Sinterklaas bleeding, but not dead

I. Sinterklaas & politics
I wrote about Sinterklaas in 2015 and 2016.

Originally I was going to title this ‘Sinterklaas dead, but no dancing on the grave’ but after observing current events I have become more hopeful.

It turns out that most Dutchies like Sinterklaas and Black Piet (pronounced Peet, plural Peeters). In fact, many are distraught by the sudden assassination of Sinterklaas. Change has come quick indeed: 5 years no one gave the colour of Peeters a second thought, except, surprise surprise, the international community attending Dutch liberal arts & social science universities.

It has now become clear that the change came in 2014 when a United Nations tentacle called The Working Group of Experts on People of African Descent decreed that Sinterklaas and his blackface Peeters were racist and evil. Promptly the media, professors and politicians announced Sinterklaas was evil and suddenly Sinterklaas morphed from a children’s tradition into a politicised fight between adults.

3 years later, what is the damage? The cathedral being the cathedral, it has killed the official Sinterklaas. This is apparent through the Sinterklaas journal on tv, where Sinterklaas is surrounded by weird white men instead of his trusty sidekicks. It is similarly apparent through his official arrival in Dokkum, where it has been made sure that a Peeter close to Sinterklaas is as obviously fake as possible.

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Sinterklaas in the Netherlands, 2017

BUT, a resistance has sprouted. When several buses of Social Justice Warriors from Amsterdam went to Dokkum to ruin everyone’s day, this resistance blocked the highway and forced the SJWs to go back. Locals planned to set up even more barricades. Because of this grassroots resistance, the mayor of Dokkum declared anti-Sinterklaas protests illegal. I’ve also heard that in other towns, during the arrivals of non-offical Sinterklaases, black Peeters were painted more black than usual. Impressive!

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Highway blocked

 

II. Sinterklaas & Children’s rite of passage

 

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Sinterklaas, not in the Netherlands

Though the tradition of Sinterklaas is likely derived from Germanic fertility rites, the original Nicolas of Myra (280 AD) was always known as a patron of children. Sinterklaas has always been a festivity for children — he visits every year with his helpers, the black Peeters, who dance and smile and give candy and presents to good children. Bad children get twigs and salt. How does Sinterklaas separate the good children from the bad? He carries with him a big book in which he keeps note of all the good and bad stuff children have done.

Sinterklaas is a rite of passage for children. Every kid believed Sinterklaas was real at one point until he no longer did and then asked himself how he could ever believe something so obviously fake was real.

Through Sinterklaas kids learn about many things, such as:

  • The difference between good and bad.
  • That there are adults who care about children.
  • How to behave as a wise old man.
  • Assabiyah.
  • And, finally, the happiness low-IQ people have and spread when they follow a wise leader.

This last point especially triggers leftists to no end, thus betraying leftists’ utter contempt for low-IQ people.

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#metoo is societal meltdown

#metoo doesn’t seem to have stopped with Weinstein. It seems those in power have quite some trouble putting this genie back in its bottle.

#metoo is a minor meltdown in elite society, representative of a bigger breakdown in Western society.

Women have attained much power relative to history, yet retain the same insecurities women are wired to retain, insecurities which progressive culture only exacerbates. Dating culture is hell. City life is harsh and lonely. Working hours are long. Anti-depressants have mediocre effects. Stress, anxiety, frustration builds up until it finds a vent in the form of a nuclear shit-test. ‘Why are we so unhappy? We were raped by [all men]!’ 

Progressivism made this attack possible yet has no defence against it. Hence, leftism eating itself.

The question is raised whether shitlords should be happy or scared with these developments. One the one hand I could not give a crap about Hollywood celebrities, cesspool of degeneracy they know they are. Boomers loved Kevin Spacey movies, let them swallow this black pill. One the other hand it is pretty clear that Every man now stands to be accused of rape for looking wrongly at a woman.

After thinking it over, I am happy with these developments. Male sexuality has already been pathologized some years ago (hence the rise of the manosphere). The only change is that men that traditionally were exceptions to the rule (e.g. the Weinsteins) now no longer are. To see my enemies turn one each other; this is only a good thing.

In case you were wondering, yes, the craze has caught on in the Netherlands. Take for instance the curious case of journalist/writer Jelle Brandt Corstius. During his stint as regular guest on a talkshow, Corstius accused an unknown man in the Dutchywood business of drugging him 15 years ago and forcing him to perform oral sex. It was only when this man tried to anally rape him that ‘a survival instinct took over’ and Corstius escaped. That unknown man turned out to be Gijs van Dam, a producer, who, with his lawyer, appeared on a consequent talkshow. There van Dam says that, yes, sex did happen, but it was consensual between two drunk men. He was 25, Corstius was 24, they were both young talented sexy men. According to van Dam It was a one time thing and after they went separate ways he didn’t think of it again. Until now of course, since Corstius brought it up on national tv. (Spicy detail: Corstius has a wife.)

The case will now go to court — van Dam sued Corstius for defamation of character, Corstius sued van Dam for rape.

Popular opinion on this is mixed but leaning towards van Dam. I say Corstius lies and his physiognomy shows it. But let’s see what our non-Dutch readers think! 2 pics, 1 is Jelle Brandt Corstius and one is Gijs van Dam. Which is which?

Part VI – An unexpected turn

The sun had risen by the time the Land Rover rolled into Single street, Bromley. Green hedges and mansions adorned the sides of the road. ‘This is it’ said Perv and he pointed to an Aristocratic-looking white house. They parked in front of the house. Jack stayed in the car as look-outs, the others walked up to the gate. Perv pressed the intercom button and a distinctly British voice answered: ‘Yes?
– ‘Nigel, Perv here. Did you get my DM?’
Nigel? Barron thought, it couldn’t be..?
‘Ah, yes’ the voice answered. ‘Come in.’ The gate opened and the men entered. They rang the doorbell and the 3-meter high oak door was opened by no other than Nigel Farage. Perv put his hands on Nigel’s shoulders and said it was good to see him. Nigel averted his gaze. ‘I wish it was under different circumstances’, he said. Perv nodded. ‘So do I, my friend.’ Barron shook hands with Nigel. They had met before in the Golden Palace, but for some reason Nigel was a lot less friendly now. He looked like a man under a lot of stress. Barron shot a glance at Perv, who apparently noticed the same thing.
‘Uh, come on in’ Nigel mumbled, ‘I’ll make you some tea and we can, uh, talk things over.’

They followed Nigel into his living room, which was furnished with Persian carpets, red leather sofas and old, hand-made oak furniture. Sides of the room were decorated with blue velvet curtains. Nigel shifted around nervously, fluffing up pillows and adjusting the coffee table. ‘Yes sit down, I’ll make you some tea…’
Perv stepped forward. ‘Nigel. Is something wrong?’
‘NOTHING is wrong mr Pervert’ came a voice from behind the curtain. Out stepped a dark-skinned man with a gun in his hands. ‘Sadiqh Khan!’ cried Perv.
‘I am glad you still follow the media’ Khan said. He turned to Barron. ‘Ah the young Trump. I apologize for the mediocre welcoming committee earlier, perhaps now we can make amends.’ He snapped his fingers and from behind the curtains several butch women with short blue hair stepped forward. On their upper arm they wore thick bands with on them a rainbow symbol intercrossed with an Islamic moon. One of the blue-haired woman was holding a gun to another woman’s head, whom Barron recognized as Nigel’s wife.
‘How did you know we were here!?’ Barron asked.
– ‘Let’s just say I have… Sources. You see, we are everywhere. We have all the momentum. Your hateful, racist and misogynistic ways, your… ‘white supremacy’’ Khan spit out these words ‘is at an end. WE are the future!’
‘You won’t get away with this’ said Perv.
Khan grinned. ‘Oh but I already have. You see, with the death of a prominent presidential family member’ he waved his gun at Barron ‘at the hands of extreme right-wing terrorists, I have no choice but to declare martial law and rise above the petty limitation of democracy. And perhaps you hadn’t noticed, but back in America president Trump is not feeling to well and soon enough my friends will have to intervene to… Save America. Yes, things are looking pretty good I’d say.’
Barron was dumbstruck. Perv gnashed his teeth and started to raise his fist, a response met by Sadiq pointing his gun towards mrs Farage. ‘Ah ah ah, mr Pervert. One wrong move and Mrs Farage will meet a most unfortunate fate.’
‘The British people will rise up against you!’ cried Farage. Immediately, Khan hit Nigel’s cheek with the back of his gun. Nigel fell to the ground, blood spatters hitting the carpet. ‘Dorothy, Molly!’ Khan snapped his fingers.
2 rainbow soldiers grabbed Nigel’s arms and brought him up on his knees.
‘You know Nigel, I’ve been looking forward to this for such a long time. You have been such a pain in the ass, you know that? You know how much work it will be to permanently end Brexit?’ He punched Farage in the stomach, who bent over double in pain. ‘Not that it will matter. You people had your chance a long time ago, back when London still belonged to you.’ But you gave it all away with barely a fight. The West is ours now. Don’t worry, it’s for the better.’ Another punch. Nigel looked up with a blue eye and fat lip. ‘You’ll never win’ he said. Rage filled Sadiq’s face. As he raised his fist for another punch, Perv extended his arm towards the rainbow soldier keeping mrs Farage hostage. Suddenly a gun appeared in Perv’s hand. He pulled the trigger – the bullet connected with rainbow soldier’s forehead.

Then, many things happened at once.

On 10-year old girls

Every so often you come across a title you instantly like. I’m not sure this is one of them.

Truth follows canon. The canon goes from Jesus to [Enlightenment thinkers] to Nietzsche to Moldbug to Jim. Why Enlightenment thinkers? Because in hindsight their shtick was such an obvious lie that it told a deeper truth: ‘I want power, fuck you.’ Marx repeats this.

If truth is what you are after, have to submit to Jim’s ideas. Not because he is infallible or super-human, just ‘cos he’s right.

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The point that raises most emotions is usually an important point. Jim tells us that 10-year old girls lust for older men and aggressively pursue sex with them, if need by entering their room at night and mounting them in bed. Therefore, need to control 10-year old girls. Jim ‘nuances’ this by adding that not all 10-year olds are sexually aggressive, yet a non-insignificant minority are, and a smaller minority of girls is sexually aggressive at the age of 8.

Needless to say this bounces off the brains for most men. Does not compute. I get this response. But I believe the evidence supports Jim’s position.

Woman’s life revolves around sex, or as she prefers to call it: love. Woman lives life defined by her male counterpart. As Roosh said, she is like water. As Byron said: Man’s love is of man’s life a part; it is a woman’s whole existence. Hence why a woman has trouble figuring out objects: she is apt to shit-test objects like she shit-tests men and is inevitably frustrated when objects don’t respond to her shit-tests. Similarly, why women love cats: cats respond very well to shit-tests, are hardwired to pass them. Similarly, why women dislike dogs, because dogs are low IQ betas that eagerly fall into every trap, though I guess even cunnilingus by a low IQ beta is better than no cunnilingus (C’mon man get to your point).

Young girls obsess over high-status men. Watch an old Justin Bieber concert. How old are the thousands of fangirls, screaming their lungs out, crying ITS HIM, holding up their phone repeating ohmygodohmygodohmygod, fainting? 11? 12? If we have extensive evidence that a young girl’s entire physiology is shaken up by meeting a sufficiently high-status man, is it so hard to imagine that the same young girl might aggressively pursue sex with said man?

No, it is not. In fact it makes it completely obvious as to why males aim to control females: because female sex drive is anti-civilizational. By saying the opposite, that females are chaste and innocent at age 10, fathers are made to give up control of their daughters. And if she is innocent at age 10, why not innocent at age 11, or 12, or 16…? Before you know it females are holy creatures and it is misogenystic to speak out against her coming home with boyfriend #14 (homeless drugsdealer). It is exactly this foot in the door technique that Jim counters by going in the opposite direction: you thought girls are nymphomaniac at age 9? You should see them at age 8!

In a cooperation/cooperation-society men control their women’s sexuality. If women are not controlled, cooperation (by males)/defection (by females) ensues, which eventually leads to defect/defect when men discover only criminal badboys get laid. To get back to cooperation/cooperation, need to reinstate control of daughters and wives. To successfully reinstate control of daughters and wives, need to make it perfectly clear from what age women’s volcanic sexual urges need controlling. Which is probably around age 7, if not earlier.

Part V: a new plan

Barron landed in a tree. With the help of some sturdy branches he reached the ground with relatively few bruises. He opened the flashlight on his smartphone and headed in the direction where Perv landed. Soon enough he found him. Some phone calls back later the team was together again. Huddled in a circle they discussed their options.
‘Steal a plane?
– ‘First place they’ll be looking for us will be nearby airports. Perhaps some distant airport, but that will cost too much time.’
‘Head for the US embassy?’
Hans shook his head. ‘That’ll be the second place they’ll look for us. They’ll stop us before we enter the place and even if we succeed there’s no telling how long they’ll keep us there. We need someone we can trust, someone well-connected.’
The men were silent for a moment.
‘Okay’, Perv sighed. ‘Perhaps I know someone. He’s not exactly low-profile, but he is well-connected and they won’t expect us visiting him. He lives in London. Judging from our position it’ll be a few hours by foot. We’ll see if we can get a car.’
They nodded. Perv turned to Mike. ‘Can you arrange a car?’ ‘Maybe’, came the answer. ‘Has to fit 6 men.’
– ‘Great. Let’s move on before the dogs or whatever are on our tail.’

With as little light as possible they navigated through the woods, avoiding roads. Sometimes they’d stand completely still when they’d hear a sound too close for comfort, as when they heard a helicopter in the distance, but overall the men kept the tempo high.

After an hour Barron was exhausted. They paused near a creek for some rest and water. As Hans, Mike and Jack did some stretching, Barron caught some breath. Perv sat next to him. ‘You holding in there?’
– ‘yeah, I think so.’
‘Good. There’s something I need to talk to you about. The plan was, I escort you all the way to Saudi Arabia, but the plan did not include us being shot down. I don’t know what will happen next. Worst case scenario and I am taken out, you should not be a sitting duck.’
Barron listened intently as Perv continued.
‘Look, there’s three things in the world you need to survive: money, a passport and a phone. Phones you can buy anywhere. As for the other two…’ Perv held out a passport and a wad of money. ‘Here you go.’
Barron took the passport and opened it. In it was his face, but it went with quite a different name: Ashton Bucksley from Oakland, California. ‘I can’t take this!’
– ‘you can and you will. I’ve had strict orders to give it to you in case of an emergency. Take the money as well. Better to use cash only from here on. It’s a hundred 50 euro bills.  Should be more than enough to get you to Saudi Arabia and back.’
Barron sighed. ‘Let’s just hope it doesn’t get to that.’
Perv agreed. Barron let himself fall backwards and gazed up to the stars. Something about the sound of rippling water gave Barron a serene feeling, even if the circumstances were far from that.
‘Perv?’
– ‘hm?’
‘I’ve been wondering to ask you. Why do you do it?’
– ‘Do what?’
‘This. Helping me out. Are you with some kind of agency?’
Perv laughed. ‘Hell no. I am a free man. And as a free man, I enjoy the finer things of life. Finer things which are, quite unfortunately, under attack. So I must fight.’
– ‘You don’t have to.’
‘Of course I do! For thousands of years men have fought! It is a most noble and virtuous pursuit. Besides, I am needed.’
– ‘By whom?’
‘Well right now by you. But others as well. We must unite and cooperate, but many are stubborn. Through superior aesthetics, I will help teach our people submission, then cooperation, then victory! Do you understand?’
– ‘…I think I do.’
‘Good.’ Perv smiled. ‘Now if you’ll excuse me, it is handsome Thursday. I have some business to take care off.’ And with that he turned to his phone.

The men continued their journey. After another hour the forests made way for meadows. They passed some farms. When Mike spotted an exposed car near one of them, he signaled the others to wait in a ditch next to a road. 20 minutes later a dark green Land Rover stopped on the road next to them. Mike opened the front door: ‘you guys need a lift?’ The men chuckled silently. Barron was very impressed, but as he got in he had to ask whether they could return the car later on. Mike raised his eyebrows. ‘If the situation permits it, sure.’

He put down his foot on the gas pedal and they sped towards Perv’s connection in South-East London.

Poor Eminem

I recently caught Eminem’s freestyle rap against Trump. I felt bad for Eminem.

I listened to his old albums quite a few times (from Slim Shady LP up to Encore). I liked them. Too be honest he never had the best beats. In fact there’s this signature Eminem-beat, it’s a sort of staccato rhythm that vaguely reminds me of hardcore music, which is surprisingly popular in the right Dutch subcultures but revealing of lack of taste in music. Too aggressive, too unimaginative. For me at least.

But as a rapper Eminem was one of the greatest, even if rap is the most overrated genre in the modern music game. He had good flow, was good with words, didn’t shy away from rapping about fucked-up shit that just made you laugh. And at his peak he was Big. Eminem got as close to being a rap god as you can imagine.

But of course, in the end, he is still a white boy in a black neighborhood. Prior to being famous he had a shitty life. Then Dre came along and Eminem blew up. Saved by the black man. What an interesting fate. Leftists may say this, rightists may say that, but Eminem thanks his entire fortune to an industry dominated by blacks embracing him into their midst. So it is no wonder he now stands with them. He simply feels more loyalty towards the music business’ diverse ethnicity than to the ‘plight of the white man’ (a problem shared by Dutch white hip-hop artists whose Dunbar make-up makes it impossible for them to think Diversity+Proximity=War thoughts).

Yes, Eminem is vapidly virtue signaling, but really, who cares? The failed campaigning by Beyonce, Jay-Z and Katy Perry for Hillary Clinton taught us that artists’ impact on politics is quite small. Fans don’t change political opinions for stars.

I suspect that most of Eminem’s original fans, angry young white males, dislike this freestyle anyway. I know I do. He looks like an old man with a midlife crisis. Listening to a creative rapper with something interesting to tell was fun, listening to this self-righteous useful idiot, not so much.

At any rate, when J.K. Rowling came out as a frothing-at-the-mouth Social Justice Warrior, I felt scammed for ever having read Harry Potter. I don’t have so much hate towards Eminem. He had a good run while it lasted. R.I.P.

More secrets about women

A valued reader took slight issue with a previous post on women. ‘You focus too much on the penetration part!’ went the accusation. Well, no and yes.

No, because love is war and penetration is male victory. As Nick Krauser said: in seduction, once she lets you penetrate her, you have won. The power dynamic flips; before penetration the woman has the upper hand, after penetration the male has it. This is why the salesmen Always-Be-Closing-script translates so well to seduction: once you penetrate, you self-congratulate!

Saying the same in different words: men are built for war and war requires penetration of borders, be they territorial or vaginal. That this is a horribly politically incorrect thing to say in our #metoo-world does not make it any less true.

Yes, because expansion is only one half of the male experience. The other part is territorial guarding. Once we conquer our territory, we cherish it and similarly we cherish our woman. A woman wants to feel your penetrative power, but equally she wants to feel you care for her, that she is special and that you will protect her. Hence woman’s love for never-ending foreplay, which for women might as well be called mainplay. Rape is a very common female fantasy, but I’d say the most common female fantasy is a high-status man who loves her so much he’d die for her.

Walking the balance between these 2 sides of the coin is what Aubrey Andelin calls Man of Steel and Velvet (h/t Nick Krauser). Because the Western system thoroughly hates men of steel I focus more on that part, but my valued reader is correct: both steel and velvet should be in balance.


On a related note:

The role of women is submission and nurturing. Women do not consciously work on their role like men because women lack agency; a woman is not aware she wants to be submissive until she has been enthralled by a male who demands her submission. She is also often not aware she wants children until she has them; the idea of children might actually scare her but this is only because women are bad with ideas. Once she gives birth, feminine instincts turn on and suddenly the world revolves around her children.

Now, the nurturing of children can only be accomplished in a safe environment that encourages her and affirms her role as mother. So the nurturing instinct of women is the inverse of the velvet instinct of men – the two complement each other.

BUT, we have established that women will crawl 9 miles over broken glass to have sex with demon lovers. Women don’t do well on their own. They are like the children they raise. And their attachment to their children is just as emotional as children are. So left on their own, women are apt to fetishize their children, to make little Gods of their children. This is where the submissive role of women comes into play. As women play in the sand with their kids, they need men to set the boundaries of the sandbox. Hence the need for the steel instinct of men which complements with the submissive instinct of women.

A healthy family is always the same: father –> mother –> child. But in a feminized society the mother wears the pants and the mother’s instinct is to place the child above all else, so the pyramid is inverted: child –> mother –> father. This is dysfunctional, and the solution for a father who finds himself in such a position is to lift weights, raise testosteron and read what knowledgeable fathers like Rollo Tomassi and Dalrock have to say on the subject.

Part IV: Under Attack

’20 minutes until checkpoint landing, please finish your whey and fasten your seatbelts.’

 Barron woke up to the metallic sound of Hans, the pilot, on the intercom. He yawned and peeked through the plane window. It was dark outside, but down below Barron saw land illuminated by hundreds of specks of light. They must already be in England. So far so good.

5 minutes later Perv came out of the cockpit and asked Barron to come with him. Something came up. As Barron entered the cockpit he saw Hans conversing with a voice crackling through the radio. ‘…Repeat, runway is damaged. Please confirm change flight course to six three zero Elstree Airfield.
– ‘Flight course six three zero Elstree airfield confirmed’ Hans answered. He looked nervous and when the radio switched off he immediately turned to Perv. ‘This is bad news. They say it’s a runway fire. Could be true, but it smells bad.’
‘I agree’ said Perv. ‘Smells like a trap.’
– ‘Maybe I can find some alternate landing spot. No way Elstree is safe.’
Hans grabbed a black address book. He leafed through it and pointed at a scribbled address. ‘Here. It’s more of a farm than an airport, but they’ll have fuel and I can…’
Before Hans could finish his sentence an alarm in the cockpit went off. Recognizing the sound, Hans looked at the radar. A dot was rapidly approaching their position. Hans turned white. ‘shit shit shit it’s a missile. The motherfuckers are actually shooting at us!’
‘What?’ Barron exclaimed. ‘But that’s an act of war!’
‘Maybe, but that doesn’t change a thing for us. At least this is not the first time I’ve had to evade a missile.’ Hans took the steering wheel and pushed it forward. The plane made a nosedive and started picking up speed. Through the front windows Barron could see the missile approaching in the distance. On the radar a second dot appeared, not far behind the first. Hans murmured: ‘two missiles huh? Oh man…’ Sweat dripped off his forehead as he steered the plane in a straight line towards the first missile.
‘Just a little bit further… Just a little bit further…’ The missile came closer and closer and Barron for the first time felt that dreadful fear of dying. Suddenly, Hans jerked the wheel to the left. The plane made a sharp turn, so sharp that Barron had to hold on to his chair as to not fall on the left wall of the plane. The missile passed straight underneath the cockpit, under the wings and passed the plane.
‘YEAH’, Perv shouted, but Hans was too occupied with missile number 2, which was now visible through the window. He stabilized the plane as fast as possible and made another nosedive, pushing his entire body on the steering wheel.
‘C’mon baby, go faster…’  Hans pushed the wheel so hard it seems to almost break. The missile was now less than 100 meters in front of them. Hans made the same turn and the plane jerked to the left. The second missile flew right passed the cockpit but a second later they heard a loud bang and everything shook. A voice shouted from the back: ‘the left wing is hit!’ Barron looked out and saw the tip of the wing was blown off. The jet engine was burning. Hans frantically tried to stabilize the plane but it was clear they were losing altitude. ‘Status report’ Perv demanded.
-‘Unsalvagable. We will crash. I might pull off an emergency landing.’
‘Too risky. We will jump, rendez-vous and head for our connection in London.’
-‘Yes sir.’ Hans switched on the intercom. ‘Gents, you may have noticed we have taken a slight hit. The Bombardier can not be saved, we can. Parachutes will be provided. Stand by.’ 
Perv handed Barron a parachute. ‘Put this on. Have you ever used one of these?’
Barron shaked his head. ‘Yeah that’s what I thought. I’ll keep it simple: pull this rope when the ground is getting too close for comfort. Don’t touch anything else. Understand?’ Barron nodded.

In the back Perv’s men stood by calmly as the shaking of the plane threw around cutlery and shards of ceramic plates. They put on the parachutes as Perv opened the emergency door and yelled: ‘We rendez-vous below! If you lose track of the team, call me! Good luck men!’
And with that the 6 men jumped out of the plane. Barron went 5th, followed by Perv. The plane quickly became a small spot and Barron was engulfed with darkness and wind. He was barely processing all that was happening, but the sudden turn of events gave him an adrenaline rush he had never experienced before. He had never seen the other parachutists so clear, never heard the rush of the wind so clear, never knew so clearly what to do. When he could distinguish leaves on the trees below he pulled the rope and the parachute opened. As he glided downwards, he saw a big explosion in the distance, where plane was heading to.

New Dutch Government: par for the course

TLDR; the Dutch government continues to function at relatively high level and continues its downward progressive spiral like the obedient American/European Union province it is.

Right after the 2017 Dutch election I had a short convo with John Rivers on Gab who, after listening to a Dutch drunk guy thought all hope was lost:

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Turns out I was right. It was a close shave though: at first the VVD cuckservatives turned to the Greenlefts as a coalition partner! Luckily the mainstream Christians turn out to have some balls after all and the talks with the Greens crashed on immigration. So now instead of an openly leftist coalition we have Kukke III: the closeted cuck coalition. Like George W. Bush won a third term.

The 60-page coalition agreement summary reads worse than a bachelor student’s thesis, but from what I gather the following points are included:
– Taxes on products will go up (6% to 9%)
– Healthcare premiums will go up
– More EU
– Mandatory visit of Dutch art & learning of national anthem for high school students

That last point of course is the kind of consolation prize aboriginals receive from their new conquerors: ‘no no no of course your culture is still important. Here’s a complimentary museum ticket.’ Ah well, at least the Greens are not in the coalition. Alf’s overall judgment of the new Dutch coalition: it’s the party cartel all right, but not the worst part of the party cartel. Par for the course.

edit: 1/3rd of the minister positions will be filled with women. Go figure.

The Orb of Covfefe part III: Liftoff

Barron tried to maintain a sense of location, but when Perv stopped the car all he knew was that they were somewhere on the Virginian countryside. They had arrived at a tiny airport with a small entry hall, control tower and 2 private jets.
‘the left one will be our ride, your majesty,’ Perv said with a wink. ‘A Bombardier Global 20k, state of the art.’
– ‘Whose jet is this?’ Barron asked.
Perv shook his head. ‘Like I said, can’t tell you. Let’s just say he’s an, *ahem*, enlightened billionaire who wants to play it very carefully. Anyway, let’s go meet my team.’
– ‘Your team…?’ But Perv was already walking ahead.

They entered the hall. 4 men, one in pilot’s attire, where waiting for them. The first thing that struck Barron as he shook their hands was that they all looked as if they were chiseled out of marble. He jokingly said: ‘you all look like you walked off the cover of Men’s Health.’
Perv laughed. ‘Well, Hans here has indeed featured on that particular cover. But that is a side job. Their main task, besides ushering in a new aesthetic for Western man, is to fight the ZOG. You will find them to be well-trained and highly capable.’
Barron was as confused as he was impressed.

The plane lifted off within the hour. Once comfortably seated in the spacious chair, Barron took the time aboard to unload his curiosity.
‘Why are people trying to kill my dad?’ he asked Perv.
– ‘Why is water wet? Your dad has a lot of powerful enemies. I think they are very scared that your father will crown himself God-Emperor of America.
‘God-emperor?’ Barron blinked.
– ‘Yes. Kind of like when Napoleon crowned himself emperor of France. I don’t think your father originally intended to do so, but after the Texas- and California-hacking scandals of 2020, a lot of people lost faith in democracy, and I think your dad was one of them.’
‘So they are scared my father will stop them.’
– ‘Well either your dad stops them or they will stop your dad. And so far, your dad has done a pretty good job. He built the flying golden palace, he built the wall… So it’s not too surprised that they’ve decided to play dirty.’
‘They shouldn’t be able to poison him.’
– ‘You’re right. There is a security leak at very high level. It is bad news.’
Bannon didn’t like to think about the implications. He changed the subject.

‘What is the Orb of Covfefe?’ he asked.
– ‘Afraid I don’t know much about it’, Perv said. ‘From what I hear it has some kind of healing power. Supposedly the Muslim prophet Mohammed used it to conquer Arabia. Later, Genghis Khan tried to take it but died before he succeeded. And now it is in the hands of king Salman, head of the royal Saud family.’
‘Bannon told me the Sauds are very protective of the Orb. How will I convince them to lend it to me?’
– ‘I dunno kid. I guess Bannon thinks you can somehow pull it off. Try asking nicely?’
Barron laughed but frowned immediately after. He’d have to think it over. First they actually had to get there.
‘Are we flying to Saudi Arabia in a straight line?’ he asked.
– ‘Sort of. We need to make a brief stop in England to refuel.’
‘I thought England was on the brink of civil war?’
– ‘I didn’t say I like it. But we have no choice. Don’t worry, the refueling point is as safe as we can get.’

Bannon said nothing, but stared out of the window. So this was the plan. A dangerous stop, followed by an audience with a king who had very little reason to trust him. Asking a girl out for a date seemed easier. How could he obtain the Orb? Maybe fear of a world war would persuade the king? Perhaps he could convince the king that, as Bannon claimed, the Jews were behind it? Muslims didn’t like Jews, right? Perhaps he could even steal the Orb? As Bannon went over all the possibilities in his mind, his eyes closed and he finally caught some sleep.