Hello all you traitors to your own kind! You will get what is coming to you. What you have strived and connived for all along. No holiday will mark your victory. No statue will be erected to your fame. They will all be gone torn down in the beautiful impossible dystopia that you have built with ash and rock fragments of the one that you so righteously ripped apart. The work of millennia erased because it did not fit with the trend of the day proclaimed on your I-phones. I hope that you rot in the universe that you are hell bound to create in your self-righteous fervor. You are working hard to deserve it. A master hand from behind the scenes is evident. Whites betray themselves. Defile their own kith and kin. They would rather be slaves to a false ideals. Than fight for their own kind. Than defend their own cause for survival. Blinded, brainwashed, by an embedded enemy that pretends to be a friend. But that is obsessed in wearing the crown of thorns of another. Obsessed by the tale of one of their own that they murdered so very long ago. A band of common cutthroats. Pretenders to the thrown. A deceitful scheming ever restless insurgent bent only by a hatred of the human race. That squats over the moral high ground like a jealous hen. It summons its minions fanning the hot flames in what is worse in them. Turning them into a pack of wild dogs. You can hear the pack barking in midday. No longer simply a nuisance at night. Those subverted by the sham of governing sit idly by shivering in their hutches like lesser hens. Concerned only with protecting their own nests. Of squatting indifferently while they fail their oaths of office with complete indifference. The will not survive. But de-evolve. Blacks cannot change! They still are enslaved. And prefer to remain so because, “da pikin’s is always good!” Shiftless beggars deserving of zero respect. They can never pull themselves up out o the pig pen poverty the so richly enjoy. What fun to exert their mercurial mindless violence and get away with it. The sick twisted mentality of getting what’s coming. The will. But it will be their end. They will be gone after the whites are. Hordes of barbarians babble in their graveyard tongues. Uncaring of anything but what is deemed as wealth. Come from afar to sack and pulverize all that they do not understand. Cannot understand. Were never meant to by the strictures of the lands that they were raised in. That they left. They are merely hatchling’s wrought of former guilt of those that they have come to consume. To cannibalize. Amazing how frugal and effective this unseen hand works! Turning one against another. Blood must be shed to bring all to their senses. But then it will be too late. The world will move on and civil society will lay in shards. In its place a hostile workhouse that will slowly replace humanity by the clock. Commodities only from cradle to grave. Genetically modified to not even care. To be happy like a mindless idiot. To be ready to serve and serve and serve at the push of a button. Robots in name. And worth nothing. Amazing how well decadence works. A lesson passed down from the universe to the lions of old. The hyenas will eat you. The roaches will devour the rest. The seven plaques of Egypt revisited. The same old story brought to you by the same old culprits. Go ahead and laugh! It’s your funeral.
A trailer sized motor caravan that all had arrived in had then just as quickly disappeared. In it’s place was a twisted wheel deprived frame dragged up high in the air by a container crane. The story leading up to it equally absurd in it dimensions. An effigy of a failing life gone unexpectedly off the tracks into an unimaginable sense of twisted fate. The sin being one of exploration in that latter point of life when prospects disappear and fast moves forever always inadvertently go awry. Perhaps what had occasioned if might have been the fate of an acquaintance at the local bar? A big guy named AL. An old dry soda biscuit dry humored billy goatee bearded rascal whose best days might have been seen in the jungles of Southeast Asia long ago in youthful manhood. Someone from that ‘tough shit’ universe who carried his innocence wrapped tight in shards of broken glass to be broken open much later in life. Only if the situation allowed! He had taken a spill landing against a table and chairs. When the blood could no longer reach as high up as his head causing him to unexpectedly pass out. That big heart having gotten even bigger in his chest impacting into his lungs and sealing up the envelope of the little matter of his continued mortality. A routine known all too well at that age! The family legacy hit home having slowly arrived over decades. The last few years leaving a big house to play in to an empty audience. Now the wheels were gone and the buckling aluminum whale supported above by the derrick was high out of reach. No way to return to that former place, that for lack of anywhere else, was called home. That lingering impulse of change of state to go from someone perpetually landlocked to freebooter on the highways leaving only an uncertain limbo. The lingering past and prescience of possible future gone before the immediate ‘here and now‘. That big redwood trunk of that man felled laying on his side. A bloody napkin freshly pulled off from his temple still too cogent to duck recall.
The big box store occasioning these tale still seeming fresh in the first years of its life’s cycle. The setting for that motoring behemoth parked up the lane so that its occupants could easily depart towards its main entrance. Old and generally stiff of the joints, it was a customary courtesy afforded without question. Much to my surprise and shock of those remaining within the vehicle it suddenly became apparent that the establishment had been sequestered by too eager a crew of motorcycle paraphernalia attired Satanists. A coven of bored Middle Class stalwarts that had formed a pact among themselves out of a lifetime of boredom to lay down ritual mayhem on the easiest most accessible place where innocents could be found. This cavernous well-lit environment a place of possibilities for violence perfect in parameters of containment and a potential to inspire terror over a substantial number of inadvertent victims occupying it by chance. The caravan’s arrival coinciding with a perfect near completion of the first phase of their murderous riot. Loyalty keeping those left behind int he vehicle from immediately driving off. That pulsating animal impulse for self-survival quashed out of some vague noble impulse. A foolish thing experienced over a matter of minutes of indecisive discussion of pro’s and con’s before the pirate crew mounted an exploration of the caravan’s insides. Their first ignoble act being to throw a ninety year old colored woman out of the side window impacting the pavement and breaking her neck. The poor old soul caught in the midst of trying to pull on the pants of her equally arthritic husband who lay pathetically weak and prone upon the carpeted hallway’s floor.
It seemed to be a very unfunny joke to denigrate anything deemed ‘white‘ especially if it turned out that the orator was classified as being a ember of that group. An adaptive form of dialogue equally viscous as practiced by progressive immigrant Hitler minded Hebrews all nestled in the midst of the audience. One evidently taken up the burning torch to their perennial ‘straw men‘! Ritually victimizing others as scapegoats for their woes! The historical crutch of arcane magical numbers of the craft in six and nine and eleven ever summed in their math. Those same perpetual discontents living by an ancient time weary code of an ‘eye for an eye’! And eternal task of vengeance handed down to successive generations to be leavened upon the descendants of enemies justifying the tibias perpetual mentality of constant deceit. The entire world outside the coven, a mortal enemy. Human nature defaulting most to group and to ground in applying ignoble customs. The big fat Italian on stage entertaining the select group about him in what appeared to be constant self-depreciating dialogue Sex! Blacks! (whores!) All manner of ‘no go‘ women topics! His patter sallied about the safe harbor of what seems to be conventional Saturday morning conversations ‘German-ness‘. The legacy of an era of vitriol fanned by a ‘half and half’ race mixer President. Who in the Hell knew ‘whom‘ he really was? A hero or demonic saint? The divided land. Self-Isolation by the telling of the tale of the Springfield Race Riot of 1908. Who would dare to give anything less than a dispassionate account? Persistence and empty liquor bottle. These disparate groups switching roles but continuing on essentially just the same. “Who created them!” “Who enforces them?” Who has any respect enough for anything to surrender their God given power without a fight? The man that no one wanted. He was tried and tasked and tried. And when he thought about it. He was also so very much alone. The pirates only being a figment of his ailing mind.
He awoke. A nervous shaky feeling pervading his upper back running immediately down the length of both his arms as if he were in electrical contact with something heavier and more metallic. It might as well be something to do with him? A carry over perhaps? The tingly tingling sensation feeling now descended into his lower back as if some electricity was constantly discharging its waning potential slowly from him back into a state of equilibrium. The space beside him in his bed was empty save for wrinkled sheets. The previous two that had inhabited it so long before him. They were now gone. Long gone and in the grave. It was still all too easy to see them slumbering unawares within this space. It had started out as their own! Decades passing where he was just some occasional visitor. Sometimes a squatter and ever a guest. The day was forming itself up just outside his window. Massing in strength to mount a rising illumination. One that began to seed flickers of light into a sky. Graying the ground from the grip of darkness lurking below. An utterly still and silent animation transitioning two realms, one to the other. Each instant suggesting that one had been switched off sometime in total darkness to hearken benefit for the other. The readout on his personal assistant stated the dead of Summer and the midst of August. A light touch of warmth fading quickly from the top edge of twisted covers. Now pulled back slightly and left open suggesting something in seasons ahead being much colder. What would the weather be today? Uncomfortable and sweaty and hot like last week? This last weekend having been cool like the middle of Fall. The light feeling of unheated air dancing upon his extremities extending down to his knees then halfway up the front of his thighs. “Circulation?“, his mind ingeniously pondered.
He pulled off his over worn black nightcap. Slinging it back over his head and set about rearranging the covers back to their nighttime convention. Imagining that he could prolong the night in order to compensate for the raw sensation that had deprived him of the full measure of needful rest. The disorder of the nights disturbing dreams defaulting to random misaligned images without hope of plot or drama. He lay back again in a flood of excuses. The impressions left by the fading visual imprint depositing deeper more lasting impressions that like some form of ultimate penalty would be levied for the coming day. An hourglass of sandy bothersome grit running out. He made an instantaneous sweep of the arm pulling off the covers once again. Unexpectedly rolling to the side onto the carpet to swiftly venture forth to the ‘jakes‘ of his kingdom. Fragments of dream rattling about his head. “If they weren’t recovered“, he reminded himself, “Then they would be lost.” And he would have to walk around the rest of the day under their burden. Trying to piece them together from loose threads suffering that nagging feeling that he had missed something important and telling about himself. Something that might hold a key to ending this current époque of stagnancy. There they lay like random bits of broken glass, sharp and pointed in his mind’s reflections. So much certainly like other ones of a previous vintage that he could barely recall being related to other more random experiences unearthed from many years back.
The world awaited out there. An apple to be plucked. An immovable lodestone that needed to be cracked open.
So many time I find after a particularly extensive internal drama spent under the covers in the dead of night that I find myself delivered back into the embrace of my bed once again several ours short of waking. Not any particularly random time but so very often, that exact time of 3:45 AM. On the same exact fraction of an hour being when some six years before my own beloved father drew his last breath on earth. No what makes me wonder is that my being a legacy of his genes and no doubt his eventual ailments of affliction of the heart that make it the most likely reason written on one’s toe tag. It seems curious that I should so naturally be brought to consciousness again and again at this exact time. Small tiny sharp stabs to stage left anterior just below my own thorax. Almost in some strange way as if I had been called back to that habitual place called waking reality. One in my shoes could easily speculate that this phenomena is not exclusive but shared with many others. So much so that after rising from the warmth of rumpled covers into the persistent reigning cloak of darkness I have resorted to the web to in much to some level of surprise that this precise time of night is said to be the hour when the devils come out to dance. A fact that has one’s inner self occasioning imagery from Disney’s classic of demonic ancient tribal rites, “Fantasia.”
My own road to this awareness complete with palpitations of an aching chest beginning in the still cogent memory with some vague scenario commencing on a farm where I had been handed some vague assignment to work with a woman at what I might have described as an inmate of a ‘hen house’. The downtrodden collection of sheds and barns, stables and smithy all gathered around a central court focused upon a raised platform serving as stage. A convenient coven for the faithful of a small congregation of earthy looking females playing both main performers and primary attraction to the audience of themselves. Myself now outwardly the inescapably noticeable Caucasian male sticking out in naked view like a big red sore thumb before this aching distill crowd. And as such, my opinions considered as being completely unacceptable. But in that contemporary humble guise of as a simple respectful ‘cucked‘ male quiet mindful of their ire barely tolerated as spectator. I sat beside an old female friend named Sharon who in her own usual way seemed forever diplomatic in avoiding awareness of such obvious schisms. This universal war on the topic of male potency as heatedly conducted each tongue successively carrying equally sharp barbs dripping with venom. Time and again, the overzealous spittle of biting little speeches boiling over to outwardly condemn all things evil as being defaulted to a failure by that element of ‘man‘ within ‘mankind‘. It all seemed so silly to me in my silence. The presentations, one after another, evidencing an all too obvious inherent weakness of internal character within each of the speakers in their barely concealed lack of any internal self worth. “How odd?“, I thought on the fly sitting there. That this sort of mutual Achilles heel was so blatantly shared and evident within this group? And being so easily interchangeable among them like some form of emotional currency acceptable as a form of unquestionable communal wealth within their dogmatic Feminist realm? One particular verbal arrow loosed my way daring blood as the speaker expressed he venom in a particularly loud fashion. The spoken projectile striking home bringing forth an immediate knee jerk vocal response in kind from me. “RACIST!”, my own voice rang out loudly over the throng towards the speaker. Barely a murmur within the crowd was detectable for the next moment. But then a wave of expected mumbling struck like lightning through the entire crowd. One in a fashion that one would expect to evidence in a stormy wind cutting forcefully through the un-plucked sheaf’s of wheat. Its virulence disrupting the entire field in a wasteful shower of unharvested grain. It was now time for me to exist this farmyard in order to carry out this vague mission. The unspecified collaboration of a sort with another party involving the collection of facts on a topic that might be of possible interest to the general readership of an unnamed local publication in seeding an article of passing generic interest.
I didn’t look to see if another woman was parked on the the bench seat next to me as I exited in my big blur and white outdated sedan. Relieved to be away of such unwholesome irritations, I headed down the expected stretch of road that unexpectedly identified itself as a place and proximity not too unfamiliar to me at all? Some place claiming ownership in my own routine vernacular as not being, “so far from home.” The segment of highway just beyond the intersection offering a shock in the specter of a cathedral-like malevolent vision of several city blocks crammed full of old derelict buildings. Ones so hoary to my first glance as to judge the lot as being completely abandoned over centuries. A second cautionary glance affording a stark impression of their having collapsed upon each other in such a manner as one might expect of wax dripped haphazardly over an extended time by gravity onto tightly packed votive candles left too close over a long night. The red dirt street splitting into a matched set of lanes diverging to either side of an undefined median. Both completely unpaved inching upwards over a steeply inclined Hell of well-worn ruts and muddy potholes that seemed nu-navigable to the eye. Most incredibly of all in the midst of this inhospitable environment families of suburban tourists rambled about unperturbed as if amidst some form of holiday carnival attraction? My own course forward already plotted by inattention in crossing the intersection I carefully ambled my vehicle up through this gauntlet as carefully as possible. These roughly tumbled lanes betwixt derelict structures inhabited occasionally by boutiques of the sorts of barely stocked store one might expect to find serving as commercial way stations in those bleak economic deserts of inner city black ghetto neighborhoods. Large German shepherd dogs were in evidence everywhere. Their universal popularity within this marginal municipality possibly as a form of general warning. These quarrelsome looking beasts roaming about the streets with a brash arrogant independence suggesting a communal sense of barely contained menace. You could hear them constantly growling from within your car’s tightly closed windows. As if each was marking out its own territory vigilantly stalking some potential target to quickly harass. Their collective demeanor surpassed in belligerence only by an occasional uniformed thug sloppily attired in the threadbare trappings of law enforcement. Driving further into this mess seemed some form of unconscious death wish courting disaster.
A gray area of unconscious mist accompanied a transition to someplace not quite explicable. My next appearance being within the battered confines of a large mold ridden disabled structure that served as the lobby of the town’s main hotel. The reason for my foolishness in having allowed myself to be there only be explained as a tacit compliance to that unnamed female consort whose presence was more characteristic of some form of phantom sylph than a real life flesh and blood companion. Exhaustion taking the place of caution, I recall settling down on a patch of floor by a wall to lean back upon some bags and begin to fall into a snooze. My impulse being brought to an immediate hasty conclusion by the intercession of the probing of an adolescent shepherd dog that struck his its tooth bound nuzzle hard against my temple. The young demon snapping angrily at my ear for good measure. Where in any other place on earth the infamy such an interruption might have been a form of blame placed upon the head of the hound’s owner in this case it summoned the immediate antagonism of a local magistrate. Jumping over me like a canine. he solemnly warning me to quickly move along lest I be arrested on the ground of some minor infraction if I did not exit the vicinity immediately. He seemed to seethe from within from an inexhaustible wellspring of rage as it was the true inspiration behind his profession. Not needing any further hints I made my way out of range of his general locale and back towards my vehicle. The exact location of which now seeming to be playing hide and seek trickery with my foggy memory. My companion now an astral entity whose presence I could barely sense anymore at that point. The ceiling now above me cloistered in shadowy dark offering only speculation as to the underlying meaning of such a flighty episode. The connection of thoughts invading the inclination to fall back into sleep charting a direction to the inference that there might be the possibility of another source for this unpleasantness. One that had equal resonance with the notion of the hand of other realms interceding with the conduct of my own. And with those of my now long departed family members. The dance of demons at their high point at the most expected hour of their nightly revelries. The passport allowing their visitation upon a victim being the unhealthy lifestyle of the ready host accompanied by the possession of his long overburdened soul.
All of a sudden! It all went away. Any hope of getting anywhere. Gone. Perhaps the body of a human is but a chrysalis? Something that wears thin. Does the caterpillar fear its own transition?
For some unexplained reason my old aging Lincoln Continental sedan was the only car parked in front of Sears completely covered with snow in the dead of night. It was contingent upon me to move it or risk having it towed. The fact that I was there to begin with subjected me to the vagaries of the unexpected. Some form of violence by parties unknown. Predators perhaps looking for just such a situation where a motorist is alone within the confines of a vehicle their perception of outside events interrupted by the thick covering of snow blocking vision. Transported almost instantaneously to the bed in my own apartment laying totally paralyzed beneath the covers unable to move. Trying again and again to roll out of it as if some impending harbinger of doom was approaching but frozen in place. Tugging and pulling at the sinews of my extremities tangled in covers that seemed to weigh a ton. but receiving no response. That was until I finally woke up and realized it was a dream. Now awake basking in an amazingly uncustomary degree of clarity in the recall of this experience as well as a building list of classic symptoms including night sweats and occasional shooting pains in the chests wondering how much more time in this material plane do I have?
What ever the drama of the night though I cannot recollect the narrative I live in the wake of that experience throughout the morning. Does it matter? I catch instantaneous glimpses in odd corners of the day.
I cannot surrender to a world that is a prison. Run by fools for the behalf of criminals. What happens when regular people realize that they based most of their lives on the lies that they have been told since childhood? Belief collapses and the population begins to hate everything that they once held dear. A sort of emptiness appears. Live a corpse without entrails. A cleaned fish. The only satisfaction possible being in returning to the myth and reliving it like a movie. A rerun of one’s life imprinted upon its context. That is a very angry was of being! There can be no worse jailer that someone who was formerly imprisoned by their victim. Who in this world knows more about someone ha has robbed them of their innermost self through debasing them. The ‘boreau‘ then becomes a form of recognition of an intimacy that is unsurpassed in relationships that have conventional boundaries. Producing pain in those circumstances becomes the most exquisite form of pleasure. To torment those who have tormented you without mercy becomes a high art. An ultimate high. That is the real danger of this sort of mental violence that is advised against in New Testament virtues. It has nothing to do without he misfortune of the victim of retribution but the addiction of the party initially offended by the transgressions of that person who they will later take great pleasure in debasing.
If that sounds more than vaguely familiar then consider that those who have remorselessly taken power again and again are cut from the cloth of these sorts of persons. People who have no connection or conscience for those whose lives they affect. People that after a while realize that they have become totally reviled for their efforts and now become ruthless and uncaring for the unintended consequences of their ministrations. Nazi’s and their much more terrible counterparts in Marxist revolutionaries who drive their ideologies through conventional society murdering and traumatizing rather than administering competent rule. The only offering being leveraging nightmares through hatred’s long evident and deep seated. Waiting like rabid animals for a chance to sink their teeth in deeply in the arm that beats them. At that point, any arm will do!
I went to see Christopher Nolan’s “Dunkirk” yesterday. Not because I was personally interested to do so. But because my last remaining relatives expressed an interest of seeing it. We as the children of those that were part of that struggle that the media at large has incessantly drilled in our heads was the greatest. World War Two. The ‘greatest‘ as in Mohammed Ali who initially proclaimed himself so, unlike my father, and because he suited the times as a spokesman of the prevailing agenda of normalizing human society was built by the media into a legend. What did Ali do? He beat people up and made an obscene amount of money doing it while strutting around trumpeting his own greatness. Again, something my father who served in the Marines landing on Okinawa at barely eighteen years old fighting to stay alive for the next four months during the most viscous fight of World War Two. I never heard him call himself the ‘greatest’ on that account?
“Dunkirk“, the big budget blockbuster movie, that its producers and investor are hoping it will be, is actively being compared to what they and their fellow industry pundits have deified as the ‘greatest’ war movie of all time, “Saving Private Ryan.” At face view, the benchmark does share a similar setting for what is always mentioned in its own hype as the most talked about. The two movies begin by recounting as story of a beach. And against the backdrop of that setting, they both share another facet that seems key to their movie industry admirers of being about the senseless slaughter of young white post adolescent men of European descent. Given the incessantly fractious nature of the times that the larger ‘WE’ live in, this is something that I personally was not desirous of seeing. Not before the viewing, nor certainly in hindsight after. In fact, having once been an excessively voracious movies goer who has turned that corner over the past decade and a half of falling out of love with Hollywood’s obsessive penchant for interweaving social justice themes within what they now term as ‘franchise‘ films. In this penchant, all the major studios have outweighed their welcome and my active viewing participation.
Christopher Nolan has been provided with the crown by both hacks and movie critics as the current reigning challenger for the ‘greatest‘ contemporary filmmaker around. His predecessor in this position among several others being Steven Spielberg who gained a similar status some decades previous directing a fanciful politically propagandized big budget film, “Schindler’s List“, once again about people being killed off. In this case, by the estimation of some, the killing of the spirit of white Europeans with the aura of guilt for incidents that to some opinions were willfully misinterpreted as being fact when in point of fact it turned out that they were not. In another sense, Spielberg had graduated to his position based upon his ability to manipulate generations of mass audiences to believe something that at face value had validity. But in the underlying inference that the movie touted as a whole had nothing to do with history but more to do with brainwashing the opinions within people’s minds. Following this tact along in a larger sense over the long haul of the history of movie industry, any director that can foster a specific lasting sentiment within the minds of an enter generation is the ‘greatest’ director of his time. And depending of course on how this influence changes the thinking of a nation, and perhaps the entire world, of all time.
Is it any wonder to find out that the first Academy Award Oscar for best picture was given to a big budget silent era production about young white men being transfixed by the horrors of loss suffered in World War One? Or that the award for best actor was given to a pre-eminent German actor of that era for his portrayal of a Russian general of a deposed white society who is ultimately humbled and crushed by his ultimate fate of being cast as a Hollywood extra reliving his greatest failure? All these films and directors, thus far mentioned, examples of the heralding of failure of the values and impetus of Western European civilization in some way. All completely different in fact to what was for its time in the post World War Two era of nineteen-sixty two, and equally grueling portrayal of young men suffering and dying. The major blockbuster big budget film that was in fact a collaboration of the directorial talent of six different well-seasoned Hollywood directors of the time. This film being set on Normandy beaches some thirty four years earlier than “Saving Private Ryan” yet equally pervasive in its on viewing generations, “The Longest Day.” The major difference being that this film celebrated the bravery and sacrifice of white Europeans not their defeat.
In light of this trend consider that the underlying messaging that one is strongly left with after viewing “Dunkirk” is one of being a defeated empire. Yet not so much so that one’s sacrifice and effort to survive goes unappreciated. The entire length of one hundred and six minutes of cinematic narrative cast not accidentally in the format of a ‘first person shooter‘ computer games point of view. The audience follows along in the guise of several avatars going through the perils of the immediate landscape. No judgment is offered in the cinematic outlay of action that suggests good or bad or even evil. It is completely ‘moral relative’. The major emotions summoned being those of intervening scenarios of horror juxtapose with an aficionado’s viewpoint of the inside terrain and implements of that historical time and incident. Any audience empathy wasted upon a series of characters that are summarily introduced and then unexpectedly killed off or deposed into the anonymity of the larger throng of those summarily ‘rescued’. Their historical adversary never shown or even really identified beyond the term, “enemy” as if everyone can fill in the blanks without he official politically correct contemporary agreed upon conclusions as to, “who“, “what“, “why“, and given the failure of our educational establishment maybe even, “where?” Consider that the equivalent corollary of our very defective modern journalism does exactly the same in ceding their responsibility through daily artful innuendoes where the reader is also expected by the journalist to answer these same questions by referring to socially sanitized online texts. The effect of the experience of this epic event being more important than any insight that can be intellectually assayed!
If this film was more in line with the current canon of comic book corporation franchise film production then “Dunkirk” might be deemed in a similar manner a historical ‘thrill ride’ by the well paid cheerleaders once know as critics. For those who, after seeing same, are left with the film’s final very esoteric image of a burning ‘bird‘ that all too clearly suggests an Illuminati phoenix in the initial stages of total meltdown, it is evidently clear that the intent of the film is to convince audiences that the legacy of that era is at a final end. Moreover those populations that treat upon that sense of ‘greatness‘ have like the films biggest name star destroyed their own heroic legacy and now are to be remanded to an uncertain fate at the hands of a shadowy hostile enemy for all his trouble. Hollywood as a vehicle to the governing mercantile powers that provide the context of our daily lives telling us is essence that any sense of elf identity outside its prevail is in the words of the current neocon mayor of the safe sanctuary of the ‘murder paradise’ of Chicago, “Dead, dead, dead!“
So much for old fables! Let me share that dirty little secret with you. Sleeping beauty wasn’t dead after all. She was just faking it till she was sure that Prince Charming was on the hook. At that point all her cares and woes were behind her. She took the evil witch costume back to the shop the very next morning. From that point on the romance was over. Today’s iteration of women really don’t care about men when the final straw is counted. They just want to feel the security that her special he can provide her. The older they get the less the pretense involved. They always save the last best choice that has the biggest income for ‘the man’ of their dreams. Of course, Hollywood wants to keep the opposite narrative alive. It is better for business that way.
You don’t realize when you are young that you are both equal parts of your mother and your father. Now on the other end of the slope heading downward I realize how very true that is. Yet how does one pass this on when it is too late in terms of an ability to do so. The current era wants to push me into an early grave. They use all their resources to tell me my time is over. But I am not ready to go. In fact I am just getting started. There are two worlds within me. The world my father knew and used as a yardstick that I have not come near to fulfilling. And may never even get close. Yet that gives me a future even though the proposed of world of womanhood does not. It is a cold dead hive of useless vainglorious creatures that have abandoned their best feature in procreation. They think that their appearance is more important than your opinion of them. And yet they have the audacity to ask me to sacrifice to buy them a drink? True love is too long under the bus and I am no longer ready to should the unwarranted responsibility for having driven a stake into its heart. No longer ready to lay down my coat in the puddle’s midst to have to fit in with all the other muddy headed males who seem incapable of any sort of courage beyond that of memorizing the latest sports statistics. And then to be told to wash the dirt off my coat by myself. How sad to watch my own culture die because it was betrayed from within? And all for so many useless piles of paper that you are no longer supposed to carry around in large numbers within your wallet!
The world and the keys to navigating it are in your head. You can let others convince you that only they can turn on the ignition or you can tell them to buzz of and get their own car. Opportunity by way of induced starvation is simply genocide deferred till tomorrow. If you find yourself in that position it means that they really don’t want you on their team. And you are a fool if you want or accept them on your own. It’s not about hate or envy. It is simply about discovering that long absented real you. If you don’t look good to anyone when you are poor and old beyond what you can buy them then forget it! Pass on by! There is always a younger more gullible model down the road, it that is your thing I mean. But why would one want to sleep with snakes? Is the animal sensation that good? Really? Or are you just collecting scalps and STD’s for your lodge polls? Moral equivalency and Socialist Justices only want to hang you cause you’re smart enough to know that number one always counts as first and all else is a distant twenty-six. Mumble that next time you have an intimate interaction. Demand that the secretary new a decent cup of coffee rather than just go down to Starbuck’s! The Federal Government is too busy plotting a coup to care! This land is lost because it let itself be taken over by those who have always dreamed of reinstalling slavery. Those pretenders that cajole others to do their dirty work while wagging their forked tongues. It is time to take the world back! “Do you want to live forever?”
WARNING: This is by no means an attempt to make a full movies review. I just want to spout a little spleen on a few key points.
So, let us start with a very frenetic remake of “Sahara.” Not the 1943 WW2 Libyan desert German hating epic with Humphrey Bogart, but the one with Matthew McConaghey where the loyal but ever recalcitrant sidekick pokes the ribs of the hero for bad puns and then shivers terrified beside their ever invincible hero partner. In this case, the action packed super hero, Tom Cruise. Marvel, the graphic novel happy moguls, are sticking their nose into the production of this one sniffing the possibility of future Shekels! Utilizing the generally box office ‘gold‘ Tom Cruise persona for their new sobriquet to launch yet another limbic cortex cartoon adventure series. One that potentially will keep as many old name value ‘has been’ big name actors on the payroll. And hopefully introduce this latest hodgepodge to the hearts and minds of the youngest end limit of Z-generation families. The initial ‘mumbo jumbo‘ so exactingly lifted verbatim from those previous three films of the 1990’s “Mummy” franchise wrought by Stephan Sommers. Liberalism Hollywood styles demands that we grab as much as we can from a previous moneymaker not to mention plundering ideas from the Carl Laemmle Universal archive of famous monster films. The audience’s feet firmly planted in the usual action bullshit of massive explosions and sinkhole we continue the first act with this misadventure of a rebellious self-empowered egocentric alpha male who breaks all the rules for the sake of conducting a personal treasure hunt. And of course the Globalist social agenda of reaffirming that all white males need to be done away with. He then runs into the ‘one two punch’ of a Political Correct stereotypical duo. The first an “I could careless what you think white boys!” African American authority figure followed up by a skinny bitchy ball busting dishwater blonde acting like he had left her to pay the tab for last night’s dinner. Oh boy do I know that this is NOT going to be as story intelligent as another Tom Cruise vehicle, “Live, Die, Repeat!” We are just ‘ass packing’ cliches one behind the other, Hollywood style! Oh, Oh, here come the pedantic flashbacks that are taken verbatim from the movie’s initial sequences. What? Did they ran out of production money to stick in something new?
Well, after ‘Nicking‘ some neat gags from the “Alien” franchise we finally get to what Tom Cruise shines at in a plane crash scene. What is it with this guy and doing his own stunts at high altitudes? After some brainless stupid very badly edited scenes that again summon the less frantic bar scenes from “Jack Reacher” we end up eventually at the reconfigured spacious set that was used in the premiere episode of Captain America. There we see the old gladiator ‘Maximus‘ is looking more like ‘Proximo‘ in girth. Boy do the CG people have a lot of work to do there! The four-thousand year old bad girl steals the scenes, literally, from another old eighties UK Sci Fi classic, “Lifeforce“. “Go ahead, Ahmanet, suck the life out of those rubber dummies gal!” Of course, little bits here and there from Dracula, Bride of Frankenstein, etc., etc., etc. Don’t worry, unlike Disney Corporation most of the material lifted is under perpetual copyright by Universal! What develops over the second act is a supernatural hissy fit prone romantic love triangle that degenerates into a glass shatttering ‘big scene‘ apocalyptic London smoke blowing contest. And , as if more were needed, more very futile attempts at montage from the exact same footage that we saw earlier at the start of the film yet again! God I know that a typical Tom Cruise is not this brain dead! Even though some screenplay driveling moron named him ‘Nick Morton’! A few more of the plagues of Egypt are scaled down to size in order to harass the two mortal portions of this tiring love triangle. All roads leading of course to the big showdown where bad boy Tom on the edge of moral equivalency sacrifices himself by plunging a dagger into himself to assume God-like powers of eternal life as the head of the underworld. Big sacrifice! The blonde is resurrected and lied to as to where her hero ran off to. The black haired bad girl shrivels into a shrew and is given a mercury bath before she is put back to sleep in her big jeweled hope chest. Later, of course, to be resurrected in a future sequel. Dependent on the polling of likes and dislikes of her portrayal at select theaters. A lot of work for what have been very tediously early predawn makeup calls! Dark Universe hero Tommy rides off into the desert on a horse with his resurrected sidekick buddy leaving both dames to their own devices. The absolutely smartest thing his character has done in this whole damn movie! “Go MGTOW, Tom!”
So what is the point of reviewing what is a disappointing film? ‘The Evil’ talked about in the movie is in fact the incompetent direction of Alex Kurtzman who at every chance dumb’s down every scene to the point that even two-year would be bored by its simplicity of pedantic exposition. The overworked music score blasted at full volume to hide his total inability to do anything competent much less creative. Who says that secular Jew boys with big connections in LA are naturally ‘wunderkinds‘? The seven Hollywood legacy babies that each took scissors and shredded it to shit then scotch taped the mess together what might have really been a refreshing take on the old original movie tale by screenwriter John L. Balderson’s who re-crafted from Arthur Conan Doyle’s tale, “The Ring Of Thoth.” It left me giving a dump about any stellar effects scenes outside of the practical elements of the plane crash scene. The usual Marvel Comics dumbed down stupid shit for mental morons who find ‘real meaning’ in the horrendous dialogue that the Anakin Skywalker had to spout! This IS blatant evil of Hollywood’s banality in Byzantine big budget at the sake of the story and one’s actors production (lack of) values. All of course to sell more action figures, rental fees and games. Move on please!
POSTSCIPT: “Tom, do yourself a favor! Stick to your own franchises!”