When I was an Olympic-class drunk, my anti-semitism was fueled by the fact that very few Jews drink a lot. They also bad-mouthed pork chops.
Screw the International Jewish Conspiracy. This really offended me!
But one Jew was a drinking buddy of mine.
This was back in the fifties, when not every Jew was a Holocaust survivor, and this particular Jew had actually BEEN in a Nazi concentration camp. He had had it rough, or he couldn’t have been a drinking buddy of MINE.
About the fifth pitcher of beer, he would always take a bleary look at me and say, “What in the hell am I doing being buddies with a friggin’ NAZI?” So what was he going to do? Get smashed with another JEW?
A couple of years back, the only Jew I know who is fanatically pro-white came down here and stayed with my family. Like everybody I get along with, he was very bashful.
This latter Jew came over to my apartment and said, “I have never been treated better in my life; I never felt as much at home in my life, as I do down here with you redneck, South Carolina NAZIS!”
I repeat, he was no diplomat. He was giving us a compliment we of the cold, hard persuasion could appreciate. He had the point perfectly. We made him feel very comfortable. No pretences. None of us ever make any bones about the fact that we are, in the present parlance, anti-semitic.
That means we are unapologetic naziswhowanttokillsixmillionjews. He didn’t have to fit in, as he did with other Jews. He didn’t have to make nice as he did with gentiles.
Maybe only a Southerner can understand this. I can be uncompromisingly anti-semitic and not be discourteous about it.
Back when Rhodesia was fighting for its life against guerrillas led by Cuban terrorists, there was an odd little world in which Mozambique and Rhodesia were on one side, and Zambia and Tanzania were on the other, the way Germany and Italy were on one side in WWII and Britain and Russia were on the other.
In WWII Sweden and Switzerland were neutrals. The African war had its neutral area too. The neutral area was called Malawi.
That’s what I HEAR. I had no part in any of this. My government files have none of this in them, and we all know that if I had been there, my files would say so.
Cubans like to get smashed. Anti-Communist mercs like to get smashed. Legend has it that there are exceptions.
The capitol of Malawi, then called Blantyre, was not as big as Bern or Zurich during WWII. There was no way that Castro’s terrorists and anti-Communist mercs, though the titles are now reversed, could avoid each other. Also, they were the only people in the Metropolis of Blantyre each group who had anything to talk about with the other.
And when you’re drunk you want to talk. So one of the regular sights in Blantyre was some anti-Communist merc helping a drunk out of his gourd Cuban, or vice-versa, to get back home.
In due time and in due place, they would get back to trying to kill each other. None of this is true. Check the official record.
Anyway, back to the Jew I used to get drunk with in my youth.
My memory of our discussions is somewhat selective. During the first two pitchers of beer we were both so desperate to get to our alcohol that neither of us really cared what the other said. After the fifth pitcher, I can’t remember what we said.
So my recitation of our dialogue is limited to somewhere between pitcher three and pitcher five.
Another technical point: the conversation between drunks is so repetitious it is a ritual.
Boredom is welcome. You are feeling great, and you do not require stimulating conversation at that point. You just feel like babbling happily.
Besides, for some reason only Advanced Psychology could explain, your ability to comprehend new information at that point is for some reason limited. So between pitcher three and coma at pitcher five, la ronde occurred.
At pitcher three, said Jew would bitch about how JEWS turned him and his family and all the other Jews in to the Nazis.
In Schindler’s List, which I saw many years later, it was uniformed JEWS who went to the concentration camps and kicked the other Jews into line. But this was thirty years before that movie came out. After seeing that, I understand what happened between me and what was then a rare Holocaust survivor at pitcher three.
Since I had been, to say the least, mellowed by my third pitcher, I would always try to be nice. This was the point at which my drinking buddy would be loose enough to give the Jews who turned him in hell.
It was also my mellow point. So he would be anti-semitic and I would be pro-semitic (philo-semitic is pretentious nonsense) for a brief period. So at this mellow point I would try to explain that those Jews were THREATENED into selling other Jews out. He would get furious and say that the bastards did it just to please the Nazis.
Remembering that gives me a whole new understanding of us white gentiles today. We don’t sell each other out because we are threatened. We sell each other out to please our Politically Correct authorities.
It makes evangelicals and respectable conservatives feel all warm and fuzzy inside to lead the lynch mob against us.
Besides, they get to wear the uniforms and give us orders inside our concentration camp.
I learned something in that drunken ritual, something I understand better every day.
In vino veritas!
Robert Whitaker grants full and free use of his ideas and writings especially as they pertain to aiding others in stating the facts about white race genocide and its agenda of forced non-white immigration and integration into ALL white countries and ONLY white countries. WhitakerOnline.Org