The Sleeping Sword

I watched on state television the on the street survey of typical Hyphenated-Canadians opinions about the murder of tyrant Colonel Q. Imagine that, the man on the street, when interviewed by the Red press, does not give a hork of spit for the Geneva conventions. Who cares? When asked, it is because Colonel Q was not a popular guy. Just like popular President Zero can have American citizens assassinated, whereas unpopular President W cannot even have non-citizens tortured to save the lives of other citizens. The citizen assassinated, the citizen in question is not a popular guy, so the establishment can ignore that due process stuff delineated on that mere scrap of paper*, the Constitution. Being popular or unpopular is important, one concludes. If some other president of a stamp other than the popular President Zero had had a citizen bumped off, there would be hell to pay in the Red press, kinda like the fuss over the torture thing. Hmmm. For the astute citizen of the current era, an understanding of this popularity thing is important. Your life could be snuffed out because of it, right, er, left?

On the very same day, the Red Star continued its shock and angst exploration of the suicide of a young queer man. He was bullied at school, apparently * . For years. All the apparatus that the leftists built seems to not work. It failed horribly. There is blood on their hands, dripping like semen after a hand job in a bath house. Did not at least one of his teachers get sensitivity training and know which phone number to call to enlist the support of the gay intervention apparatus? What about the principal, vice-principal, librarian, custodian, or teachers union shop steward? All that money, office space, staff, photocopier toner, and canary yellow paper: and now the kid is dead. But, aside from the bungling incompetence of the leftist apparatus, getting back to the popularity thing: the gay kid was not popular, and like Colonel Q, is dead. The popular kids in school do not off themselves. Nope, the kid was unpopular. So what is the special fairy dust that makes the death of unpopular A different from unpopular Q?

You can find out after the fact, I suppose. If the queer kid had had the sense to e-mail comrade whats her name at the Red Star, I am sure his life would have been saved. It is not the fact that the xillions of dollars spent to date did shit bugger all, but that more xillions are needed. We all know we are being set up for more queer spending, and the shit here is but a lubricant for sodomy, tax payer sodomy. I bet you a dollar. Regardless, the mere criteria 'popular' is not the final determinative of justifiable death. The criteria is popular with the lefties. I wish comrade whats her name could shift her tanned in the sun of Cuba carcass and express that, make it clear, so proletarians like me can get fully with the program. There is doubleplusgood popular, like queer suicide boy, and doubleplusungood unpopular, like Colonel Q.

I already know I am too far down the ladder of victimhood to be anywhere close to being popular with the lefties. I am not useless. I work in the private sector. I am white. I have sex with a gender opposite my own. I read the Bible, not dip it in urine. I have no bastard children. The people I know support their children with their own, after tax, income; they do not depend on the state. So I can feel the cold breath of the leftist Nazgul, looking for dead souls to disapprove of. I dread the accusation of racism, sexism, and whatever-ism. For these things, I know full well, there is no defense. I am lucky enough to have enough sense to keep my wealth hidden, my capital concealed, so that the informants and Tapeworm-Canadians do not think to denounce me for their profit. My health is bad enough that if I am denounced, I will have sufficient strength and means to summon them to appear with me before a higher court, in keeping with my non-Christian religious beliefs. Perhaps they sense this and look for easier, richer prey. Regardless, I am neither popular, or un; but being able to stay on the white side of grey is a survival skill. This applies to you, too.

I avoid those popular with the leftists. I do not go into their communities. I cross the street when I walk in daylight, and I do not go out at night when the popular ones are out. These leftist zombies, I know are turning their lives around even if they are known to police. They care about their children, enough to steal from me to pay for dope to numb their pain. When they urinate on the subway, I take comfort in the fact I wear sensible boots, not leftist sandals. I avoid the popular, but how do I avoid the badge of unpopular?

Run silent, run deep. Just keep your mouth shut. This is the queer version of Ladies, keep your legs shut and you won't get pregnant. Nobody I do not know knows what I believe. I don my Toronto cameoflage: Che t-shirt, and I have a metrosexual man-bag. So what if I keep my ninja weapons in there, behind the batik patterned cotton fabric? I want to not appear unpopular; to blend in with the popular. Nothing I wear is good enough for an N-person to think good enough to steal. My resistance to taxation and over regulation does not extend to party membership, nor political activism. Nope. I just work for cash, in the black market. My resistance to the criminal class takes the form of being a better criminal. The popular criminal class, the bedrock leftist voter, is noted for being dumb. Me, I am not dumb. I do not get caught, I am invisible, I do not need a no snitch'n * culture: I leave no witnesses to snitch. Without ears to hear the unpopular, I am not unpopular, even if being popular is forbidden to me because of my gender, orientation, religion, and culture.

To be popular is to appeal to some emotionally driven leftist mind; it is impossible to second guess the split minds of the leftist popularity judges; better to study Freud and Jung and learn how to drive them into psychosis. Boycott their revenue stream, sabotage their industry, and spread alarm and despondency. So much is happening under the radar of the ability challenged activists that you, and I, are called to help push them along the garden path, over the cliff. Keep your mouth shut to the spurting white guilt, even as you squeeze their balls, lift their wallet, and cut their air hose. Thus, you will avoid being unpopular, even as you will never be popular. Tell me it is not so.

I, Fenris Badwulf, wrote this.