Attending a Trump Rally – What Is It Like?

So I attended a Trump rally yesterday. First, let me assure my readers that this isn’t a reversal on my Trump-as-lesser-evil position. I continue to maintain that Trump is not a positive so much as Hillary is a negative. However, I was curious to see what kind of people are supporting this man, and why they were doing so. Why speculate when you can actually see for yourself? Thus I went to the rally and talked to people there to find out what was going on.

Here are my observations.

First, there was an older lady of clear Mexican ancestry who was interviewing with the media talking heads just outside the gates. She was angry and clearly agitated at some of the questions. At first I thought she might be an anti-Trump protester.

No. She was a Trump supporter, and was expressing how pissed off she was that she spent all this time and money coming into the country through the legal channels, and other Mexicans just walked across the border for free. She was saying that they didn’t want to be Americans, and that they just wanted to make money and go back to Mexico. She never wanted to return to that hellhole, and didn’t understand why they did. Other Trump supporters extolled her virtues for coming in the right way.

Second, there were lots of women in the crowd, much more than I expected. Someone had been distributing pink “women for Trump” signs, and I saw a lot of those — more than the regular Trump/Pence signage, actually. The women were louder and more energized than the men. This despite there being an anti-Trump protester outside the venue with a megaphone and a loudspeaker constantly playing back Trump’s “grab ’em by the pussy” comment on repeat.

I talked to one woman about it and she said she didn’t care about the comment, because she’s said worse about men when hanging out with her girlfriends. It may be that Trump lost marginal/borderline supporters for the comment, but it is clear that it didn’t make a dent in his base.

Overall, the anti-Trump protesters were few, and not particularly well-organized. I honestly expected a lot more of them given the media’s focus on them. Either Hillary thinks she has this election in the bag, or they have moved on to other tactics. The First Amendment area was mostly empty.

The people there were nice, peaceful, and nothing at all like what I expected. The area off the Florida State Fairgrounds, where there was parking, was cash-only. $10 to park there. Naturally, I failed to bring cash. The parking attendant let me in anyway, and told me there was an ATM inside where I could get money and come back to pay her. Unfortunately, this ATM was very well-hidden. I asked one of the campaign workers if she knew where it was, and instead of pointing me toward it, she just offered me the $10. I politely declined, and continued my search for the ATM (which I eventually found), but I was impressed nonetheless.

There were no incidents of violence, no craziness, none of the stuff the media has been reporting on. In fact, it was quite the opposite. The rally was held at the amphitheater, which is a venue for a lot of concerts and big events, and I have *never* seen a crowd so well behaved as this one. Usually people are all up in your personal space, jostling, bumping up against you. There would be spilled drinks, screaming people, dirty looks and occasional fights. Not at the Trump rally.

When the rally ended, everyone filed out in orderly fashion, personal space was respected, there was no jostling, or the usual hostile folks trying to force their way out. For me, the contrast was staggering. All this despite the fact that the amphitheater was packed to the gills, and there was a whole crowd outside the venue. The amphitheater has seating for approximately 20,000, plus an additional space for around 1,000 to stand up front (usually a mosh pit when bands are in town). So there was around 21,000 in the venue, and an indeterminate number outside.

There were two people at the rally that I suspect were plants. Again, the crowd was exceptionally well behaved, and so these two women (who appeared to me rather like SJWs) screaming and exaggerating everything Trump said were very out of place. They seemed to be agitating for something, but to the crowd’s credit, everybody ignored them. A man seated next to me wondered if Soros paid them to be there.

I expressed to a few people there that I wasn’t really a Trump supporter, and I didn’t personally care for the man. I expected people to get in my face about that. Certainly there’s been a lot of that on Facebook. Instead I received mostly sympathetic responses. A number of people felt likewise. One man said that he still didn’t like Trump, but that America deserved someone who at least wasn’t a felon.

Another man said he was an immigrant from Hungary, and that he didn’t care much for Trump’s boisterous attitude, but that he was very worried about militant Islamics getting in and causing trouble. He said that Eastern Europe has long memories in that regard. More than a few cited wikileaks as their reason for going Trump. I was surprised how many people had actually read through many of the emails.

The crowd itself was a blend from all walks of American life. There were Working Class folks in large numbers, who I still think comprise Trump’s base. But there were a lot more Upper-Middle class folks in the audience than I expected. I may have underestimated his support there. There were more minorities than I expected, also. Especially blacks. It was still more white than America-at-large, but contrary to media spin, Hispanics and blacks were very well represented.

The rally itself was strange. I have very little to compare it to, because I don’t usually attend these sorts of things as I don’t go in for this politician worship. They had a smattering of guest speakers, and went with a strongly anti-Obamacare message, overall. The guest speakers included a doctor of Cuban descent, a local black bishop, and a number of Republican party politicians from the area, most of whom I recognized.

It was very high energy, in terms of the music they played, and the way Trump spoke. It is clear that whatever Trump’s other faults (and they are legion), he is a good public speaker and knows how to work a crowd. The crowd occasionally burst out into spontaneous chants of “USA” and “Lock Her Up.” There was an awkward moment when Trump said that the media would not pan the cameras and show how big the crowd was, and when he said this, only one camera did (I presume that was Fox, but I don’t know). The rest of the media just sort of stood there awkwardly and did nothing. They never did show the crowd. Of course, the crowd booing them probably didn’t make them any more willing.

I was wondering if the populism would feel wrong. I’m a big skeptic when it comes to populism, though I don’t care for elitism either. And a number of folks have worried that Trump could spin his populist appeal into tyranny. It didn’t feel that way. The crowd was very normal, for lack of a better way to put it. I got no sense that this man was being held up as some kind of demigod or demagogue. I did, however, get a very strong sense that they absolutely loathed Hillary Clinton. That seems to be the big unifying factor for them. I doubt that Jeb would have commanded the same kind of strong support, but at the same time, I don’t think Trump would have been received like this if it weren’t for the fact that Hillary was so terrible. Thus I am less worried of a populist-backed tyrant in the form of Trump than I was before attending this rally. It didn’t feel like a fascist thing in any way, regardless of how the media spins it. And bear in mind, I’m a career cynic in this regard. I would most definitely tell you if I got even a whiff of that sort of thing.

None of this changes my opinion of Donald Trump, mind you. I don’t like him, and I don’t think I ever will. I’ll vote for him because my hatred of Hillary is so strong. But that’s as far as I will go. Yet my opinion of his supporters has changed somewhat. Certainly the media portrayal of them as violent racists and sexists is complete bullshit. The old Mexican woman who came in legally was held up as a model by other Trumpites. His black supporters were welcomed, and one guy said of the black bishop “nobody preaches to a crowd better than a black man of God.” And the women were louder and more supportive than the men. There was no violence, and in fact there was a considerably bizarre level of respect for personal space that I’ve not experienced in a very long time. These people were genuinely nice, and the two hecklers were largely ignored.

At this point, I have nothing to compare between Trump’s campaign and Hillary’s campaign. And I’m not sure I can find the stomach to attend a Hillary rally. But if I can, it would be interesting to compare.

Are the Polls Lying About Trump?

So as a fair warning, most of this post is anecdotal. It’s all true, mind you, but it’s also based mostly on my personal experience. So please don’t take it as Gospel. The media is telling us that Trump has no chance of defeating Hillary. FiveThirtyEight puts him at about a 13% chance of victory. However, there are some polls regarded as more accurate in recent elections that give Trump about an even chance, or a little better. The swing is from something like 15 point Hillary victory on to a 2 point Trump victory. With such a wide spread, one could be forgiven for thinking they are all full of shit. With media bias in full swing, none of the polls are what I would call trustworthy.

The proper answer for this election right now is “I have no fucking idea.”

Trump supporters, of course, tell us that there is a great groundswell of hidden Trump support (the so-called “Trump Closet”), and that Trump rallies are full and Hillary rallies, when they even happen, are relatively empty. This, they say, is evidence of an impending Trumpslide. So I thought I’d put together my thoughts on them.

Is there a “Trump Closet”? In short: yes, absolutely.

I remember a gay guy saying that it was harder to come out of the closet as a Trump supporter than as a gay man. But I know many people who publicly remain uncommitted or who “hate both” candidates, but have confided in me that they are secretly voting Trump. The reasons for this are varied. Some are afraid they will lose their jobs if they come out as Trump supporters. Others are afraid they will lose friends, or be labeled racist, sexist, etc… A couple were once NeverTrumpers, and don’t want to admit publicly that they’ve changed their minds.

So how big is the Trump Closet? And how many don’t even tell pollsters the truth? I can’t say for sure. Again, this is all anecdotal. But it’s definitely non-trivial. Unless the polls are accounting for this, they will be off.

What’s going on with Trump Rallies? Is this evidence of a Trumpslide? In short: a very mixed bag.

So I’m in an unusual position to comment on this. I am, on the one hand, accounted as a relatively Upper-Middle Class quasi-intellectual (I hate the term “intellectual” but I have to use something here) Conservative. This meaning I make a high wage, my field is one that requires a high degree of intelligence and education, and I am admitted to such social circles whenever I wish.

On the other hand, much of my family is Working Class. So I share some of the Working Class values and culture. Thus when I bring my Mustang to the local muscle car meetups, I’m not accounted as a foreigner. There is dirt under my fingernails, I can work on my own car, and hell, I’ve even hung my share of drywall and done construction work on occasion.

Point being, I hear both perspectives on this election first-hand, and the contrast is staggering.

First off, the Working Class supports Trump like nobody I’ve ever seen. Perhaps Reagan in 1980 had this level of Working Class support. Nobody else has. At the muscle car meetups, it may very well be 100% Trump. And they are vocal about their Trump support. They love the guy (I don’t, but that’s another story). If Working Class Americans were the only ones voting, Trump would win in a landslide. Many of them have gone to the rallies. These are the folks likely to be filling the stadiums and cheering for him.

On the Upper-Middle Class side of things, the exact opposite is happening. Conservative intellectuals are, in my experience, very divided. I’d say in a very unscientific manner, that approximately 1/3 of them are Trump supporters, but no where near as enthusiastic as Working Class supporters. Another 1/3 are, like myself, reluctantly going Trump. Consider such notables as Tom Kratman and Kurt Schlichter in this category. They will go Trump, but more because they hate Hillary than any kind of love for the Donald. A final 1/3 are strongly NeverTrump. But I’ve seen some of them cracking, too. Hillary’s campaign is ruthlessly pursuing the racism and sexism angle, and the NeverTrumpers are seeing that. I’ve seen a number of memes posted by them along the lines of “please don’t talk me into voting Trump.” There is a risk that Hillary will make herself look so bad, that even those who hate Trump will be talked into voting for him to keep her out.

So, it is my thought that some, but not all, NeverTrumpers will crack on election day, and cast very reluctant votes for the Donald, go home, get blasted drunk, and conveniently forget they’ve done so.

In other words, support from the bottom for Trump will be much, much stronger than previous elections. Support at the top will be weaker, but probably not as bad as some suspect.

Conclusion? Trump will probably gain here, but not by nearly as much as rally attendance would suggest.

So what does that mean?

To me, it means that the election polls are probably off base, and they should not be trusted. The Trump Closet is likely very large. This election is strange. The conventional rules don’t apply. The demographics are very different, and voter turnout could defy expectations — in either direction. I still think Trump is more likely to lose than to win, especially when one considers that to defeat the Democrats, you need a comfortable margin. If it’s close, the voting dead will tilt it to the Democrats.

But I also think the chance of victory for Trump is much higher than most polls, and FiveThirtyEight, suggest.

Hell Racer

Hell Racer

A Short Story

“That’s a fine automobile you got there.”

The voice startled John, and nearly caused him to drop his beer. The liquid sloshed around in his old plastic solo cup, and a few droplets splashed on his shirt. He looked up to see a tall, white-haired man with the sort of rotund belly you just didn’t see often anymore, since the ration cuts had taken effect. The man smiled at John and offered him a shop towel to wipe his shirt with.

“Sorry, didn’t mean to startle you like that,” the man offered. “I’m Lenny.” Lenny, of course, did not offer his hand, as the old ritual had been branded heteropatriarchalnormative, or something like that. John had never been very attentive during his anti-oppression reeducation sessions. But the older man nonetheless nodded politely and gestured to the car.

“Oh, I’m John,” he stuttered, “and it’s uh… uh a Precedent 1500. ” He set his beer down and accepted the older man’s towel.

“You’ve kept her real nice,” Lenny replied, gesturing around them. “Better detailed than most here. Doesn’t look stock either.”

John frowned at that. He appreciated that someone noticed his work, but it wouldn’t do to describe his car as better. There would be no trophy or best-in-show for his Precedent 1500, even if it was faster and cleaner than most. Awards were given according to privilege status, and white cismen were about as far down the list as one could get. He never came to the car show for trophies. In fact, he had trouble discerning just why he came at all, anymore.

“No, it’s nothing,” John answered, pointing down the line to a sticker-covered old Precedent 250, still mostly stock. “Now that’s a nice car.” He said politely.

Lenny shook his head softly, but didn’t press the point, for which John was grateful. He sipped his beer, which was no better than the sticker-covered 250, and stood awkwardly next to the older man for a few moments before curiosity got the best of him.

“So where’s your car?” John wondered aloud.

The older man smiled warmly. “She’s in the garage at home,” he answered. “I took the bus today. Same as every day, now.”

“That’s a shame.” John answered, politely ignoring the slip of gender objectification. You weren’t supposed to call things by female gender names, but it still happened sometimes. “You just don’t see many cars here anymore. We were down to 48 last month.”

“Not like you used to,” Lenny agreed. “I was coming here way back when they still had petrol burners. Of course, back then the old mall was actually open. Easy 200 cars back then.”

“No petrol in my car,” John said. “Just a pair of old Tesla motors swapped in, one front and one rear, sync’d and balanced. It’d do 150 easy, if BuTrans didn’t put the limiter on it.” He boasted a little, excited to see someone interested in the car he’d spent years putting together from old junkyard parts.

“Yeah, bummer about that.” Lenny said. The Bureau of Transportation mandated a maximum speed of 45 miles per hour for all person-driven cars and installed software to regulate their speed accordingly. John noted that it had taken away much of his acceleration, too.

Another awkward moment passed, for John didn’t know what else to say. He had never been very social at the show, but came anyway out of some deep need he didn’t entirely understand. Few people bothered to talk to him, as most of the attention was centered on Suzie and xer Precedent 250. Xe was always the star of the show, but today the crowd was interested in xer new pink carbon-fiber hood scoop sticker. That electric cars didn’t need real hood scoops, much less stickers made up to look like them, was lost on everyone. The car itself was painted with spray paint from the local hardware store. How xe got the climate offsets needed to get genuine spray paint, John didn’t know, but the rainbow paint job looked awful, supposing anyone would be honest enough with xer to say so.

He had saved for nearly a decade to buy his Precedent 1500. It had no motor when he found it sitting in the junk yard, so he refitted it with a pair of old salvaged Tesla motors, both front and rear. The paint was original, of course, since he had no climate offsets for new paint, but he had spent long hours cleaning it carefully, restoring the shine as much as he could. There were bad spots, but it was still better than most. The tires, on the other hand, were brand new and had cost a fortune, but they were beautiful and gripped the road perfectly.

The car was the one beautiful thing in his life. His apartment was a junkheap, and his ration allocation was barely livable. He could only just manage enough energy credits to keep the thing running. But it was all worth it to John, it was the one thing that made life interesting for him.

“Race time in 20 minutes,” the announcer’s voice came over the loud speakers. It wasn’t an actual race of course, for safety regulations forbid real racing. Instead, contestants would enter their personal attributes and their car’s specifications into the computer, and it would determine the winner in an interactive display. The winner, of course, was always whoever won in privilege points. John was always last place.

“I remember when Raceway Park was still open,” Lenny mused beside him. “Those were the days.”

John was wide-eyed, suddenly forgetting about the announcer and his preordained computer race. “You actually raced? Like, for real?”

“Yeah. Drag and track both. It’s a rush like you wouldn’t believe.” The older man’s eyes took on a distant look, “the smell of fuel and tire smoke, it was something else. God, it was like flying a jet engine down the strip back then. Nirvana, man. Petrol car heaven.”

The religious terms made John shuffle uncomfortably for a moment, but his awe outweighed his wrongthink. There was excitement in the pit of his stomach. He had never talked to a real racer before. He even forgot to check his age privilege. “How old are you?”

Lenny laughed. “No one’s asked me that in years…”

“I didn’t mean to uh…”

“Don’t worry about it, kid. I’m 76 as of yesterday.”

“You really did it then…” It had been almost 50 years since racing and petrol motors had been outlawed. Climate change regulation had decimated the market for them even before the ban. Most person-driven cars had followed suit, with only a few government-built electric Precedent cars still remaining road-legal. Everything else was self-driving which, besides being hideously expensive, was also profoundly boring to John’s sensibilities. There were no car shows for self-drivers.

“Yeah. I used to have this old Hellcat, full nitrous job, and let me tell you kid… she was a rocket ship. Take you to orbit on a cloud of tiresmoke, take you to the moon and back again, squealing all the way. Lenny tells no lies, kid.”

Something in the old man’s bearing made John believe it. Cheering interrupted his thoughts, as Suzie was lifted up by a crowd of adoring fans, having won the computer race by a lap against xer strongest opponent, an overweight black lesbian from downtown. That, John wrongthinked, was probably a good thing for the crowd. Lifting up Monique would have been considerably more difficult for them.

“Wish I could have raced my car,” John said, “take the limiter off, and it’d go. Those old Tesla motors are much stronger than new Precedent units. They don’t make them like that anymore.”

“I’m a petrol-head at heart, kid. But you know, toward the end we had a few like you. Some overpowered electric hot rods. Fat motors, high amp packs. We never did get to settle that question for good before the bureau shut us down.” Lenny looked out in the distance, as the evening bus settled in at the stop outside the show. “Time to go. You take care of yourself, John.”

“You too.”

A few months passed before John saw the old man again. Every show was the same, with Suzie and Monique vying for privilege dominance, and most of the crowd ignoring him. Sometimes a group would come and laugh at him as he wiped his car down, talking about how unoriginal and plain it was compared to the sticker-covered 250s and 220s stacked down the parking lot.

He would bring his old solo cup, and buy his allocated single ration of warm beer, and spend his time leaning on the hood of his ‘1500 wishing he could have seen the old days, when cars burned streaks of rubber down the cracked asphalt, where engines roared, and helmet-clad racers flicked their visors down and sped off into the sunset.

They were only stories to him, even the movies about them had long since been banned. But the old man had awoken something in him, and each day he longed to see Lenny return.

“What kind of car is that? A 1500 huh? Bet you think that makes you privileged, huh?” A voice asked, snapping him out of his reverie. He turned to see Suzie, xer grin hateful and jealous. The computer could say that a 250 was faster than a 1500 with Tesla parts, but deep down, xe had to know.

“It’s nothing,” John sighed. “Just a beater made of some old junkyard parts.”

“Yeah?” Monique added, setting her beer down on the car’s hood. John tried not to grimace, but evidently failed. “What, you don’t want me touching your car? A stupid white racist like you can’t handle it huh?” She dragged her fake fingernail across the polished surface, digging into the clearcoat, leaving a long scratch on the fender. Mercifully, she declined to sit on it.

“Looks better now,” Suzie laughed. “It just needed a woman’s touch. See you around, loser.”

John controlled his anger, trying as hard as he could to smile and act pleasantly toward the show’s stars. He didn’t enter the race anymore, and parked further away from the other drivers. His only motivation to keep coming was the thought that the old man might come back.

“You look like Mad Max right now, kid.” Lenny said from behind him. John nearly jumped up and spilled his beer again. The old man evidently enjoyed doing that.

“Mad Max?”

“Old movie, total wrongthink.” Lenny said. “But I tell you, in the old days, if someone even looked at your car wrong, you could deck ’em in the face. You don’t touch no one’s car, let me tell you.”

“It’s okay. I didn’t check my racism, it was my fault.”

“You know why I came here, really?” Lenny changed the subject. John shook his head. “I’m not just old, I’ve got cancer. And you know the way it goes, if you don’t have the privilege points…”

“Yeah.” John felt a pang of regret. He genuinely liked the old man. “I know how it goes. How long?”

“Few months. Maybe less.” Lenny said. “It’s okay, kid. My time, you know? I just wanted to come back, see if there were any real gearheads left anymore. Guess there’s one.”

“Oh, I’m not…”

“Shut up, kid. You got the bug. I seen your eyes light up, you would have been there in the old days, and we both know that. Tell you what, next month I’ll bring my car. We can have our own race.”

John’s eyes lit up. “You have your own computer?” Only the wealthy could afford to own their own computers, after the Internet tax doubled in 2052. The car show club had to rent one for a fortune in fees each month.

“Well… yeah. I got one.”

The rest of the show went as expected, only this time there was an upset. Monique had revealed that she had a Mexican great grandfather, and her privilege points had passed up Suzie’s for the first time. It had been a very close race, but Monique’s Precedent 220 passed Suzie’s 250 on the final simulated lap. John ducked into his car before the crowd could enlist his aid in carrying her on their shoulders. When he emerged, the old man was gone.

The next month passed by slowly as John’s anticipation built up. A private race! He had never been able to do one, always having to accept last place in the show’s event. It was unprecedented.

When he arrived at the old parking lot, and took his usual space at the end, Lenny was waiting for him. But there was no car to be seen.

“Where’s your car?” John asked him, puzzled.

“Oh, it’s around back. But before we set the race up, I need to look at your car’s specs.” Lenny told him. He brought out a small computer and an OBD connector. “This will read the specs directly from your car’s ECU.”

John stepped aside and let Lenny do his thing. “All good.” Lenny reported. “Limiter is off for this race.”

“Really? A no-limiter computer race?” Nobody had ever done that at the show. The announcer was already talking up the upcoming challenge between Monique, Suzie, and a newcomer who was an Indigenous American Muslim transsexual. It was expected to be a close race between them all. John didn’t care in the slightest.

“I’ll be right back,” Lenny winked at him and disappeared behind the abandoned mall.

The sound that followed was like nothing John had ever heard in his life. A roar echoed across the parking lot, like a demon crawling up from the depths of the now-forbidden Hell. Beers were spilled, people screamed as they were triggered by the raucous noise. For John, it was like a dream. He instinctively knew what had happened, what he was going to see before it came around the corner.

An ancient Dodge Challenger Hellcat roared to life, its fat tires kicking up a cloud of smoke, squealing and screaming against the unforgiving pavement. The old man bounced it off the rev limiter as the crowd scattered and screamed. John was in a dream, and he found his wrongthink could not be restrained. He opened the door to his car and got in. The windows were down, and he could smell the oil-mixed gasoline in the air, the tang of fuel and smoking tire in his nostrils.

And when his Tesla-powered Precedent flared to life, he felt the driveline spin like nothing he’d ever experienced before. All of the torque from the ancient electric motors was there, at his command. The ECU restrictions were gone, the limiter zapped into nonexistence by Lenny’s handheld computer, and as he pressed the pedal, the car lurched forward like the very rocket ship the old man had described. He pulled up next to the ancient petrol-burner, even as the crowd poked their heads out to try and make sense of it all.

Lenny looked at him, and grinned through the haze, gunning the motor. “On three, kid.”

“On three,” John answered, still wondering when he was going to wake up from the dream.

He heard the Hellcat’s motor rev up, he held the brakes down on his own car, loading the motors. He could hear the groan as car sunk lower to the road than he’d ever felt. There was no noise, like with the ancient petrol-burner, but he felt that power at his command.

“One.” He heard the old man’s voice, barely audible over the roar.

“Two.” He shifted his foot to the edge of the brake pedal, ready to let all four wheels fly at once.


The Hellcat roared, tires spinning as they sought for grip. The old Precedent, with all four wheels loaded with power, shot out ahead. John’s car was past 45 before he could even blink, smoothly accelerating at blinding speed. Some part of John’s brain remembered to flick the windows closed.

The Hellcat was behind, its tires finally gripping the worn pavement, and John could see it catching up in his side mirror. The roar was deafening, the ground shaking. The electric motors whined, spinning faster than they had in decades, strained to the breaking point.

Onward the Hellcat came, breaking even, and inching out ahead, but John didn’t let up, even as he watched the needle move. 130. 140. 150….

It kept going, and the petrol-burner pushed out to a wider lead. Alarms started lighting up on John’s dashboard as the motors began to overheat, but he couldn’t let up, not now. 160… 170… The wind rushed all around now, as they passed the halfway mark in the ancient mall parking lot.

The Tesla-powered Precedent had nothing else left to give as she leveled at out 174. And yet everything was smooth, like flying through the air, and John enjoyed it for a moment, even as the Hellcat pulled ahead to a final lead. The brake lights blinked, and he slowed down rapidly, the air resistance quickly dropping his speed.

But even as they slowed to a less reckless speed, the Hellcat’s brake lights switched off again, and the engine roared. John saw the Hellcat’s window roll down, and Lenny stick his arm out, giving him a hearty thumbs up, before speeding off suddenly from the mall parking lot. He felt a rush of pride well up within him, it had been the best race of his life, and his very own car had hung on strong with a demon-spawned race car dredged up from the fiery depths of petrol Hell.

John slowed down, driving past the assembled cars, to the fascinated stares of the other car clubbers. Police sirens could be heard in the distance, but he paid them no mind. For that glorious moment, he was a racer of old, and even Suzie stared in awe of him. He knew he would pay for it all later, but for now, he didn’t care. He peeled out of the parking lot, outdistancing the slow police cars with ease. The others would tell them who had done it, of course, but he would have time to sort out some kind of story. Even if he lost his car, it would all be worth it.

He never saw the old man again.

Time for Stupidity

This election year has been Hell. The mudslinging, the hate, the divide… it’s grown to monumental proportions. But what is truly shocking is the level of outright stupidity pandered by the media. We’ve long known that the media was in the tank for the Democrats. That much was obvious to anyone right-of-center who possessed one or two functional brain cells. But we’ve reached a new low in media bias, wherein they are peddling things so obviously untrue that I wonder how even the most die-hard Leftist could possibly believe it.

A writer for Time magazine has this to say of Donald Trump:

This is what we in the punditry business call "going the full potato."

This is what we in the punditry business call “going the full potato.”

This is so stupid, so bizarrely biased and obviously false that I cannot even bring myself to fully fisk it. And I just got done fisking a guy who thought he could best serve black people by never listening to rap music unless they gave him explicit permission to do so, after he performed faithful service to Black Lives Matter, of course. Yes, our friendly neighborhood Time magazine hack has gone straight past retarded, and into full potato territory. Observe:

And, three: To what specific period of American greatness are you wanting us to return? When black folk suffered segregation after slavery? When women had no right to vote or control their own bodies? When gay brothers and lesbian sisters felt ceaseless hate? When we stole land from the Native Americans? When we sent Japanese families to internment camps? When America lynched Mexicans? I just need Trump to give me some clarity on the time period he wishes to travel back to.

Here’s some news for mister snarky liberal bias, over at Time. You, sir, are among the dumbest creatures to ever walk the Earth. There is protoplasmic amoebic slime with greater insight into the world than you. I cannot even bring myself to capitalize your name, for capitalization is reserved for sentient beings, not for idiotic fungi growing on the dungheap of liberal media.

Just once, I want to see one of these morons take a trip the Middle East and fight for gay rights there, agitate to stop slavery in Africa going on right now, or stop the lynchings and killing ISIS is perpetrating today. These aren’t principles for them. They are just talking points for why they hate America so much. But even then, they don’t really believe any of this garbage. Their hatred for America is rooted in a sort of quasi-elitist “well, we should be running things” unenlightened self-interest.

Oh, and by the way, the darling of the Left, Franklin D. Roosevelt was the one that put Japanese into camps. Funny how that little tidbit gets forgotten and buried.

We have to be at peak SJW by this point, I cannot imagine them lowering their intelligence any further. This is a pearl of stupidity the likes of which I’ve never seen before. Witness it brothers, you may never see its like again.

Take One Look

Why on Earth would anyone vote for this elitist, spiteful, hateful creature masquerading as human? Hillary is evil. Trump is not a paragon of proper behavior and conservatism himself, but Hillary is something else… Take a look at her expression in this screencap.


Fisk of the Day: Our Toxic Whiteness

As we approach peak Social Justice convergence, things are becoming increasingly more bizarre. America is going collectively insane, and insanely collective. At the forefront of this is a notion that white people need to hate themselves, and work as hard as they can against their own interests.

This goes by various names, like “decolonization”, which was used by one group of SJWs in reference to science. Decolonizing science, one South African woman said, would require throwing away the scientific method, and relying on literal witchcraft. But here in America, the more traditional way of expressing it is to remove “systemic racism, sexism, homophobia, and transphobia” from science. This includes such things as not referring to your newborn baby as a boy or a girl, but some kind of gender-neutral designation. One article refers to this as “misgendering starts at birth.” Then we have the instance where a little girl dresses up in traditional Japanese garb, and an SJW has to insert his, her, or it-self into the conversation and claim cultural appropriation. A Japanese individual puts the SJW in its place by saying “the only reason you have a problem with this is because that little girl is white and you know it is acceptable on tumblr to crap all over white people.” Good show, sir.


Who comes up with these shitty slogans, anyway?

But the subject of today’s fisk has gone over a much deeper deep end, so to speak. He rants about how whiteness is always toxic. Observe:

One of the sturdiest myths of whiteness is that it’s only toxic when it’s tangibly destructive to bodies of color. In the experience of this white writer, as soon as the topics of race or Black Lives Matter come up in white spaces, tones of defensiveness bloom in the room. There’s a ubiquity of declarations beginning “But—” and we all scurry to enumerate for one another all the examples that might prove how we ourselves are not actually racist.

Translation: it is unacceptable to defend yourself against charges of racism. You are not allowed to prove your innocence because there is no innocent white man. Being white is de facto proof of racism. It is the original sin of Toxic Whiteness, a concept stolen from Christianity and warped into a tool to beat people over the head with in order to steal their lunch money. Said author is the sucker losing his lunch money to this idiocy.

I’m tired of it. Some of us have been working on behalf of the Movement for Black Life every day for 23 months and still can locate vestiges of our racism. I need to stop and check my language and reactions so often that I feel like my life has been made with crude stop motion technology.

At times, I almost pity these SJWs. Can you imagine living your life the way he describes it? A stop-motion of constant worrying and stressing that something you do may be called racism by someone, somewhere. These people cannot eat food without worrying about cultural appropriation, or open their mouths without stressing that someone will be offended by their words. They can’t think, talk, act, or do anything except “check their privilege.” It must be a miserable existence. My pity is withheld only because this misery is entirely self-imposed.

Just because you assure yourself and your friends that you’ve never insulted or aggressed a person of color, doesn’t mean your whiteness isn’t still toxic. It’s not “good” that you’ve never harmed a person of color; it’s an entry-level prerequisite of human life.

An “entry-level prerequisite of human life” is to have never harmed a person of color (a fuzzy definition that has, at times, included white women like Anita Sarkeesian, because it’s politically convenient)? So a bare minimum of human life is to have never insulted someone who isn’t white. Think on that for a moment. That’s the author’s view here. God forbid you ever flicked off a bad driver who happened to be black, you are not not even accounted as human. Yes, that sounds overly literal, but it’s important to point out here. SJWs believe that if you aren’t in political agreement with them, you are inhuman, and having been suitably dehumanized, it is now permissible for them to do whatever they want to you.

Our focus now must be on what we are explicitly doing to detoxify our whiteness. Voting Democrat means nothing. Holding open a door for a person of color means nothing. Listening to Billie Holiday or Chance the Rapper: you should stop feeling permission to do so until you’ve committed yourself to a form of living that is overtly pro-Black. The list goes on.

And the list has been going on for a few hundred years now.

What follows is an appeal to my white peers, as well as to myself.

So if you want to listen to rap music (I don’t, by the way), you must ask for permission, and live in an overtly pro-Black manner. Otherwise, you are not allowed to listen to the music. Is this starting to sound utterly insane yet? This isn’t a case of being respectful of other people, it’s a case of explicitly living your life as a slave. At least the slaves in the antebellum world were not volunteers for the institution. One imagines that they were quite unwilling. But today’s SJW slaves are willingly embracing chains as self-imposed punishment for crimes they didn’t even commit. “Massa,” says the SJW, “can I listen to rap music if I slap myself in the face, kick myself in the nuts, and apologize for thousands of years of bullshit I didn’t do?”

What follows is a series of specific cases the author cites to prove that racism is real, and white people suck. He cites 5 or 6 of them, and then assumes this proves all whites are racist, and toxic, and need to be decolonized or whatever.

You know that when a Black athlete raises a fist or takes a knee rather than put his hand over his heart during the performance of the most infamous piece of jingoist doggerel in the world, he’s going to receive death threats and much scorn for the rest of his life. Jot down a tally of the minutes you’ve spent not just in defending a Black athlete’s right to refuse the anthem, but, more critically, in explaining to your white peers why it’s necessary for all of us to reject that anthem.

So the national anthem is a piece of “infamous jingoistic doggerel”. Why is this man still living in America? Why doesn’t he move to Somalia where there are more black people he might enslave himself for, and where they do not have such anthems, mainly because they don’t have a functioning country — but hey, let’s not be overly picky here, right? If you don’t like America, then leave. That goes for self-hating white people as much as it goes for black people who think America sucks and the cops are all out to kill them.

You know what I’d do if I sincerely thought the cops were all out to kill me here? I’d get on a fucking boat and leave. Nobody does that because nobody really believes any of this shit, least of all the people protesting it.

You know some of your neighbors grab a phone or jump on Facebook when a Black man travels down the sidewalk in your majority-white neighborhood. Count on your fingers how many times you’ve reached out to that neighbor to ask them to check this reaction. Count the times you’ve admitted to yourself you sometimes have this gut reaction to Black life (because you’re a white person who grew up in America).

Well, considering the crime stats in this country, if you see a black man dressed in gangbanger style, it’s entirely rational to grab your phone, or grab your purse, or call neighborhood watch, or whatever. Of course, this goes for white kids who dress that way too, but point being the author is telling white people to tell other white people that responding rationally to a situation is racism.

Investigate your checkbook register. Tally how much of your surplus cash you’ve shared with a person of color who’s struggling financially. If it’s less than $100 dollars for fiscal year 2016, you’ve got a long road ahead of you. If it’s $0, what the fuck is your problem?

The author is centering his entire life around “persons of color”. Everything, again, is about serving them. What about his own family, friends and relations? My money goes first to help my own family. I have a wife, and a son, and a brother, etc… My priority is helping them. Only if they are doing okay do I even think about spending my money on folks I don’t know. But the author says that if you haven’t given money to random “persons of color” then you’re an evil bad person.

But what about the multitude of less-obvious ways we remain carriers of toxic whiteness? What about continuing to patronize local establishments like the Tap Room, after we learn that some Black friends, after speaking up because one of their credit cards had been lost by staff at that bar, get the cops called on them by the white owner because she didn’t like their tone of voice?

The author cites a random anecdotal incident for which we have no other information, and then says we should all hate a particular establishment without any sort real description of what even happened.

What about continuing to passively tolerate, as university professors, the fact that our departments have zero Black or Brown faculty? And what about the rationales we quickly haul out when confronted with this fact?

I don’t know where this guy works, but I’ve seen plenty of “Black or Brown” faculty at universities. Now, affirmative action means some of them probably shouldn’t be there. But still…

What about the fact that we send our white kids to schools in “better” districts?

I will send my son to the best school I can afford for him — which may very well be homeschool, by the way. He sure as hell won’t be going to public school. But what kind of asshole prioritizes random kids of color, or whatever, over his own children? This is a slave talking, folks, a fucking slave, who feels he has to go up to people of color, or whatever PC term is favored today, and ask “massa, can I listen to rap? Massa, can I send my kid to a good school? Massa, here’s all my money. No, massa, I never disrespect YOU.”

What about the fact that this Mac is brand-new and this white male body will probably never be violated, but my Black friend has no personal computer at the moment, and every single time she walks down the sidewalk, she’s aware that at any moment someone in a truck may say something disgusting to her? What defenses do we need to muster to not be obsessed with this disparity?

Your “black friend” has no personal computer, and you have a Mac. Well, mister slave, why don’t you go to her and say “mistress, here’s my computer”? And then you say that someone in a truck might say something disgusting to her? You have spewed disgusting lies all over your own site, shithead, and you are worried that someone in a truck might someday say something she finds offensive?

I’ll tell you what my “defense” is against this “disparity.” I don’t give a rat’s ass. It’s categorically not my problem. I have my own problems to worry about, like SJWs trying to ruin my business because they don’t like my politics, or the United States possibly electing a felonious liar to high office (yes, I’m talking about Hillary. Trump is no rose in the garden either, but fuck anything looks nice next to Hillary. I’d vote for a steaming pile of horseshit over her.).

Look. I don’t want the government instituting racial policies against her citizens of any kind. No Jim Crow. No affirmative action. No forced segregation. No force desegregation. Leave it alone. If that makes me a racist, then fuck it all, I’m a racist. Francis over at Liberty’s Torch, said as much when he was equally exasperated with this blatant bullshit. I guess they will just call you a racist no matter what you do. After all, this guy who has dedicated himself and his entire existence to “persons of color” still thinks he is, himself, a racist.

What about the domestic effects of this schizoid daily existence wherein we have a moral obligation to despise this construct called whiteness, yet go on trying to love our “white” selves? How are we raising our children to understand that in America, white skin is a weapon they will need to spend the rest of their lives unloading?

Read that again, folks. White skin is, according to this man, a weapon that they must dedicate their lives to unloading. I wonder what gangbangers in Chicago are blowing each other away with these days? 9mms? Saturday Night Special .22s? I guess they missed the memo. All you need to do is flash some white skin and BLAM! Everybody dies. Why, a whole naked white person must be like a nuclear bomb. That would explain my reaction to Lena Dunham: one view of that shit, and I legitimately do want to slit my wrists and pray to God that a Sweet Meteor of Death wipes out all human life.

This man hates himself. He probably cries himself to sleep because he feels his skin is the wrong color. But don’t worry, SJW, you can be like Shaun King and declare yourself to be blacker than Snoop. Transracialism will be the next big thing.

Are you continuing to feed your kids the fiction that the profession of policing is a respectable one? And if you are, do you understand the conflict produced inside your child’s developing psyche when tomorrow afternoon she learns that, yet again, another Black unarmed woman or man has been killed by a cop?

So nobody’s kids should be cops. Okay. So basically nobody should be a cop, right? I’m sure that will make the ghetto one lovely suburban paradise. I mean, I was thinking the wrong things all this time. All we needed to do was get rid of the cops, and snap our fingers, and suddenly every crack house would turn into a mansion. Good idea. Don’t see how I missed it.

Is pulling a trigger once, lethally, any worse than pulling it subtly a bunch of times every day? If I haven’t yet offered my love and labor to the movement for Black Lives, can I prove I’m any better than Darren Wilson?

Don’t even know what to say to this, except that it’s weapons grade stupidity.

Why is it some of us encounter the phrase “Keep Ypsi Black” and feel offended?

For the same reason that you lose your shit whenever regular folks (not all of them white, mind you) try to keep Section 8 out of their neighborhoods.

Why do we think, even for a moment, we should offer any sort of opinion about Black Life to our Black friends?

Because I am a Free Man, not a Slave like you. I will offer my opinions to whomever I choose. If a friend doesn’t like it, he’s free to no longer be my friend. That’s Freedom, for you. You can select your own friends. Imagine that? Does a slave like you get his “friends” (read: masters) appointed for him?

In spite of any ameliorative steps we feel we’ve already taken, and in opposition to any notion of our having already been immunized, there are only two treatments for toxic whiteness:

1) We shut the fuck up and move back to Europe, the U.K., or Scandinavia.

2) We step up.

There is no move between these two, yet most of us go on believing we’ve discovered one.

Funny thing is, if Europe wasn’t even more insane in this regard, I might have moved there already. I was lamenting this earlier. If you’re a freedom-minded anti-Communist, it used to be that America was your last bastion, your place of retreat. Cuban exiles, Soviet defectors, South Vietnamese, etc… they all came to escape the hellish tyrannies that had genuinely oppressed them. But now there is nowhere left for folks like me.

We cannot go to Europe, and in any event many of them think us boorish colonial oppressors anyway. So you have given us the option of “stepping up” which, essentially, means voluntary enslavement where every opinion must be blessed by your masters, where your labor must be given to them, where you cannot have fun or listen to music without their consent, where you cannot even talk to them about anything other than those subjects which they have given you permission for. Speak only when spoken to.

You are giving the remaining freedom-minded peoples, concentrated here in America, the choice of extinction, exile, or slavery. You are backing a rabid animal against a wall.

I suspect you will not like where this is leading you. But I don’t care. I have sympathy for those slaves who suffered in America at one time. If any were alive today, I would offer them pity and succor, for they deserved it. They truly suffered. But you have embraced your chains willingly. I have no pity for you, and were you to turn up destitute on my doorstep, I’d feed my dog an extra helping before even considering tossing the crumbs to you.

Self Censorship and the Road to Tyranny

Francis posted something very thoughtful today. The story he links to I’ve read before, and I also recall a Twilight Zone episode that was similar (I’m not sure if they were explicitly related, or if it was coincidence). But it goes back to a subject that’s been on my mind for a very long time and for which, like Francis, I could write volumes on if I had the time.

We are forbidden to say certain things, or even to hold certain opinions and beliefs. And it’s difficult to even know what the prohibitions are, for they are not written down anywhere. There is no legal document to which we may turn to discover if our opinions are prohibited. Indeed, what was permissible yesterday may be banned tomorrow. Everything is potentially offensive. Every thought a potential thoughtcrime.

The one thing Orwell got wrong in 1984 was that he thought totalitarian dystopia would look like Hell, that an outside observer could clearly define it as such. It doesn’t. The Evil Empire doesn’t look overtly evil to the observer. It doesn’t have an evil flag, an evil symbol, and evil Big Brother symbolism in plain view. We are conditioned to think of evil as a caricature, like the Empire in Star Wars. Black costumes, despotic overlords, and the religious worship of hatred and darkness. Evil would self-report as evil, in other words. A tyrant would call himself lord of the universe, or something equally silly. That’s what our entertainment tells us, often enough, anyway.

Tyrants figured out some time ago that it was more effective to cloak evil in the costume of good. To wrap tyranny in velvet. To give totalitarianism a righteous, virtuous face and claim that it is doing great good. Nobody thought evil could be nice, and still be evil. And so the people were fooled for awhile.

Today, I doubt most people are fooled, but they are still controlled whether they know it or not. One thing I’ve discovered when talking to friends and relatives is that our opinions and beliefs are remarkably similar in private settings, where we are relatively certain Big Brother is not listening, and thus prohibited in our speech by what we might call polite society. Oh, there are the usual disagreements between people who are different, but nothing explicitly banned. No taboos or proscriptions on what we may or may not discuss.

John Derbyshire once referred to “the talk” and was deprived of a job because of it. He spoke publicly of a prohibited topic that is often discussed by people in private settings, and suffered the punishment.

Donald Trump caught flak in public for having said raunchy things about women. Yet all men know that most of us talk that way on occasion when we are sure Big Brother is not around. Trump’s sin, then, wasn’t saying things that any man might say per se, but in Big Brother catching him in the act. Whatever you may think of him as a candidate (and his flaws are legion), this particular “offense” was nothing more than an Orwellian thoughtcrime punished by a complicit media establishment.

What, you thought Big Brother didn’t exist just because there are no billboards proclaiming him?

The enforcement apparatus is not so blatantly obvious as in Orwell’s book, but it is there nonetheless. There are cameras in every phone, cameras on the street corners, microphones and surveillance equipment everywhere. Trump spoke on a “hot mic”, but that is a trick often used by journalists. “Oops, we accidentally left the mic on and it so happened to record this thoughtcrime…” And remember, everything said on the Internet is forever. SJW enforcers have used my own words on the Internet against me.

Beyond the physical surveillance state, we have the Social Justice enforcers, on constant lookout for perceived violations. If none are discovered, new ones may be invented. SJWs will infiltrate various groups, and then take up policing duties within them. You must be rigorous in vetting people to whom you may talk freely. And even then, SJWs may find ways to insert themselves into your gatherings, or private groups. Even though you may know them for what they are, their presence means you must follow the prohibitions. Your thoughtcrimes are stymied before they can begin, and they are thus not allowed to spread. There may even come a time where they offer rewards to friends who turn in their compatriots for thoughtcrimes. A “hot mic” might find its way into your living room conversations.

Big Brother is everywhere, and we must be increasingly on guard for his presence. This sort of censorship is fast becoming internalized in people. The fear of violating the taboos grows so great that there is a temptation to dispense with the thoughtcrime before it even fully materializes in your mind.

Did you think this was an accident? That it was your own sense of morality that created it? No, no. It is no accident.

I don’t know what to do about it. The tyrants have a strong lockdown on us now. But so many Americans, even conservative Americans, are blissfully unaware of the iron fist, because it is wrapped in hopey-changey, love-and-peace velvet. Though, I am seeing signs that many are waking up and becoming aware of it. Still, evil has never worn a more effective disguise. Big Brother is hidden behind the clothing of equality, niceness, and inoffensiveness. But he is still Big Brother.

The Enduring Myth of Christian Hatred of Science

This morning a friend of mine posted this meme:14572205_1115435998535388_8310086060108755839_n


This is the enduring fallacy of our age. Christianity has a myriad of problems (not the ones the media commonly tars it with, however), and the hostility between certain branches of it and modern anti-theist scientists is well documented today. But historically it was very different.

When the Roman Empire began to fall apart with the Germanic invasions of the 5th century, the Roman economy took a hit. Cities were damaged, farms were looted or destroyed, and economic collapse happened in the West. In the 7th century, the arrival of the Arabs did even greater damage to the economy of both the Eastern and Western halves of the old Roman world. Trade stopped, because the Mediterranean Sea, long a secure trade route for Rome, became rife with pirates, first the Vandals, and then the Arabs.

Literacy dropped like a rock. Look at old Roman cities. Graffiti was everywhere, a sign that even the lower classes had some level of education. Whereas after the Germanic and Arabic invasions, even Charlemagne could barely read and write well enough to sign his own name. Even Kings were often illiterate (they had more important things to do — like killing people to preserve what was left of their countries). The lower classes were lucky if they could grow enough food to survive.

The Dark Ages were so called because of the economic collapse, not because of religious doctrine. In fact, the Church was one of the sole surviving remnants of literate Western culture in those days. Classical works were preserved and copied faithfully by Christian Byzantine scholars (it’s worth noting that the Muslim Arabs looted their copies of the classics from the Byzantines, so much for the supposed Islamic golden age). Natural sciences were held in high esteem in Western monasteries, where such luminaries as Thomas Aquinas practiced their philosophical and scientific inquiries.

There was little economic capital to spare, and so science advanced far more slowly in those days, but it DID advance, specifically in areas such as metallurgy and farming implements. Rome’s more primitive metallurigal knowledge is probably one of the reasons the industrial revolution did not happen in that period, despite overall Roman engineering prowess.

Now, the Renaissance came, with old Byzantine knowledge flooding Western Europe. The combination of the rediscovery of those works, and the nascent university and library system evolving out of the monasteries, caused scientific advancement to pick up the pace again. The Church funded much of this activity directly — it didn’t burn scientists at the stake or anything, it paid them!

This proceeded all the way into Galileo’s time where he received most of his funding from the Pope’s office. Indeed, Galileo fell afoul of the Church because he deliberately insulted his patron in one of his publications, not because he believed Copernicus and heliocentric theory (remember, it was a theory at the time — the prevailing scientific view was not heliocentric, and only later would Galileo effectively prove it to his fellow scientists). Even with all that, Galileo was not burned at the stake or anything, but he was put under house arrest and deprived of his former patron’s money. I often ask anti-theists to give me the name of one scientist burned at the stake by the church. I’ve yet be provided with even one example. Yet the myth endures, nonetheless.

However, this is when you start seeing the first glimmerings of the Church and the Scientific Community parting ways. Contrary to common belief today, it was not so much a matter of religious doctrine as it was of politics. Christianity was splintering into various factions, and it wouldn’t do to be a paid agent of the Catholics in, say, a country full of Protestants. And so the primacy of doctrine over more practical matters became established. It was a way to differentiate the Catholics from the Anglicans and the Lutherans, and so on and so forth. The notion of a centralized Catholic Church funding everything died in the Reformation and Counter-Reformation.

Even still, most scientists were Christians even after all that, but funding from the Church began to dry up, and was replaced by private secular concerns and universities, which often still had some theological connections, even then.

The split has grown wider in recent years, and now there is hostility between many scientists and many Christians, but it wasn’t like this until recently, and wiping Christianity from history wouldn’t mean we’d be any further along today than we already are. Indeed, it may have the opposite effect, for during the so-called Dark Ages, if the Church hadn’t preserved what it could of the past… who would have done it? We might have had to start over from much less.

SJWs: Deconstructing Everything Until Nothing Remains

One of the amusing things I’ve noticed about Social Justice is that they frequently accuse regular folks of cultural appropriation and sort of skimming the surface of other cultures, picking and choosing what we want and dispensing with the rest. And yet, they engage in this very same behavior themselves. Observe: Atheist pastor sparks debate by irritating the church into the 21st century.

An Atheist is leading a Christian church, and she admits freely that she is picking and choosing the things that she wants, and dispensing with the rest:

Vosper was ordained in 1993, during which she was asked if she believed in God, Father, Son and Holy Spirit. She said yes, speaking metaphorically.

Some eight years later, vexed by the archaic language, imagery and stories of the Bible, she delivered an off-the-cuff sermon in which she deconstructed the idea of God. “Our hymns and our prayers and the way that we did things, they all reinforced this idea of a supernatural divine being who intervened in human affairs,” she says. “I just took it apart – I was not willing to continue to let (my congregation) think that I believed in that kind of God.”

She deconstructs God in a Christian church, then eliminates all of the symbols of the religion in her own domain, covering up the cross in rainbow streamers, getting rid of the Bible, and delivering sermons bereft of any reference to God or Christ. She retains the outward forms, borrowing the format and appearance of a Christian church, and Christian culture but has stripped it of any meaning whatsoever.

Some time ago, SJWs complained that white yoga practitioners do this, that they have appropriated the outward forms of another culture’s belief system and stripped it of all meaning. But we may at least say of most yoga practitioners in America that they do not claim to be representatives of Indian religious practice, and do not practice their art in Indian temples, under their auspices. They just do their weird physical activities and call it a day.

But no, the SJW is not only practicing a form of blatant hypocrisy, they demand official recognition for their work, and demand that Christians accommodate and submit to them.

What followed was years of Vosper and her congregation retooling the service at West Hill. References to God and Jesus became talk of love and compassion and prayer was replaced with community sharing time. The removal of the Lord’s Prayer in 2008 proved to be a critical test, sending attendance plunging from 120 people to 40 and leaving the church’s financial strength in tatters. “The Lord’s Prayer was the last thing in the service that still held them to previous generations of church,” says Vosper. “So it became the lightning rod for all of that loss.”

Throughout this time Vosper couched her strong beliefs in linguistic gymnastics, describing herself as a non-theist and, later, a theological non-realist. In 2013, moved by the case of Bangladeshi bloggers facing persecution over their reportedly atheist views, Vosper began calling herself an atheist. “I felt it was an act of solidarity,” she says, likening it to the use of the word feminist to in the 1970s. “If I shelter myself by not using that term, that’s unfair to everyone who is being maligned by the use of that term.”

Why does she insist on being accounted a minister? Why does she practice this… whatever it is she’s doing… in a Christian church? She could go out and preach her feminist linguistic gymnastics, and declare herself a theological non-realist and non-theist someplace else. But no, she insists on doing that in a Christian framework.

The decision to carry out the review upsets many at West Hill. “It’s disgusting,” says Wendy Hyland. Her husband, Jim Hyland, calls it hypocritical, given that the congregation is one of the few in the area that has managed to buck the wider trend of declining attendance. “West Hill is the future of what religion will be like,” says the 65-year-old, highlighting its metaphorical interpretation of religious symbols and emphasis on environmental and social justice. “We’re thinking and saying what the rest of the world is scared to, but moving towards.”

First off, this article contradicts itself. Earlier on, we are informed that attendance dropped from 120 to 40. And yet we are now told that it “bucks the wider trend of declining attendance.” What a load. But aside from that, look at how this is being twisted. The “future of what religion will be like” is explicitly categorized as Social Justice.

There you have it in black and white, folks. Social Justice is, indeed, a religion. But like the Xenomorphs in the Alien movie series, this foul, corrupted parasitical belief system gestates in a Christian church, and then eventually kills the host in its birthing. Indeed, it’s instructive to view all Social Justice activity this way. They come into an organization and attach themselves to it, nourishing themselves and eventually killing the host, birthing an aggressive, evil and horrendous mockery of the original organization from the dying remains.


This is what Gretta Vosper really looks like, underneath the skin. This is how SJWs propagate their ideology, hijacking a host and destroying it in their own birthing.

Why would any Christian church willingly countenance such a parasitical evil to develop within it?

The Toronto conference of the United church responded to the concerns last year, saying it would carry out a review to determine whether Vosper was being faithful to her ordination vows and whether she could stay on as minister. “There are very strong opinions from those who support Ms Vosper, and from those who reject her statements absolutely,” said the Rev David Allen of the Toronto conference.

This shouldn’t even be a discussion. Expel her immediately. She is not a Christian. Now, it may be perfectly permissible for a non-Christian to sit in the pews. Indeed, we desire this, how else can we reach others? But it should never be permissible for a non-Christian to lead a church. It’s so blatantly obvious, so utterly common sense, that I cannot even fathom how this is a debate topic.

May a non-Jew lead a Jewish congregation? May a non-Muslim lead a Muslim congregation? Would a pagan church allow a Christian to lead it? Why then for the love of Christ (and I do not make this invocation lightly) does anyone think it is okay for an avowed Atheist to lead a Christian church?

The sheer level of idiocy approaches comical proportions. And while the notion may very well be hilarious in a gallows humor fashion, the ultimate result is pure evil, because countenancing this can lead to only one result: the destruction of the church itself.

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