Announcement

Collapse
No announcement yet.

Letter to Tom -- 9 NOV 05

Collapse
X
 
  • Filter
  • Time
  • Show
Clear All
new posts

  • Letter to Tom -- 9 NOV 05

    Eric Thomson: Letter to Tom -- 9 NOV 05
    Dear Tom:

    Thanks for all your thoughts in your letters of OCT 13th, SEPT 30th & NOV 4th! Another correspondent describes the ZOG’s smoke & mirrors tactics to delude the Goyim as “the propasphere”. It appears that 90% of the sheeple & alien invaders of the USA see ZOG-prop as one more element in life, like smog, traffic jams, electricity, refrigeration & other such ubiquitous annoyances & amenities. As consumers, we consume the ZOGs show-biz as we do any commodity: truth & lies are seen as entertainment. It appears that the Goy sheeple live on a very Marxian-materialist plane of getting, spending, procreating, ingesting & excreting. Beyond the next niggerball game, the next beer, the next meal, &c., nothing seems to matter to the majority. The ‘news’ is only relevant when it affects them directly.

    Those with means, who are affected by ZOG-prop, will donate for causes popularized by the jewsmedia, including sending their offspring to Iraq, but these morons with means are becoming fewer, as The Turd World takes over America, including USA & Soviet Canuckistan, whose anti-White ZOG is strutting arrogantly & suicidally, for Asians have ways of dealing with jew minorities, because Holohoax Hokum doesn’t work with them. Their lack of a Judeo-Christian background also immunizes non-Whites to jew lies & guilt-trips. As those of us familiar with Semitic religions know, there is no worse rivalry than that which occurs amongst such vindictive cults. The cosmic joke is that jews & their Christian stooges, slaves, servants, &c. are most hateful toward their fellow psycho-semites, the Moslems, who hate their rival psycho-semites just as cordially in the current turf wars in Europe & The Middle East. Real Semites are Arabs. Those who adopt Arab religions, but are not Arabs, are “psycho-semites”. This psychopathology is understandable if we consider suburbanites who want to be cowboys or Indians, as well as others who want to be things they are not. The kosher Khazar converts to Judaism invaded Palestine on the basis of their group fantasy, & now they are condemned to run a concentration camp for the real Semites, whom they dispossessed, at least for now.

    We know that the jews believe in magic, including numbers with magical significance, such as 666 & six million. They also rely upon their hosts & victims to do nothing &/or to forgive them when they publicize their predations, thus passing their guilt onto their victims. The ZOG is also their magical creature, for its existence relies upon the magical spell of the jewsmedia to control what enters the minds of their Gentile subjects. In the novel, “They Live”, humans were all hypnotized by the jew-like aliens, but one of them woke up & could see who the aliens were. This situation is depicted as fiction, but it is really a description of our reality in this land of ZOG, in which we “Sleep, Obey & Consume.” Do we want to snap out of our jew-daze? I believe we could, if we wanted to. That time may come when cold reality penetrates our media-induced, warm, fuzzy fantasies. The reality will likely have to be immediate, obtrusive & unavoidable, such as a cold machete blade at one’s throat, a burning sensation caused by the flames in one’s abode, acute hunger, &c. It appears that such immediate &/or lethal crises may be required to dispel this jew-daze, this evil spell which holds us in thrall, but by then, it may be too late, as it will for most sheeple.

    It seemed that Hurricane Katrina served to focus some minds, but the amazing thing is the continued existence of minds which are still wondering what happened & wheah be duh TV an’ duh pizza? When intelligence declines to this level, the subhuman condition becomes hopeless, but not serious. Indeed, what we have seen in the wake of Katrina & Rita looks like a scenario for Things to Come in the Jewnited States.

    The folly of being co-opted by the ZOG is revealed by the former Prime Minister of former Rhodesia, the traitor Ian Smith, who did the ZOG’s bidding by handing over to Black Marxist Misrule in what is now Zimbabwe, which I noted is a country named after a ruins, just as former German Southwest Africa is now Namibia, a country named after a desert. How about “The United States of Death Valley”? If one believes in omens, then the names chosen by the White colonial successors were fraught with bad portents, as history now shows us. Smith’s children have no future in his former country, & Smith, himself, was deported. I know how tempting it is to sellout for immediate gains, but if one has any thought for the future, such a sellout is unwise & criminal.

    Of course, another name for America is The Soldout States of America, which has always been a business venue with its creed of “every man for himself & Devil take the hindmost.” It’s a matter of selling out before your neighbor does, even if that neighbor is your own son or daughter. “Hey, that’s their lookout!” I first heard that statement in regard to future generations of one’s own family when I lived in Rhodesia, & now I recognize the symptoms that this credo is in general practice in the USA, as revealed in our ‘national’ debt et al., but most of all in our immigration policy.

    As you say, we White people are members of an aging population, like the massive herds of male buffalo which covered the plains, but suddenly were no more. An Indian told me that the Whites shot any buffalo, the bigger, the better, but he blamed his own people for the drastic diminution of the herds, because Indians knew what was the best buffalo for their purposes: female calves! They had the best hides & meat, so it was the Indians’ unlimited & lethal selection which did the buffalo in, according to Bill Irontail, a member of the Sioux Confederation, whose grandfather had earned his U.S. Cavalry carbine at Custer’s Last Stand. He said that the White soldiers shot one another to avoid being taken alive & tortured to death by the squaws. He’s what I’d call an ‘honest Injun’. That was before jewspeak “P.C.” impositions in regard to Amerasians.

    Older Whites have blamed their own generation for the sins of omission & commission which contributed to our present fine mess, but I think that all generations of Americans share the blame, including my own, individually & collectively. It is a real joke for the older generation to blame the younger, as was eloquently written in ancient Greece, but who raised the younger generation, if not the older ones? So much for the ‘wisdom’ of old age. It is also true that if previous generations had not done something right, there’d be none of us around to complain about their fecklessness!

    I tend to agree that those who most fear to die seem not to have lived. By my own exercise of extreme selfishness, I succeeded in doing pretty much everything I wanted to do. It involved some risks, but not truly death-defying courage on my part. In fact, I took death as a constant, a given, an axiom, for unlike most natives of North America, I saw death occur violently over the years. Those who see violent death routinely are firemen/medics & other rescuers who arrive at scenes of shootings & accidents. Life can be over very quickly, & death has many ways of surprising us. With this background, I could more appreciate life in quality & quantity, for death is there to remind me “to get on with it.” In some degree, I have assimilated death.

    Those who have not done so often seem to lead lives of burden & boredom which they take for granted as eternal. They age, but they do not mature, & their lives seem stunted, at least to me. There are many who live for their material possessions, & they also live vicariously THROUGH their possessions. I knew a woman who bought mink coats, but she never went out to social events or parties where they would be appropriate. The mink coats in her closet symbolized the parties she would never attend herself, but they remained AS IF she’d attended them! I’ve known men who devoted their time & energies to money-making, like Scrooge, in which their money represented the life they never lived, & which they wanted to increase, as if the abundance of money was also the abundance of life! This attitude was evident in a lecture I attended on 401-K investment schemes. The lecturer painted a dollar-filled future, provided we made wise investments. Our accrued profits would go onward & upward, forever, if we did right. BUT, as he reluctantly stated, one day we would die, so we should consider to whom we’d will our never-ending financial prosperity. Gee, it sounded like one was kicked off a merry go-round! Shucks. So who do we sue?

    As you observe, we live within a Zionist social hierarchy: jews on top, with their White & Black servants. But now, this social totem pole is being reconstituted & re-organized with the addition of semi-asiatic hispanics & other Asians, with Chinese & Indians. The ZOG’s genocidal hatred of Whites is becoming more obvious. You ask who the jews may rely upon to keep civilized artifacts running. My answer is: Asians who have proved that they can maintain White men’s inventions & improve them. Our higher education facilities are increasingly devoted to the education of Asians who are capable of absorbing such information & knowledge. White men invent & forget. Yellow men learn & maintain. Blacks do neither. As Disraeli said, “Those who do not understand race can never understand history.” The jews who are semi-asiatics themselves, will face competition from the Asians they are helping to pour into this continent, so the hebes may out-monkey themselves in the end, but that is not for Whites to care, when we should be caring for ourselves!

    As you say, the ZOG needs crises to distract the Goyim, in the interests of jew-supremacy, but it does not want crises of revolutionary potential or civil war, such as natural disasters which leave lots of unhappy people alive. As the pressure grows in the USA pot, there is increasing likelihood that the lid will blow off, sooner than later.

    Yes, we must prepare, at least mentally, for the coming conflicts, crises & chaos that can occur with the suddenness of a hurricane. I think Chittum’s time frame is valid, so we should plan accordingly. Find some Whites who can wake up to the facts. That’s our first step. All the best. DOWZ! & ORION

    Eric

    --------------------

    Watch “They Live” on the Internet!

    http://www.sidereel.com/They_Live/_watchlinkviewer/13

    --------------------

    They Live

    Wikipedia (Links)
    They_Live They_Live


    --------------------

    Ray Nelson: Eight O’Clock in the Morning [= They Live]

    http://vnnforum.com/showthread.php?t=88439
    http://whitenationalist.org/forum/sh...ted=1#post1539

    --------------------

    Write to:
    Mr. Eric Thomson
    P.O. Box 896
    Yakima, Washington 98907-0896
    U.S.A.

    --------------------

    http://vnnforum.com/showthread.php?t=107157
    http://whitenationalist.org/forum/sh...=1538#post1538

    Last edited by Eric Thomson; 02-08-2010, 08:34 PM. Reason: Add Links

  • #2
    Ray Nelson's -- Eight O'Clock in the Morning -- They Live!!!

    — Ray Nelson’s —

    Eight O’Clock in the Morning


    http://whitenationalist.org/forum/sh...ted=1#post1539

    At the end of the show the hypnotist told his subjects, ”Awake.”

    Something unusual happened.

    One of the subjects awoke all the way. This had never happened before. His name was George Nada and he blinked out at the sea of faces in the theatre, at first unaware of anything out of the ordinary. Then he noticed, spotted here and there in the crowd, the non-human faces, the faces of the Fascinators. They had been there all along, of course, but only George was really awake, so only George recognized them for what they were. He understood everything in a flash, including the fact that if he were to give any outward sign, the Fascinators would instantly command him to return to his former state, and he would obey.

    He left the theatre, pushing out into the neon night, carefully avoiding any indication that he saw the green, reptilian flesh or the multiple yellow eyes of the rulers of the earth. One of them asked him, ”Got a light buddy?” George gave him a light, then moved on.

    At intervals along the street George saw the posters hanging with photographs of the Fascinators’ multiple eyes and various commands printed under them, such as, ”Work eight hours, play eight hours, sleept eight hours,” and ”Marry and Reproduce.” A TV set in the window of a store caught George’s eye, but he looked away in the nick of time. When he didn’t look at the Fascinator in the screen, he could resist the command, ”Stay tuned to this station.”

    George lived alone in a little sleeping room, and as soon as he got home, the first thing he did was to disconnect the TV set. In other rooms he could hear the TV sets of his neighbors, though. Most of the time the voices were human, but now and then he heard the arrogant, strangely bird-like croaks of the aliens. ”Obey the government,” said one croak. ”We are the government, ” said another. ”We are your friends, you’d do anything for a friend, wouldn’t you?”

    ”Obey!”

    ”Work!”

    Suddenly the phone rang.

    George picked it up. It was one of the Fascinators.

    ”Hello,” it squawked. ”This is your control, Chief of Police Robinson. You are an old man, George Nada. Tomorrow morning at eight o’clock, your heart will stop. Please repeat.”

    ”I am an old man,” said George. ”Tomorrow morning at eight o’clock, my heart will stop.”

    The control hung up

    ”No, it wont,” whispered George. He wondered why they wanted him dead. Did they suspect that he was awake? Probably. Someone might have spotted him, noticed that he didn’t respond the way the others did. If George were alive at one minute after eight tomorrow morning, then they would be sure.

    ”No use waiting here for the end,” he thought.

    He went out again. The posters, the TV, the occasional commands from passing aliens did not seem to have absolute power over him, though he still felt strongly tempted to obey, to see things the way his master wanted him to see them. He passed an alley and stopped. One of the aliens was alone there, leaning against the wall. George walked up to him.

    ”Move on,” grunted the thing, focusing his deadly eyes on George.

    George felt his grasp on awareness waver. For a moment the reptilian head dissolved into the face of a lovable old drunk. Of course the drunk would be lovable. George picked up a brick and smashed it down on the old drunk’s head with all his strength. For a moment the image blurred, then the blue-green blood oozed out of the face and the lizrd fell, twitching and writhing. After a moment it was dead.

    George dragged the body into the shadows and searched it. There was a tiny radio in its pocket and a curiously shaped knife and fork in another. The tiny radio said something in an incomprehensible language. George put it down beside the body, but kept the eating utensils.

    ”I can’t possibly escape,” thought George. ”Why fight them?”

    But maybe he could.

    What if he could awaken others? That might be worth a try.

    He walked twelve blocks to the apartment of his girl friend, Lil, and knocked on her door. She came to the door in her bathrobe.

    ”I want you to wake up,” he said

    ”I’m awake,” she said. ”Come on in.”

    He went in. The TV was playing. He turned it off.

    ”No,” he said. ”I mean really wake up.” She looked at him without comprehension, so he snapped his fingers and shouted, ”Wake up! The masters command that you wake up!”

    ”Are you off your rocker, George?” she asked suspiciously. ”You sure are acting funny.” He slapped her face. ”Cut that out!” she cried, ”What the hell are you up to anyway?”

    ”Nothing,” said George, defeated. ”I was just kidding around.”

    ”Slapping my face wasn’t just kidding around!” she cried.

    There was a knock at the door.

    George opened it.

    It was one of the aliens.

    ”Can’t you keep the noise down to a dull roar?” it said.

    The eyes and reptilian flesh faded a little and George saw the flickering image of a fat middle-aged man in shirtsleeves. It was still a man when George slashed its throat with the eating knife, but it was an alien before it hit the floor. He dragged it into the apartment and kicked the door shut. ”What do you see there?” he asked Lil, pointing to the many-eyed snake thing on the floor.

    ”Mister...Mister Coney,” she whispered, her eyes wide with horror. ”You...just killed him, like it was nothing at all.”

    ”Don’t scream,” warned George, advancing on her.

    ”I won’t George. I swear I won’t, only please, for the love of God, put down that knife.” She backed away until she had her shoulder blades pressed to the wall.

    George saw that it was no use.

    ”I’m going to tie you up,” said George. ”First tell me which room Mister Coney lived in.”

    ”The first door on your left as you go toward teh stairs,” she said. ”Georgie...Georgie. Don’t torture me. If you’re going to kill me, do it clean. Please, Georgie, please.”

    He tied her up with bedsheets and gagged her, then searched the body of the Fascinator. There was another one of the little radios that talked a foreign language, another set of eating utensils, and nothing else.

    George went next door.

    When he knocked, one of the snake-things answered, ”Who is it?”

    ”Friend of Mister Coney. I wanna see him,” said George.

    ”He went out for a second, but he’ll be right back.” The door opened a crack, and four yellow eyes peeped out. ”You wanna come in and wait?”

    ”Okay,” said George, not looking at the eyes.

    ”You alone here?” he asked as it closed the door, its back to George.

    ”Yeah, why?”

    He slit its throat from behind, then searched the apartment.

    He found human bones and skulls, a half-eaten hand.

    He found tanks with huge fat slugs floating in them.

    ”The children,” he thought, and killed them all.

    There were guns too, of a sort he had never seen before. He discharged one by accident, but fortunately it was noiseless. It seemed to fire little poisoned darts.

    He pocketed the gun and as many boxes of darts he could and went back to Lil’s place. When she saw him she writhed in helpless terror.

    ”Relax, honey” he said, opening her purse, ”I just want to borrow your car keys.”

    He took the keys and went downstairs to the street.

    Her care was still parked in the same general area in which she always parked it. He recognized it by the dent in the right fender. He got in, started it, and began driving aimlessly. He drove for hours, thinking—desperately searching for some way out. He turned on the car radio to see if he could get some music, but there was ntohing but news and it was all about him, George Nada, the homicidal maniac. The announcer was one of the masters, but he sounded a little scared. Why should he be? What could one man do?

    George wasn’t surprised when he saw the road block, and he turned off on a side street before he reached it. No little trip to the country for you, Georgie boy, he thought to himself.

    They had just discvered what he had done back at Lil’s place, so they would probably be looking for Lil’s car. He parked it in an alley and took the subway. There were no aliens on the subway, for some reason. Maybe they were too good for such things, or maybe it was just because it was so late at night.

    When one finally did get on, George got off.

    He went up to the street and went into a bar. One of the Fascinators was on the TV, saying over and over again, ”We are your friends. We are your friends. We are your friends.” The stupid lizard sounded scared. Why? What could one man do against all of them?

    George ordered a beer, the it suddenly struck him that the Fascinator on the TV no longer seemed to have any power over him. He looked at it again and thought, ”It has to believe it can master me to do it. The slightest hint of fear on its part and the power to hypnotize is lost.” They flashed George’s picture on the TV screen and George retreated to the phone booth. He called his control, the Chief of Police.

    ”Hello, Robinson?” he asked.

    ”Speaking.”

    ”This is George Nada. I’ve figured out how to wake people up.”

    ”What? George, hang on. Where are you?” Robinson sounded almost hysterical.

    He hung up and paid and left the bar. They would probably trace his call.

    He caught another subway and went downtown.

    It was dawn when he entered the building housing the biggest of the city’s TV studios. He consulted the building director and then went up in the elevator. The cop in front of the studio recognized him. ”Why, you’re Nada!” he gasped.

    George didn’t like to shoot him with the poison dart gun, but he had to.

    He had to kill several more before he got into the studio itself, including all the engineers on duty. There were a lot of police sirens outside, excited shouts, and running footsteps on the stairs. The alien was sitting before the the TV camera saying, ”We are your friends. We are your friends,” and didn’t see George come in. When George shot him with the needle gun he simply stopped in mid-sentence and sat there, dead. George stoond near him and said, imitating the alien croak, ”Wake up. Wake up. See us as we are and kill us!”

    It was George’s voice the city heard that morning, but it was the Fascinator’s image, and the city did awake for the very first time and the war began.

    George did not live to see the victory that finally came. He died of a heart attack at exactly eight o’clock.

    Comment

    Working...
    X