A life of relative seclusion, dimly masked by the outward pretensions of civility, sometimes culled from a heartfelt desire to belong, yet held in check by the self-consciousness of one’s being an outsider who barely trusts himself to overstep the almost invisible chalk-lines that shift subtly at variance with a playing field upon which those who sport themselves daily and who accept the unseen without question, is a life lived more intensely by pretending that somehow this is all a game show – an elaborate joke awaiting an exquisitely hilarious punch line.
It happened within three days. Or less. Maybe an hour.
Down at the local Kneiper and in the street, nobody in the semi-rural town within which I live, an outpost of 17th century Huguenot dissent that sidles intimately like a coquettish and perennially disappointed lover against the sharply inclined and narrow Dillinger Steeps, which invite all but the frailest of thigh toward the teasingly high peaks of the Taunus Mountain Range with the promise of wolf packs and snow, speaks of “Global Warming” anymore. Suddenly, “Climate Change” became the new buzzword.
It wasn’t a local phenomenon. I noticed that the British media – yes, such trash is freely available outside of that Septic Isle — easily the most susceptible to treasonous Fabian-socialist dictates, was screaming the new mantra from every headline. The execrable, Zionist shrill rag ‘The Guardian,’ now without any relevance or meaning in a Britain devoid of astute and patriotic intellectuals, was the first to haze its readership with the neuro-linguistic programming with which it was inculcated ever since its foundation and subsequent tutelage under the sinister, MI6-run Tavistock Institute.
How I despise that newspaper. Never before in the history of British reportage have so many prostitutes to the Parasitic Elites gathered under one roof and called themselves “journalists.” From the haughty and arrogant Andrew Norton-Taylor, an MI6 asset (ostensibly a whistleblower), to the overpaid and semi-literate Polly Toynbee, the foul nestling of one of England’s most cunning, treacherous, Freemasonic, Marxist traitors fronted by the ‘The Guardian,’ famous for employing trendy international socialists whose command of the English language is on a par with the ineptitude of Jewish terrorists imitating British citizens, these anal-retentive receptacles of unyieldingly stiff penetrative lies have, for decades, poisoned the minds of the British people with their Acquired Insider Disinformation Syndrome.
Whenever I read that newspaper sales – thanks to the Internet – are falling dramatically in Britain, I must admit to a certain degree of compassion for the supinely gutless little mommy’s boys and daddy’s girls, who, by means of their sheer lack of talent and by dint of either familial political connections or their once having played the mouth-organ on the pet snake of a comely newspaper owner in a turn-of-the-century public toilet in Hampstead, must now compete with folks such as you and I. Bloggers, empowered citizens, real writers.
No wonder their lies are becoming more sensational and all the less plausible. Their levels of ludicrousness, however, which are abroad and widely disseminated by the equally dim-witted German press, are flagged by the ‘mainline’ media giving Six-Paxil Joe his daily shot of pharmaceutical Crackle ‘n Pops in the hope of persuading vanishing advertisers to drop by and place a few coins in the “Save The Ass For Hire” fund.
“Testicular Warming” is now something we are persuaded to buy as “Underwear Change.” Germany’s most popular daily newspaper, the ‘Bild-Zeitung,’ is claiming that male infertility can now be accounted for in terms of men either over-insulating their gonads, wearing the proportionately wrong mixture of cottons and acrylic fibres, or not changing their underwear more than five times a week. They’re demanding more exposure.
I’m one of those men who, despite his having reached the decrepitly morbid age of 50, rather takes fright at anything that suggests I may still be less of the man I thought I was simply because I trusted my mother’s underwear advice, and, by ‘extension’, the integrity of my male organ and its ability to spawn at least one thousand Guardian journalists (knowing that at least one of them may be able to write). I was always kind of sneaky with skid-marks; far too ashamed to allow my mother to inspect them closely (I always had a creepy feeling they would end up as close-range snapshots in the Family Album to be shown to future girlfriends or wives).
Unlike my brother, I always bathed in my underwear, scrubbed the offending stains with lavender soap, and allowed them to dry in the utility room before casually (and with a proud smirk) tossing them into the laundry basket. I always made a point of inscribing on my Y-fronts, in indelible biro, my name ‘Mick’ or ‘Mike’, lest my mother find something less pleasantly scented, which could only be ascribed to my brother. There were lots of accusing fingers in my family; but at least mine were pointed with an unsoiled righteousness at those who deserved upbraiding for their unhygienic ways.
Of course, I was a Cub Scout. A Sixer too. I did my duty to God and to the Queen, although it was never fully explained to me exactly what those duties were. I knew, or suspected, it had something to do with helping old ladies cross the road, even when they resisted violently and had to be carried or dragged by the hair across to the other side of the curb kicking and screaming.
I kept my lads spick and span: the only bane of my honourable and highly-esteemed position being that my knock-kneed and dishevelled brother, who lived only for chocolate and sherbet-through-a-straw, was a member of my pack. I’m glad Akela never inspected our underwear, otherwise my kid brother would have most certainly deprived me of the Wolf Medal I rightfully won in 1970 as the year’s Best Sixer.
Fortunately, none of us suffered from “Testicular Warming,” now re-named by the Guardianistas of this world as “Underwear Change.” I doubt for not one moment that the Soviet European Elites, with nothing better to do than allow for the wholesale Goldman-Sachs’ Zionist takeover of Greece, Portugal and Spain, will connive at some kind of Eco-Fascist “Cap-and-Trade” tax on folks who are allowing their ragingly warm testicles to aggravate our blisteringly warm winter conditions. Will it become mandatory to wear your prickly pears on the outside?
After all, why should you object if you have nothing to hide? Nobody wants to be labelled an “underwear terrorist.”
Whatever they propose here, the Germans will accept it. If the government in Berlin (a province of Tel Aviv), vigilant in closing down much-needed coal-faces and nuclear power stations while squandering millions of tax-euros on solar energy systems dependent upon a sun invisible behind a white haze of heavily chemtrailed skies, encounters sly little pockets of resistance, all they have to do is accuse those who choose to protect their nuts from the elements as “anti-Semites.”
As many of my readers know, I have been labelled as such ever since I wrote my first article defending Ernst Zündel in 2005, notwithstanding the fact that practically no Jew today can describe himself as a true-blooded Semite. Only Arabs are Semites. I like Arabs. They’re not the kind of folks who happily whip out their balls by government decree, although many are known to have had them surgically removed by Kleptomaniac doctors working for the highly ethical Israeli Defence Force.
If you think that what I’m saying is beyond all measure of what anyone can imagine as being even vaguely acceptable, would you not be surprised to learn that I live in a country that fines and imprisons for up to five years men and women who ask simple questions about what the government defines as “incontestable history”?
I live in an insane country, governed by insane people who legislate and enforce insane laws.
“Welcome to the Zionist Federal Republic of Germany, dear tourist. We wish you a pleasant and hospitable stay. Please ensure that, in the interests of preventing another holocaust on account of ‘Testicular Warming’ and ‘Underwear Change’, you Shoah your testicles and make them visible at all times.”
Don’t argue with the German government. You may exercise freedom of speech and think whatever you want. Just count to six million very, very, very slowly once you’ve shown them you’ve got the balls to agree with them.
Michael James, an English patriot, is a blacklisted former freelance journalist resident in Zionist-occupied Germany since 1992 with additional long-haul stays in East Africa, Poland and Switzerland. He advocates a Leaderless Resistance to destroy the Soviet European Union and is surreptitiously working towards a free and independent England.