Posts Tagged ‘Black’

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 Campaign Diary: Fort Trump in Philly

Well. Well. We now have a so-called Nazi president. During the campaign, I got two mad e-mails from a young Italian gigolo pal spanking me for being a Trump supporter. I soon confessed to working the phones at the local Trump Office. Then, when I got promoted, I further confessed to being Media Spokesman at Trump HQS in Philly. That’s right. By the time the election was over, I was Minister of Information at Trump’s fort and brain-trust in the heart of Hillary Country.

La-di-dah. In all, I denied 2 interviews and rudely nixed a third because I just friggin’ felt like it. Sorry! But I did 3 interviews that went very well because I controlled the pace and tenor of the bullshit. How did I get the prime appointment? 1) I was conversational and pleasant on the phone. 2) I showed no ambition to be in the spotlight. 3) The Field Generals in our office were too strained to talk. So I got the spokesman’s job in a flurry on Election Day. Like I said, La-di-dah.

I nixed an interview with a fake Irish kid from a fake Irish Newspaper. “I thought we were gonna gab like a real Irishmen. With rhythm and sway. But you keep forcing question after question.” He pleaded that he was in a hurry. My laughter said, “Not my problem, junior.” I finally told him that I was an unpaid volunteer and wouldn’t talk if it wasn’t fun. My freedom is your melt-down, kid. Then I let him die as a data-crunching robot that was masquerading, with red-hair and blue-eyes, as a lyrical Irishman. But there was nothing poetical about him because he’d sold his soul to Satan or Mammon or the Globalist Ink Machine.

My best interview was with a female reporter from a Black media conglomerate. Born in NYC, she had the sophistication of an African-American with doctors and maybe even publishers in her family. Cute. Lady-like. Learned and worldly. I spoke as a Trump Republican and as a working-class Whiteman. “The Democrats, which used to be the Party of Labor, are now the party of Identity Politics. Black identity. Feminist identity. Gay and transgendered identity. And now, immigrant identity with its Mexican, Syrian and Somali sub-groups. The White worker, whose interests used to be aligned with the Black worker, has been squeezed out of the Democratic Party. Thus, Trump as Republican. Thus, me as a Whiteman supporting Trump as a Republican.” The Black reporter was pleased to meet a Trump guy who explained himself without blubbering, “I’m not racist…” Meanwhile, because this was Philly, there were 3 death-wish niggers hovering and muttering “Fuck Trump.” And, because this was also Clinton Country, a saucy White mom from the ‘burbs stopped to get pictures of the dumb thugs giving the middle finger and grabbing their crotches in front of the Trump office. “My daughter will love this,” she giggled. Such was enemy maturity on the eve of Hillary’s great victory.

Later, about 10:30, I gave an interview with an upstart Swedish/American network. A highly polished operation run by scrappy mainstream-media rejects. Really, I was one of their infiltrators in the Trump Campaign. Talk about fun. In the interview, I looked both senile and ready to fuck, fight ‘n frolic until dawn. Like an old tug-boat captain who’d helped nuzzle the ship-of-dreams into port. I expressed myself well: lyrical, salty and drunk with victor’s generosity. We stood on the side walk where the pro-Hillary thugs had grabbed their crotches for the pro-Hillary mom. In front of the Trump office window through which curious Blacks were surprised to see an African-American law student working as our consiglieri. Our Chief Counsellor in legal and rainbow clusterfuck matters. Throughout the campaign, he repeatedly got the middle-finger. He repeatedly got called “Uncle Tom” and “Traitor.” To make sure their voices were heard, angry Blacks opened the office door and yelled, “Fuck Trump.” A campaign slogan, pithy and street-wise, inevitably co-opted by hipster Whites.

Our own Talented 10th and Thomas Sowell archetype was a fine guy. A man amongst boys, in KKK poesy. His grandparents were hard-core Reaganites. He came from the same racial estirpe, as the noble Castilians say, as the sovereign Black reporter. His best comment on his rote antagonists: “Maybe Trump will get them off the reservation.” In Trump terms, I can do business with such non-Whites. Honest business. Fair business. Mutually profitable business. I meet lots of coloreds, in Philly, who are my moral betters. I’m humbled. I learn from them. But I don’t “go native” in my own beloved country and adopt their lingo, customs, menus, music, gods and stratagems against white pawns in race chess.

In any case, I sent the Swedish/American network video, yesterday, to my young Gigolo pal who spanked me twice for being a clueless Trump supporter. Just to let him know. Just to let him know that it’s time, literally and figuratively, to get outta bed with the liberal floozies. Just to let him know where the juicier bang was crystalizing. Just to let him know where the virgin future was having her debut and, yes, revealing her dangerous but promising curves. What more can I say?

Enough with the sweet nothings of liberal shills. And enough with the cant of cuckservatives who bore everyone, including the most sovereign African-American patricians, with their “I’m not racist blah, blah, blah.” I took a stand at Fort Trump in Philly. I learned more than known about being hated. In the afterglow of victory, I’m keen to do business as a natural-born promoter of the White Brand. It’s not for everyone and neither is my Polish-Irish pitch. Too much Celtic sway and compressed Slavic angst. Too much haywire diversity in a single caucasian skull. Yet old folks in the far hills of Pennsylvania knew me, in a heartbeat, when I phoned from Trump HQS. They sensed their own genius loci in the waft of my voice. We gabbed like long-lost family. The point? Voter outreach was an appeal to Civic Nationalism for everyone at Fort Trump but myself. For me, voter outreach was a plunge into all but abandoned soul of the race. I nixed analytic argument. I spoke to the essence. It’s what floated Trump’s campaign from the start.

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This piece originally appeared in Counter Currents Publishing.

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Dear Mom and Dad-

Posted: December 11, 2015 in Letters
Tags: , , , ,

 

 

Photo by Alvin Trusty of Findlay, Ohio.

Photo by Alvin Trusty of Findlay, Ohio.

 

Dear Mom and Dad-                                                                                 12/11/2015                                                                                                                                                                                                                                      

Pat gave me the boot. I don’t fit her quasi-criminal plans. She’s living off her second husband’s pension, her recluse daughter’s disability check and her own green thumb as gardener growing pot indoors. She has sun-lamps, timers and techno-wizardry in her bedroom closet. She learned horticulture at a local nursery and she learned underground economy from her jailbird son. Or maybe she taught him. Or maybe it’s in the blood.

I miss her too much. It’s an embarrassment to pine for the life-long scamp. An ex-stripper on the small town circuit in the hills of Western Pennsylvania. Still cute as a button. We used to zig-zag through the streets of Philadelphia like Bonnie and Clyde on their honeymoon. Fun. Fun. Fun. Of course, she loved to quote her Jew-Guru in the far suburbs, dropping phrases like “non-ego”, “Jungian Oversoul” and “world as illusion”. She thought it gave her intellectual cachet. Reverting to the mean, she called the Catholic Church “The Whore of Babylon” while at Sunday brunch with myself and a pal. Bravo! More heart than brains! But a whole lot of heart, nonetheless. My Italian-gigolo-writer pal, a connoisseur of women and a freelance know-it-all, liked Pat quite a bit because she alternately flattered and insulted his intelligence. Even while fully dressed, she’s good at holding a man’s attention.

Too bad that she gave me the boot. I’m feeling blue. Dear old Carol, who’s had just as much difficulty in her life without seeking the devil’s help, has come to my rescue. She cooked Thanksgiving Dinner for myself and another lonely bachelor. A thoroughly demoralized truck driver who’s too nice for the dating game. He brought a handgun to dinner. He has no illusions about man’s beastly nature. Yet he sees woman as the embodiment of pure love and bores the seasoned whores he chooses to elevate. Of course, he courts in bars instead of church. The racier the woman, the more he sees her inner-homebody.

Carol is as nuts as everyone else but walks a straight line. She’s hysterical yet steeled like the toughest of men. A devout Italian Catholic, she thinks that Human Beings are Almighty God’s #1 mistake. As if Man is an embarrassing flaw in The Creator’sBeautiful Catholic Design that’s been patched-over by the myth of Original Sin. Still, Carol does God’s Work in true womanly measure. Like the US Marines step toward the gunfire, Carol steps towards the day’s insane pain. An angel of mercy even as she bitches about “fuckin’ niggers” and “assholes in government”. Raised in a small Italian enclave in the Black ghetto, Carol has learned to mother everyone except for those she’d like to stab in the throat. It is, I think, a lingering mafia sensibility

I have to find myself a wife before it’s too late. I’m a handsome old guy until I rise from a chair like an arthritic dinosaur. My market value is declining. But as a writer, I’m getting better and worse at once! More reckless. More poetic. More vicious and more tender as I channel Carol’s spirit into the ink. I’ve found my voice!

Your dear son in Philly-

J.J.

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Fire Crown copy

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