Comments

1. On January 7, 2020 at 12:43 am, Longbow said:

   Yes I understand. It is “Commie 101”.

2. On January 7, 2020 at 3:38 am, Dan said:

   It’s called ‘projection’. The practice by the left accusing the opposition of the crimes, duplicity and faults that they themselves are actually guilty of. It’s an old classic tactic used by the communists since day one.

3. On January 7, 2020 at 8:38 am, BRVTVS said:

   The weaponization of mental health has been part of the communist/UN agenda for a long time. John Stormer devoted a chapter of his 1964 book, “None Dare Call It Treason,” to their mental health plans. Even then, those who actively opposed communism, like Edwin Walker, were being thrown into mental hospitals.

4. On January 7, 2020 at 8:41 am, BRVTVS said:

   You can find the late Rev. Stormer’s book online at https://archive.org/details/NoneDareCallItTreasonJohnStormer/page/n153.

5. On January 7, 2020 at 9:19 am, JoeFour said:

   BRVTVS — Many thanks for that link!

6. On January 7, 2020 at 10:33 am, Mean Boy said:

   Busy body do gooders with no hobby and no life. What a sad place to be.
   Everything has been figured out…except how to live and luckily the control freaks who know what is best for your life are here to save the day.
   Ahhh…how free it would be to just be left the F’ alone but sadly those days are gone.

7. On January 7, 2020 at 4:14 pm, Phil Carson said:

   This post tells the tale, it is indicative of what we face, and it is weak, effeminate, it only possesses a fig leaf of legitimacy, a mere illusion, it is upon us to tear away that fig leaf, and destroy whet it hides. It is imperative as Men of The West, as the legacy of what created America, that we understand the order of the human extinction movement and it’s shit stirrers like this usurper, his fellow scalawags like Northam, Bloomberg, Soros, the whole lot of them.
   It is the prime dictum of war you must discover and then understand your enemies intent, their objectives, then, you must come to know exactly what they value most.

   In the Stoics time, in our fantastic Western Athenian Greco Roman cultural and civilizational origins, thru the advent of Christianity, it was dependent on us as hard Men for survival of our race and our selves, to grasp unerring the truth of us and our world, to never flinch, our heritage and codes, precepts and legacy, Patrimony to Matriarchy, birth and death, the budding seedlings of our daily sustenance, shepherding of our land, to the origins of the grand scheme of the universe, everything, that includes our lives, to understand the most basic thing, our human nature.

   Plato and Aristotle, King Richard to Charlemagne, Seneca, Twain to Captn Stark and Ben Comee, RW Emerson, Theroux, George Washington, both Lee’s, Hackworth, Mosby, and thru out time always the rough and ready of us dirt men, farmers, miners, hunters, fisherman, hard Men in denim and leather, tool or equipment in hand, hard men.

   But even though it is not exactly of the day to day hardness of us as mortal dirt people living our daily lives in this time of soft men’s lunacy, and wondering where things went, we are still here, and as their soft effeminate emasculated Potemkin World unravels, it is Horatius at the bridge and what Horatius embodies, this hardness of hard men which will prevail, as it is beginning to once again prevail, the scum attempting to disarm us forget the greatest weapon we possess is not only our AR’s, it is our hearts and our minds, our rifles are force multipliers of high excellence, it is it has and it will be the weapon between our ears that overcomes our enemies.

   I believe this is what these scum fear so very much. To hear Bloomberg speak and I believe he is actually most contrite, he speaks at least honestly yet in tongues of his inability to grokk our innate hardness as true children of the race of the Men of The Christian West. Yet he reveals as does Soros, and Obama, and countless other apologizers and revisionists, they rightly fear the inevitable insurgency of hard men armed in mind and tooth and heart and teeth and hand.

   You feel it don’t you? That you are beginning if not more so the real world laying out before us? That you are part od a legion of hard men who will without doubt be Men who do hard things, and that somehow you must find within yourself the things that enable you to do hard things, once again to know of drinking from the skulls of this enemy.
   But even more so than anything, to prevail, to destroy our enemy, more than anything, to rid us of these grotesque antagonizers their minions and their foul agenda of subversion and destruction, of everything, everything, that makes us hard men.
   There will not be any West, if we do not prevail, us hard Men of The West.

   Horatius at the Bridge is a wonderful tail of another time of hard men. For as is the deed of tyrants, they eventually go too far, and as such things morph, the law unintended consequences raises it’s head and things the tyrant never thought could come to pass, turn around and bite them on the ass.
   Without Horatius, there very well might have been no Rome, and thus no Liberty, no us. Written and composed by Thomas Babington, Lord Macaulay (1800–1859) XXIV

   We where once taught these things as young men, so we would know to be hard men. We had to memorize at least parts of this. Certainly it was a lesson never forgotten. It only has gotten better with time, in no uncertain terms it is come back around as most relevant.

   And thats the thing, Northam and his ilk, they are irrelevant, they always have been irrelevant, their power an illusion that lasts as long as we provide consent to that illusion, even tacitly, and only that, and like false Sextus and the terrible deed he committed, you see he has no power.

   More so than any Rifle or Sword we could hold and wield against these foes of ours, it is our understanding of their total irrelevance, illegitimacy, for how can such soft men tell us who or what we are? Our Legitimacy is natural to us, like our primal right to arms it can never be taken from us, only you can be made to think it can be. That they have some special powers to deny us our weapons and our primal use of our property that is part of who and what we are, which will be what smites them down.
   And too, Our Rifle’s, are great symbols and tools of our wrath. As much as it is vital that symbol be sullied and taken from us it is that symbol we must never relinquish. And in there lies the battle for the moment, combat for winning hearts and minds.

   Notice well, on XI-IX-XXVI (11-9-16), Rex & Dux has been reborn once again in The West, the god emperor has been hailed: Ave Trump! Ave Trump! Ave Trump! terrifies these scalawags more than our Rifles in our wrathful hands.

   What really has them in a tizzy, is Dux is as he should be, once again committed to Rex, and Rex has given his allegiance to Dux. A contract of old once began by the ancients, and as George Washington served as Cincinnatus, and laid down the sword of power of Dux for the survival of The West at Rex’s feet, instead of the reign of absolute power so easily taken as it was laid at his feet by Rex, Washington not just passed the test of true allegiance, he saved the West, something seemingly lost to time, to the revisionists and humanists and marxists, they though Dux and Rex was finished stuffed down their memory hole, never to rise again, and how they love to rub our faces in it, and all that was needed was to take our swords then and the end of us hard Men of The West would be at hand. Brother’s, are they in for a rude surprise!
   So play your little mind fuks you scum of the earth. We are better Men than that, that is where you all went wrong, we are not like you, soft, emasculated, servants of another who remain un-named.

   excerpt from ‘Horatius At The Bridge’

   XXIV
   Fast by the royal standard,
       O’erlooking all the war,
   Lars Porsena of Clusium
       Sat in his ivory car.
   By the right wheel rode Mamilius,
       Prince of the Latian name;
   And by the left false Sextus,
       That wrought the deed of shame.

   XXV
   But when the face of Sextus
       Was seen among the foes,
   A yell that rent the firmament
       From all the town arose.
   On the house-tops was no woman
       But spat towards him and hissed,
   No child but screamed out curses,
       And shook its little fist.

   XXVI
   But the Consul’s brow was sad,
       And the Consul’s speech was low,
   And darkly looked he at the wall,
       And darkly at the foe.
   ‘Their van will be upon us
       Before the bridge goes down;
   And if they once may win the bridge,
       What hope to save the town?’

   XXVII
   Then out spake brave Horatius,
       The Captain of the gate:
   ‘To every man upon this earth
       Death cometh soon or late.
   And how can man die better
       Than facing fearful odds,
   For the ashes of his fathers,
       And the temples of his Gods,

   XXVIII
   ‘And for the tender mother
       Who dandled him to rest,
   And for the wife who nurses
       His baby at her breast,
   And for the holy maidens
       Who feed the eternal flame,
   To save them from false Sextus
       That wrought the deed of shame?

   XXIX
   ‘Hew down the bridge, Sir Consul,
       With all the speed ye may;
   I, with two more to help me,
       Will hold the foe in play.
   In yon strait path a thousand
       May well be stopped by three.
   Now who will stand on either hand,
       And keep the bridge with me?’

   XXX
   Then out spake Spurius Lartius;
       A Ramnian proud was he:
   ‘Lo, I will stand at thy right hand,
       And keep the bridge with thee.’
   And out spake strong Herminius;
       Of Titian blood was he:
   ‘I will abide on thy left side,
       And keep the bridge with thee.’

   XXXI
   ‘Horatius,’ quoth the Consul,
       ‘As thou sayest, so let it be.’
   And straight against that great array
       Forth went the dauntless Three.
   For Romans in Rome’s quarrel
       Spared neither land nor gold,
   Nor son nor wife, nor limb nor life,
       In the brave days of old.

   XXXII
   Then none was for a party;
       Then all were for the state;
   Then the great man helped the poor,
       And the poor man loved the great:
   Then lands were fairly portioned;
       Then spoils were fairly sold:
   The Romans were like brothers
       In the brave days of old.

   XXXIII
   Now Roman is to Roman
       More hateful than a foe,
   And the Tribunes beard the high,
       And the Fathers grind the low.
   As we wax hot in faction,
       In battle we wax cold:
   Wherefore men fight not as they fought
       In the brave days of old.

   XXXIV
   Now while the Three were tightening
       Their harnesses on their backs,
   The Consul was the foremost man
       To take in hand an axe:
   And Fathers mixed with Commons
       Seized hatchet, bar, and crow,
   And smote upon the planks above,
       And loosed the props below.

   XXXV
   Meanwhile the Tuscan army,
       Right glorious to behold,
   Come flashing back the noonday light,
   Rank behind rank, like surges bright
       Of a broad sea of gold.
   Four hundred trumpets sounded
       A peal of warlike glee,
   As that great host, with measured tread,
   And spears advanced, and ensigns spread,
   Rolled slowly towards the bridge’s head,
       Where stood the dauntless Three.

   XXXVI
   The Three stood calm and silent,
       And looked upon the foes,
   And a great shout of laughter
       From all the vanguard rose:
   And forth three chiefs came spurring
       Before that deep array;
   To earth they sprang, their swords they drew,
   And lifted high their shields, and flew
       To win the narrow way;

   XXXVII
   Aunus from green Tifernum,
       Lord of the Hill of Vines;
   And Seius, whose eight hundred slaves
       Sicken in Ilva’s mines;
   And Picus, long to Clusium
       Vassal in peace and war,
   Who led to fight his Umbrian powers
       From that grey crag where, girt with towers,
   The fortress of Nequinum lowers
       O’er the pale waves of Nar.

   XXXVIII
   Stout Lartius hurled down Aunus
       Into the stream beneath;
   Herminius struck at Seius,
       And clove him to the teeth;
   At Picus brave Horatius
       Darted one fiery thrust;
   And the proud Umbrian’s gilded arms
       Clashed in the bloody dust.

   XXXIX
   Then Ocnus of Falerii
       Rushed on the Roman Three;
   And Lausulus of Urgo,
       The rover of the sea;
   And Aruns of Volsinium,
       Who slew the great wild boar,
   The great wild boar that had his den
   Amidst the reeds of Cosa’s fen,
   And wasted fields, and slaughtered men,
       Along Albinia’s shore.

   XL
   Herminius smote down Aruns:
       Lartius laid Ocnus low:
   Right to the heart of Lausulus
       Horatius sent a blow.
   ‘Lie there,’ he cried, ‘fell pirate!
       No more, aghast and pale,
   From Ostia’s walls the crowd shall mark
   The track of thy destroying bark.
   No more Campania’s hinds shall fly
   To woods and caverns when they spy
       Thy thrice accursed sail.’

   XLI
   But now no sound of laughter
       Was heard among the foes.
   A wild and wrathful clamour
       From all the vanguard rose.
   Six spears’ lengths from the entrance
       Halted that deep array,
   And for a space no man came forth
       To win the narrow way.

   XLII
   But hark! the cry is Astur:
       And lo! the ranks divide;
   And the great Lord of Luna
       Comes with his stately stride.
   Upon his ample shoulders
       Clangs loud the four-fold shield,
   And in his hand he shakes the brand
       Which none but he can wield.

   XLIII
   He smiled on those bold Romans
       A smile serene and high;
   He eyed the flinching Tuscans,
       And scorn was in his eye.
   Quoth he, ‘The she-wolf’s litter
       Stand savagely at bay:
   But will ye dare to follow,
       If Astur clears the way?’

   XLIV
   Then, whirling up his broadsword
       With both hands to the heights
   He rushed against Horatius,
       And smote with all his might,
   With shield and blade Horatius
       Right deftly turned the blow.
   The blow, though turned, came yet too nigh;
   It missed his helm, but gashed his thigh:
   The Tuscans raised a joyful cry
       To see the red blood flow.

   XLV
   He reeled, and on Herminius
       He leaned one breathing-space;
   Then, like a wild cat mad with wounds
       Sprang right at Astur’s face.
   Through teeth, and skull, and helmet
       So fierce a thrust he sped,
   The good sword stood a hand-breadth out
       Behind the Tuscan’s head.

   XLVI
   And the great Lord of Luna
       Fell at that deadly stroke,
   As falls on Mount Alvernus
       A thunder smitten oak.
   Far o’er the crashing forest
       The giant’s arms lie spread;
   And the pale augurs, muttering low,
       Gaze on the blasted head.

   XLVII
   On Astur’s throat Horatius
       Right firmly pressed his heel,
   And thrice and four times tugged amain,
       Ere he wrenched out the steel.
   ‘And see,’ he cried, ‘the welcome,
       Fair guests, that waits you here!
   What noble Lucumo comes next
       To taste our Roman cheer?’

   XLVIII
   But at his haughty challenge
       A sullen murmur ran,
   Mingled of wrath, and shame, and dread,
       Along that glittering van.
   There lacked not men of prowess,
       Nor men of lordly race;
   For all Etruria’s noblest
       Were round the fatal place.

   XLIX
   But all Etruria’s noblest
       Felt their hearts sink to see
   On the earth the bloody corpses,
       In the path the dauntless Three:
   And, from the ghastly entrance
       Where those bold Romans stood,
   All shrank, like boys who unaware,
   Ranging the woods to start a hare,
   Come to the mouth of the dark lair
   Where, growling low, a fierce old bear
       Lies amidst bones and blood.

   L
   Was none who would be foremost
       To lead such dire attack:
   But those behind cried ‘Forward!’
       And those before cried ‘Back!’
   And backward now and forward
       Wavers the deep array;
   And on the tossing sea of steel,
   To and fro the standards reel;
   And the victorious trumpet-peal
       Dies fitfully away.

   LI
   Yet one man for one moment
       Strode out before the croud;
   Well known was he to all the Three,
       And they gave gim greeting loud.
   ‘Now welcome, welcome, Sextus!
       Now welcome to thy home!
   Why dost thou stay, and turn away?
       Here lies the road to Rome.’

   LII
   Thrice looked he at the city;
       Thrice looked he at the dead;
   And thrice came on in fury,
       And thrice turned back in dread:
   And, white with fear and hatred,
       Scowled at the narrow way
   Where, wallowing in a pool of blood,
       The bravest Tuscans lay.

   LIII
   But meanwhile axe and lever
       Have manfully been plied;
   And now the bridge hangs tottering
       Above the boiling tide.
   ‘Come back, come back, Horatius!’
       Loud cried the Fathers all.
   ‘Back, Lartius! back, Herminius!
       Back, ere the ruin fall!’

   LIV
   Back darted Spurius Lartius;
       Herminius darted back:
   And, as they passed, beneath their feet
       They felt the timbers crack.
   But when they turned their faces,
       And on the farther shore
   Saw brave Horatius stand alone,
       They would have crossed once more.

   LV
   But with a crash like thunder
       Fell every loosened beam,
   And, like a dam, the mighty wreck
       Lay right athwart the stream:
   And a long shout of triumph
       Rose from the walls of Rome,
   As to the highest turret-tops
       Was splashed the yellow foam.

   LVI
   And, like a horse unbroken
       When first he feels the rein,
   The furious river struggled hard,
       And tossed his tawny mane,
   And burst the curb and bounded,
       Rejoicing to be free,
   And whirling down, in fierce career,
   Battlement, and plank, and pier,
       Rushed headlong to the sea.

   LVII
   Alone stood brave Horatius,
       But constant still in mind;
   Thrice thirty thousand foes before,
       And the broad flood behind.
   ‘Down with him!’ cried false Sextus,
       With a smile on his pale face.
   ‘Now yield thee,’ cried Lars Porsena,
       ‘Now yield thee to our grace!’

   LVIII
   Round turned he, as not deigning
       Those craven ranks to see;
   Nought spake he to Lars Porsena,
       To Sextus nought spake he;
   But he saw on Palatins
       The white porch of his home;
   And he spake to the noble river
       That rolls by the towers of Rome.

   LIX
   ‘Oh, Tiber! father Tiber!
       To whom the Romans pray,
   A Roman’s life, a Roman’s arms,
       Take thou in charge this day!’
   So he spake, and speaking sheathed
       The good sword by his side,
   And with his harness on his back,
       Plunged headlong in the tide.

   LX
   No sound of joy or sorrow
       Was heard from either bank;
   But friends and foes in dumb surprise,
   With parted lips and straining eyes,
       Stood gazing where he sank;
   And when above the surges
       They saw his crest appear,
   All Rome sent forth a rapturous cry,
   And even the ranks of Tuscany
       Could scarce forbear to cheer.

   LXI
   But fiercely ran the current,
       Swollen high by months of rain:
   And fast his blood was flowing;
       And he was sore in pain,
   And heavy with his armour,
       And spent with changing blows:
   And oft they thought him sinking,
       But still again he rose.

   LXII
   Never, I ween, did swimmer,
       In such an evil case,
   Struggle through such a raging flood
       Safe to the landing place.
   But his limbs were borne up bravely
       By the brave heart within,
   And our good father Tiber
       Bare bravely up his chin.

   LXIII
   ‘Curse on him!’ quoth false Sextus;
       ‘Will not the villain drown?
   But for this stay, ere close of day
       We should have sacked the town!’
   ‘Heaven help him!’ quoth Lars Porsena,
       ‘And bring him safe to shore;
   For such a gallant feat of arms
       Was never seen before.’

   LXIV
   And now he feels the bottom;
       Now on dry earth he stands;
   Now round him throng the Fathers;
       To press his gory hands;
   And now, with shouts and clapping,
       And noise of weeping loud,
   He enters through the River-Gate,
       Borne by the joyous crowd.

   LXV
   They gave him of the corn-land,
       That was of public right,
   As much as two strong oxen
       Could plough from morn till night;
   And they made a molten image,
       And set it up on high,
   And there it stands unto this day
       To witness if I lie.

   LXVI
   It stands in the Comitium,
       Plain for all folk to see;
   Horatius in his harness,
       halting upon one knee:
   And underneath is written,
       In letters all of gold,
   How valiantly he kept the bridge
       In the brave days of old.

8. On January 7, 2020 at 8:26 pm, MTHead said:

   Whoa, all he said was your crazy for owning a gun!
   That’s actually good thing. If we survive, we have a ready made defense!

9. On January 7, 2020 at 9:31 pm, Jeffersonian said:

   I am suddenly reminded of the Hadamar Euthanasia Center.

10. On January 11, 2020 at 1:02 am, guest said:

    If they were planning to start another civil war, what would they do differently?

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