Amerika

Posts Tagged ‘the purge’

Savonarola Is The End State of Cultural Collapse

Wednesday, November 8th, 2017

Let’s say you’ve hit bottom. You’ve tried to keep digging, but the bedrock broke your power tools. The drugs and bug spray can’t keep the big, ugly spiders from crawling around on your ceiling. The “art” is all repulsive trash. Lucian Freud looks uplifting in comparison. Your magazines are either straight-up porn, or amateur incest porn. Cosmopolitan ideals involve screwing anything that doesn’t qualify as livestock because that would actually make you look backwoods. Once that becomes your culture, you really need Jesus.

And you’re gonna get Jesus too. It won’t be nice, happy Cuckservative Jesus. He won’t be very happy. His zeal-infected followers won’t feel that way either. They’ll take one look at Hillary, Michelle Obama, or even all six hundred obnoxious pounds of Rosie O’Donnell and realize that Cotton Mather kind of had a point.

So maybe we can just get away from it all. We’ll go to the movie theater and…contribute money to the bank accounts of guys who jack themselves off to water the geraniums.

Yes, Amerika, you Google “Weinstein masturbating into potted plants” and get the following hit third in your list. !DO NOT! order the gumbo. And if you criticize these perverted, repulsive, hateful jerks, they tell you they live a gay lifestyle. That makes it different. I mean Kevin Spacey is !GAY! What can you expect out of him?

He chooses to live a gay lifestyle. Does that mean it isn’t hardwired? Could he have married a high school cheerleader, rather than buggering some poor wannabe Key-Grip? If choosing a gay lifestyle means you attempt the statutory rape of 14 year-old boys, does ISIS have a point when they chuck them off the roofs in Ninevah?

These are questions that only have to be asked when equality and tolerance are the watch words of a managerial society that keeps hammering down the nails that stand up too high. We are getting what we’ve been told to tolerate for the last century and it increasingly tastes like Jonestown Koolaid. People are spitting it out and then projectile-vomiting whatever they managed to initially keep down. This scares your average Cuck-Stonertarian.

The fallout from the Harvey Weinstein scandals and the ripples from the “#MeToo” movement are having indubitably positive effects — above all, exposing and bringing to account predators who have enjoyed impunity due to their power and status. But there are some pitfalls. Many people — not just men with skeletons in the closet — fear that careers may be destroyed over minor misconduct and ambiguous transgressions. Troubling rhetoric abounds, condemning all sexually tinged dynamics in the workplace, stereotyping men as abusers and women as perpetual victims in need of quasi-Victorian protections..

And it also begins to boomerang back on people who have stood on the shoulders of leftist revolution for their entire careers. David Corn at Mother Jones Magazine is not the guy you think of pimp-rolling through Bed-Stuy in a gaudy, pink Pimpmobile. He’s the zit on the arse of ossified “Progressive” opinion journalism. But now he is portrayed as a manster with the hands of a horny octopus around the office. He’ll totally need to burn at the stake. Crucify him on The Tree of Woe!

And this sort of a destructive overshoot is exactly what you can expect. People are rediscovering why we had cultural standards. Chivalry, courtship, romance and gender roles all kept the shaved monkees from chucking too many nasty turds. Cultures police themselves and make civilized living viable. Kill the culture and the civilization dies. A dead civilization doesn’t just go away. It maunders like a Zombie Extra, long after The Walking Dead has nuked the fridge and nobody cares what Machona does on the next episode.

How do you get rid of this garbage? You burn it in the burn barrel: three parts diesel, 1 part Mo-Gas. Chop, stir and try not to breathe the smoke in. Once a culture has been poisoned, its civilization is dead. The civilians don’t like that. Once they realize that Rome is burning, they demand answers from the people that promised them happiness while stealing their future. They don’t get answers from the people who lied to them. There are no answers, so somebody else offers you one. Duterte didn’t become president in a healthy, thriving society. Trump didn’t either.

So who do we get if we don’t pull ourselves out of the ditch? We get the guy who fires up the bulldozer and fills that ditch with dirt and buries all the sorry losers who can’t climb and dig fast enough. We get Savonarola who turns the rhetoric of Jerry Fallwell into the actions of an infuriated Oliver Cromwell. Anybody with a brain should be purging the rot around them as peaceably as is still possible. It’s going to get taken care of. It will be done with pruning shears or a flame thrower. The choice is now yours, in the immediate vicinity around you. Amerika died as functional, decent society. We’re debating how violent and murderous we are going to have to be in order to take out all the rotting trash.

Right-Wing Death Squads

Monday, July 17th, 2017

The old guy at the edge of town explained it to me this way, as he was whittling on a piece of pine. “Nature is like a fishing line, not a light switch. There is always tension to it. You cannot just force her to do what you want. You have to understand her, play out the line, give and take. Otherwise, if you push too hard, she lets you win for a time, and then there is a snap-back.”

We were talking about the clown who moved to one of the family farms to the north with the intention of growing purely organic kale. He had been organic, all right, but he also pushed too hard. He fertilized too much and watered too frequently, and tried to force the plants to be what he saw in his head. They rebelled by turning into what looked like mutant cabbages, and the crop was ruined just as he then was.

The pine bar dipped below the porch rail. His cold blue eyes were watching something. A cluster of people walked into town, except that they were evenly spaced, in uniform and moving at march pace. “That is what I am talking about. The snap-back. Now you best get on home, because Nature unleashed is a force worth reckoning with.”

The rest I reconstructed from the scant evidence we found the next day. Even with only fragmentary bits of the picture, it was easy to piece together because all of the actions were deliberate, like a fishing line arcing through history. There were no stop/start motions, only a continuity of force applied, and so even with only granular remains it was easy to see what had happened.

Our town was once a reasonably well-off place, not prosperous like New York but comfortable, with almost ten thousand people and two movie theaters. Then government had to mess with what had worked since the dawn of time. They taxed the heck out of the small farms at the same time it got more expensive because of insurance and all the rules they had to follow, so those folded. The half-dozen small manufacturers were next, because after OSHA, the unions, the taxman and the lawyers got done with them, it was easier to just import the stuff from China and sell it through an office in Simi Valley. Then half the people went on government aid, and many of them just gave up and dove into the shallow end of a bottle, or a pill bottle. Things were bad and that worried even the people who were making it just fine. These people were their friends and neighbors, dying out before their eyes. I did not know there was so much compassion in our town until the rage started building.

But Nature, she does move differently than human beings. Just like a fire can smolder for days and suddenly just about detonate, consuming everything in its path, the rage floated around. First it was the nervous statements by the white housewives in the grocery store line. Then their men were out there, walking around at night and talking to the pill zombies passed out behind Hutchinson’s Hardware. The story was always the same: hope went away, the aid checks came in, and then carpetbaggers from over the hills were there selling “medicine.” People started to talk favorably of the Old Testament God in their churches, and the statue of Jesus got tucked behind the floral display.

The march began on the bad end of town. This was where the cops winced before going. These guys, wearing crisp uniforms and sunglasses, went right in without pausing. I thought of the snap-back. It is a motion of momentum, of inertia displaced. Once it is triggered, it cannot really be stopped. And so it was.

At the Adult Book Store, which mostly sold videos, the boss Curt was crouched on a stool, looking out the window past the burglar bars and neon. In this business, you had to basically hate your customers, he thought. They were fools chasing a fool’s dream. But as long as they kept coming to rent or buy midget gay interracial amputee porn, Curt was doing a lot better than back when he worked at a real bookstore. Motion at the edge of the lot caught his eye.

His cashier, a guy who went only by the name Deez Nuts, approached the window. “Who are these guys, cops?” he said, then turned back to look, and his eyes grew even wider. Curt turned just in time to be hit in the face with a blast of pink mist, bone fragments scratching his skin. He staggered backward as the door crashed open. He had time to utter one surprised syllable, and then two more rounds from an MP5 shattered his skull as well, smashing the fragile chalice as the liquefied brain leaked onto the floor, his corpse slumping next to the eyeless Deez Nuts.

Uniformed bodies marched through the store. On an unseen signal, they uncapped the cans of gasoline and began to cover all of the magazines, movies, props, devices and finally the sticky rooms in the back where people watched movies for fifteen minutes at a time. At the rear of the building, two men disabled and drained the fire suppression system. One man passing the screening rooms heard a whimper, and turned as if to investigate, but his cohort stopped him a hand to the chest and a shake of the head. It is more merciful this way, he reflected.

The uniformed men marched out of the store, and one tossed in a burning rag as the door swung shut, then ducked aside for the inevitable explosion. Within seconds the entire building blazed. The marchers did not watch, but continued their passage through town. The payday loans shop was next, with each employee cut down as they turned to flee. That was another important principle: guilt transferred to all who participated, just as a tormented bull does not care if you held the whip or not, so long as you were there doing the moments of provocation and pain. At the welfare office, four government employees stared with empty eyes before small red marks appeared on their foreheads and they slumped forward, bathing their desks in a lavage of foaming blood and brain tissue.

Similarly the mega-church preacher, rumored to have his own brand of pills sold in the hills, gasped once before the back of his head exploded onto the altar, with shattered bits of fatty brain tissue running down the cross. He had been instrumental in preaching tolerance, peace and understanding as the rot progressed, and like all failures, he had rationalized this as progress and the moral higher ground. His church blazed in the night as well, his staff dying at the wheels of their cars in a hail of bullets.

Nail salons, liquor stores, massage parlors, fast food joints, doctors who wrote scrip, convenience stores, boutiques, a mosque and several bars went up next. The inhabitants thereof seemed unable to grasp what was happening to them, so they simply watched until it was too late to flee, and then ran in a futile gesture before being bashed down into insensibility by a rain of blunt bullets. Fire reflected in pools of blood dominated the afternoon.

Then the squads embarked on what they called The Purge. Their leader had a list of names, and there were check-marks next to the undesirables — the perverse, the criminal, the unethical, the selfish, the miscegenated, the mental health cases — and these were hauled from their homes or jobs and dispatched with bullets to the base of the skull. It was said that the town lost five hundred residents to killing, but another three thousand or so fled to the big city an hour away, knowing what was coming.

At the new dawn, normal people rose from their beds, often unaware of what had gone on. They found themselves in a town full of people that resembled the founding stock of America: hardy, resourceful, modest, thoughtful, reverent, realistic, heterosexual or quietly single, purposeful, and Western European. In the old junkyard south of town, a pyre made of aged timbers and fence posts blazed under the weight of a heap of bodies, but no one seemed to care.

Visions Of The Coming Purge

Thursday, June 22nd, 2017

In his dimly lit attic workroom, the inventor tightened the final screw, and flipped the power switch. The robot lit up and awoke, taking in his surroundings with an unchanging gaze that shone aggression through bright red eyes.

“Who are you?” His maker stood in front of the robot with stern anticipation, his eagerness to see the fruits of his life’s labour still held in check by lingering sceptical doubts.

The robot quickly turned its head and took in the form of the man before him.  “I AM SODOMOTRON.”  The voice was loud, monotone, and clouded in a raspy distortion that seemed to give the crudely computer generated sound an organic feeling. “WHO ARE YOU?”

This was new.  None of the previous failed prototypes had posed its own question so soon after awakening.  Could this be a sign that he’d succeeded?  The maker tried restraining his joy at his promising creation’s animation, knowing that the true test of the robot had yet to come.  But the attempt was futile, and his face beamed out a wild jubilant desire for the manifestation of his greatest dream.  

“I–I am your maker,” he said. The moment of truth lay ahead.

Sodomotron glared motionlessly, his prominent inflected brow seeming to exude pure disgust at the weakness of the squishy, quivering, flesh bag in his way.  The light from those eyes was unpleasant, and filled the man’s vision to the edges with red, as if becoming drenched in blood, but he forced himself to stare directly back into them, straining to show no sign of self-doubt or fear. 

The sound of a short hydraulic twitch originating in the robot’s lower structure caused his heart to jump and rail against its cage of ribs, but his overriding drive to live to see the metal beast unleashed upon the world, to know that it would make the world a better place was the anchor with which he forced himself calm.  Finally, the voice once again bellowed, this time at a subtly lowered tone, “ABOVE WEAKNESS THRESHOLD.”

Dual relief washed over the man.  He would be spared, he would remain unviolated.  But more important than that, he had looked into the eyes of the beast and therein gained an inexplicable confidence in the soundness of his creation.  He’d done it.  His dream had become real.

For years, the inventor had observed that in human society, the natural predators became the prey and so a mouse-like ineptitude had prevailed in all that humanity did. Evil and stupidity always won, usually on the backs of vast popularity by people who were as casual with the truth as they were with their paychecks, and anything good or honest was smashed down to the roars of pleasure by the jubilant crowd. The only solution was a mass purge of the weak, and in this instrument of terror, the inventor felt he may have created the true salvation of his race.

He addressed the mechanical embodiment of domination.  “Sodomotron!”  The maker’s eye’s glowed back red light as little embers, scorching away any remaining doubt.  “What is your purpose?”

Waiting no longer, the robot arose to its full towering height, rapidly thudded across the room and crashed through the door.  Not pausing to look back, it rumbled one last time in a bowel-loosening timbre:

“I AM SODOMOTRON.  I SODOMIZE THE WEAK.”

The Purge: Election Year (2016)

Saturday, January 14th, 2017


by Adam Rath

The Purge: Election Year was released thirteen months after President-Elect Trump’s announcement of his candidacy, giving the producers plenty of time to tap into the periodic emotional frenzy of democratic societies. The theatrical poster evoked the themes of Trump’s campaign, including the tagline “Keep America Great.”

For those unfamiliar with the Purge series, it portrays a near-future USA where a pseudo-fascist nationalist party rules with popular approval. Once a year, in an extreme hybrid of ancient Greek ostracism, eugenics, and Escape From New York, all laws are suspended for 24 hours. While most people with the means and organization (middle-class and above) seal up in their homes and wait it out, some venture out into the wild to enact some extra-legal justice or to unleash the beast within them in psychopathic violence. The more disorganized areas of the country, like urban ghettos, predictably devolve into a melee of chaos that leaves a good portion of the population dead.

Interestingly, in the movies’ internal history, this policy has resulted in a healthy economy and 1% unemployment rate, as well as widespread popular support. The movies portray the Purge as a time of fear where families cower in the fortress-like homes, but what would really happen if professional law and medical services were removed (with warning)? Look to the behavior of American pioneers: common citizens join together for protection in times of danger, such as savage redskin attacks. In this light, the Purge seems like a way to weed out those communities incapable of such basic organization.

In Election Year this becomes explicit, accompanied by the anti-majority ethnic animus which has reached a fever pitch over the past decade. The establishment — apparently all conservative white males of Anglo-Saxon heritage — are under threat by a new, exciting candidate in the form of a white woman with hipster glasses. After a failed assassination attempt, she and her gay-looking bodyguard end up with a group of various ethnic minorities from poor neighborhoods.

They fight their way back to safety against a cadre of stereotypical evilwhites including militia men with Confederate/Nazi flag patches and Russian tourists. Long story short, our oppressed heroes join up with the multicultural Rebellion ripped off from Star Wars for the millionth time, and win over the evil conservative white people in the end. The Purge is ended forever, and the incompetent are safe again.

Unlike the first Purge film, this fails even on the level of exploitation/thriller by wasting most of the screentime with its bloated moral message. It performed well at the box office due to the political tie-in, suggesting producers will attempt more such movies, but the surprise majoritarian electoral upset may have changed the cultural taste. Already the tropes trotted out in this movie seem like the tired cliches of a past age.

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