By Mike James in Germany – 22 January 2011
So you sit there in front of your flat-screen plug-in-drug and angrily chomp your way through microwaveable food manufactured for pigs by anti-humans. They’ll tell you this and that. And you believe them because they all look so cute. The Sunshine Girl with the Pan-Am smile your wife lost the day after you married. She always gets the weather right. The grey eminence whose expert take on economic affairs you would trust with your own life, if only you had one.
Cut to the commercial break. Happy-happy time. Jingle-Jangle, La-La land.
“God, that could be me, if only. Boy, does that kid eating genetically-modified milk chocolate make me cry when he loses his heart to the one girl he truly loves? The cat in the tree. How the neighbours rally to support that kindly first-responder. It’s all so sad, a real tear-jerker. I want to buy that insurance scheme. I feel so warm, so fuzzy. I really wanna cry. Where are my meds?”
It’s the American Dream. It’s a phantasmagoria of the world you know and love, with all of its cleverly scripted certainties, Hollywood twists, suspenseful story-lines, happy endings. You may even be British, German, French or Italian. It doesn’t matter. You’re all Zionist Americans now. This is the reality within which you have chosen to live. This is your world.
There are things out there. Bad things. The man on the TV tells you about them. You know he’s telling the truth because he has a 600-dollar haircut and that earnest glint in his eyes. He always pauses for added emphasis.
The bad things worry you and your doctor says, “Take this.” So you do. And the bad things go away for a while, but then the stuff your quack gave you makes the bad things seem even worse. So you get a refill, extra-strength.
Now you’re happy again.
“Heck, them folks are killin’ themselves out there. Our boys gonnna whip their assess. Sand-niggers. They ain’t got shit on us. Gimme a doughnut; make it extra large. Make it with two eggs, Momma. Yes, Siree, no son-of-a-bitch gonna screw with us. Not in my basement.
You see, I get to make all the decisions around here. I choose to watch any channel I wish. I am the King of the Armchair. I don’t like what I’m seeing? Hell, no problem. I can change my reality at the flick of a switch. I want my Rush, my Tea Party, my Palin. I want action stuff. I want fightin’ talk!
You know, what we need right now is action. Take America back. Let’s kick those bums outta Washington. The new guys will be different: they’ll make everything kind of cute and cool and candy sweet. Like it happened before. I think. Not sure, but I think we did. Maybe.
I gotta a gun.
Nobody ain’t ever gonna fuck with me. You know what I’m saying, buddy? Tread on my express takeaway and you have a whole heap of trouble coming your way. I got rights. Don’t know what they are, but some wise-guys wrote it all out for me a long time ago, and what they say is just fine with me. It’s in the constertooshoon. Or whatever.
I gotta a nuke.
You mess with me, and I got one aching, angry shit of an itchy finger. I’m sitting in my armchair, and I’m getting kinda mad. Those Iranians look real mean to me. The Chinese got it coming. I like their cheap shit but they got fat faces and smile too much for my liking. They gotta be commies. Gimme cheaper stuff or we gonna nuke your fat faces. Commies always have fat faces. Or run around yelling “Napalm!”
We got traitors running our country. We’re gonna take ‘em out, you bet. Just after “American Idol”. And the Super Bowl. That’s the clincher. My side loses, and you’re gonna see a revolution. Bush or whatever his name. Yeah, that Obama guy. Or is it Clinton? What the hell do I know?
You see all that Eurotrash burning cars, rioting in the streets? Pussies. All they got is bricks, and fists, and molotov cocktails, and baseball bats, and a whole lot of yelling.
But I gotta gun.
I’m safe here, in my armchair. They ain’t never gonna come for me. Nobody ain’t ever gonna mess with a real American patriot. We’re ready. I gotta a pizza in the microwave just in case. Triple cheese.
My best buddy’s got a real deep bunker. No fat-faced commie Chinaman gonna find us unless they sell us cheaper crap, and it better be for real, like bulk-buying for cents on the sweat of those communist kids they got sleeping under tables. They hate our freedoms.
I gotta a dollar.
Take a close look at my dollar, Pal: ‘In God We Trust.’ You telling me that ain’t worth shit, then you’re a god-damned atheist and I’m gonna fill your head full of lead. You don’t believe me? We can pump out more dollars by the hour than those sand-niggers pump out anti-Semitic kids in a day.
We own ‘em. We got some guys up there in the Fed, and they print this stuff faster than you can say the fastest thing that comes into your head, which is going to be a slug, my side. And I’ll be right in your face if you tread on my Doritos. Yeah, them Jewish boys take good care of us. See, God blesses those who bless the guys at the Fed.
They gonna take my house away. Some sort of commie mortgage scam. You think I care? Hell, no! I’m a patriot.
I gotta a buddy.
We’re gonna hold out there and fight those commie Chinese banksters. No Eurotrash gonna take my house. You think I can’t get off of my armchair and fight for my constitutional rights? Well, you ain’t seen nothing once I get my refill. My doc’s got me on ultra-strength soon and then you’ll see an Army of One. Yep, me, my basement, my Doritos, Facebook, a few slurpies, my buddy and a whole load of assault rifles I cut out of a picture magazine my mom gave me.
I got Palin. She’s one spunky lady. Gonna spank Obama’s scrawny little butt.
They gonna close my factory and I lose my job. Off-shoring, they call it. They’ve said I’m gonna have to take welfare. Let me tell you something, you retard. This American ain’t no welfare queen. You wanna see me starve? You gotta a big surprise coming right up your big shiny ass. I’ll take you for your last nickel and dime. You gotta problem? Yep, that’s me, one pissed American.
I gotta a gun, and a nuke, and a basement buddy, and a navy, and the best fighter air-force in the world. I’m on Facebook. You don’t screw with me on Facebook.
So if you take my house and you take my job and you take my pizza, which ain’t ready yet, you know what’s going to grind your balls to mincemeat? Well them boys at the Fed have news for you, buster. You’re gonna fry. I don’t care if you’re China commies or Eurotrash: we’re gonna melt the goddam skin off your skinny asses until you give us more cheap stuff and quit fucking with the almighty American economy and those Jewish folks. Cuz their God is our God, and he’s really pissed. And when he’s pissed, he does lots of mean stuff, like kill all first-born commies and Eurotrash and Nazis and sand-niggers.
Now, what do you say? You gonna hire a forklift truck and help lift me off of this armchair where I’ve spent the last ten years of my life so I can look you square in the face, or you gonna let me sit here and spend the next two decades jerking off to that Pan-Am weather girl?
It’s your shout, buddy. I guess you ain’t brave enough to even put extra chilli on my pizza.
And you call yourself a man?”
Michael James, an English republican 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 prays for a free and independent England, shorn of all alliances with the EU, UK, NATO, the UN, WTO, IMF, Israel and any other treacherous international cabal or entity.