Posts Tagged ‘cancer’

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Trump. Samson Option. PsyOps Bullshit.

I’m in a coffee shop down the street from the Red Cross shelter where I slept for 5 weeks after the Great Rooming House Fire of 2011. One year later I got cancer of the brain. I mean cancer of the anus.

Further down the street is UPenn Dental. Because of the university, the area isn’t completely ghetto. It’s like Ecorse on the outskirts of Detroit but without the leftover hillbillies from the Industrial Age. Instead of snarly White Trash as a buffer, there are college brats from around the world.

My new dentist-in-training is Bangladeshi. My last three dental students were Korean. Before them, I had a Syrian with the ease of old patrician money. A cash prince! I must say, spitting digits like a social scientist, that through the course of anal cancer (a glitch at the seat of my intelligence) I had 7 doctors attend to squamous-cell-carcinoma and SOS surgery for a sliver of chemo-port stuck in my left heart-atrium. I later had 2 oral surgeons remove, with pliers, a mouthful of chemo-sautéd teeth. In all, I had 1 Caucasian Gentile Doctor.

Okay, I excluded a Brazilian doctor who was 95% White judging by her skin tone and NASA mentality at work. That’s because she filled the New World Order’s slot as a double-minority. First, as a so-called Hispanic. Second, as a female in the patriarchy or rape-culture or White Male dominated whatnot. I also had a token caucasian shrink after my run of disasters. Dr Terri Ann Varady. She got my file from the preceding alien psychiatrist who noted the particulars of my post-traumatic stress disorder: hyper-anxious, megalomaniacal, paranoid and (insanely) racist. When therapy was over, Dr Varady politely affirmed every sick enormity but the last. “Even a broken clock,” I’d said to rebut hateful psychosis, “is right twice a day. Philly. Detroit. Miami. I’ve always been very sociable, here and there, at the Whiteman’s Alamo”.

Dr Varady sensed a fair response to the surroundings. On the race front, if nothing else, she agreed that I was well-adjusted to reality. That’s the backstory to last night’s move: I hit the Samson Option button on the keyboard. I hit the Whiteboy’s Samson Option button and joined Trump Team in Philly. I’m sick, sick, sick of being a loser in a lost country. Enough with the compound-interest pitch and Judeo-Christian charge! The rah-rah Holocaustianity! The cucklogical pep-talks! The whiney goals! I moved to hang my jock-strap with the leading alpha-narcissist and locker-room braggart. The winning bully-boy. The Golden Prick.

I wonder what Dr Varady, an agreeable Hungarian whose dad was a police sergeant and sausage maker in Trenton, would think. Who knows? As for myself, talking psychology in Freud’s terms, I’d say that the Super-Ego of America is a neurotic if not schizophrenic cluster-fuck. The Average Joe with the soul of a boy scout and a very good follower, is led to hate all shades of Radical Islam. Simultaneously, he’s led to love all immigrants without discrimination. No wonder he’s a sorry sort. No wonder in a moment of mental clarity, maybe miraculous mental clarity, I hit the Samson Option key and joined the Trump Campaign. Not an effectively bowed Joe, I stand to bomb the Temple and its money-changers. My own Old Testament and New Testament synthesis under duress. My own Judeo-Christian reconciliation in a pile of dung.

With a stroke of a keyboard, I launched a 20 megaton turd on the enemy’s HQS. My strategic aim: fight crap with crap. My personal aim as sonorous racist or racialist or Trumpeteer in Philly? Destroy the Deep State’s best competing bullshit. In other words, destroy the the Deep State’s best weaponized and twisted mytho-poetic line on the average Joe’s psyche. Unfortunately, the NWO brain trust knows their targetsteel-toilet better than Joe Whiteman knows himself. Rhetorically stroking his virility like a sly whore while mewing, “It’s Joe Whiteman’s j-o-b..… It’s his present life’s w-o-r-k and Christian afterlife’s w-o-r-k….It’s his physical/moral/spiritual jobberish to retool, rework and redeem damaged goods from Humanitarian Wars.” Such ticklish deviltry, according to a self-reformed French Lefty named Lucien Cerise, is colonial psy-ops turned upon the home population. (It’s always good, in the proximity of college girls, to name-drop a French intellectual.) Born to fear God, Joe Whiteman is aimed to obey whatever Higher Intelligence triangulates blood-bathes between Muslim sects. For oil. For Israel. For the future of the NWO and genetically engineered chimeras, trans-human creations, miscegenated blends of robots/humanoids/reptiles. The next stage of population replacement, by the way, after the terminally cross-led Whiteman is gone.

That’s the gist of it. Quite understated to show proper academic detachment in a high IQ and highly mimetic environment. Now I’m sipping French Roast coffee and typing an Urban Studies thesis: It’s a mercenary remove, a studied Clintonian calculus on the go, that separates the Ivy League brat at Penn from the poor Negro at Temple and the poor homesick hillbilly at Wayne State in Detroit. My best work. My entrée into the intelligentsia. As for the future of Hillary’s Micro-Managed Demos, why don’t the Mexican landscapers get it? They’ll be the first to be bred-out as remote control drones with Swiss optics and, for retro-mammalian warmth, transistors that channel schmaltzified Ranchero tunes. Too bad the fuzzy-wuzzy minorities hate the Whiteman more than the morally narcissistic and inanely trusty Whiteman loves, loves, loves himself. A blue-print for disaster. Thus, Samson Option.

And the White Woman? She’s been psy-opted to the nth degree. Bombed and fed with select bullshit. Perfumed and poisoned to her taste. She has, as a baseline, the same working vanity as the Whiteman but the wildcard is her bosom/heart/womb matrix. amanda-silberling-art-by-isabel-kim-in-collaboration-with-syra-ortiz-blanes-and-amanda-silberling-copyEasily lubed and mated to the NY/Tel Aviv/London axis. A pyscho-metricians gimme with, yes, a collegial network of slush-funds throughout the Deep State. Earlier today, I took a lazy stroll through University City to Penn’s Campus. Who hurries to the dentist? There were Voter Registration ladies on almost every corner. God bless ‘em but where were the cookies? Inside the campus proper, near a statue of Ben Franklin with a pink scarf, the militant harpies were at work. Marshaled by the White Woman’s Burden to civilize the world. You had to see it, to believe it. This generation’s useful idiots for the New World Order, international bankers and party-favor bureaucracy. The Social Justice Shillettas, over-stressed nerdlings, pushed Hillary’s contribution to the domestic psy-ops blitz. Worker’s of the World Unite? It’s passé. Women of the World Unite? Now that has real nation wrecking and home wrecking momentum. Capitalists, as the kiddies at Wharton know, must capitalize on it. 

Samson Option. Have you noticed that the pundits are scared that Trump won’t pre-concede a pre-programmed loss? “I’ll keep you in suspense” he says with a finger on a higher-echelon and more pricey doomsday button. Playing hard. Playing for keeps. Here’s a secret: If the criminal Negroes in Philly think you’re crazy, they leave you alone. I’m just saying. Finally, to confess a chronic blur as if you were my private shrink, I don’t know if I’m truly crazy or if craziness is just my journeyman Whiteboy’s loopy schtick. Necessary borders have been corrupted. Now, I look at myself as I look at Hamlet in distress over co-opted Denmark. A hostile yet smarmy takeover that the normal Dane didn’t mind as long as he got his wenches and mead. The point: I can’t tell if I’m truly nuts or just acting nuts for dramatic effect.

Still, in Hamlet’s words, When the wind is Southerly, I know a hawk from a hacksaw. Dr Varady affirmed that. She affirmed every previously diagnosed sickosis but the last: hyper-anxious, megalomaniacal, paranoid and (insanely) racist. On the race issue, she noted, I’m well adjusted to reality.

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This piece originally appeared in Counter Currents Publishing. It was republished at  Truth Is Justice. 

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BROTHERLY LOVE AND THE NAZI STYLE OF YOGA

Yesterday, I went to yoga class. The teacher was a prime thoroughbred.  Black hair with gray streaks. Thick eyebrows. Willowy limbs and upright spine. She conducted herself with a golden drop of arrogance. An English accent also set her apart.

 A  trophy babe!   I smiled inside.  I  immediately thought, I’ve got something to show you.  I’m a man with a difference myself!

I parked my yoga mat next to her.  Why not get close to the flame?  While taking tuition and attending the roster, she asked if anybody had an injury or medical condition that she should know about.  I  knelt, yes, knelt and whispered,  “I’m eight months out of cancer treatment and I had an operation last week to have a chemo-port removed.”  

 She was trained in poise.  Yet there was alarm in her eyes.  To spare a pity-party I quickly added, “And I have monster arthritis in my left hip.  So I go slow.”  I saw her thinking: who is this nut who moves seamlessly from the mortal threat of cancer to the nagging pain of arthritis?  I laughed. I thought to myself,  I’ll show you!   And so I went through the yoga class like a man on the job.  Really, I went through the yoga class like a laboring shudra laborer, a man of the well-digger’s caste, who gets paid to work through pain.   When it’s too low-down and nasty for everyone else, it’s just right for me!

Luckily, it was a restorative class.  Very slow but very precise and thorough.  This particular diva is a teacher of the Iyengar  style of yoga. Which I call “The Nazi Style of Yoga” because it’s  regimented, austere and  powerful. An über-mechanics built upon a Brahmin’s bloodline. Iyengar himself is a stern patriarch with a genius for engineering elite texts and teachers.  How this femme transformed his  dry-eyed yogametry became an ongoing  mystery to me. A female mystery that’s just as stupefying as the yoni or pussy or whatever you  call the thing tucked into a woman’s interior. So I spent the entire class marvelling at a total woman.  Juiced with celestial light! Juiced with  base irrigant!  Juiced with higher and lower currents of premium mojo.  Not bad work if you can get it and, believe me, few yoginis get it right.

I spent the entire class  studying her hard earned and softly rendered maturity.  She had a graduated female delicacy when came to explaining very tough stuff. This light touch is especially amazing if you come from the “get a bigger hammer” school of life.  It was lovely lesson  by a  woman whose career was years ahead of mine. We were peers in age only.  And though I could never imitate her as a man, I knew that she had something timely to teach me about the renewal of sex and intelligence.  I  wouldn’t call her a “potent” teacher.  But if I had the male-complement to her second bloom then I’d be a potent communicator and wordsmith.  An old but seminal medium. 

That’s what I learned, yesterday,  while nominally studying yoga.   

Well, I taught her something in return. Albeit at the  level of comic character with piss ‘n vinegar in his bloodlines.  I followed her directions.  I needed zero nursing.  I labored like born shudra laborer and the best in my calloused caste.  And I showed her that I also had something majestic: a low-down male meanness, a life-long knowledge of pain, and a base metaphysical duty to endure shitty-luck with devilish élan.  I flashed a serene mastery of my own brute humors. She had so much love in her eyes after the otherwise routine yoga class.  We were like brother and sister!   Maybe, twins apart

 

 

 

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