desouled via copious fiat-funded butthex

from butthexers celerbated in teh pages of the weekly standard.

This is the best GBFM I’ve read yet:

Morpheus: We don’t know who butthexed first, us or them. But we do know it was them that videotaped it without our consent while scorching the sky wioth a long trail of butthex lies. At the time, they were dependent on butthex power. It was believed they would be unable to survive without an energy source as abundant as the common man’s collective anushole. lozzllzlzlzzl

…

Trinity: A déjà vu is usually a glitch in the butthexMatrix. It happens when they change something. Now that I am an aging women in the butthex matrix with her eggs and gina drying up having given the best years of her anus to drunk alphas during colleg and getting her mba and blowing upper level mangement lzozllz, the butthexmatrix is now delivering my cats. Two this morning and now two more. yaya! lozlzl

Here we go

From the New York Times

Nine members of a Michigan-based Christian militia group have been indicted on sedition and weapons charges in connection with an alleged plot to murder law enforcement officers in hopes of setting off an antigovernment uprising.

…

The Web site, which describes the group as “preparing for the end times,” featured video clips of people running through woods in camouflage gear and firing assault rifles, along with links to gun stores and far-right media. It also features an elaborate system of military ranks for its members. The site says it coined the term Hutaree, intended to mean Christian warrior.

Yes, they’re all white.

Own the Future

From a post at the Occidental Quarterly:

Recently, I attended an engagement party for a young couple. Both come from homeschool families. The prospective groom comes from a family of eight, and the attendees at the party were largely from the same pool of evangelical homeschoolers. At the table where my wife and I sat, one couple had four children and another couple had nine children, seven girls and two boys. The mother of the nine said to my wife, “I think it’s good for them to have so many siblings and help out with the babies because it helps them develop the sense of self-sacrifice they’ll need to be a good wife and mom.” My wife and I have three children and plan to have at least one more; never would I have thought that my goal of four would sound paltry in any dinner party group.

This, my friends, is the future of Western Civilization; when moms are helping their daughters to develop a sense of “self-sacrifice” to serve their husbands, we have arrived at a total rejection of feminism. These are the only white communities with aggressive birthrates, people who are having children like they own the future. Not mindless breeding like the lower classes, but intelligent, middle class white people intentionally having as many children as they can. The fathers have authority over their children, as most practice courtship, in which any potential suitor must ask permission to spend time with a daughter.

We will be the fathers of nations. A small archipelago of nations in flyover country, but that’ll do.

Quitter in Chief

Early in 2009, I predicted (privately to friends) that Barack Obama would resign before the end of his first term. He and his displayed such incompetence during the transfer of power that the idea was at least plausible, as well as funny. Over the past year, as Obama slathered thick layers of ineptitude on a tall stack of inaptitude, the thought of an early resignation has become less farcical.

Now I see Nicholas Stix over at VDare reporting on a variety of sources suggesting that Obama may give up early. Stix is not sanguine about the prospect, but then he hasn’t given up on the United States yet. Even if this proves to be base speculation, it is still a beautiful thing. The first affirmative action president quitting would be great theater, and what else is the feral government good for?

I can think of only one thing better than Obama resigning, and that is for him to turn out to be a neo-anarchist sleeper who is using the high office intentionally to destroy the trust of Americans in their government.

The solitary yet defiant lives of single women

Via hbdbooks, the poetry editor of The New Republic has defiled every flower by refusing to live for its sake.

Rachel Wetzsteon, a prominent poet

Other employees of The New Republic attended her readings, usually conducted at her favorite deli. It was her only local source of plasticware made solely from recycled materials. She found the brittle knives perfect instruments of her other, more meaningful art, cutting. “She never knew when one would shatter under the pressure required to break her skin,” said her life coach. “Life is unpredictability, and the artist in Rachel craved life.”

whose work was known for its mordant wit, formal elegance and cleareyed examination of the solitary yet defiant lives of single women,

And cats. Many cats. You must not forget about the cats.

was found dead on Monday at her home in Manhattan. She was 42.

As do all poets known for wit, elegance, and cutting, she had finally found the answer to life, the universe, and everything.

Ms. Wetzsteon, who died apparently late on Dec. 24 or early on the 25th, committed suicide, said her mother, Sonja Wetzsteon.

Her body was found merely four days later. Ms. Wetzsteon Sr. explained the early discovery of her daughter’s body: “I had gone to confront her over stealing my boyfriend.”

Widely praised by critics, Ms. Wetzsteon’s work appeared in The New Yorker, The Paris Review, The New Republic, The Nation and elsewhere.

She published her most piquant works at Barnes and Noble in her blood on the bathroom wall.

Hard-edged yet sinuous,

Like a penis.

rich with feeling yet unsentimental,

Like a penis.

Ms. Wetzsteon’s poems have a distinctly urban disposition.

As opposed to the vast majority of the poets eulogized by the New York Times, who led a pastoral existence where trees and flowers didn’t deliberately call them out and go beep in their ear.

By turns angry,

Astonish me.

melancholy,

Like, cutting and Mazzy Star melancholy, or carousel-of-cock melancholy? Both? Okay, right.

hopeful and comic,

“She was no Margaret Cho,” her life coach admitted.

they explore the sensibilities of women as they fall in and out of love.

Ah, the whimsy of whoredom. How incredibly, ineluctably fraught with insight is my well-worn vagina.

The city, in particular the West Side of Manhattan, is seldom far from view.

I was totally going to make a joke about the West Side, before I even saw this bit. Now I feel it would be futile. Like the lives of everyone who doesn’t live there! Ba-da-bing!

Reviewing the collection, Booklist wrote, “A virtuoso of form, she breathes an astonishing amount of life into her crisply composed poems.”

Booklist is easily astonished by solitary, yet defiant single women.

It added, “Chin up, shoulders squared, she dismisses all notion of a panacea, earning our trust as well as our admiration.”

Dear Booklist, please trust and admire Ms. Wetzsteon chin up all the way into a well-tied noose. Square your shoulders as you asphyxiate, while you’re at it.

Rachel Todd Wetzsteon was born in Manhattan on Nov. 25, 1967. (The family name is pronounced “whetstone.”)

Raymond Luxury-Yacht.

Her parents divorced when she was young

All the news that’s fit to report.

Ms. Wetzsteon earned a bachelor’s degree from Yale, a master’s from Johns Hopkins and a Ph.D. from Columbia

Parents take note: these schools gave this woman degrees of various sorts.

She taught for many years at the Unterberg Poetry Center of the 92nd Street Y.

I want to mock this, but it actually raises pity in me. Do not worry, friends, it will pass.

The NYT prints one of her poems in full. My pity passes.

The park admits the wind,

“That’ll be four dollars. Six if you want to swim.”

the petals lift and scatter

like versions of myself I was on the verge

of becoming; and ten years on

A semicolon in the middle of a line, plus an unnecessary conjunction? Were you in Theater in high school? Seriously, it’s not like you were trying to conform to a strict meter or something.

On the upside, Ms. Whetstone has given us a key insight into the mindset of females: “versions of myself I was on the verge of becoming”. Listen, poor sad lady. You want versions of yourself? Try having children.

and ten blocks down I still can’t tell

Provincial.

whether this dispersal resembles

a fist unclenching or waving goodbye.

Fisting, there’s your problem.

But the petals scatter faster,

seeking the rose, the cigarette vendor

I would pay money to see William Shatner recite this.

and at least I’ve got by pumping heart

some rules of conduct: refuse to choose

between turning pages and turning heads

Girl-power.

though the stubborn dine alone. Get over

“getting over”: dark clouds don’t fade

but drift with ever deeper colors.

Give up on rooted happiness

(the stolid trees on fire!) and sweet reprieve

(a poor park but my own) will follow.

Abandon hope, all ye who enter here.

There is still a chance the empty gazebo

will draw crowds from the greater world.

And meanwhile, meanwhile’s far from nothing:

the humming moment, the rustle of cherry trees.

I love the smell of despair in the morning. Smells like victory.

Neal Stephenson, prophet

Re-reading Snow Crash recently creeped me out. When I first read it, I thought the idea of American civilization breaking down into franchises (Cosa Nostra, Narcolombia, Mr. Lee’s Greater Hong Kong, etc.) was implausible and, er, outlandish. Now it feels inevitable.

Tonight I read about this new tweed + cycling trend. Admittedly, this is a bit more frivolous of an origin for the Neo-Victorians than is suggested by The Diamond Age, but Mencius Moldberg points out the revolutionary significance:

why are ultra-British Victorian and Edwardian fashions fashionable, suddenly, in 2009? Does it have anything to do with Barack Obama? And will it last? Who the hell knows. I am anything but a trendologist. Here, however, is my theory.

My theory is that these eras are in fashion because they are edgy. They are dangerous. Every man and woman in the pictures you see is under 40 and went to an American or European college. In this so-called place of education, they were instructed that the eras which produced these clothing styles were evil.

Moreover, the most evil people in this era were rich white people – the people who wore tweed. People such as Edward VII. That’s quite a difference, n’est ce pas? Barack Obama, and Edward VII? Nobody thinks this, I’m sure. The subconscious is quite sufficient.

Thus, the tweed craze is that most commonplace of youth phenomena – symbolic rebellion. Tweed culture is a lot like the swing movement in Nazi Germany – a relatively subtle denial of authority, delivered as a coded fashion message. Just as there could not possibly be any respect between the Hitler Youth thug and the Swing Kid, there cannot possibly be any respect between the Tweed Rider and the granola-munching hippie with whitey dreads. Culturally, this is war.

Of course, tweed is a harmless fashion statement. But you know: if a nigga has spent his entire Saturday trying to look like Sir Henry Maine, dress like Sir Henry Maine, talk like Sir Henry Maine, and act like Sir Henry Maine, how hard can it be to get him to read Sir Henry Maine? That’s what I’m saying: a prerevolutionary condition. (Or rather, a prereactionary one.)

Hear me, O Stephenson, I await with eagerness the establishment of the Indonesian data haven and bank, as per your word in Cryptonomicon.

The 20th Century is finally over

Mencius Moldbug comments on the climate data muckery:

[I]t may well be that Climategate turns out to be a good endpoint for another era that needs an end: the 20th century. Just as “the sixties” are really the period from 1966 through 1974, or something like that, it is commonplace to date the historical 19th century from either 1815, 1789 or 1776 to 1914. If we follow this convention, we can say that the 20th century, as a political era, lasted from June 28, 1914 to November 19, 2009. And I’m going to go out on another big limb here and hope that, as a political era, it will not be missed.

A piece of brilliant analysis:

Does Mike know he is fudging the numbers? Of course he knows he is fudging the numbers. He probably drove 65 on his way to the office, too. In his mind, Mike is removing a confusing red herring in order to present a deeper, more accurate truth. If – as with the deleted emails – he knows he is breaking the law, he exhibits mens rea, he thinks of it almost as an act of civil disobedience. He is mis-crossing a T or two, in order to save the planet. The only difference between him and Martin Luther King is that it was useful to the civil-rights movement for Dr. King to get arrested, whereas it is more useful to the Earth for Dr. Mann not to get arrested. Therefore, the former disobeyed publicly; the latter, surreptitiously. Todo por la causa.

Thus the resistance to this unbelievable, impertinent “auditing” campaign. There is a simple reason why the Manns and Joneses of the world believe that they are oppressed by an evil conspiracy, fomented by the sinister carbon barons. They are actually being charitable. The only alternative of which they can conceive is that McIntyre and these other awful people are not merely corrupt, but just plain evil.

Because the price of crossing the T’s and dotting the I’s is the price of not saving the planet. It is the price of helping the people who want to destroy the planet. The idea that all these people, obviously bright people, would spontaneously come together all over the Internet, just for the purpose of advancing evil, is a vision simply too dark to contemplate. Therefore, it is best to assume that all these people are simply shills and lobbyists. As many of them obviously are!

Alcohol, Tobacco, and Firearms (though not in that order)

Saturday, with Tony and his son, alone on a federal government firing range. Evil Black Rifle fired for the first time. Also 12 gauge birdshot, 20 gauge slug (my shoulder is bruised). 9mm pistols. Tony’s the range boss: no rapid fire rule. His .308, his Mini 14, a semi-auto .22 rifle. The boy comparing the security fences of different prisons his father has worked at. Burgers on me. Cleaning my guns alone in my workshop, clumsy and inexperienced.

Brother in law visiting, Padron 2000 and Dewars 12. Thankfulness, new house, large yard. Seeing our wives’ body language through the window. They in the light, standing across the kitchen, tense postures. We in the dark on the porch, my cigar burning unevenly. I talk too much, but for the first time, Clay matches me. He’s deeper, more thoughtful than I ever knew. Quantum physics and God. Tipler: Physics of Christianity. He gives me a first edition of Snow Crash, because I gave him a ratty paperback of Cryptonomicon.

Cold in short sleeves, but I don’t want to go in; sisters are still at odds. Bottle’s empty, what else to drink? Now we have to dive in. Slumming with cheap rye, but warm in fleece. What is the Kingdom? What makes a church? What is Man, that we don’t mind being him?

3 a.m., and the sisters have been down for some time. Mine’s in my bed with our new boy. He fell asleep while she nursed, and she must have, too. They’re both sleeping slack-mouthed.

Thank you, Lord, for the pleasures of this world. Prepare me for the work to be done in the next one.

My AR-15 vs. my neighbor’s wife’s family

I live across the street from a guy, a few years older, who works for a federal prison. We just moved here, so I don’t know him well, yet. We’ve talked a good bit, are on the same side of the important things that neighbors are allowed to talk about. I talk freely about the inevitable secession at all times and to all people, so that should give you an idea of my sense of boundaries. “Tony” can get access to the prison’s firing range (they have one? awesome and yet frightening), and we’ve been trying to find a time to get out there and play with our respective arrays of weaponry. Tony’s a great guy, from what I can tell, and he has a wife who looks like she could be the same age as their daughter. The week we moved here, the mother and daughter came over to meet us and I thought they were both teenagers, until she took off her sunglasses. Sweet deal for Tony.

It transpires that I have an AR-15 I’ve never fired. Bought it a month after Prince Barry was elected. The pistol and shotgun purchased the Friday after the election somehow didn’t feel like enough. My local shop/range was completely out of Evil Black Rifles from the time of the election until 2009, except for the one day I came in to practice with the pistol and they’d just gotten a reworked AR-15 with an A1 upper back from the gunsmith. The price was high for 2007, low for 2009, and just right for me. I vowed not to fire it until I knew how to field-strip and reassemble it, because Real Men Know How to Take Care of Their Tools.

I still haven’t learned how to clean and reassemble, which means that at least one eleven year old girl is better than me, but I’ve decided I get to fire it anyway. Stupid vow is stupid. Tony, as an agent of The Man, gets ridiculous amounts of PTO, so he’s off this entire week. We planned on going to shoot on Friday or Saturday, depending on my willingness to ditch the wife to care for the three-week old boy and three older hooligans. Tonight, I pulled out the rifle and unloaded and reloaded the magazines to give the springs a break. Then I called Tony and said I MUST GO tomorrow.

Tony said, “We definitely need to shoot this weekend, but tomorrow I’m going to my wife’s [relative's] place. That just got sprung on me.” Now, Tony is obviously an alpha in many senses of alphaness. He knows engines, works in a prison (as something respectable, not as a turnkey), looks like a saner, less tattooed version of Henry Rollins. But his wife tells him what to do, too! I wanted to say, “Fuck that, tell her you need to get in shape for the revolution.” Actually, I only thought of saying that a few minutes before I started typing this post. I probably would edit that before saying it to him, anyway, because we’re all Christians.

No matter. Tony has, I think, a good sense of balance between what he wills to do and the requests his wife makes of him. She gives every appearance of being a submissive, Godly, late-thirties hottie. Saturday, Tony and I and his 11-year old son will arrive at the prison’s firing range with pistols, shotguns, and rifles, and we will commence to make a mighty racket. May the powers that be hear us, and tremble.

56 Proof Evil

Asked if everyone should be required to have at least some health insurance, 67 percent agreed and 27 percent said no.

The responses flipped when people were asked about requiring everybody to carry insurance or face a federal penalty: 64 percent said they would be opposed, while 28 percent favored that.

Americans, twenty eight percent of your fellow citizens believe you should go to prison for refusing to carry medical insurance. Who is lobbying for this? More importantly, where is the lynch mob armed with rails, tar, and feathers?

An argument for “social conservatives”

• Mankind is fallen.
• Men are not more wicked than women. We are both equally sinful.
• Humans avoid widespread depravity by constraining behavior. Where society does not provide constraints, the human lets it all hang out.
• Constraints may be social or legal.
• In our society there are now no effective constraints on the behavior of women.
• The constraints on men have been slowly increasing

Another Reason to Stop Immigration Now

12 to 24-year-old Hispanic males are the quintessence of the modern movie market

…

Variety reports that particular favorites with the Hispanic audience include The Mummy series, Transformers, the Jackie Chan-Jet Li fantasy actioner The Forbidden Kingdom, The Incredible Hulk, and, yes, Beverly Hills Chihuahua.

In case you needed more reasons.