I never wanted to come down. Every once in a while someone starts an election day memories thread on the old Mongolian throat-singing forum, and its always worth a read. Just for the good feels. I'm under no illusions about the ability of the Trump administration to unfuck my homeland. No one who is serious about saving Western Civilization believes that we are going to democracy our way out of this mess, and it may very well be that Trump is the final but hilarious punctuation mark on the Empire of the United States. But I'm still smiling about it.
Where were you on that day, anon?
I was watching in utter awe as one man punched several generations of emotionally stunted losers in the face over and over and over and over. He's been doing it since election day and he shows no signs of stopping. What are these people going to look like after four, possibly eight, years of getting punched in the face non-stop by a strawberry blonde comb-over with a weird tan?
Its like what Michael Moore said, about Joe Blow and Billy Blow and Billy Bob Blow blowing up the whole damn system. Have you ever been out to the country? I mean as a real guest, with people you know and get to interact with, not just as the passenger in a car heading from one urban tumor to the next. Because I have. There are a whole bunch of people I know who get down on themselves because they're urbanites or suburbanites and they live in an environment that spawns an unending wave of human fucking garbage. And they see no end to it, and they spend their days bitching among themselves about the coin clutchers. I feel a little bad for them, and I feel the same impulse that they feel in their incessant crusade to inform people about the malfeasance of a certain tribe of volcano demon worshipers - the impulse to grab them by their eyelids and force them to see what I see. Whether I succeed remains to be seen. I burn less calories with each subsequent attempt, so don't hold your breath.
Out there, out in the sticks, is Heritage America. Real, live Amerikaners. And it is simultaneously the most beautiful thing, and the saddest thing you will ever see. You have to force yourself to not see the accoutrements of globalism to see it. Forget the shuttered factories and the rust, the shitty cars and the tired looks on young men's faces. Try not to flinch at the divorce, the alcoholism, the drug abuse, or the suicides. Especially the suicides. Those ones always haunt me. Its almost always men, and its the young ones that hit hardest. Sister came home to find his body hanging. Friend dropped by and he was on the floor with a massive exit wound in his skull. They found his body in his car, down by the river. Et fucking cetera. Despite the natural compulsion to come running when a girl starts crying, female suicide is comparatively rare. They seldom graduate from ideation to action, and maybe that's because people pay attention when girls cry. Roissy's eggs are expensive, sperm is cheap, maybe.
And when you tally all of that up, every punch to the face and kick to the groin that globalism savagely launched on Heritage America, suddenly the feral rage that propelled Trump into the highest office starts to make a lot more sense. Because it's not just the things that I listed. It's not just the shuttered factories and the rust and the substance abuse and all the other material evils you get tired of counting. It's the abuse that rural America receives from their urbanite co-nationals. Fly-over country. Voting against your economic interests. Dumbfuckistan. Your vote was a hate crime. Et cetera, ad nauseam. Its no secret that the city hates the country, but the why is for another time. Country folk are well aware, and even though they tend to be uneducated, that is by no means related to how smart or stupid, clever or dumb they may or may not be. It speaks volumes about Hindu eschatology that the most educated today tend to also be the most vapid, uninformed, childish and ignorant. Furthermore, a non-trivial percentage of ruralite men are itching for war. Someday, anon, they may very well wall off the cities and torch the whole of it, a crude but passable emergency surgery to excise a cancerous growth that threatens to choke them off for good. I can't say I'd shed any tears for the people I know who would meet such a fate.
There's beauty out there too, after you peel away the layers of shit dropped on Heritage America from on high, where their bourgeois urbanite cousins LARP as a sort of demented caricature of an aristocracy, only inverted. When I go out there I see pregnant women, young families, laughing children. People know each other, talk to their neighbors, form healthy communities that are actually connected by blood and by soil, even if they don't have the hifalutin reactionary rhetoric to describe what exactly it is that they build. They just do, and it's a remarkable thing. Once, in high school, a teacher whom I remember particularly fondly brought us outside to the parking lot for an exercise in creative writing. Way in the back, poking out of the recently re-tarred asphalt, a white flower pushed itself out of the pavement, spreading it's petals to the burning glory of the sun. When I go out to the country, I think of that flower.
Like how the ancient regime of Feudalism accidentally shoved Europeans through a thousand year eugenics program, the silver lining of the modern era is that modernity selects against those most predisposed to the excesses of the modern world. On a long enough timeline, the cancer of Progressive Idealism is a problem that solves itself. We may not live to see such a timeline, and the feckless idiots who conspire to dethrone the God Emperor may yet have their way. As shortsighted as the policies of globalism and mass immigration have proven to be, nothing yet will compare to the white hot rage the establishment would unleash if they succeed in undermining Trump. And so be it! May we at least die standing, if we're doomed to fall.
But come what may, I'll never come down.