement men come to me and bang my ear about their troubles with their wives or girl friends who are giving them grief over their racial involvement, usually with the final ultimatum to choose between them. “Lips that touch racism will never touch mine,” blah, blah, blah.
In most cases, that’s not what it’s about. What it is about is that she senses a rival for your time, effort, money, and affection. It would be the same with anything you were devoted to that intensely: fishing, Establishment politics or a vocation like being a cop (cops have this problem a lot,) an artistic vocation like painting or writing (I get a lot of typewriter jealousy from my ladies,) anything like that. She demands to be the center of your entire existence—and in today’s politically correct world, she has been taught that she has the right to make that demand and that you are at fault if you do not accede to it.
Sorry, I’m getting off the track here again; all of these things are for future installments of what promises to be a long series. Anyway, my marriage to Louise might have survived our personality conflicts, or it might have survived my father’s assorted conspiracies to cheat my children out of their rightful inheritance, but it could not survive both and didn’t. I’ll take about 25% of the blame for the failure of this one—I should never have married her in the first place. Louise needs to take about 25%, and the Prince of Darkness from the cypress swamps needs to take the other half. What was bad about this one is that four innocent children got caught in the crossfire, so yes, when you hear me pontificating about women, bear in mind I have had that experience as well.
Jan from New Zealand I do not propose to discuss; her I loved, and she was taken from me by the evil which I continue to battle to this day in all those e-mails and newsletters which some of you tell me you do not want to hear. All I can say is that while I do not deny my many personal motives in battling the thread of vileness and corruption in the Movement which begins with Benny Klassen and continues down to the present day in the person of a few involved individuals, I do not believe those motivations disqualify me from fighting that vileness or invalidate what I have to say. Because one is personally victimized by evil, does that mean one can never speak out against it because one is not “objective?”
There have been other semi-serious relationships. Judy the Holy Roller was a true Southern lady, but those Jesus freaks did a number on her head you wouldn’t believe, and I am sure some of you have had that happen to you. The Tattooed Lady of Rockwell Hall has become something of a legend, as has Barbara the Drunk who streaked one of Glenn Miller’s rallies. Eileen from Donegal and Mary from Cork were two who got away and I’ll always wonder what might have been. (By the by, as a totally irrelevant aside, I have noticed that when a man is married, all of a sudden other married women start coming on to him. Has anybody else had that experience? Sorry, digressing again.)
In the post-Jan era I’ve slowed down; I have had two more or less casual relationships with female co-workers at my several places of employment and one platonic friendship with a really fine thing in Seattle who was one of those real cases where some bastard first husband beat her black and blue and used her like a doormat, and she couldn’t bear to be touched physically by a man. (I have found that most of these stories gain a lot in the telling, but not all, and don’t have a fit, ladies, I am not claiming that men never abuse women. I know they do.)
For those of you who are just insatiably curious about the physical side of my career as a Lothario, go take a cold shower. I am not Bill Clinton, I am not a locker room jock, I show respect for my ladies and I do not talk about intimate subjects like that. It is my experience that sex is like combat in the military: the more a man boasts about it, the less of it he has actually done. I will give you one hint: it’s the little things that count with women. A single rose is not only less expensive than a whole sheaf, it is more effective, at least with the kind of lady I become involved with.
I do not try to seduce women or get them parked on a lonely lane and start pawing them, nor do I drop my drawers like Bill Clinton and say “Kiss that thang, honey!” My technique, if you want to call it that, is very simple. I take my time. Softlee, softlee, catchee monkey. I listen to them, I become their friends first, I get them to like me as a person, and then I ask. I find it works about 50% of the time. In all of my teenaged and adult life, I have only had one woman blow up on me when I popped the question, which when you consider the readiness of women to fly off the handle over these things, is not doing too shabby, I think. What other technique do you know of that can claim a 50% success rate?
And if it doesn’t work, remember this: a gentleman can always take no for an answer. A man who forces his attentions on a woman after she has clearly indicated that she is not interested is a damned pig.
Some people have asked if I tried to put the moves on Christy at UNC, the one I wrote about in 1996. The answer is no. I honestly believe that it is undignified and unfair for a man of my age to pursue women young enough to be their daughters; obviously our Illustrious Head of State disagrees. Others have asked if the demented Sharon Mooney was ever my girlfriend. The answer is no; I only met her once and it was obvious to me she was so badly mentally and emotionally damaged that she was virtually useless to the Movement; besides, she was too young for me.
The last affair I had was in Chapel Hill where I became involved with a really beautiful Russian woman, a grad student, whom I might add already had her green card and who therefore didn’t need an American husband to get one. Anna seemed amenable to a permanent relationship, although it was always tentative; she made it clear she wanted me to get a normal job and bring in a much bigger buck, which was fair enough from her point of view. She had no qualms about National Socialism, being very Jew-aware herself as most Eastern Europeans are, and one of her major pluses was that we could discuss racial politics freely. She once told me, “Three of my family were killed by the Germans during the war. Over fifty were killed by Stalin.”
[Section redacted per federal court order]
One of the reasons I am so passionate about our Movement changing our ways is so that we can create a kind of subculture or world of our own wherein it is possible for our people to have some kind of normal life. I have got lawsuits, contempt of court warrants, telephone threats, vandalism, whole websites on the internet smearing me, NA weirdos creeping up to my windows at night trying to videotape me naked, phony websites being put up allegedly showing me committing homosexual acts, weird psychotics who have shrines of hate in their homes where they burn candles before my picture and babble to themselves, plus of course what ZOG itself may dish out to me some day when it finds out these tactics do not work. I am as poor as a church mouse, and not being dishonest like Pierce or Metzger there is no chance I will ever be able to offer a woman 345 rolling acres and a Bavarian hunting lodge built on my supporters’ donations. In all good conscience, I cannot ask any woman to share this life and no longer have any intention of doing so.
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I have been asked where the above famous expression “vive la différence” came from. I understand it happened thus:
In the 1890s France was considering giving women the vote, and some famous French feminist whose name I can’t recall was given the honor, almost unique for a woman at that time, of addressing the National Assembly in full session, all male of course, and all of whom sat there attired in their full formal dress suits with the white gloves, wide shoulder sashes, decorations, top hats and other such 1890s politicians’ fripperies. The lady was up on the podium haranguing them with her feminist rap, which was listened to in polite silence. She concluded her speech with “Really, monsieurs, you must acknowledge that when one comes right down to it, there is very little difference between men and women.”
At this remark, the entire Chamber spontaneously rose to its feet as one man, and shouted out, “Vive la différence!”
Men and women are different. Not inherently inferior or superior to one another, but different. To say that one sex is in any way inferior or superior to another is like saying that apples are inferior to oranges or vice versa. They are two different fruits and any such comments are a matter of personal taste and outlook, not scientific or pragmatic fact. To say that an apple is in some way “better” or worse than an orange has no relevance or meaning in the real world.
The differences between men and women are about 20% environmental and psychological, that 20% being subject to a certain limited degree of possible manipulation and alteration but by no means as much so as feminists would like to have us believe, and about 80% biological, physical, and biochemical. It is therefore pointless and absurd to try and create in men and women two “equal” humanoid organisms. It cannot be done.
Men, on the whole, are physically larger and stronger than women. Yes, there are individual exceptions, more so in today’s politically correct culture as White males degenerate into Dilbert-esque cubicle dwellers and women become more masculine in character, which seems to somewhat augment their physical size. One of the most sinister developments in recent years have been several statistical surveys and studies indicating that sedentary American White males are actually losing their virility in the physical as well as the moral sense; White sperm counts have been dropping for almost twenty years. We are becoming less than men in every sense of the word.
But in all non-yuppie, more or less organic societies of all races, men are the larger and stronger. Some of this has to do with diet. In any business or work environment where there are large numbers of illegal aliens, for example, compare the size of Orientals who were born and raised in China or Southeast Asia on nothing but rice and a little fish with the size and weight of Asian-Americans who were born here and grew up on plenty of fruits, grains, vegetables, and good old-fashioned cholesterol-packed meat. Native-born Chinese women especially are tiny things, between seventy and eighty pounds, although actually stronger than native-born White valley girls due to having been forced into manual labor from birth. But most of these exceptions are individual, culture-specific, or otherwise idiosyncratic.
Men are physically bigger and stronger than women because Nature has given human men and women a natural division of labor, one which cannot be repealed by feminism, by affirmative action, or by anything else. That natural division is simple: the man provides the food, the shelter, and the protection from enemies for the family unit. The woman bears and raises the children. This is how human beings are supposed to live; indeed, the only way they can live past a couple of confused and chaotic generations of the kind we are experiencing now. It is innate. It is biological. It cannot be changed, and any attempt to tamper with it produces disaster and destruction, as we are now learning in Politically Correct America.
No baby creatures are more helpless than human infants. Snakes and alligators are self-sufficient from the time they hatch, birds and kittens and puppies are up and functioning and providing their own food in a matter of weeks. Human babies must be fed initially by a mother’s milk for a period of months, and then on specially treated and prepared food for another year or so. They cannot defend themselves or escape from an enemy unaided. Children cannot really live on their own with any hope of survival for the first ten or eleven years of life.
The whole “traditional nuclear family” so hated and railed at by liberals and feminists is an institution ordained by God/gods/Nature/The Force/the Great Pumpkin or whatever to make sure that the human species continues to exist. The primary purpose of the man-woman relationship is to produce children and care for them until they are adult enough to fend for themselves. The emotional and cultural side benefits to marriage are valuable and have produced our whole civilization, but they are in fact incidental by-products of the central process of continuing the human species. The father and the mother are not the most vital part of the picture, although they are essential. The children are.
This arrangement is not unknown in other species, and in all mammals at any rate the male is always larger, stronger, faster, and more combative. In many cases, such as lions and wolves, one alpha male practices polygamy with a number of females and kills off other male competitors until he grows old and weak and is in turn killed off by a younger male. Primitive non-White societies in Africa and the Third World still follow this pattern. Aryans, for the most part, have generally mated for life down through the years; there are some records of polygamy in ancient Aryan cultures but not as many as elsewhere.
The ancient Norse and Germans practiced it, but gave it up about the turn of the last millennium. For good or for ill, once the Aryan race became Christianized, polygamy vanished. (No comments about Mormons, please; they are not typical and their polygamy is not organically rooted in history but in conscious chosen behavior.) One reason for polygamy was extremely high male mortality rates in time of war; an interesting modern example from the Third World is Saddam Hussein awarding large cash bonuses, automobiles, and homes to Iraqi officers who take a widow from the Iranian or American wars as their second or third wife. The Iraqi gene pool has been decimated by the slaughter of almost twenty years of continuous warfare, and Saddam is quite open about his determination to ensure that Iraq is not depopulated. I wish to hell Germany had created some similar kind of polygamy status after both World Wars.
Men and women are two halves of a whole. Neither can or should exist without the other. The idea of two halves of the same organism competing with one another, dominating one another, or existing in enmity with one another is an obvious recipe for destruction. This is why the Jews promote the idea that men are some kind of natural enemy to women, as they promote any and all things which are destructive and poisonous and breed confusion and unhappiness among our people. They hate us and want us all dead, and they use every weapon they can to bring this about, including feminism. Quite simple, really.
Homosexuality is a loathsome perversion. It is absolutely and utterly wrong, because it denies the natural division of labor between man and woman and because it precludes the production of children. The instinctive loathing that the overwhelming majority of normal people feel even today for faggots and dykes is an inner recognition on the part of our genetic makeup (or souls, if you are Christian) that what is going on is unnatural and counter-survival (or sinful).
This is why politically correct brainwashing and social engineering, relatively successful in obtaining a grudging acceptance of mud people as equals, seems largely to have floundered when trying mentally and emotionally to coerce people into accepting the open practice of sodomy. This is especially true when it involves a sodomitic threat to children: Whites are still capable of anger and action when the local school board tries to bring in Heather Has Two Mommies, about the only thing left they will react to. Millions of years of genetic codes triggering biological survival behavior cannot be overwritten by fifty years of Hollywood propaganda or suppressed by hate speech laws.
National Socialism seeks to re-create a world based on natural order, and that most specifically includes, as it did in Germany, a return to what are referred to as traditional family values, with the gainfully employed father as the head of the family and the full-time mother and homemaker as the family’s heart. This does not in any way involve enslaving women; in the very real sense it liberates them from feminism and Judaic values and the true slavery of the marketplace.
The Aryan women of the future will have a freedom which they have all but lost today—the freedom to be real women. What largely Jewish and lesbian feminists want, claim, or advocate is not relevant to anything in the real world. They more than liberals as a whole are doomed to eventual defeat and disappointment, however much they may have achieved a very temporary and very slight, superficial success in the English-speaking world. Feminism is essentially a form of sexual perversion, because it distorts what is natural in the sexual roles of men and women. Feminism, like integration and all forms of liberalism, can only be imposed on both men and women at the point of a gun, literally or economically.
Remove the force of ZOG’s law and the economic necessity for women to work simply to make ends meet and feminism. like racial integration, will die.
