Archive for July, 2011


July 29, 2011

He had more power than he ever used.  Men respected him.  Women were crazy about him for reasons that women are attracted to dinner dress whites, a 100 watt smile, stellar intellect, dash, guts, balls, flawless enunciation and The Red Badge of Courage.

He predictably riled the ire of lesser men who coveted his throne.  He stood firm.  He was an Oak.  The converse of Marxism with a woman on his arm to knock ‘um dead.  Oh how they hated him.

So they picked him off and wrote lies about him.  Women came out of the woodwork who supposedly were his numerous lovers.  Claiming they visited him at the White House for sex, sex and more sex.  Yeah right.  Why would a man with filet mignon at home send out for hot dogs?

Not that his appeal to women should bear on his ability to lead our nation.  He wrote, like most intellectuals, feverishly in his diaries about what he thought.  He did his own thinking.  With a great fear of God.  My kind o’ boy.

Here’s a taste of what he thought:



July 6, 2011

Two months after Vanessa Redgrave went public with her 2009 condemnation of the Gaza blitzkrieg, her daughter got suddenly dead.  I cannot help but notice the linear proximity of these two events.

Redgrave groped for hedges during her speech that might lessen the blow of her opinion, but the feedback from her audience was ominous.  Then in March, Redgrave’s daughter, Natasha Richardson, took an ordinary spill on the easy side of Mont Tremblant — that later got fatal.

Richardson’s fall was routine, predictable and indeed expected.  Observers reported that it looked altogether normal.  Hardly anybody wears crash helmets on the ski slopes.  You can break a leg up there.  But powder slopes are not likely places for head injuries like the one that was blamed for Richardson’s death.

Observers said that Richardson exhibited no signs of injury after what looked like a routine fall.  She was lucid and apparently in good shape.  Yet “authorities” appeared who spirited her away from the scene.  Not long afterwards, back at her quarters, she began to suffer a headache.  The clinical details are, of course, a murky mystery.   How does one bang his head in the snow, Mr. Coroner?

There are sports that merit crash helmets.  But skiing isn’t one of them.  Surf board and water ski wipe-outs hit harder than snow.  Skateboards, roller-blades and skates are done on pavement and other hard surfaces.  Who wears crash helmets while figure skating on the ice?   So the crash helmet mania on Mont Tremblant after Richardson’s death was asinine.  And all the ski boys know it.

Adding insult to grief is the New York Times.  The House of Sir Michael Redgrave draws unsurprising fire. Redgraves are English thespian royalty who know how to roll an “R” on a Shakespeare stage.  To see how much they are despised by the anti-Christian gang, all you have to do is read this article.

You will note that any public figure they hate is depicted in unflattering photos, accused of being gay or bisexual (their standard slam for men) and becomes the target of character assassination.  Wikipedia is a good meter for this.

And the NY Times is a bolshevik hate meter.  Their articles are written or “over-written” by them.  Unless you’re one of them or a token toady, they won’t let you write on campus either.  Let’s call a spade a spade.  Today’s bolshevik is the “bolshoy mott” of haters.  His signature points to him in all media.

Let me digress a bit.  His Marxist buzz-words pepper song lyrics of  the top 40.  Because he owns the record companies and edits the songs.  But of course.  Catchy pop jingles and hooks that send the Marxist message of “Babylon Now” to the young and impressionable.  And to any old fool who wants to be hip.

The Trotskyite Bolshevik has been at it for decades spreading his contagion of sex & drugs, racial strife and gangster glory.  Who hasn’t banged their head to AC/DC, Judas Priest and Van Halen Van Halen?  How can anyone resist the marrow-scrambling bass thump of Biggy Smalls?  That’s a hook.  Some of the “music” they throw at our kids today is like the first injection of heroin.  Once they are hooked, the lyrics serve as hypnosis.  Ramones?  “Beat on the brat with a baseball bat…”   “I wanna be sedated.”  Joey, what do you wanna be now?

It’s simple.  You know it’s a bolshevik when they accuse people of their own crimes.  They will commit acts of atrocity and point the finger at whom they hate.  Classic bolshevik m.o.  Like 9/11, the USS LIBERTY’s botched false-flagger and myriad other hate crimes of theirs.  The list is long and glaring.  And written in the sky.  Boy do these jokers need to fry.

Their own Nuremberg gallows are too good for them.  The “executions” should be public for all the world to see.  Long rows of electric chairs.  One crackling fry-hi.  Unison jolt of justice.

If you pissum off, they don’t kill you unless you’re the President or Czar.  They call that “assassination.”  They pick off intelligentsia and Christian/Muslim leadership so the masses will be headless.  This has catalyzed their takeovers in the past.

For maverick elements bringing truth to the people (journalists, publishers, historians, photographers, videographers, writers, news editors) they instead kill somebody they think you love.  In the case of childless journalists, for example, they kill their cat — or perhaps their dog.  They would kill a child’s pet frog.

So I digress.  Back to the house of Redgrave, yes.

English thespians.  A Bolshevik despises them.  Like he despises the Christian Monarchy.  Fancying himself an actor, he smears whom he cannot emulate, seething in his envy.  Shakespeare wrote those plays, so he hates the Bard like he hates Mozart.  And claims some guy by the name of Marlowe wrote them.  He slithers through the crowd, spreading bogus rumours, slander and venom.  He despises King James because he’s got the Bible named after him — so he calls him “gay.”

Isn’t it funny how Bolsheviks use the same label to smear that they promote — like — gay?  For example, they are quick to call Christian and Muslim women whores whilst advancing whoredom the world over.  Like it’s the new chic.  Wikipedia is a veritable bordello “how-to.”

This is their signature.  Their fruit.  And by it you shall know them.

They are organised crime.  Haters who write song lyrics condemning “haters.”  And academics who sing praises of certain Romantic poets because they were callow atheists and sexual free-stylers.  Natasha Richardson played Mary Godwin in Gothic to punctuate my point.

Of course they would sing the praises of Shelley.  Let me digress a bit more.  He was a wild  stallion who touted atheism, “kicking up the sod e’er a step he drew in.”  He was a blood horse, but a useful one, in that they could sully his caste by Shelley’s bahaviour while serving their Marxist ends.

Lined up on the shelves of academe, one can read his fill of bolshevik books on Shelley.  They latched on to his lackadaisical gallop with a zeal.  Hang on for the ride.  Here’s a tool we can use to lead young women and Christians astray, defile the marriage bed, wreck the family, lay waste to God’s Law all under the guise of “Shelley the feminist-moralist.”

Shelley was a dallying philanderer who liked bedding teenage girls.  A playful baronet with time and Daddy’s money on his hands.  His Marxist biographers capitalized on his vegetarianism like they capitalized on Linda Eastman’s.  But on her dying day she was hoping for a self-imagined dream land with her Appaloosa.  One fostered by the lame gibberish of the New Age movement.  I wonder what kind of “Elysium” Shelley was hoping for as he clung to the mast of his sinking boat?  Aye, tenderfoot, and the Hindu hopes for reincarnation.  How can we believe what to us has not been proven?  Then ask yourself how some of us believe what we believe.

Does somebody know something that you don’t know?  Imagine that, Mr. Team Player.  Even Shelley wrote “a man can only believe what he believes.”  In other words, man must be made a believer through epiphany, enlightenment or spiritual awakening.  Else he is only mouthing lip-service.  The Saints have a phrase for it.  They call it “an Act of God.”  Acts of God make believers of men.  Such men wrote the Bible and Qur’an.

Shelley, Byron and Godwin’s mishmash of weird household was fertile Marxist loam, however.  This is proven by how many other take-offs on “the summer of 1816” hedonist Hollywood has put on the streets.  Lame, lame and all the same.  Mr. Passer, how could you?

Godwin’s odd wife, Mary Wollstonecraft, became their poster girl for feminist ideology.  They shove her hard in academe because she is one of the few women with stuff in print who fits their “buck marriage and wreck the family” mold.

Shelley led the way in his “rumpled, but expensive clothes.”  The Romantics are used as pied pipers to a mine field of whoredom and debauchery.  But who knows that at eighteen?  I doubt if Natasha did.  So they shove it down your throat in literature classes.  And it goes down like chestnuts in brandied sugar.

Even Keats, young as he was, had the sense to avoid Shelley’s invitation.  Good tack little man.  Instead of just dying young, you may have gone to hell in a hand-basket.  Sir Shelley knows whether his pamphlet held the water now.  His boat sure didn’t.

Natasha Richardson played demure Mary Godwin with some grace despite the script.  Richardson was young and ambitious back then.  If you want to see the kind of filth that is being launched from the Shelley/Byron platform, see the movie.  Gabriel Byrne makes Lord Byron look like a misogynous, bi-sexual skank whose only redeeming quality is poetic genius.  Shelley is portrayed by Julian Sands as a loosely-wrapped freak who likes to run naked.  This movie exemplifies who is running the movie bizz.  Don’t take my word for it.  (movie title:  Gothic)

I believe that casting their progeny in movies like this is how Team 666 gets even with grand thespians.  Richardson has been in a few other doozies to support my point.  Her work is as delicious as it is disgusting one might say.  If an actor is to work, who escapes such roles today?

I am swayed to think that Richardson’s death was not an accident, given the vengeful nature of the Beast.  It would be classic to have them kill her via medical means between the time she fell in the snow and when she was pronounced a corpse in hospital.   Without having been present during the coroner’s examination and reading his full report, all we have are the words of a Bolshevik media.  Hardly science in my opinion.

And boy — am I entitled to my scientific opinion.  As for book and movie reviews, they are based on my opinions too.  The crux for Team 666 is the following question:

“Is my opinion valued?”