- 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?
-
- You bet.
-
- 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.
-
- ------------------
-
-
- Mike 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.
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