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  • TENNEESSEE, USA!: 28 Years Later

    I



    TENNESSEE, USA!: 28 Years Later

    by Charles Gavan O'Lanahan



    After a 15-year hiatus, Cumberland County Playhouse in Crossville, Tennessee has brought back the musical production of TENNESSEE, USA!, a stageplay written by the Playhouse's founder, Paul Crabtree, that made its first debut when the Playhouse opened on July 15, 1965.



    Yesterday was the 45th Anniversary Performance, which I am proud to say that I attended. (EDITORIAL NOTE: This article was begun July 16, 2010.)



    I saw this play for the first time back in 1982. The program (which, after digging through a drawer for about 45 minutes, I was finally able to recover) says July 1st-September 5th, and, since I remember the weather being quite pleasant that day, which is pretty well unheard of in the summertime, here in East Tennessee, I must've attended one of the last performances that year, if not the last.



    I went with my grandparents. I was not yet ten years old, but certain things about the performance really stuck in my mind, and I remembered them, even years after I made the foolish mistake of getting rid of the soundtrack which I bought in the lobby that day.



    The scene involving James K. Polk, and the musical number that followed, always stayed with me. And I remembered the Henry Willoby character getting beaten up by pro-Confederate Tennesseans after saying: "The South can't win!". I remembered the Willoby family, after returning to their own time, hearing Johnny Timberlake singing "Plinketty Plank" on the radio, and then going to see him perform with Big Rip at the Grand Ole Opry. But that was really about it.



    Aside from that, I remembered the basic characters: Henry, Evelyn, Jody, and Buster Willoby, the money-grubbing yuppie family sent back in time to find their true souls, Johnny Timberlake, God's representative on Earth, dressed in pioneer garb and a coonskin cap, (who, that year, anyway, had a bushy brown beard) who tried to lead the family in the right direction, and Big Rip, the "representative from the Bargain Basement" who did his devil-damnedest to lead them astray.



    Like I say, I had bought the soundtrack, and, initially, anyway, I certainly didn't regret doing it. But, as time went on, and my own soul became more and more corrupt, I found myself less and less able to relate to it and its message.



    The last time I played it, it was just one song, "Johnny's Creation", and I played it in the summer of 1985, as prelude to a program of songs glorifying nothing but sexual lust. I played it as a sort of animistic conjuration, attempting to summon every element, every inanimate physical object to serve as the backdrop for the sordid little orgy I was creating in my mind. Now, driven by nothing but my own pubescent libido, I was actually worshipping the creation instead of the Creator. I had sunk to the lowest level possible, truly becoming nothing but a two-legged dog.



    After that, I simply didn't care anymore. I was on a highway to Hell, running at breakneck speed, and bound and determined to bust the place wide open when I got there. I gave the record to my grandma. Six years later, I sold it at a flea market.



    After my grandmother died, in November 2008, there was one thought in my mind, and one only: TENNESSEE, USA!. I simply had to retrieve the soundtrack. In my mind, it was akin to reclaiming my soul. It had been a long road that had brought me back to this point, but, in the wake of the Obamanation's seizure of power, I was determined to re-evaluate my life, and try to reconnect with that reality, that person that I had been.



    Unfortunately, while I had remembered giving the record to my grandma, I had forgotten about selling it at the flea market, back in 1991, so I just naturally assumed that it would still be up at her house, among her other records. But, when me and my parents went up there to look, we couldn't find it, and, slowly, but surely, it began to dawn on me that it had been sold.



    I guess it was mid-2009 before I remembered the Green Acres Flea Market in Alcoa, and how my grandpa had tried to dissuade me from selling the record, but I did it anyway. The dumb shit flea market guy had no idea what it even was. Had never heard of TENNESSEE, USA!. He just took a quick look at it and asked, "That's country, ain't it?" And, since I was eager to get rid of the thing, I said: "Yeah." He didn't want to buy any of my rock records. He said they didn't sell well with the flea market crowd.



    You see, I simply couldn't wait to get rid of it, even though, honestly, up until that time, I had simply forgotten all about it. The fact of the matter is, since I had attended the performance with my grandparents, the record was a reminder of that, and, therefore, had sentimental value to my grandpa. It would hurt him to have to part with it. So I insisted on it. I hated the little bastard, then and now, and, if I could've done so and gotten away with it, would've plunged a spear into his worthless heart and watched the life drain out of him. I would've enjoyed it, too.



    He's nothing but a dirty little beady-eyed, monkey-faced mamzer RAPIST as far as I'm concerned. No better than a 100% savage Injun beast of the field who rapes a pure-blooded White woman (Which is what my now-deceased maternal grandmother was, as far as I or anyone else knows. At any rate, there's no dysfunction or criminality on her side of the family tree, which would seem to bear it out.) All of his half-brothers and sisters and their spawn or nothing but criminals, drunkards, and neer-do-wells. Not one decent, responsible, semi-White man or woman in the bunch. That pretty much tells me what God thinks of their worthless family.



    And, like a typical little Jewdayo-"Christian" whigger, he thinks he's so righteous, just because he doesn't drink, never cheated on his wife, and, "got saved" when he was 14 years old. (Basically, he knew he was gonna be going off to war in a couple of years and wanted a little "fire insurance", just in case he didn't make it back. Typical whigger behavior, huh? )



    The unfortunate fact of the matter is, he did come back from WWII, and he's been a typical little brainwashed ZOGling flaggot ever since then. And, why, you may ask? Simply because the little mamzer bastard doesn't have anything else to be proud of, being what he is. People who wrap themselves in the ZOG shitrag are usually people of very little quality, who have nothing to legitmately be proud of besides simply being "Americans, bah Gawd!"



    You see, the fact of the matter is that my maternal grandpa is not only a mamzer, but, also, at the very least, a product of statutory rape. His very existence is only due to the fact that nobody even cared enough about his worthless little inbred SKANK of a mother enough to avenge her rape, or, at the very least, force her semi-rapist to marry her.



    She actually maintains, to this very day, that his sister and her sister talked her into fucking the guy. That's about as likely a story as that a UFO landed and ol' Yakub hisself got out of it and told her to fuck him. The plain fact of the matter is that either, A, She was a little, probably drunken slut, who gave it up to the first male to come sniffing around her little coochie, or, B, She was raped, at the age of sixteen, by a grown-ass man, and yet none of her male relatives thought enough of her to defend her honor. Those are the only possiblities.



    But, anyway, like I say, the worthless little bastard wraps himself in the ZOG shitrag, declaring to the high heavens how he's willing to fight and die for "America", even at the age of eighty-four, (He'll be 85 this September.) knowing that the local inbreds here eat that kind of shit up with a spoon, and, therefore, will never question his personal racial pedigree. So, in his own way, the dirty little fucker is as sneaky as a Jew, as "dumb" as he claims to be. He's not dumb when it comes to taking advantage of a situation, that's for sure.



    So, for that reason, I hate his fucking guts, and have ever since it became clear to me, around the age of fourteen, that he thought he was a combination of General Patton and Billy Graham, as unlikely a combination as that may seem.



    And, when I was going through my hippie phase, I just loved rubbing his little flaggot face in that. Relished every minute of it. (As it was, I decided to become a hippie after ol' Limp George The Chomo said the New World Army was marching into Iraq, back in April of 1990, and continued to be a very flamboyant hippie and antiwar activist throughout the first Gulf War and for several months afterwards, until the last of the big flaggot parades, around September 1991. But, when the inbreds lost their enthusiasm for flaggotry, I lost a lot of mine for hippiedom. Even though I kept my long hair and beard for another six years, [the hair in solidarity with David Koresh and Kurt Cobain, the beard just because I've always thought I looked like shit without one, and still maintain that opinion] since the age of fourteen, I had been defined not so much by what I was as what I wasn't, and not so much by what I loved as by what I hated.



    And, since the flaggots had stopped their little game of tug-of-war, I needed someone new to hate. For a couple of months, I toyed with the idea of "becoming an Injun" like my idiotic Mom had done, around the time I was seven years old. [She's about 1/8 Cherokee Injun, but wants the whole world to thing she's full-blooded, so she starting laying out in the sun and dyed her hair black, and now the crazy little bitch looks like an Injun. Some family, huh?] I had picked up cassette tapes of XIT [a "native American" Injun rock band from back in the 70's] and Floyd "Red Crow" Westerman at the Cherokee Fall Festival up in Cherokee, NC, the weekend of my birthday, and I was trying my damndest to convince myself that I was an Injun and hated "the White Man"--- ALL White people---, but I just couldn't seem to do it. Too many brain cells getting in the way, I guess. The experiment probably would've required a little bit of peyote, at the very least, even then.



    A little voice in my head kept saying: "Look, dipshit, all your heroes are White!" "Jim Morrison was White." "Roger Waters is White." "Elvis Costello is White." "Tom Petty." "John Cougar Mellencamp." "The Who." [Actually, Pete Townshend's a little half-breed mischling Jew, at the very least, but I didn't know that at the time.] "U2." "REM." "The freakin' Everly Brothers." "And I could go on." "So how in the bloody hell are you gonna be an 'Injun' when all the people you practically worship are White?" "Doesn't make any sense, dude." And I couldn't argue with its logic. I had to admit, then and there, that I was *NOT* an Injun and was never gonna be one.



    Once I had decided to reject my Injun heritage, I chose to embrace my Irish heritage instead. I had already had my Mom sew a homemade Irish flag onto the back of the white imitation-wool jacket I had gotten two years before. Starting in December of 1991, I started getting into Irish music, and the defiance and desperation of a lot of those "rebel songs" really appealed to me, and fit my political bent at the time.



    You see, after I realized that, like it or not, I was a White man, at least as I defined the term "White" at the time, I knew I couldn't hate all White people, so I decided to narrow it down, and start looking at ideology. Who was to blame for all my misery? At that point, I wouldn't have thought to blame God, as I did in more recent years, [along with my race-traitorous and miscegenated relatives, of course] since I maintained at that time that either, A, God didn't even exist, or, B, He was an impersonal, dispassionate Deity, who didn't involve Himself in the affairs of men, so it had to be some human being, or group of human beings.



    I thought about it a little while, and came to the conclusion that is was that child-molesting faggot, George Herbert Walker Bush, and all the idiotic vermin who had voted for him that were to blame. So I determined to strike a blow against them.



    So, as I stated, many paragraphs earlier, while I didn't cut off my hair or beard until October 1997, [I ended up letting the beard grow back, even after that. I only cut it off in the first place because I thought a wasper had gotten stuck in it, and one had, in fact, flown through it.] I began to grow disillusioned with hippiedom around late September 1991.)



    But, anyway, like I said, after my grandmother died, and I had realized that I'd sold my original copy of TENNESSEE, USA!, I became damn near obsessed with finding another one.



    Being the procrastinator extraordinaire that I am, however, it was around the summer of 2009 before I actually got around to doing a Google search. What I found depressed the living shit out of me, though. Apparently, the search words, "TENNESSEE, USA!" were just too generic. Even though I added the words "soundtrack for sale" at the end, Google just kept turning up things ending with the address, "Tennessee, USA".



    Finally, in October, I turned up a Playhouse webpage referencing the actual play. It had the phone numbers and e-mail address for the Playhouse listed, so I went ahead and sent an e-mail about it, but four months went by and nobody ever replied.



    In early January, I called Lost & Found and asked them if they'd ever had one come through their store, and if they could locate a copy for me. They didn't have a clue.



    So, finally, in desperation, I called one of the Playhouse phone numbers. I had been hesitant to do so before, since I had no idea who to direct my question to. There were several different departments, each with their own phone number, and I didn't know who to call. So I just called the Main Office, explained to them that I was looking to purchase a soundtrack album, if they had any left, and told them to direct my call to the proper person.



    Eventually, they put me through to the Assistant Director, and I left a message on her answering machine. A couple of weeks passed, though, and I never heard anything back from her. So I called the Main Office again and explained the situation. This time, they put me through to the Producing Director, Jim Crabtree, and I left a message on his machine. He called me back a couple of hours later.



    I explained to him that I had bought a vinyl soundtrack back in 1982, when my grandparents had taken me to see the play, at the age of not-yet-ten, and that that original copy had been sold. I had gotten a Crosley CD Recorder for Christmas that past year, and wanted to purchase a vinyl soundtrack album, so I could put it on CD. He told me he would check the inventory and see if they had any left.



    The next week, the Assistant Director got back to me, telling me that they did in fact, have a few albums left, and that it would cost me $25, which, in fact, was a lot less than the $100 I had offered to pay them for it in one of the messages. Good thing they didn't hold me to that figure. Of course, if they had, I would've gladly paid it. This was a piece of my soul, after all, that I was retrieving. That's the way it felt to me, anyway.



    I quickly had a money order made out and mailed to them. They initially mailed it back to me, though, as I hadn't signed it. Hell, I never sign any of the money orders I send out. That's always been my policy. And they were the first people I'd ever dealt with that seemed to have a problem with it. Must've been some kind of administrative thing, I guess. Probably had to know for tax purposes. Anyhow, I signed it, re-mailed it to them, and, about a week later, (it was late February by this time) I received my new copy, signed, as it turned out by Bob Gunton, the actor who had played the role of Johnny Timberlake in the original production. (He made his movie debut in a movie called ROLLOVER, opposite Kris Kristofferson and Jane Fonda, back in 1981. Not really sure if he made any movies after that or not, though.) Not bad for $25.



    Anyway, I made the CD, but I had some problems making it. Certain tracks didn't do right the first time around, so I had to redo them to get an acceptable version. Since, as far as I know, there's no such thing as a CD-RW, you can't delete individual tracks. You're just stuck with the ones that don't work out. I had thought that my friend, Tim, knew how to scan a CD into an MP3 file and then delete individual tracks from that file and burn a new CD from that file, minus the deleted tracks, but apparently, he doesn't, since what he sent me back still contained the unwanted track. Also, copying it via computer made it sound like SHIT WARMED OVER. (I guess due to the fact that the original was done on the Crosley unit instead of a computer disk drive.)



    So, since they didn't have any professionally-made soundtrack CDs for sale at the Playhouse, I guess I'm gonna have to re-tape all the songs from my original CD, after first putting them in chronological order, and make a new CD from that. Then I guess I'll give my original CD to Andi. It'll be a pain in the ass to do, but there's just no getting around it.
    IF YOU STILL LOVE AMERIKA, YOU'RE A NIGGER-LOVER!!! ---CGO. 1/20/'09.



    "Lay down your silver and your gold
    I am a man who won't be sold
    And even when my heart grows cold
    I'll curse your evil stranglehold."---Horslips, from "Trouble With A Capital 'T'", 1977.

  • #2
    Part Two.

    II



    But, when I talked to Jim Crabtree, back in February, he had told me they were bringing back TENNESSEE, USA! this year, so, in early July, I went to the Playhouse website, to check and see if it was currently playing, and, sure enough, it was. It started June 17th and will run through August 28th.



    I told my Mom that I wanted to see it again, and asked if she wanted to see it again as well. She said yes, and me, Mom, and Dad ended up getting tickets for the 45th Anniversary Performance on July 15th.



    My Dad came and woke me up a little over an hour before I had asked my Mom to give me a wake-up call. I went ahead and showered and was reading the new posts here on Christian Nationalist and listening to my Lemon Pipers and Hank III CDs, waiting for him to come pick me up.



    (I was a little pissed because, it looked to me at the time that, for some reason or other, Covington had been unusually lazy that day, failing to post that week's podcast to his audio archive. I didn't realize until the next day that, for some reason or other, he had posted it elsewhere, and you had to follow a link from the Northwest Front mainpage to access it. )



    But, by about midway through the Hank III CD, I had finished reading all the new material here, and, since I was expecting Dad to pull up in my driveway anytime, I was standing waiting at the door while I listened to the rest.



    A song came on called "Looking For A Mountain", that ended with the line: "I've been busted my whole damn life.", repeated several times. I must admit, I could relate. Kinda felt the same way. Now, of course, by "busted", he didn't mean "broke", (although that would certainly apply to me as well) but, basically, he was saying the same thing that ol' Jewboy Randy Newman had said in his song, "Guilty", which the Scottish band, Nazareth, had done a kick-ass cover of, back in 1975: "I've been guilty all of my life".



    Kinda reminded me of another song that I had heard for the first time when I was eight years old, from the 1974 movie musical, HUCKLEBERRY FINN, called "What's Right, What's Wrong". It had some lines in it that I really related to:

    "What's right?
    What's wrong?
    Try to fight or go along
    How can you win
    When everyday you make the Devil grin?" and



    "I don't want to hurt nobody
    I don't want to die and burn
    But, with the Devil always doggin' at my heels,
    How the Devil am I gonna learn?"



    Well, before too long, Dad pulled up in my driveway, and I went out and got into the backseat of the vehicle. I pretty much looked out of the side windows until we'd gotten to the other side of Harriman. Then I closed my eyes and started thinking.



    That past Sunday evening, I had listened to the special Edgar J. Steele show that Pastor Lindstedt had done. He had said that everyone should try to get right with Christ. That even someone who wasn't 100% White should cry out to YHWH to save them. So I figured I oughta go ahead and give it one more try.



    In truth, I had called out to YHWH a great number of times before. I've really had a pretty schizoid view of religion and spirituality for the past 13 years, ever since I first became somewhat aware of Christian Identity.



    On the one hand, I truly wanted to be saved, although, being a mamzer, I doubted that it was possible. After all, how could even YHWH change the blood running through my veins? It just didn't seem possible.



    On the other hand, while I realized that I was flawed, imperfect, and somewhat insane, and that, if I trusted in a certain part of my own consciousness, it would ultimately lead me astray, while I was ready to change my life, and more than willing to mend my ways, I most certainly was *NOT* ready to turn over my heart, mind and soul to Him. My heart? Most assuredly, since I realized, both then and now, that that was where the problem lay in the first place. My soul? Well, yeah, kinda the whole point. Give it to God for protection, otherwise Satan will torment it for all eternity. Basic common sense. But my mind? NEVER!!! What other means of discernment do I have? Without my reasoning capacity, I would be utterly helpless, stumbling through life like a blind man. No way I'll ever give that up, for any entity in Heaven, Hell or Earth. But that's exactly what almost happened one day last week. (EDITORIAL NOTE: Actually, it was the week after I saw the play. I intend to deal with all this in greater detail in a thread called "Questions FROM The Magickal Dog" which I will start, over in the "Mamzerville" section.) More on that later.



    But, anyway, there I am, sitting in the backseat of the vehicle, with my eyes closed, thinking about all this, and wondering exactly how to proceed. It was rather a daunting prospect, considering the facts. Here I was, about to ask a favor from Someone I didn't even know, and, who, by all accounts, didn't have any use for me or my kind. Someone who, frankly, hated at least a significant part of me. How would I even ask Him? Nothing to do but just cut right to the chase and say what was in my heart.



    "Lord YHWH, I've never known You." "I've never had anything to do with You." "I've lived my whole life outside of your Grace." "But you know my heart." "We both know the Great Tribulation is coming." "I want to survive it and to save as many others as I can." "And I can't do that without Your help." "So I would ask you, would beg you, for the sake of my righteous White ancestors who never miscegenated, by whose blood and whose prayers my soul must surely have awakened to this Truth, to save me from the Destruction to come." "To guide my every decision, and keep me from going out of the Way." "I want to be a warrior, Lord, and kill Your enemies and mine." "Those vermin who destroyed Pastor Lindstedt's family and took away 3 1/2 years of his life, just as they're currently destroying Edgar J. Steele's life, just as they murdered Sam and Vicky Weaver and the Branch Davidians, Bob Mathews, and Gordon Kahl." "And I promise you, Lord, that You won't regret it." "I won't disappoint You." "From where I have planted my feet this day, I will not be moved." "Amen."



    As I began to form the words in my heart, however, something began to happen. I was seeing an image in my mind. I was on a mountain, walking towards a waterfall. And I knew the way, but the path was very steep and narrow, and I had to walk it very carefully. And I knew I was getting closer to it. I could feel it. Down in the very marrow of my bones, I could feel it. It was calling out to me. And I knew I would soon be in its presence. It was a very humbling experience.



    So I walked along, carefully, calling out to it in my heart. And it seemed to answer back. "What is the source of all Justice?" it asked, very gravely. To which I could only reply: "Why, You, Lord!" "What else?" Then the voice asked again, even more gravely, "Did you create yourself?" "Did you create the universe?" To which I could only reply: "No, Lord, You did." And I knew well enough what it was all leading up to. I had to humble myself. God was trying to teach me some humility. I bowed my head low. My throat was choking with sobs. I said the only thing I knew to say: "Look, Lord, I stand ready!" "Whatever You want me to do, I will do." "I know You are the Source of All Justice, the Source Of All Hope." "That is why I've come to You for help." "Who else could save me?" "No one." "Save me Lord, I beg you!"



    But something just wasn't right. I wasn't hearing any answer back. And I knew I was sincere. Surely He would give me some sign of Hope, if there was any. But, nothing. Then I started to doubt the source of that vision. Perhaps it was demonic, rather than Divine. Just a visual ploy to distract me from the business at hand. I toyed with the idea for awhile. It seemed to make sense. After all, hadn't my Mom told me about a story my grandpa had told her, from when he was a little boy, going up to a waterfall in the woods of West Virginia to fill buckets for their drinking water?



    Yep, no doubt about it. Hargus Pearl Church Sr., that Devil-Black Conjurer fresh from the Pits Of Hell was behind this one. It had his grubby little fingerprints all over it. He wasn't a Freemason for nothing, this swine. Not to mention all the conjure-blood he must've inherited from his Injun ancestors. Claimed to be a "water-witch" and everything. Worthless little inbred pagan. So there you had it. It was him. I had mentioned my righteous White ancestors, the ones on my maternal grandmother's side, in my prayer, so Ol' Rapin' Half-Breed must've smelt a danger, and sent the vision to try to seduce me over to the Satanic Injun side of the family, instead of the righteous White side.



    So, I decided to try again, this time forcing an image to my mind that more accurately portrayed the situation. (Since I knew that for a creature such as myself, it would be very dangerous to let my mind go blank at such a crucial point. That would amount to unilateral disarmament on my part.) I pictured YHWH as I'm sure that all CI folk picture Him, as a Warrior-King, and myself simply as I am, bowing before him, asking for the crumb. No fooling around with any airy-fairy, pantheistic images this time. And I asked again. And, this time, I felt something. It was very faint, very indistinct, but, damnit, it was something, and something of a positive nature. Something that gave me a little hope. Something that brought to mind images from THE PILGRIM'S PROGRESS, which I had ordered from Kingdom Identity Ministries, back in 2002, but had yet to read. I just set it on a bookshelf and forgot all about it. I had read it once before, though, back when I was 14. So, at any rate, I felt I had some cause for hope.



    By this time, we were in the town of Crossville. I opened my eyes and looked around. Nothing really seemed familiar, but, after 28 years, that's to be expected. I had actually gone to Crossville with my grandpa once, back in September of '91, when we went to the Crossville Flea Market, but we had gone another way. We didn't take the Interstate.



    After a couple of turns, though, we passed a National Guard Armory, over on the right, with a tank sitting in front of it, its gun pointed toward the highway. That I remembered. At the age of not-yet-ten, it merely seemed interesting, seeing a tank for the first time. Kind of exciting. And of course, this got my grandpa to talking about tanks, and WWII, and the whole nine yards. Never takes much to start him off. But now it made me mad enough to kill. "That gun is pointed at me!" I thought. "At us!" "At these idiots who live here." "All of them." "WHEN WILL THESE STUPID FUCKING WHIGGERS WAKE UP AND REALIZE THAT ZOG'S GUNS ARE POINTED AT THEM???"



    We got there about half an hour early, as we had intended to, so I got my free program and went to take a shit.



    Looking at the program, I soon realized there had been some changes made to the original script, which, aside from a couple of words and sentences altered to change the setting from 1965 to 1982, had been unchanged since TENNESSEE, USA!'s first premier. They had added a scene involving Bessie Smith and W.C. Handy, which didn't bother me too much, since, niggers or not, those individuals were at least Tennesseans.



    But what, frankly, pissed me off, was the fact that they had added a scene called "Aquarius Dance", involving hippies and soldiers. Frankly, I smelt a TWAT. I lay the blame for that idiotic scene squarely on the shoulders of the female choreographer, Michele Colvin. Why is it that every female choreographer seems to think they *MUST* turn every play they're involved with into a production of HAIR? Sheer female vanity, I suppose. The attention whore mentality.



    The fact of the matter is, there was simply *NO* reason to have a scene like that in the first place. Kent State happened in Ohio. Woodstock in New York state. The various Pentagon protests happened in Washingturd, D. C., and the all-out riots that took place at the 1968 Democratic Convention took place in Chicago. The whole antiwar movement of the 60's and 70's really had FUCK ALL to do with the state of Tennessee. So why the scene? As I said before, only because certain little theatrical CUNTS think they can't do any type of history-based musical production without adding a little hippie dance number to show their choreographical chops. Hell, I wouldn't be surprised if they found a way to work one into the script of OKLAHOMA! or THE SOUND OF MUSIC for that matter.



    Well, anyway, I wasn't able to shit, and, if seeing that scene listed couldn't jog one out of me, nothing could.



    Before long, it was time for the play to start, and we filed into the mainstage area to take our seats. I vaguely remembered the Tennessee map scrim either emblazoned or projected onto the seemingly see-through curtain from the other performance. I must admit, it was a cool effect.



    The curtain rose to the first strains of "My Tennessee", and, there on the stage were the song leaders, each supposedly representing a different aspect of Tennessee history and culture. In the middle, there was a guy in suspenders, strumming a banjo. To his right, a female Negro jazz singer. On the left stood what was probably supposed to represent a Cherokee Injun, with a headdress made of porcupine quills, but, to me, he just looked like some gook with a fucked-up punk rock hairdo. Back behind the banjo-player, on some sort of makeshift riser, stood a fat, goofy, Elvis impersonator in a suit of gold lame. (Pronounced "lah-may", of course, although "lame" would certainly describe it.)



    Once the song had ended, we caught our first glimpse of the Willoby family, circa 2010. Henry was the same old mustachioed yuppie douchebag he had been in 1982, only older. (Apparently the same actor, one Carl Sutton Jr., has been playing the role for the past 28 years. He does an excellent job of it, too.) They had given him some new lines to say about stimulus bills and recessions that elicited predictable responses from the audience. This time, his wife, Evelyn Willoby, instead of the merely clueless and materialistic old bat she had been in the original script, was, though younger-looking than her husband, a first-class, dyed-in-the-wool, uppity femroid bee-yotch and all-around pain in the ass.



    His daughter, Jody, seemed sluttier than before, (Not surprisingly, I guess, since they were going for realism, and typical teenaged girls today dress like SLUTS, plain and simple. Hell, if anything, they made her look a little less slutty than most.) and not a little fatter. Didn't bother me, though. I've never minded a couple of extra pounds on a gal, as long as she has big tits and a big butt, and the actress playing Jody had both in spades. Gave me plenty to look at, I tell you, and I'd say she noticed me looking at her, too. It was all I could do to keep my tongue in my mouth. God, I would've loved to have sunk my teeth into that rump roast of hers. It's the dog in me, I guess.



    As for his son, Buster, they just made him look like a normal kid this time, dressed in preppy clothes. In the original script, he was always playing Injun, and had a feather on his head. Guess the Injuns took offense at that, so they changed it. Typical.



    When the Johnny Timberlake character first made his appearance, I must admit I was disappointed. In 1982, and, I assume, every previous performance, Johnny Timberlake had worn buckskins and a coonskin cap. This Johnny Timberlake, however, played by Daniel Black, looked more like a refugee from the set of a TV western than a typical pioneer. He wore some type of green homespun outfit, an orange scarf, and a beat-up looking slouch hat. He was believable enough in the role, I guess, but, somehow, every time I looked at him, I had to fight off the impression that I was looking at Larry Storch from F-TROOP. People shouldn't fuck with perfection. The buckskins and coonskin cap should've remained.



    As for the role of Big Rip, that was an even bigger surprise. After the putrid smoke of the Pit had cleared away, what did our wondering eyes behold but a NIGGER? At the exact moment of recognition, I suppose some of the whiggers in the audience were laughing nervously, while others merely gasped in horror. "Why, how dare they make the bad guy a nigger?" I'm sure every gliberal and Jewdayo dipshit in the audience was thinking. "How racist!" As for myself, I kinda missed the full impact, because my Mom seemed to have noticed it before I did, and whispered in my ear, "That's Obama!" I laughed a little, though I didn't realize at that particular instant what she was really talking about. Then I looked again, and, sure enough, Big Rip was a nigger. There was just no getting around it. "Now this should be funny!" I thought.



    But then I started to review the situation in my mind. I looked at the program again. Sure enough, as I had feared, there was a scene called "Many Thousands Gone", which involved a Rev. Nathan Merry and a Sister Martha. I recognized the phrase from the old abolitionist song, "No More Auction Block For Me", and instantly realized that it was about slavery. Apparently that was the price we had to pay for a nigger "Devil"---hearing a bunch of pissing and moaning about slavery and how "horrible" it was. Made me want to fucking puke.



    Now, to be honest with you, I hadn't remembered a single thing about slavery in the 1982 version, and, based on what I read in that program, there simply wasn't any mention of it, except in the context of the Civil War, and the arguments taking place in East Tennessee just prior to its outbreak. Then in the idiotic, scurrilous, and throughly race-traitorous speech during the Civil War sequence, they referred to it as "the hushed White shame that blackened a nation". I only hope the individual who wrote those words is sucking nigger dick in Hell right now.



    "The hushed White shame that blackened a nation"? Really? Who brought the niggers over here in the first place? Oh yeah. The Jews. *NOT* White people!!! In fact, not only did Whites *NOT* bring the niggers to this hemisphere, very few Whites ever owned slaves. The percentage of slave owners in the South at the outbreak of the War was only 10%, and, in fact, there were more slave owners in the North than in the South.



    The fact of the matter is that, far from owning slaves, most White Americans were slaves when they first arrived on these shores. It's a little thing called INDENTURED SERVITUDE that the "politically correct" so-called history books either gloss over or ignore altogether. Andrew Johnson, the Seventeenth President of the United States was a WHITE MAN who was born a SLAVE. That's a documented fact, albeit one that this so-called "historical" play conveniently overlooks, even though they included Johnson in the script. A "hushed White shame" indeed. Hushed up by the traitorous, verminous RULING CLASS who know all too well that, like modern-day Wat Tylers, we would exterminate every last worthless one of them if we knew the truth.



    Needless to say, when that scene came around, I stared daggers at every one of those blubbering apes, including the one who played Big Rip, who ended up sputtering "Let South Carolina go!" "Just leave me out of it!" like a whiny little pussy. The day will come when every one of those niggers gets itz testicles fed to it for itz vile, all-too-typical slander against the White Race.



    I had forgotten the fact that the play dealt with the political feud between Andrew Jackson and Davy Crockett, though not in much detail. Basically, it gets across the fact that Crockett thought Jackson was a tyrant and would-be dictator, which, of course, he was. I don't really know whether their falling out came over the issue of Nullification or something else, although the Nullification issue is also dealt with in the play, and John C. Calhoun mentioned, though not portrayed. (Which, frankly, pisses me off a little bit. Why should Jackson be allowed to make his case against Nullification and Calhoun not be allowed to make his case for it? Doesn't seem fair.) But it reminded me of a Presidential Stamp Book that I use to have as a kid, in which Jackson is portrayed, looking nervously over his shoulder at a figure of Crockett. I never really understood why Jackson was so scared of Crockett, but, even then, I wanted to find out. I need to go back and read that novelization of Crockett's life that I've got, plus my Jackson bio, and, I guess, do some Internet research on the subject as well.



    Suffice it to say, though, that Crockett and Jackson are both seen giving speeches, and all the stupid little whiggers, including the time-travelling Willoby family, literally run to and fro between the two, positioned at opposite sides of the stage. I guess Pastor Lindstedt would get a kick out of that.



    On the Nullification issue, though, Henry Willoby makes an excellent point, one that even the scumbag, Andrew Jackson, must acknowledge. Willoby was set up by Big Rip to argue for Nullification, in order to get back home to his own time faster. He simply states the fact that the States existed before the Federal Government, that the States, in fact, created the Federal Government, and not the other way around, and that, therefore, to try to force a state to remain in the Union against its will is to engage in tyranny, and would destroy the very thing that it, theoretically, seeks to save. Then Jackson has no choice but to show his true colors, and admit that he is a tyrant, motivated by nothing but a desire for PERSONAL POWER, pure and simple.



    Nonetheless, though, the Johnny Timberlake character, prototypical ZOGling that he is, ends up siding with Jackson and the Feds against his own state, which he claims to "love" so much. For this same reason, he sides with the TRAITOROUS SCUM who collaborated with the Yankees during the Civil War. His only governing principle seems to be mindless flaggotry.



    At any rate, Crockett and Calhoun had the better argument. If the play inspires one person to go back and research the history for themselves, then, undoubtedly, they will be confronted with the TRUTH and then they will find themselves at a crossroads. They can either accept it or reject it. I suspect that some young people who haven't been thoroughly brainwashed yet, who have rejected the indoctrination of the whigger factories, and *KNOW* they're being force-fed a shit sandwich, will be inspired to look into the situation, and try to find out the exact point where things went wrong and why. If that happens, the play still has value, in spite of its flaggoty intentions and pretentions.



    Now I will admit that it deals with the Civil War in East Tennessee pretty accurately, illustrating the disloyalty of a great, but not disproportionately great number of citizens, while also acknowledging the pro-Confederate stance of many others. My favorite line in the whole play, actually, comes in this scene, and is delivered by Henry Willoby. He states the fact that Lincoln is simply taking the same position that Andrew Jackson took before him. How true. Now, the fact that he is answered back by a Southern sympathizer that Andrew Jackson was a "Southern gentleman" and not to be spoken of in the same breath as "that slave-loving illiterate", (What do you want to bet that the original line wasn't "nigger-loving illiterate", probably even as recently as 1982?) is irrelevant. The bottom line is that, Jew or Gentile, (And yes, Lincoln was a Jew. Do the research for yourself.) a tyrant is a tyrant.
    Last edited by Jack; 08-04-2010, 06:35 PM.
    IF YOU STILL LOVE AMERIKA, YOU'RE A NIGGER-LOVER!!! ---CGO. 1/20/'09.



    "Lay down your silver and your gold
    I am a man who won't be sold
    And even when my heart grows cold
    I'll curse your evil stranglehold."---Horslips, from "Trouble With A Capital 'T'", 1977.

    Comment


    • #3
      Part Three.

      III



      Now, to be perfectly honest with you, I have to admit that I've always liked the First Act better than the Second, since the First centered around actual Tennessee history, while the Second, aside from the opening scene, involving President Andrew Johnson and the post-War period, the second scene, involving children having to work in factories during the early days of the Industrial Revolution in the South, and the newly-added scene involving W.C. Handy and Bessie Smith, could pretty well be called The March Of The Baby-Killers. And the scene involving soldiers and hippies during the Vietnam War which followed the traditional Baby-Killer Montage didn't do much to endear the Second Act to me, either, needless to say.



      Not too surprisingly, the FUCKING COWARDS just gloss over Reconstruction and the mass murder of Confederate sympathizers that took place here in East Tennessee, merely having the Andrew Johnson character announce his pride in the fact that Tennessee was the first Southern state to rejoin the Union.



      The scene involving children having to work in factories was funny for one reason, and one reason only: During the song-and-dance number, "It's The American Way", (Which the back of my soundtrack album curiously lists as being on there, but, in fact, it's not.) there are a number of laserlight images projected in mid-air over the heads of the actors, and one of these images is of a rather phallic-looking screwdriver being repeatedly inserted into some sort of hole. "Yeah", I thought. "That's the Amerikan way, alright." "Getting fucked in the ass!"



      The scene involving W.C. Handy and Bessie Smith was bearable, but that's about all I can say for it. At least there was no "hate Whitey" propaganda in it.



      As for the Baby-Killer Montage, it involved, and still involves a World War I segment with Sergeant York (Although he doesn't actually have a speaking part, I don't believe.) and a bunch of leggy little skanks in feaux trenchcoats and Smokey Bear hats doing a song-and-dance number called "Doughboys", and the Big Rip character, played by a nigger this time, remember, doing cartoonishly comedic impersonations of Hitler and Hirohito, getting shot by Henry Willoby as Hitler and blown up by the A-bomb as Hirohito.



      So here you have the very bizarre situation of a nigger strutting around in a Nazi uniform with a Hitler mustache and getting shot by a White man. Anytime now, I'm expecting some nigger to start raising hell about it, saying it's "racist" and that it's encouraging White people to take out Obongo. You just wait. The Johnny Timberlake character tells Henry "You have the power to stop all this!" and hands him the gun. They'll say it's encouraging White people to assassinate Obongo, and they'll either be forced to take the scene out altogether or have some White actor play the role instead of Big Rip. Or maybe some nigger will simply make a phone call to Eric Holder's office, and Obongo will send the ZOGbots to kick down their door and arrest both actors and audience. If that was to happen, I strongly doubt that many of the worthless bastards in the audience would eveb bother to fight back. They'd be too busy sucking off their beloved "troops" all the way to the FEMA camps.



      The Hirohito part was downright hilarious, and very "politically incorrect". If any gooks ever end up attending a performance, they'll be sure to raise hell, too.



      Which brings us to the scene with the hippies and the soldiers. Totally fucking unnecessary, as I've stated before. At the end of it, Evelyn Willoby cries out in exasperation, "Why can't we just stay in our own state?". My sentiments exactly. Grant it, you could make the case that the Baby-Killer Montage was relevant, since a lot of Tennesseans fought in those wars, and, grant it, a lot of Tennesseans fought in Vietnam as well, but I don't see any reason that they couldn't have simply been represented at the end of the Baby-Killer Montage, instead of having their own separate scene, especially, marred as it was by hippies. That's probably what they did in 1982, just add some guys in Vietnam-era military uniforms to the end of the Baby-Killer Montage. (That is to say if there was anything about Vietnam at all. My program makes no mention of it, jumping straight from "Iwo Jima Statue" to "Fred Nicewater" without passing "Go" or collecting the proverbial $200.)



      Clearly, there's no definitive setting, since the name of the whole scene is "Along The Way". So, basically, the hippie vs. soldier confrontation could've taken place anywhere in America. The fact of the matter is, though, as I'm now stating for the second time, it never really did take place in the State of Tennessee, so, therefore, it's irrelevant. At any rate, it's irrelevant to the History of Tennessee, and I strongly suspect that it's irrelevant to the lives of most of the audience members being forced to sit through it.



      The only purpose it seems to serve is to, finally, in no uncertain terms, introduce the concept of MORAL RELATIVISM into the play. The idea had been suggested, early on by Nigger Rip, (as I choose to call the worthless bastard they've got playing the role now, and the role they've essentially re-written to suit his monkeyhood) by his questioning of the morality of the CONstitution, suggesting that any constitution allowing so monstrous an institution as slavery (defined by the writers of this play, past and present, as merely being a case of Whites owning blacks, not blacks owning blacks or Whites owning each other, which is the way that it actually happened) to exist *MUST* be morally illegitimate. This horseshit never appeared in the original script, as there was no mention of slavery whatsoever before the Civil War scene, and only a passing mention then.



      The fact of the matter is, the play has been rewritten to suit the worthless nigger playing the newly-created role of Nigger Rip, and, in the process, they have really cut out the whole heart and soul of the original script. TENNESSEE, USA!, as Paul Crabtree had written and envisioned it, had a very simple Good Vs. Evil message, which, in fact was almost CHRISTIAN in a weird sort of way. Johnny Timberlake was basically an angel, pioneer garb notwithstanding, and Big Rip was, essentially, a demon. And, while I certainly *DO NOT* agree with the, frankly, TREASONOUS conclusions that Mr. Crabtree seems to have come to about our history, (And, being a Virginian by birth, rather than a native-born East Tennessean, he really has no excuse. He should've known better, plain and simple. For him to write some of the lines he wrote was, for all intents and purposes, to curse his Confederate ancestors in their graves.) and had his "good guy" character, Johnny Timberlake, articulate, I at least can appreciate the fact that Mr. Crabtree seemed to realize that good and evil *DO* exist.



      That's more than I can say for these WORTHLESS VERMIN who re-wrote the script, just to make one nigger actor happy. And if Jim Crabtree had his fingerprints on it, in any way, shape, or form, then more's the shame of it, because, in doing so, he dishonored the memory of his own father.



      In the original script, Big Rip really represented the Jew, although I'm sure that Paul Crabtree, cowardly whigger that he was, would've denied it up and down. The facts, however, speak for themselves: Big Rip is effete, fast-talking, and slick, and as two-faced as they fucking come, JUST LIKE A JEW. And he is the one who tries to lead our hapless whigger family astray, JUST LIKE A JEW WOULD DO!!!



      So, there you have it, folks. The souls of the Willoby family are being fought over by two entities, one Divine, the other demonic. Our makeshift angel is represented by Johnny Timberlake, the voice of the Willobys' WHITE ANCESTORS. The makeshift Devil is represented by a skinny, scrawny, goofy-looking little con artist, ergo, a JEW. Hell, aside from the political idiocy spewed by the Johnny Timberlake character, the overall worldview promoted by the original script could easily pass for Dual-Seedline Christian Identity, and the erstwhile audience member, circa 1982, could easily be forgiven for thinking that the script could've been written by Richard Butler himself.



      But, in changing the Big Rip character from a Jew to a nigger, (Which, we can only assume, was done merely as an afterthought, once they decided that the best actor to play the part happened to be that particular nigger.) all the MORAL CLARITY of the original script was lost, and, in the end, rather than learning our lesson, like the Willoby family, we merely leave the Playhouse with whatever worldview we had coming into it. Both audience and Willobys end up mired in the vile, niggery moral relativism of Nigger Rip, and the worthless, typically opportunistic and self-interested coon, who, probably against his better judgement, chose to play the role in the first place.



      But, if I'm wrong, (and I may well be, though it wouldn't surprise me much if I was right, either) and the re-writing of both script and Big Rip character came first, and the role was changed to actually call for a Nigger Rip, whatever actor they may've chosen to play him, then, damnit, THAT'S EVEN WORSE!!! Cowardly as it may be, I could halfway see them re-writing the script to suit the whims of a nigger actor that, for whatever stupid reason, they seemed to think of as indispensable, but purposely re-writing Paul Crabtree's original script, to render it more morally relativistic, that would just be downright EVIL. If that is the case, I nominate whoever is responsible for the Kike-Alike Of The Year Award. (The program makes reference of a John Partyka who is responsible for "Adaptations". If that means what I think it means, then, most likely he is a Russian Jew, and you can eliminate the word "Alike" from the title. However, if that is the case I withdraw my nomination, because, A, He simply has too much competition for that honor for me to really think he would win. The IDF jewps who shot those peace activists on the Rachel Corrie are shoo-ins. , and, B, Being the kike that he is, he would probably take it as a compliment. Sorry, Jewboy. I won't play the role of Peter King to your Anthony Weiner. Seek your self-validation elsewhere.)



      At any rate, the "moral dilemma" that the writers/adapters/directors of the play have, and, consequently, have passed on to both the Willoby family and the audience, is one of having a NIGGER, rather than the usual White or Jewish actor, in the role of Big Rip, and, therefore, wanting both Willobys and audience to hate the character, but, yet, not too much, since, that, after all would be considered "racist". Therefore, the Nigger Rip character must get to make the occassionally seemingly valid point, a point that the audience will agree with, so as to have them like him a little bit. What horseshit. WHY IN THE BLOODY HELL DIDN'T THEY JUST GET A WHITE ACTOR TO PLAY THE PART, AS USUAL??? Then there wouldn't be a problem. NIGGER, AS USUAL, YOU ARE MUDDYING THE DAMN WATER!!!



      But, the scene that, in fact, began this paragraphs-long tirade, involves one particular point in the action, where Henry Willoby finds himself dressed as a piglouse, beating his hippie daughter with a nightstick. Then, in desperation, he asks Johnny Timberlake "What should we do?" , to which Johnny replies, (and I'm paraphrasing, of course, but this is the gist of it) "I don't know." "For the first time in my life, I don't know which side's right and which side's wrong." It was at that moment, rather than at the end of the First Act, (Although they changed it for the Nigger Rip character. In this version, he doesn't cackle in triumph like he did in the original script and the 1982 version. He just stands there smugly and stentoriously, with his arms outstretched, looking ever-so-much like Obongo. If there was a thought balloon above his nappy little head, it would, undoubtedly, read: "Now see what racess you White folks iz?") that Nigger Rip should've cackled in demonic triumph, since he finally got his way. Both the Willobys and the audience had been dragged down to the level of a nigger. Hell, why not sacrifice a newborn baby, right then and there, and have Rip, Timberlake, the Willobys, and all the other actors on the stage at the time roll around naked in its blood? That would've provided yet another dance number for Little Miss Colvin to choreograph.



      Now, frankly, aside from the ABSOLUTE EVIL invested in the proposition that a war, any war can cause an otherwise righteous man to lose his moral judgement, I must admit that I have never understood, and, frankly, never will understand this whiggerish notion that, somehow, Vietnam caused everyone in America to do just that. The FACTS of the matter are pretty cut and dried: #1. Vietnam was NONE OF OUR DAMN BUSINESS in the first place, therefore, we should've stayed out of it. However, #2. Once we chose to involve ourselves in it, as stupid as that decision may've been, we had no choice but to fight it to win it, which brings us to #3. We didn't. End of story. Hardly the Gordian knot for the moral imagination that Whigger Crabtree and company have made it out to be.



      Now, the fact of the matter is that, aside from the idiotic and generally malevolent thirty-somethings (most of whom, incidentally, and not surprisingly, were Jewish) and females who were never in any danger of being drafted in the first place, but, apparently, had nothing better to do with their time than spit on piglice and try to kick them in the nuts, all the antiwar protesters of that era can be divided into one of two categories: pre-Nixon and post-Nixon. The pre-Nixon protesters (1965-69) were mostly a bunch of spoiled little PUSSIES who were simply too chickenshit to go fight in any war, whether it was a just cause or not. The post-Nixon protesters, on the other hand, consisted largely of returning Vietnam vets who were pissed off about how the war was being fought, rather than opposing it altogether. A lot of people seem to miss this fact, and it's mostly due to the propaganda of Hymiewood.



      As for those who fought, fact of the matter is, most of them didn't have any choice. There was a draft in those days. They didn't all necessarily take the threat of Communism seriously, but I'm sure some of them did. Many were only there simply because they preferred it to a prison sentence. Some of them hated niggers. Some of them loved niggers. Some of them were niggers. And beaners. Probably not any Jews, though. So, just like American civilians at the time, they pretty much ran the gamut. You had good, bad, and ugly.



      I don't necessarily hate or condemn anyone who fought in that war as a "baby-killer", but, the fact of the matter is that, like it or not, SOME OF THEM WERE. My Lai *DID* happen, however much the neo-con chickenhawks and sundry vermin would like to wish it away. People were convicted. People admitted, under oath, to killing innocent women and children. IT DID HAPPEN!!! If anyone has a problem with that, tough shit. IT'S A FACT. Nor was it, in any way, even necessary. It's not like they were a bunch of pioneers, fighting off the Injuns. What did it accomplish? FUCK ALL!!! They didn't even win, for fuck's sake. You had a bunch of worthless whigger, nigger, and beaner vermin running around killing innocent women and children JUST FOR THE FUCK OF IT. With any luck, every one of them is sucking nigger dick in Hell right now.



      But it's come back to bite us in the ass, bigtime. That arrogance. That hedonism. That MORAL RELATIVISM of the Vietnam generation. Can you say WACO? There you had a former draft-dodger sending former Vietnam War jewps in to murder American citizens on American soil. Malcolm X would've called it "our chickens coming home to roost", and he would've been right. All the so-called "ex"-hippies were already worthless and beyond redemption at that time, but I will say this: ANY VIETNAM VET WHO STILL SIDES WITH ZOG AFTER APRIL 19, 1993, IS MERELY A JEWP, A ZOGBOT, AND, YES, A BABY-KILLER, AND I HOPE I LIVE LONG ENOUGH TO KILL THE SACK OF SHIT MYSELF, AFTER THE SHIT HITS THE FAN.



      Nonetheless, I really see no reason for the antiwar protesters to have even been included in the first place. After all, did they see fit to include anything about the antiwar protesters of WWI or WWII? Nope. But, believe you me, there were plenty of them!!! Particularly during limp-wristed Woodrow's War Of Choice. But, if you're not gonna include them, why include the ones from the Vietnam War? What in the bloody hell makes them so important?



      Well, you and I know what makes them so important. The Vietnam War, unlike those others, was against COMMUNISM. And the Communists won. Now, just like the line in the mini-series, AMERIKA, warned us, back in 1987, "Your country is now part of the history of Communism." WE ARE A COMMUNIST COUNTRY NOW. The Marxist bomb-throwers of the 60's and 70's are now running our government. That is simply the reality. So, why, then, shouldn't we honor them? They are, after all the Heroes Of The Great Cultural Revolution. Just be glad the Vietnam vets aren't either shown stomping babies to death, or, otherwise, blacked out of the history books altogether, in true Stalinist fashion.



      TENNESSEE, USA! could choose to simply ignore Vietnam in 1982, and, most likely did, though it was probably due more to time considerations than mere cowardice in not wanting to pick a side. No one would've thrown rotten eggs at them, back then, for not mentioning the hippies. Hell, they probably would've thrown them if they had.



      The fact of the matter is, the 45th Anniversary Performance, which I attended, was attended mostly by a bunch of old farts, in their 70's and 80's, some of whom had actually attended the Playhouse's Grand Opening, back in 1965. Aside from that, there were just a few couples around my age or younger and their young children. Somehow I suspect that my Dad was the only actual Vietnam vet in attendance. So it wasn't likely to be an issue with them. But, you mark my words, before the end of the run, somebody's likely to get pissed off about it, and give the owners a piece of their mind.



      And, frankly, I hope they do. Because, damnit, you have to know your audience. And the audience for a show like this is *NOT* a bunch of pot-smoking hippies and card-carrying Commies. It's nice, normal people, coming with their families, and likely as not, somebody in the bunch either fought in Vietnam themselves, or, otherwise, has a father, brother, or grandfather who did, and my guess is that they *DO NOT* like seeing that vet portrayed as merely one faction of some cheap-ass political issue, standing shoulder to shoulder with a bunch of dirty, filthy hippies, as if they were somehow their moral equals. I'm sure they think it diminishes their service, and I can't say as I blame them a bit. They should make their voices heard.



      But. like I say, if it had been up to me to update the script, I would've simply included the Vietnam vets at the end of the Baby-Killer Montage, which would've also given me the perfect excuse *NOT* to include the goofy "1950's, 60's and 70's Medley" dance sequence right afterwards, (Once again, thank Ms. Colvin) since it would then be messing with the timeline.



      The script then jumps from the Vietnam era to 9/11, and, I must admit, the explosion they staged to re-create that event was quite impressive, both sonically and visually. After the explosion, there is a speech spoken by all of the choral, in unison, much like the Civil War speech, in which they ask "Who could've done such a horrible deed?" or something to that effect. It took all the restraint I could muster to avoid screaming: ""THE JEWS!!!" at the top of my voice, in answer to that question. If my parents hadn't been there with me, I probably would have.



      Then comes the scene where the Willoby family is about to return to their own time, and Johnny Timberlake has to take his leave of Jody, whom he's fallen in love with. (Now, interestingly enough, the role of Jody Willoby, this time, was actually played by three different girls: Lindy Pendzick, Carly Amburn, and Nicole Bowles, unlike in the 1982 version, when the role was played by Tracey Denise Edwards from start to finish, although the Buster Willoby role was played by two different actors. She seemed to be portrayed by the same person, throughout the First Act, but, in the Second Act, it was clear to me that the actress playing the part was considerably skinnier than the rather heavyset gal I had lusted after in the First Act.) Now, I must admit, I'm a hopeless romantic at heart, and I probably cried during this scene, even when I was a kid, back in 1982.



      I certainly cried this time, as well, but for a number of different reasons. Yes, the scene was quite moving, and the actress, whoever she was, really sang the hell out of that song, "Walk Softly (Don't Tread On My Dreams)". She sounded even better than Sharon Cody on the original 1965 soundtrack. But there were other reasons, too. You see, I knew how the play was gonna end, and I just wasn't ready for it. I felt like it deserved a better ending than the silly Grand Ole Opry montage and even sillier flaggoty song-and-dance number that were coming. As a member of the audience, I had accompanied the Willoby Family on their time-traveling adventures, I had shared their joys and sorrows. They deserved better than this, damnit!!!



      I felt that, much like Nigger Rip, right before he makes his big departure, (And, by the way, for my money, anyway, the funniest line in the whole play is when Nigger Rip, right before making his return to "the Bargain Basement" whines about how angry his boss is gonna be. "He has horns, you know, and he uses them!" he whines, and the grimace on his face says it all. No one is left with any doubt about how Satan is gonna use those horns on ol' Nigger Rip.) I was about to get ASS-RAPED, yet was helpless to do anything about it, saving getting up and walking out of the Playhouse, which I was not gonna do, at any rate.



      For fuck's sake, couldn't they come up with something better than that? Make them arrive a couple of months in the future with Obongo assassinated and a race war raging all around them or martial law declared as a result of hurricanes in the Gulf wreaking environmental havoc, as a result of Obongo's little oil spill. But, for the love of God, *DO NOT* end it the same, stupid, boring way as always!!! It's just not believable at this point. You've taken too many liberties with the script, by bringing in a "Black Devil" of sorts,---a Nigger Rip,---and bringing in thorny, controversial issues which the original script avoided,---issues that excite violent passions, dividing Tennesseans and Americans alike to the point of inciting another Civil War. In the writer's neglecting their duty to give the play a suitable ending, they force the audience members to go out and write their own ending---IN BLOOD. That is just the inescapable reality.



      Now, I will admit, though, that aside from these two factors, there was still another issue that made me cry as well. It was an emotion, a realization that was building up inside of me for quite some time, and seemed to have bubbled up to the surface at that very moment: Here I was, a useless, idiotic dog, used to rolling around in its own shit, who had cried out to God, and, somehow, some way, God had heard. I was grateful, certainly. But I was also scared shitless. You see, I knew damn good and well that I was *NOT* up to the challenge. I'd never done anything in my whole miserable life but try to gratify my own senses. How was I ever gonna change? How does a dog transform itself into a man? Or can it even be done? These questions were eating away at my mind. I couldn't think of any satisfactory answers. I just didn't know what to do. So I took the easy way out. I asked God to kill me, right then and there.



      "Lord YHWH," I said in my heart, "If I have found Grace in Your sight today, then I'm ready!" "Don't wait another moment!" "Take me now!!!" "37 years is enough." "How can I ever survive what's coming?" "I'm a fat tub of shit with the survival skills of a gnat!!!" "I've seen enough of the evil of this world!" "I've seen the whole female race turn against me, and every other White or semi-White male." "I've seen my own relatives threaten to snitch me out to ZOG." "What if everyone's wrong and Obongo leaves office peacefully, and some Republicunt takes his place?" "What then?" "I KNOW WHAT THEN!!!" "Then I go to prison to rot away the rest of my life." "And for what?" "I'm not one of Your Chosen." "I don't know how to act." "I'm just a mangy, dumbass dog that can't stop rolling around in its own shit!" "I know I'll disappoint You if You let me live." "I just can't help it." "So, for the sake of my righteous White ancestors, and the prayer I prayed when I was seven years old, and the fact that I really did try to change my life,---really did try to serve You, there for a couple of years, before the ZOGbox got in the way,---I beg You to take my life this very moment." "There's nothing left that I care about seeing or doing." "I've been everywhere and done everything." "Been to Franklin, to Chickamauga Battlefield, Lookout Mountain Battlefield, Rock City, Stone Mountain Park, Chimney Rock Park, Fort Loudon twice, Knob Creek twice, plenty of re-enactments." "Got SONG OF THE SOUTH, TENNESSEE JOHNSON, BIRTH OF A NATION, AMERIKA, NASHVILLE REBEL, and every version of KING LEAR on DVD." "Got pretty much all of the CDs I really care about getting." "Nothing left that's really crucial." "You even let me live long enough to get another copy of TENNESSEE, USA! and transcibe it to CD, and come here to see this last performance." "I've had a good life, Lord, and You've given me much more than I deserve." "The future holds nothing for me." "I'd make a piss-poor martyr." "I'm ready, Lord." "Right this very minute." "Amen."



      Of course, needless to say, the Lord did not take my suggestion to heart. Obviously, He has other plans for me, and I'm through whining about it. If my own stupidity doesn't kill me first, I plan to stand in the gap, and do what He would have me to do. This dog is going up the Mountain with the Lord's Elect. ZOG/Babylon can suck the fart out of my probably-trichonosis-infected asshole.
      Last edited by Jack; 08-27-2010, 12:52 PM.
      IF YOU STILL LOVE AMERIKA, YOU'RE A NIGGER-LOVER!!! ---CGO. 1/20/'09.



      "Lay down your silver and your gold
      I am a man who won't be sold
      And even when my heart grows cold
      I'll curse your evil stranglehold."---Horslips, from "Trouble With A Capital 'T'", 1977.

      Comment


      • #4
        Part Four.

        IV



        But, at any rate, the last few scenes were pretty much the same as they had always been. The only difference is, this time, when the Willoby's returned home, and we finally got to see the assistant, Freddie, that Henry has been talking to on his cellphone throughout the whole play, we find that she is a woman. Score another one for the femroidz.



        Another, even more disgusting example of femroidizm in the revised script, is when Jody decides to become a little baby-killing ZOGbot. God, it was sickening, seeing this beautiful blonde goddess transformed into a bloodthirsty, baby-killing jewp, ready to murder anything darker than the Yellow Nigger-In-Chief, so long as it resided in another hemisphere.



        Nonetheless, the scene proceded, pretty much as always, with Jody hearing Johnny singing "Plinketty Plank" on the radio, and the family rushing to the Grand Ole Opry to see him perform live. The song he and Nigger Rip did in the Opry scene, though, was different from the one they had done in 1982, (and, presumably, 1993 and 1995 as well) and in every performance prior to that, "Wanted", written by Bob Gunton, who played the role of Johnny Timberlake in the original 1965 production, which is included on the original soundtrack. The program said it was gonna be some song called "Pinto Beans", (But, since the program can't even keep it straight whether the family name is spelled Willoby or Willoughby, it is obviously not reliable.) but, in fact, it was simply a cover of the old Little Jimmy Dickens classic, "Cash On The Barrel Head".



        When Jody, dressed in her camouflage baby-killer garb, runs to embrace her lost love, however, it not only made my skin crawl, it clearly had the same effect on many others in the audience. Even the actor playing Johnny seemed to cringe a little. One almost expected her to cap off that "tender" moment by bending him over and sodomizing him with a Howitzer, while "God Bless America" plays in the background.



        Well, the play ended, as it always has, with a fake scoutmaster and little fake Boy Scouts rasing a ZOG shitrag on the stage, followed by a brief recap of the Baby-Killer Montage, followed by all the cast members making their final curtain call, with a rousing chorus of "Tennessee, USA!", the grand finale, playing in the background, only this time, the scoutmaster was female, yet the generic-looking "scouts" were of both genders. Who knows what the point of that was, but, after the rest of the femroid/unisex propaganda this new script was loaded with, one could only call it typical.



        Well, when the curtain finally descended, and the lights came on, me and my parents made our way to the nearest exit. We had thought about staying for the dinner on the grounds, catered by a local bar-b-q restaurant, but, the minute that heat hit us as we opened the door, we thought better of it. It was like walking into a damn oven. It must've been at least 100 degrees that day, or it sure as hell felt like it anyway. We decided to go to a nearby Arby's instead.



        "So", you may ask, at long last, "What's the verdict?" Well, guys, I've gotta be honest with you, for all its many, many flaws, I can still recommend going to see it,---that is, assuming you haven't ever seen it before. The show is genuinely funny, the original musical numbers, most of which still remain intact, are brilliant, as good as those from any Broadway production ever written, and all the actors, singers, and dancers work their butts off, and are more than believable in their parts, despite the unfortunate tampering with the original script.



        So, yeah, if you're a regular, everyday whigger schmuck, for the most part, (Only with good racial instincts, otherwise you wouldn't be reading this in the first place.) you'll enjoy yourself, even if you don't necessarily love every little detail of the plotline. If you're the kind of person who can watch Fox News Channel for more than an hour without having an aneurysm or listen to the occasional lamestream "country" song without being thrown into a homicidal rage, then, you'll probably have a good time.



        However, if you're, like me, a stickler for HISTORICAL FACT, don't even bother. You're not gonna see much of it here. While, grant it, you probably will learn more about Tennessee history from this play than you ever learned from your fifth-grade history class, we both know that ain't really saying much. While the writers of the script were somewhat historically literate, neither the original scriptwriter nor the re-writer(s) seem to really be on a mission from God to acquaint you with the rich and varied history of the glorious White race. On the contrary, Nigger Rip and the slave characters clearly seem to have been introduced for the express purpose of mocking it.



        And, if, also like me, you've seen the play before, you most definitely *DO NOT* want to witness this travesty they've turned it into. You would only end up wanting to blow the place up, and I *WOULD NOT* want to be held accountable for those kinds of thoughts, particularly if you chose to act on them.



        I'll put it this way, guys: TENNESSEE, USA! is, or at least was, one of those Eternal Verities of Southern Culture. There are a number of things that I would recommend that one should do before they die, to prove that he or she is a REAL SOUTHERNER: See the movies, GONE WITH THE WIND, BIRTH OF A NATION, SONG OF THE SOUTH, and TENNESSEE JOHNSON at least once, own at least the first three albums by Alabama, (I once owned everything they had recorded up to 1987, including their Christmas album, and a compilation of rare, pre-fame recordings from the 70's) the first two by Lynyrd Skynyrd, (I once owned all of them, though I never got around to playing them all, and some were re-sold.) and at least one each by Hank Jr. and David Allan Coe. As for artists like Hank Williams, Roger Miller, George Jones, Merle Haggard, and Waylon Jennings, while I don't suppose one necessarily has to like all of them, one should, at least, be well acquainted with their work, and should, at least, like some of them. (Personally, I like all of them, aside from George Jones, and I even like some of his stuff, particularly the early, rockabilly-tinged stuff like "White Lightnin'" and "Who Shot Sam?" )



        One should've visited, at least once, the following locations: Chickamauga Battlefield, Lookout Mountain Battlefield, Rock City, Stone Mountain Park, Chimney Rock Park, in western North Carolina, the old fort at St. Augustine, the Ryman Auditorium, and Hank Williams' grave in Montgomery, Alabama. (Personally, I've been to all of those places besides the last three, which I would certainly like to see, but don't really, realistically, hope to see them, unless I was able to go with Andi, if she ever gets better.) One should also have attended at least one Civil War re-enactment, and, yes, TENNESSEE, USA!, at least as it used to be.



        One should also be conversant with our great Confederate and pre-Confederate history, ---with Daniel Boone, Patrick Henry, George Mason, Thomas Jefferson, John Randolph, John C. Calhoun, Davy Crockett, Alexander Stephens, Jefferson Davis, Robert E. Lee, Stonewall Jackson, JEB Stuart, and Nathan Bedford Forrest,---and with the work of great post-War writers like William Faulkner, Eudora Welty, Flannery O'Conner, Robert Penn Warren, and James Agee, not to mention the great nineteenth century writers like Mark Twain, Augustus Longstreet, and Edgar Allan Poe.



        Now, grant it, some of these things are age-specific. No one really expects an old fart of seventy or eighty years old to really be all that crazy about Alabama, Lynyrd Skynyrd, Hank Jr., or David Allan Coe, let alone Hank III. But, so long as he knows and embraces his Southron heritage, he's alright.



        But, like I say, TENNESSEE, USA! is, for better or for worse, a part of that Southron heritage. If you saw it before, there's really no need to go see it again, especially since the changes in the script would only piss the hell out of you. Nonetheless, if you feel you owe it to yourself to go see this travesty for yourself, to share, along with the spirits of your long-dead ancestors, the righteous indignation at the subhuman simian vermin throwing its feces on their graves, be my guest. If you have the self-discipline to avoid getting thrown in jail over the situation, that is.



        But, frankly, if you haven't seen it before, You owe it to yourself to see this abomination with your own eyes. You need to experience the slander for yourself. To stare daggers at the simian vermin as I did. To determine, in your heart, to someday kill ten, a hundred, a thousand niggers for every one who speaks his damnable lies from that stage. And, until you have done so, you are *NOT* a REAL SOUTHERNER. You are not.



        So, anyway, go see this travesty, this monstrosity, this Satanic abomination of a play. Or don't. But, one way, or another, don't say you haven't been warned.
        IF YOU STILL LOVE AMERIKA, YOU'RE A NIGGER-LOVER!!! ---CGO. 1/20/'09.



        "Lay down your silver and your gold
        I am a man who won't be sold
        And even when my heart grows cold
        I'll curse your evil stranglehold."---Horslips, from "Trouble With A Capital 'T'", 1977.

        Comment


        • #5
          The Lamestream Media Weighs In.

          For what it's worth, I thought I'd go ahead and post a couple of links to what the local lamestream media has been saying about the play, which, in fact, isn't much.



          No one can mistake the following blurbs, which, frankly, read like press releases from the CCP, for actual reviews, but the latter does include a picture of the actor who plays Nigger Rip, and the former has a video, dealing with the 45th Anniversary production, that anyone interested can click on. (If nothing else, I wouldn't begrudge anyone the opportunity of seeing the slutty sow who plays Jody in the first part of the play, and, perhaps, laughing at my questionable taste in women. )



          Anyhow, here are the links: http://www.wbirtv10.net/life/program...126512&catid=8 and http://crossville-chronicle.com/thin...versary-season.
          IF YOU STILL LOVE AMERIKA, YOU'RE A NIGGER-LOVER!!! ---CGO. 1/20/'09.



          "Lay down your silver and your gold
          I am a man who won't be sold
          And even when my heart grows cold
          I'll curse your evil stranglehold."---Horslips, from "Trouble With A Capital 'T'", 1977.

          Comment

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