Trump v Twitter

Trump Public Interest

If you've been paying attention to American politics over the past four years, a couple of observations are inescapable. The first is that Trump is more showman than politician. He likes throwing grenades and then barging into the room to leverage the chaos. This approach usually involves a lot of big, blustery talk that later gets walked back or forgotten.

The second observation is that the people who run the Death Cult establishment aren't all that bright.

Over the past few days, a confluence of these two factors has brought the longstanding tech censorship crisis to a head. It all started when Trump won the 2016 election despite Silicon Valley's best efforts. Big Tech has spent the past four years mowing down counterculture accounts like wheat.

The small-souled bugmen in San Francisco and Seattle may not be as smart as they think, but they do understand social media's crucial role in Trump's 2016 victory. If their respective actions are any indication, they understand it better than him.

Hence why Trump has been monitoring the situation for a year, during which many of the people who got him elected have been banished from the internet. For all intents and purposes, it looked like Big Tech would be allowed to continue meddling with the 2020 election and get away with it. All the bugmen had to do was run out the clock.

That's when one social media firm's Death Cult fanaticism got the better of them. As it happened, the first tech firm to crack was also the worst possible one to wig out from the enemy's perspective. Trump's penchant for Twitter is universally known. He practically governs the country through it. Jack Dorsey has resisted the urge to mess with Trump's account because he knows it might actually bestir the President to act.

Then, on Tuesday, Twitter attached a fact check disclaimer to one of Trump's tweets about mail-in ballots. Trump responded with characteristic bombast, threatening to heavily regulate Big Social or shut them down.

That was music to many on the Right who live under constant threat of tech exile. Many tempered their hopes with reminders of the rather large discrepancy between promises and delivery on Trump's part.

Dissidents' hopes rose again when the White House confirmed that the President would be signing an executive order to combat tech censorship. Dissidents were once again cautiously optimistic.

And this time, their optimism paid off. Last night, Trump did indeed sign an executive order cracking down on Big Tech censorship.

There's no question this is a big win for right-wingers persecuted on social media. However, it's important to keep expectations in line with reality. The President is the chief executive, not a one-man legislature, so his power to intervene here is limited.

That said, Trump's order hits a lot of the right notes. He specifically mentions Section 230 of the 1996 Communications Decency Act. That's the provision that limits social networks' liability for content posted on their sites. Without Section 230, Twitter, Facebook, and Instagram would be open to legal action for spreading libel and abetting crimes, just like television networks and newspaper publishers.

While Trump can't strip Big Tech's Section 230 protections himself, his EO does call on the DOJ to draft legislation that would significantly narrow them. Such a bill would have to make it through Congress, though, which is unlikely under current circumstances.

In the meantime, Trump has ordered Executive Branch agencies to reconsider their business dealings with Big Social, including cutting back on ad spending and asking the FTC slap Twitter and its ilk with regulatory action for politically motivated censorship.

An industry not run by raving fanatics would take an order like that as a sharp warning to clean up their act. But since this is the Death Cult's in-house inquisition we're talking about, they responded like this:

Mister Anti-bully Jack retweeted

That's Twitter CEO Jack Dorsey retweeting the warning placed on Trump's tweet about the Minneapolis riots. That goes beyond doubling down to strapping on a suicide vest.

Trump fired back first thing this morning:

Trump Twitter regulated

Perhaps the President's vanity will prevail where his supporters' pleas failed. At the very least, we're in for a good show.

Having felt the sting of Twitter's censorship myself, I know the daunting odds facing counterculture artists trying to make a living from their art. We couldn't do it without the support of stalwart readers like you. Back Combat Frame XSeed: S now!

Combat Frame XSeed: S - Brian Niemeier


High Strangeness Hits Home

Night Woods

An unexpected but welcome development arising from my high strangeness posts has been the occasional reader who writes me to share his own tale of the unexplained. Audience participation is a major benefit of blogging, and it's fun to hear from my readers.

Recently though, these posts took an unsettling turn as the high strangeness hit close to home. The following comes from someone with whom I'm quite close. Shared with permission.
As you know, I've followed your blog since the beginning. Your high strangeness posts have been some of my all time favorites, which is ironic in hindsight, since I only just realized I've been living in one for a couple of years now.
That's why I'm writing this now. I didn't notice everything that was snowballing this whole time until something I couldn't ignore happened the other night and put it all in perspective.
Anyway, enough beating around the bush. I'll just get right into it. You know I moved into my current place back in November. I'm still a night owl, and I've kept up my habit of taking walks at night. So your readers know, this neighborhood is pretty densely wooded, but it's near the edge of a decent-sized city. My street is pretty secluded even though it's right off a major thoroughfare. In short, it's great for long private walks without fear of getting lost away from civilization or falling victim to street crime. Perfect, right?
Except I soon found out it's not so perfect. Not two weeks after I moved in, I was strolling down the shady residential street that leads off the main road to my neighborhood. I saw a stocky guy with a buzz cut standing in the open gate to his backyard fence. He watched me approach, and, when I got closer, marched up to me and shined a high-power flashlight right in my face. Then, like the bad cop in some cheesy crime movie, he demanded to know if I was the one who kicked his dog's head in.
A little background. This guy's dog is a German Shepherd--a big one! It's mean and territorial, barking loudly at anyone who gets too close to the owner's yard--which, by the way, is fortified like something out of I Am Legend. The guy's got a high wooden fence with a big chainlink kennel for the dog near the house, and he leaves a high-powered floodlight on all night every night.
Anyway, I truthfully told him that not only did I not cave his dog's head in, I would never even think of doing something so despicable, since I'm a lifelong dog-lover. He told me I'd better not have and stormed off back to his yard.
I remember feeling mostly annoyed and indignant at the time, but a part of me briefly wondered who could have seriously injured such a big, vicious guard dog--and to hear the owner tell it, unarmed at that. But I put the thought aside and went on my way, making sure to change my walking route to avoid that house for a while. I felt a bit uneasy for a time, but I didn't see anything out of the ordinary.
The incident was soon forgotten as relations with my next door neighbors demanded more of my attention. The lady of the house seemed generally uneasy about something. One time her boyfriend came over to borrow some tools because they were sure someone had bugged their house. The girlfriend must think I'm patrolling the block at night instead of taking leisure walks, because one night she called me over for a chat as I was passing in front of her place. One thing she said that stuck out to me then and sends chills down my spine now was that I "must be tired of the weirdness going on around here."
It might be nothing, but my neighbors have a bright white porch light that they turn on every night at sunset and leave on until after dawn. There's also a motion-activated floodlight in their front yard.They also have a dog that they let roam around the neighborhood. One night a couple years ago, he got spooked and ran off into the woods (Our neighborhood is right on the edge of a heavily wooded city park). They searched all night but couldn't find him. He finally came back on his own hours later, panting heavily and soaked in his own pee.
Like I said, I didn't really connect any of this - until a couple of nights ago when I was returning from a walk. It was after midnight, and I was walking down the same side street the German Shepherd owner's fortified compound is on. The last street light is at a fork in the road, and it has an annoying habit of winking out just as I get to it. The other night, it did it again, right after I became aware of an unusual smell. I'd never smelled anything quite like it. Think of burning hair with an undercurrent of sulfur, and you've got a rough idea. Only there was no texture of smoke on the air. It was an earthy, somehow warm odor.
When I set foot in the fork in the road, I felt suddenly scared for no visible reason. I slowed down and tried to creep along as if I was a kid trying to sneak a midnight snack without waking my parents. My footsteps seemed ridiculously loud. It had rained recently, and despite myself, I kept stepping in puddles in the dark. The splash of my feet in the puddles may as well have been boulders dropping into them.
Then another noise made me forget all about my loud feet. I was on the left fork. The right fork continued onto a more secluded, upscale street that ran alongside a steep ravine. The noise I heard was something taking off through the woods probably thirty yards to my right and crashing through that ravine. I heard dry leaves and underbrush thrashing and branches--if not whole saplings--snapping. Whatever was booking it out of there, it was big--at least the size of a large dog.
Yes, we have deer in the area. I've seen--and disturbed--herds of them lots of times. Once or twice, I've seen and heard them flee into that same ravine. They're nowhere near as loud as whatever made that racket the other night. And you don't hear them as long. This thing's exit remained audible for several seconds as opposed to a moment or two for the deer.
I scoped out the ravine on Google maps. It cuts through the park all the way to the river at the base of the hills. It would be mighty convenient for something traveling the river to move inland through those ravines without being seen.
That's it so far. Sorry if it was anticlimactic.
Oh, I leave my front and back outdoor lights on from dusk 'til dawn, now, too.

For early access to fictional thrills and chills, back Combat Frame XSeed: S now!

Combat Frame XSeed: S - Brian Niemeier


Combat Frame XSeed: S Is Now Funding

Combat Frame XSeed: S - Brian Niemeier

The most highly anticipated crowdfunding campaign of 2020 is here! Now is your chance to get early access to book 1 in a bold new series of the XSeed saga: Combat Frame XSeed: S!

An unstoppable scourge lays siege to Earth 

Can humanity survive a world-destroying force that has never known defeat?

The Ynzu Siege nears its third bloody decade. Battered to the breaking point, the United Commonwealth-Protectorate recalls its combat frame carrier fleet for a last stand at Earth.

Lt. Dex Trapper must battle for his life when the Ynzu strike his remote extrasolar colony. Cut off from the UCP, Dex and his CF tech Thatch make a desperate break for help in a century-old XSeed.

If you thought the first XSeed series was ambitious, you ain't seen nothin' yet. The CY 40 arc introduced the CFXS universe. The S arc will expand the saga to interstellar scale!

Check out the all-new Combat Frame XSeed: S book trailer, courtesy of VideoAnon:

Starting a new series within the CFXS universe wasn't a project I undertook lightly. Not only did a story of the scope I wanted to tell require expanding the narrative framework, to do it justice I had to up my game across the board. That meant a new tone, renewed dedication to my craft, and a fresh aesthetic.

If the first XSeed series was Mobile Suit Gundam meets Tom Clancy, XSeed: S is Macross meets Warhammer 40K.

This is the story I've been working up to for years, and now you can reserve a front row seat. The book crowdfunder is live on Indiegogo, where you can reserve a pre-launch digital copy and choose from an ever-expanding selection of tantalizing perks.

To kick the proceedings off with a bang, not only do all perk tiers include a digital copy of XSeed: S, but the entire original CFXS eBook series as well!

But that's just sweetener for the awesome perks we've got lined up, including the chance to be in the book, be killed in the book, and of course, build your own mech!

Platypus tested, platypus approved!
If our prior successful campaigns are any indication, the limited-quantity perks will go fast, so claim yours now!

UPDATE: We're already past 30% funded as of press time. Big thanks to our amazing backers! Let's get this project 100% funded today and unlock the first stretch goal--an IGG exclusive short story that will bridge the CY-era and the S-era. The short will be for all backers, and backers only, so head over to IGG and back the book now!

XSeed: S 31%

UPDATE 2: I crashed after working on the campaign all night. When I woke up, we were 148% funded. Combat Frame XSeed: S hit its initial goal within twelve hours--a new record!

Thanks to everyone who's backed the project thus far. Our first stretch goal is now unlocked! You guys are gonna like this one. When we reach 200% funding, every backer will be guaranteed a new short story bridging the CY 40 and S eras.

I've got lots more exciting perks and stretch goals planned as the campaign marches on. So get in the game, back the project, and unlock those new goodies!

Combat Frame XSeed: S 148


Society Is Not a Social Construct


Regular readers of this blog know I've devoted a significant number of posts to exposing the faults inherent in Liberalism. That's not merely to say the political shorthand employed by the Generals to mock the Globetrotters. It refers to the broad category of Liberal political philosophy of which Conservatism itself is a subset.

The fatal flaw of Liberalism--aside from its failure to secure long-term material prosperity, never mind maintain the West's social cohesion--is that it's based on the false notion that freedom is an absolute good to be pursued for its own sake.

What gives the game away is that any appeal to freedom is susceptible to the question, "Freedom to do what?" Absent an objective good toward which it's directed, the concept of freedom is without content. The value of a given freedom entirely depends on the inherent value of the goods you can get with it.

Freedom detached from any grounding in the good has no limiting principle. That's the slippery slope the West has slid down from yeoman farmers defending private property to pink-haired witches demanding that everyone pretend they're female ungulates. If freedom is absolute, then any boundaries placed on individual self-expression--even the truth--must be a tyrannical imposition.

That's why the real opponents of Liberalism aren't Conservatives, but what author David Stewart has termed Optimates--men who primarily seek the common good. The Optimate response to wacko Liberal demands isn't, "How does this promote freedom?" It's, "How does this advance the common good and help people cultivate virtue?"

Inevitably, when this question is asked on social media, sufferers of a mutant strain of Liberalism will come out of the woodwork to utter predictable knee-jerk objections. The most common names for this disorder are Classical Liberalism and Libertarianism, but they both boil down to selfishness masquerading as a political philosophy.

A reliable way to set your watch is to make an argument for the common good and wait till a Libertarian shows up to disqualify the whole concept on the basis that different people define the common good differently.

Anyone who outgrew the Gen X coffee house hipster phase will immediately recognize this objection as an appeal to moral relativism, and a self-defeating one, at that. The whole point of politics is to decide how best to order society for the common good. By declaring their ignorance of what constitutes the common good, Libertarians admit that their political philosophy has no idea how to achieve the common end of all political philosophies. They forfeit the match before they even take the field.

Next, the Libertarian will try to handwave his way out of the corner he painted himself into by pointing out that a lot of evil has been done in the name of the common good. This is an even more glaring self-contradiction, since evil can't by definition be good. In effect, this argument is another appeal to ignorance bundled with a straw man that tries to conflate pursuit of the good with evils committed under the false flag of the good. It's the defining Libertarian category error of equating abuse with legitimate use.

To throw a wrench in the gears, simply point out the evils enabled by gun ownership.

As a last ditch defense, the Libertarian will try to define away any distinction between Liberalism and the Optimate position by redefining the common good as the cumulative result of each individual pursuing his own self-interest. Rather than resolving the Libertarian's problems, this argument only multiplies them.

First and foremost, this tactic is simply dishonest. It pretends that the Libertarian and the Optimate differ only on matters of semantics, not substance. That claim is ridiculous on its face, since one side bases its whole worldview on the premise that individual freedom is absolute, and the other insists that freedom is contingent upon the good. Attempting to equate the two just demonstrates the Libertarian's inability to critically examine his a priori assumptions.

Related to the preceding, the claimed equivalence is just plain false. When an Optimate argues for the common good, he doesn't mean the aggregate good of each individual in the society under discussion. The Libertarian views society as an epiphenomenon of individuals pursuing their own self-interest, that is, as a social construct. In contrast, the Optimate recognizes that society is not a social construct. He knows that families, neighborhoods, and nations are real things with their own purposes and destinies above and beyond those of their individual constituents.

Another fundamental difference between Liberals of all stripes and Optimates is that the latter rightly acknowledges the basic unit of society as the family, not the individual. Just as no amount of free electrons can form an atom, no number of individuals acting for their own exclusive ends can form a society.

This where the Libertarian will jump up and accuse the Optimate of wanting to impose tyranny on the individual by coercing him into subordinating his will to the whims of the mob. But that's another straw man--one that hinges on a false binary.

The Optimate affirms both that the common good is more than aggregate enlightened self-interest and that it is fully compatible with the individual's good. He squares this circle by rejecting the Liberal conceit that each individual lives solely for himself. Instead, the Optimate affirms that each man's life is naturally ordered toward the good of others. Unlike the Liberal, the Optimate can define the good and consistently assert that the individual good at least partly consists of serving the common good.

Think of a sports team. The New York Yankees are a ball club--a small but real society composed of individual players, coaches, and support personnel. Yankees society is directed toward achieving a particular common good--victory in baseball games. The individual players engage in activities such as practice, exercise, and dieting which advance each man's particular good while helping the club attain the common good of winning games. There's no contradiction between the two.

That's why Liberalism can't produce the conditions required for human flourishing in the long run. The Clown World we currently live in is the direct result of that inevitable failure.

To break through the societal dead end we've run into, we'll need a political force capable of shifting the paradigm away from the figment of absolute freedom and toward the reality of the common good.

You can make a small but significant start by withholding money from those who hate you and supporting people who are committed to your good.

Don't Give Money to People Who Hate You - Brian Niemeier
Read it now!


The High 90s

A raging debate between members of Generation Y and the Millennials revolves around this question: Which decade was superior--the 1980s or the 1990s?

As with the prevailing generational models themselves, cultural eras defy easy sorting into neat and tidy boxes. What we tend to think of as 1960s culture, for instance, didn't really gain steam until 1968 and lasted into the early 70s.

With this in mind, I set out to map the contours of the post-malaise, morning in America high pop culture that gives so many of us nostalgia pangs.

And because this was the time when visual media triumphed, I'll present my findings in pictures.

First up, the Early 80s

Early 80s

The period from roughly 1980-1983 introduced several new IPs and technologies that would shake up pop culture for decades. Video arcades, pulp-influenced movies, and pop rock all rose to prominence. But these nascent cultural touchstones were still in their infancy. Holdover fashions, attitudes, and aesthetics from the Carter era still exerted great influence.

The Mid-80s


What we think of as the 80s vibe came into its own in the years from 1984-1986. The launch of the Nintendo Entertainment System resurrected the video game industry from the crash of 83 and set home consoles on track to overtake arcades. On, TV, the aftershocks of the Rural Purge subsided, clearing the field for a new generation of family-centered sitcoms. The pulp adventure film revival started by George Lucas hit its stride under guys like Spielberg and Zemeckis. In music, the final death of punk opened the floodgates for hair metal and synths-for-the-sake-of-synths dance music.

The High 80s

The High 80s

Looking back at the 80s, you get the strong impression of an era when new art forms and genres gradually worked out what they wanted to be. There was a clear upward curve evident across all popular media as the explosion phase led to higher degrees of refinement.

The span of years from 1987-1989 yielded the decade's definitive fruit. The Sega Genesis heralded the 16-bit console generation, giving kids an arcade-quality play experience at home. The wholesome but rather twee sitcoms of just a few years before were eclipsed by edgier, more topical fare.

Yes, I realize that "edgy" is a tainted term nowadays. But the context is America ca. 1989, before all comedians became cowards. It was still possible for comedy to have genuine edge and hit controversial subjects hard from both sides. It's hard to conceive of now, but the gay rights agenda that was the first shot in the now-ubiquitous social justice offensive, hadn't yet taken off.

Meanwhile, in music, some bands were starting to figure out what synthesizers were for.

The Early 90s

Early 90s

1990-1992 was when the cracks really started to show in the convention of categorizing cultural eras by decade. Just as late 70s aesthetics persisted into the early 1980s, High 80s culture still dominated the early 90s--much to the latter's benefit.

In video games, consoles continued their triumphal march. The 16-bit generation began its meteoric rise from the introduction phase toward the explosion phase that would mark the next era. Even the 8-bit consoles enjoyed a memorable swan song as veteran developers who'd mastered the last-generation hardware squeezed impressive performance out of the old systems.

On TV, gritty and edgy programming took the next step into weird and quirky. This trend represented a mini-explosion phase that's still reverberating today.

Hollywood assumed its canary in the cultural coalmine role as the retro-pulp adventure genre began to falter. The first strains of creeping wokeness sowed confusion that resulted in a mixed bag of revisionist blockbusters that don't hold up and anomalous flops that are now hailed as underrated gems. Of course, Canon Films saved the era with their rapid-release action schlock masterworks.

Music, too, was rent by the conflict between conflicting visions. On the corporate side, record labels collectively decided to let popular but expensive hair bands' contracts lapse and dredge the gutter for new, exploitable talent. Opposing the gray-brown grunge flood stood new bands with fresh sounds and established acts who successfully reinvented themselves. Rock reached a crossroads, and given the choice between continuing to develop authentically in harmony with its roots or cynically mashing up punk and metal, it took the easy way leading to inevitable death.

But that wouldn't come until after the brief renaissance of ...

The High 90s

The High 90s

Millennials who argue for the 1990s as the best decade almost always have the period from 1993-1996 in mind. It's no wonder, because during that time pop culture saw one of those dramatic resurgences that are as brief as they are rare.

The expectation instilled in gamers that each new release would surpass the last reached its climax. 2D gaming attained perfection. Science fiction retook television by storm with landmark installments of classic franchises and newcomers that punched above their weight. A crime genre revival treated audiences to smart, slickly produced movies that still hold up. In music, rock & roll made a valiant last stand before Auto-Tune and Cakewalk delivered the coup de grace.

Past experience led everyone to expect that things would only get better, but the mid-90s turned out to be the decade's high point. What followed can only be called ...

The Low 90s

Low 90s

Further argument beyond this picture would constitute beating a dead horse, but this is one horse I can't get enough of beating.

With cultural ground zero hitting in 1997, the high culture that had begun in the 80s came to an abrupt and ignominious end. The triumph of 3D turned video gaming into a digital wasteland of interactive movies rendered in jaggy polygons. Television became insufferably feminized. Hollywood plunged headlong into the IP milking phase. With the grunge gravy train long since run out, the record labels inflicted nu-Metal upon our unsuspecting ears out of spite.

Video games, TV, movies, music, and fashion have all been stuck in a hip-hop-scored celebritard loop ever since. The only difference between 1998 and 2020 is that all the zombie IPs have been overtly weaponized against normal people.

What can men do against such reckless hate? Start by not paying people who hate you.

Don't Give Money to People Who Hate You - Brian Niemeier


Combat Frame XSeed: S Preview

Combat Frame XSeed: S

My loyal readers have been waiting patiently for news about my next Combat Frame XSeed book, and patience should be rewarded.

Without further ado, here is a sample chapter from Book 1 in a brand-new XSeed series--Combat Frame XSeed: S.

Cassone Extrasolar Colony, Common Year 98
Second Lieutenant Dex Trapper kept his hazel eyes locked on the shiny vacuum chamber inside the MCF-122’s open port plasma cannon. He held the new part in place with his left hand, stretched his gray-sleeved right arm beyond the forward-swept wing’s edge, and curled his fingers in a beckoning gesture.
Thatch!” he said when his hand remained empty after several seconds.
Dex sucked his teeth in annoyance when his call received no response. He pulled the reflective tube from the cannon and ducked under the wing-mounted gun to confront his idle teammate.
Thatch, get your head out of the clouds!”
Those clouds hung sparsely over a world six hundred light-years from Dex’s home in Western Australia. Senior Airman Thatcher Drummond stood three meters away on the sunlit tarmac, staring at the purple-blue sky. A humid, musky breeze stirred his wavy brown hair.
Dex approached his younger subordinate and waved a hand in front of his face. “Cassone Air Base to Drummond. Do you copy?”
Thatch’s green eyes blinked behind his octagon-frame glasses. A start shook his skinny frame. “Dex! Sorry. I must’ve spaced out.”
Come back down and hand me the 8mm torque wrench.”
Thatch jerked toward the tech cart standing to his left and fumbled with the tools on its graphene-padded top. The wrench Dex needed clanged to the pavement, along with several others.
Sorry,” Thatch said again as he got down on all fours to look for the dropped tools. Dex crouched down and helped him gather them up.
You seem distracted,” Dex said to his awkward but usually capable friend. “Is something bugging you?”
Thatch smiled. “We’re trillions of miles from Earth. Light duty. Good weather. No Ynzu siege. What could bug me out here?”
Dex stood, set the tools on the cart, and threw his long platinum ponytail back over his shoulder. “Let’s close her up and break for lunch.” He swept his arm over the fifteen other gray and blue fighters parked nearby. “Like you said, these Emancipators aren’t flying regular combat missions.”
Thanks,” said Thatch. Kneeling on the tarmac, he looked like a Japanese kid making a formal apology.
Dex and Thatch took a long lunch at a civilian diner off base. Not that they escaped the shadow of the bronze-domed colony ship embedded in the alien ground. The same enormous vessels that brought human settlers to the extrasolar colonies also served as massive worst-case scenario bunkers. Dex had spent all of his eighteen years under the threat of imminent annihilation.
He was almost used to it.
You gonna eat that?” Thatch asked, pointing at the remaining half of Dex’s turkey club.
Dex slid his plastic plate across the mint green fiberboard table. “I’m more interested in what’s eating you.”
Thatch took a greedy bite of the sandwich Dex had found rather dry and leaned close to be heard over the Barak Red tune pulsing from the sound system. “You know those guys from Records who traded me a vintage CCF-017K kit for helping them run inventory?”
Dex rolled his eyes. His friend’s obsession with old combat frames would land him in trouble someday. “Let me guess. You found some more scale CF models down in storage.”
Even better.” Thatch glanced over the customers milling around them to make sure no one was eavesdropping. “The UCAF’s Emancipators aren’t the only XSeeds on Cassone.”
Unlike most of Thatch’s CF geekery, the possibility of secret XSeeds piqued Dex’s interest. “What kind are we talking?” A thrilling prospect entered Dex’s head. “I heard ISBC’s field testing the new Two Series. Did they send us a prototype?”
Thatch shook his head. “Think older. Way older.”
Dex’s brow furrowed. “The Army dumped some decommissioned MCF-RE100’s?”
Older,” Thatch said around another mouthful of sandwich. He swallowed. “We’re talking pre-One Series.”
Weren’t all of those custom units or prototypes?” Dex took a sip of cranberry juice. It tasted like sugar water compared to the deliciously tart product of his family’s farm. I’ve gotta do something about the beverage selection.
According to the colony ship’s manifest,” said Thatch, “it’s an XCD-001.”
Dex coughed on juice gone down the wrong pipe. “Weren’t all three lost a century ago?”
The first three were destroyed in the war,” said Thatch, “but ISBC made two more back in 56 to test XSeed mass production feasibility.”
Why would they ship one all the way out here?”
Thatch shrugged. “It came over with the first colonists. I couldn’t find a reason why. But it’s been gathering dust for twenty-eight years.”
It might as well,” said Dex. “An antique like that isn’t much use.”
The rest of the day passed like most others on Cassone. Dex and Thatch reassembled the plasma cannon and called it a day. Dex had a go at some combat sims—probably the most action he’d see during his tour, hit the showers, and retired to his spartan quarters. Thatch’s XSeed mystery briefly kept him from sleep, but he squelched his wild speculation and drifted off.
Shrill sirens jolted Dex awake. At first he thought them remnants of a fading dream in which he fled from prison down a wet grassy hill. The alarms’ continued wailing alerted him that something really was wrong. A green flash preceding an orange blast that rattled his windows put a name to his dread.
The Ynzu! They’re here!
Dex sprang out of bed. He threw on his flight suit, grabbed his sidearm and helmet, and rushed into the tiled hallway. Other junior officers dashed about in various states of dress, shouting conflicting instructions or simply running for the exits. Dex ran, too—toward the airfield.
Chaos gripped the base. A blunt green transport driving in the opposite direction passed Dex on his way. Several men crowded into the vehicle’s open back urged him to hop on. He ignored them and doubled his pace.
Green lightning and orange-white fireballs lit up the airfield. A headless giant with flared pauldrons, a bulbous torso, and spindly arms ending in wicked pincers stood silhouetted against the inferno. The Ynzu Claviceps strode uncontested down the runway, fragging Emancipators with emerald bolts from the guns between its curved claws.
Dex veered left and ran for one of the few intact XSeeds. He ran alone. Everybody else is heading for the bunker. Riding out the attack underground was probably the smart play, but Dex wasn’t the deepest thinker. He didn’t know exactly what he could do against the Ynzu on his own. He just knew he couldn’t do nothing.
The gray, blue-edged fighter waited a fifty-meter sprint away under a curtain of smoke. The Claviceps rampaged into the distance behind him. I’m gonna make it!
A crane-sized pincer parted the choking black veil. A blood-red point glowed from the headless chest of a second Claviceps. The ground shook under its taloned feet as it advanced.
Or not.
The Ynzu CF glistened like a jade idol overseeing a sacrificial fire. Its left claw pointed down at the Emancipator. At that range, the graviton-shaped plasma bolt would burn through the XSeed and immolate Dex. The UCAF pilot forced himself to look down the barrel that would unleash his death.
No!” cried a familiar trebly voice.
Awful wonder compelled Dex to turn his back on the enemy. Thatch stood five meters behind him, his open hands stretched toward the Ynzu. Firelight flickered in his lenses, hiding his eyes.
What the hell are you doing!?” Dex lunged for Thatch, grabbed the scrawny tech’s olive jacket-clad arm, and ran for the bunker. Seconds later, a burst of green light, a deafening thunderclap, and a hot wind against his back told Dex that the Clav had fired. Thatch screamed. He was lucky he’d survived to scream.
Luck favored them again when another personnel transport turned into their path. Dex helped the mostly civilian passengers pull Thatch aboard before jumping on himself. Only then did he feel the burning in his lungs and the throbbing in his arms. He still clutched his helmet.
The two airmen sat facing each other across the truck’s crowded cabin. The reek of burning oil and fear soured the air. Dex suppressed the insane questions that besieged his mind as the world came apart.
Their ride through purgatory ended at a towering bronze-tinged gate. The colony ship’s entrance resembled a set of aircraft hangar doors, but as thick as the truck was long. Hundreds of colonists teemed around dozens of military and civilian vehicles within the cavern-like loading zone. Most processed deeper inside. Others called out for missing loved ones. Some ambled about, dazed. Recorded messages urged everyone to stay calm and follow the white lines.
The transport stopped when the crush of humanity grew too thick. Dex hopped down from the tailgate and moved to join the slow stampede, but a skinny hand grabbed his arm.
Not that way,” Thatch said. “Those people are walking into a mass grave.”
Dex motioned for his friend to lower his voice. “The bunker’s built to UCP specs. We’ll dig in and wait out the attack.”
Name one ExSol that survived an Ynzu attack,” Thatch said in a harsh whisper.
You got a better plan?” asked Dex, his mouth suddenly dry.
Not so much a plan as possibility. But it beats waiting to die. Come on.”
Dex followed Thatch out of the crowd and through a curving maze of corridors lit by intermittent emergency strips. The winding path ended at the carbyne-steel cage of an old cargo lift. Thatch pressed the lower of two black rubber buttons protruding from a yellow box mounted beside the door. The grilled gate rose with a clatter, and both men entered the cage.
I thought you didn’t want to hide underground,” Dex said as the lift descended into the ship’s gloomy depths.
We’re not hiding,” said Thatch. “The XCD-001 is down here—if the manifest is right.”
Dex raised a white eyebrow. “You don’t know for sure?”
I had to catalogue a thousand other pieces of junk before I could go and see for myself,” said Thatch.
Better late than never,” said Dex.
The car shuddered to a halt. Thatch rocked on his feet as the grilled gate rose. A single room big enough to hold a pre-Collapse aircraft carrier spread out from the lift shaft. Row upon row of shipping containers, crates, and shelves stacked high as office buildings radiated to the domed storehouse’s distant wall. The air smelled like a warehouse store.
Thatch exited the lift at a half-run. Dex strode briskly after him.
We might starve before we find this thing,” the pilot said.
They walked straight for a hundred meters, took a left, and turned right. A blue and white humanoid form stood over them. Its armor still held a glossy sheen. Dex found his gaze drawn to its oddly humanlike amber eyes.
It’s an XSeed.” Dex spoke in a near-whisper. Despite working with Prometheus’ mass-produced descendants every day, he felt unexpected awe in the prototype’s presence.
It’s our way out,” Thatch said with similar reverence.
Tactical reality snapped Dex out of his veneration. “Can a museum piece like this really take on the Ynzu alone?”
It doesn’t have to,” said Thatch. “According to the manifest, this unit has TC/D.”
Mention of the forbidden FTL drive aroused equal hope and fear in Dex. “Using TC/D without authorization from the General Staff is against the law. We’d end up in a penal colony.”
Got a QuaSt comm on you?”
Uh, no.”
It’s a moot point, anyway,” said Thatch. “The Ynzu always jam our QuaSt signals.”
Dex surprised himself by playing the voice of reason. “We should tell the brass about your antique find.”
They already know,” said Thatch. “I wouldn’t have gotten my CCF-017K if I hadn’t submitted my report.”
This is all about you getting to ride in a life-sized model kit.”
A tremor coursed up Dex’s feet. Boxes tumbled from high shelves and thudded to the steel deck.
Guilty,” said Thatch. “But look, if base command was gonna use this XSeed, they’d have done it as soon as the Ynzu took out our Emancipators. Colonel Hutchinson will follow UCP doctrine like always—which means we’re the only hope this colony has.”
Dex looked into the ancient XSeed’s eyes once more. This time they inspired not awe, but resolution. “OK. We take this relic. We fight past the Ynzu, get into space, and use the TC/D to bring back help.”
Sounds easy,” Thatch said with a note of sarcasm.

Nothing easy is worth doing.” Dex put on his helmet and strode toward the XSeed.

The crowdfunding campaign for Combat Frame XSeed: S launches soon on Indiegogo!

Combat Frame XSeed: S - Brian Niemeier

Get ready for the next exciting series in this epic mech saga by reading the first now!

Combat Frame XSeed series - Brian Niemeier
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Death Cult Lexicon

One surprising insight uncovered by yesterday's post on the T-Witch is that some among the counterculture still mistake the Death Cult's ritual cant for normal, if jargon-riddled, English.

A vital aspect of Cult behavior that normal folks must always keep in mind is that all of a Witch's faculties are wholly given over to serving the Cult. That includes the gift of speech, which the Cult perverts from its original purpose of worshiping God to demoralizing and manipulating His children.

Twitch released a statement on the Doe-Man business that many took for an ordinary corporate communication. In reality, it's an encyclical issued by their cultic high priest to encourage the faithful and dismay the infidel.

Here's a sample.

Twitch Encyclical

And here's the English translation for the benefit of folks who are new to this.

Twitch Encyclical 2


Trust & Safety = Death Cult compliance office.

Discussion = Satanic sermon.

Community = Cult congregation.

Healthy = Sickly, brainwashed, and spiritually dead.

Also remember not to pay people who hate you.

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Starts with T and Ends with Witch

Deer Twitch

The gaming scene acquired a rep as the last untaken hill in the culture war. These days it's more like the Death Cult's test market, as each day brings a fresh enormity inflicted by the industry upon its customers.

Today's gamersphere fracas concerns the inauguration of a Safety Advisory Council at the already censorious game streaming site Twitch. Given Twitch's penchant for banning users on the flimsiest pretexts, even for off-site behavior, it stands to reason they'd source their board of censors from the same stagnant pool in the fever swamp where the Cult gets all its shock troops.

But since the point is to humiliate their users, garden-variety degenerates just won't cut it anymore. Twitch's techno-druids were so eager to prove their devotion to the Cult that they've installed a man who not only thinks he's a girl but a doe; a deer--a female deer.
Stephan "Steph" Loehr, who goes by the online aliases of "FerociouslySteph" or variations of "StephOddish," is a trans, ex-competitive gamer from Washington who, despite their horse-face, is also a deer furry/otherkin. While one can derive amusement, or be disturbed, by his behavior as a deer otherkin involving mewling on his stream for hours and spasming as a goblin pokes his head, Stephan is most notable for his extreme views on online conduct which aims to appeal to the most hypersensitive of users. While this ordinarily would lead to bemused dismissal from most, this instead raises concern given Stephan's recent promotion to the head of Twitch's "Safety Advisory Council," a position of power from which he will be able to enforce his bizarre stances, an ability he has been recorded gleefully bragging about in anticipation. Further intrigue arises from the absolutely horrendous reception his promotion and previous behavior sparked, leading to a cataclysm of negative criticism from detractors in opposition and sheer insanity from his supporters doubling down, creating a dumpster fire of unprecedented proportions not seen since about a week ago when that other thing happened.
Gamers were quick to respond with the expected protest videos and nervous jokes.

The outcry has mainly focused on pointing out that the head of Twitch's Safety Council would have been locked up for his safety and others' a generation ago. What most pundits are missing is that choosing the most loathsome overseer imaginable is the whole point. If Twitch added a new policy forcing all streamers to wear clown costumes, it wouldn't be a more obvious humiliation ritual than this.

Many among the YouTube and Twitter crowd are making fun of the bizarre rituals Loehr performs to reinforce his Doe-Man delusion. The significance of a Death Cultist enacting a ritual involving a spirit animal transformation goes over their heads. But that's to be expected of spiritually starved Late Moderns.

The key takeaway from this clown funeral isn't that Twitch has appointed a headcase to police its users. It's that they're employing a witch to preside over the humiliation ritual they're directing against those users.

This is spiritual battle. You don't show up to a sword fight without a sword. You don't fight a holy war without a religion.

Robbing Millennials of a relationship with Jesus Christ is how you get dysphoric deer-men. The Church's conquest of the Death Cult is the only cure.

For actionable advice on how to beat the Death Cult and restore Christendom, read my best selling book!

Don't Give Money to People Who Hate You - Brian Niemeier


Cracks in the Speech Dam?

It's been a year since the Trump administration made waves by announcing a DOJ antitrust investigation of Google.

Folks in the counterculture who've lived under the looming threat of unpersoning since before Trump took office got their hopes up. But like the Wall and the EO ending birthright citizenship, that hope eventually faded. Dissidents nationwide started staking out spots behind the bus station to hand out their photocopied newsletters.

A slight divergence from our course toward the cliff was reported on Thursday. Breitbart scraped an NBC story announcing that Google had rolled back parts of its Death Cult indoctrination program.

The scope of the cutbacks differs depending on who you ask, but it looks like Alphabet's inquisitors have adopted a degree of leniency toward the straight, white, Christian infidels in their midst.

These two stories may be related. Breitbart suggests that the Googlepriests' whiteness dispensation was granted due, in part, to the noise made by ex-employees like James Damore. The popular image of Big Tech firms as invincible megaliths that shrug off lawsuits might be smoke and mirrors after all.

The next day soured Google's fortunes even further, as news broke that the Justice Department and several states plan to file the long-awaited antitrust suits this year.

Here's where more sober-minded dissidents caution people to manage their expectations. Even last year, savvy pundits noted that the whole antitrust case might be a campaign stunt to rally Trump's base for 2020. It's more than a little ironic that the election promises to be close in large part because of Big Tech censorship.

Yet Saturday gave Big Tech no relief, as the Shitposter-in-Chief saw fit to tweet this:

Thank you Michelle 1 - Donald Trump

There's a lot to unpack in that seemingly simple tweet. On the surface level, it appears to confirm Trump's commitment to the antitrust case. More implicitly, we have the President accusing some of the biggest Big Tech firms of crimes. That's nothing to dismiss lightly.

But this tweet's sweetest fruit is also the one that evades easy plucking.

For those who glossed over it, Trump ends his indictment of Big Tech with, "Thank you Michelle!"

Logic dictates that this Michelle of whom the President speaks is involved in the tweet he quoted. Therein lies the rub, because Twitter in its dubious wisdom censored the President's tweet.

A tweet about the antitrust suits the President is slapping Big Tech with.

The Michelle that Trump references is Michelle Malkin, the former Fox News regular who recently raised the back flag in defiance of Conservative Inc.That she herself has since been censored by GOPe outifts like TPUSA and CPAC sweetens their richly earned deserts.

Thank you Michelle 2 - Donald Trump

But Twitter's self-immolation is made all the more satisfying when you account for the likely reason they threw gas in their own burning dumpster.

The Malkin clip Trump quote-tweeted comes from a video published by Nick Fuentes' America First organization.

Watch it here:

Twitter's actions here send a message, and the message is that they're recklessly desperate to keep Trump supporters from hearing AF's message.

In contrast, Twitter is more than happy to let Trump retweet Ben Shapiro and Charlie Kirk.

The reason is simple. Washington Generals starters like Shapiro, Kirk, and Matt Walsh were never-Trumpers before they switched sides after 2016. They're typical of the ConInc Wormtongues working to turn Trump away from his campaign promises and toward Chamber of Commerce bowtie-ism.

Folks like Malkin, Fuentes, and Patrick Casey remain committed to 2016 Trump's message. AF getting Trump back on task is a recurring theme in Big Tech's nightmares.

Now, it's even money that the antitrust suits come to nothing. But Big Tech's panicked reaction to the people urging Trump on proves that the tech giants still fear state power. Using that power against our most dangerous enemy is the right call.

As is not giving our enemies money.

Don't Give Money to People Who Hate You - Brian Niemeier
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Combat Frame Data: XCD-001-4


Technical Data

Model number: XCD-001-4
Code name: XSeed
Classification: energy weapon optimized Sentinel use combat frame
Manufacturer: ISBC
Operator: CDF, UCAF
First deployment: CY 56
Crew: 1 pilot in cockpit in chest
Height: 19 meters
Weight: dry weight 65 metric tons, full weight 75 metric tons
Armor type: "1D" carbyne laminar armor
Powerplant: cold fusion reactor, max output 2866 KW
Propulsion: rocket thrusters: 4x 41,790 kg, 4x 20,910 kg, 2x 12,500kg; top speed 3640 kph; maneuvering thrusters: 20, 180° turn time 0.80 seconds; legs: top ground speed 200 kph
Sensors: radar, thermal, optical array; main binocular cameras mounted in head
Fixed armaments: plasma rifle, power rated at 2.1 MW, magazine-fed, 12 shots per mag, can recharge from internal capacitor; 2x plasma sword, power rated at 0.54 MW, stored in recharge rack on back, hand-carried in use
Optional hand armaments: carbyne shield, mounts to either forearm
Special Equipment: TC/D drive

General Notes

When the Coalition Council approved ISBC's recommendations for mass-producing XSeeds in CY 55, the Commission immediately moved to act on their conclusions. To test the real-world logistics of XSeed mass production, ISBC filed for and received a license to produce a limited run of test units based on Seed Corp's original XCD-001.

Two new XCD-001s were produced--the first in more than half a century. ISBC gleaned vital insights from the production test and shared their findings with other military contractors to optimize production of their own XSeeds. ISBC parlayed the collected data into their own mass production design, the UC Army's MCF-Re124 Refined XSeed Prometheus.

ISBC field trial data show that the two test units, XCD-001-4 and XCD-001-5, exhibited performance consistent with--and thanks to subsequent technological refinements, slightly superior to--the original XSeed Prometheus. Rumors persist that the Commission made other, less conventional modifications to the Prometheus design, but such additions, if they existed, remain classified.

Their intended purpose fulfilled, both test bed units vanished from the historical record. Those few who spared a thought for the antique XSeeds assumed they'd been lost in combat, shipped back to ISBC and dismantled, or mothballed at an obscure UC Army facility.

The XCD-001-5 resurfaced in CY 98 aboard the UCS Sovereign Protector and was issued to UCM Sergeant. Marcus August. Just weeks later, the XCD-001-4 was commandeered from the Casonne extrasolar colony's main bunker by UCAF Second Lieutenant Dex Trapper and Senior Airman Thatch Drummond. Unknown to those involved at the time, the XSeeds' rediscovery would precipitate a series of earth-shattering events.

MS Gundam meets Metal Gear Solid! Buy it now!


How Amazon Cut Your Royalties Under Your Nose

Under Your Nose

Since the dawn of KDP, indie authors have been questing for the newpub holy grail: that magic formula for earning a living on Amazon.

If we rendered KDP in visual terms, it would look like the Valley of the Kings or the Dakota Badlands, with hopeful authors digging away like ants.

All that's really changed over the years is the preferred digging tool. Some scratch away with dental picks. Others use shovels. Lately, better-bankrolled operations have been bringing in backhoes.

In the old days, the first authors to strike it rich on Amazon used impulse buy pricing and social media networking to break out. When KDP Select debuted, the optimal strategy switched to limited-time giveaways in the hope that ranking hard on the free charts would bounce back to the paid list.

That ride ended when Amazon, in their infinite wisdom, nerfed the free-to-paid rank bounceback. Enter the era of rapid-release, mailing list trade-driven neo-pulp. Some prominent folks made a mint off this strategy and declared they'd cracked the code.

But trouble reared its ugly head in paradise again. This time, Amazon nerfed mailing lists, messed with also-boughts, and nixed authors' ability to see if their books had been ghettoized.

Somewhere around this time, Amazon's search feature became near-useless for finding books users wanted. Unscrupulous authors--looking at you, wordsmut peddlers--who deliberately miscategorized their books justly got much of the blame.

Yet all the while another, more serious, problem multiplied right under our noses.

With mailing list trades defanged and organic book discovery reduced to a lottery, groups like 20 Books to 50K came to the rescue. They, too, touted rapid release and a replicable sales strategy based on data science.

They also swore by paid ads--particularly Amazon Marketing Services.

AMS is rather complicated, and bugmen may inquire further of Amazon itself if so inclined. In layman's terms, AMS lets authors place ads for their books which Amazon will show based on keywords chosen by the author. Each keyword is assigned a click bid, which is the price cap in the micro-auctions Amazon's algorithm holds to decide which ad associated with a given keyword it will show the user.

In even shorter terms, AMS manipulates Amazon's search engine, and it costs authors money.

How much money? That depends. Gone are the days of paying a per-word rate for a classified ad. AMS charges you whenever someone clicks on one of your ads. The amount they charge you depends on the click bid you set for that word.

Different AMS gurus preach different click bid sweet spots. The prevailing wisdom is 51 cents. Others insist on 35, or even 25 cents.

That's all academic. The point is that, whatever click bid you set, you'll be charged up to that amount anytime someone clicks your ad.

To keep you from losing your shirt, AMS does let you set a daily spending cap. Those click bids add up fast, though, especially if you heed the word passed down from the marketing whiz kids.

How many keywords to marketing oracles say you need to crush it on KDP?

Are you sitting down? Good.

Because the answer is 75,000 keywords distributed across 500 ads with 150 keywords each.

Per book.

Now, not all of your keywords will get clicks every day. In my experience, you'll have one or two hot terms that dominate each add.

But say you've got one keyword getting one click per day at 25 cents per click.

That's $125 in ad spend per day, folks.

And if shoveling money into AMS is the only reliable way to get your book noticed, that's also Amazon going full pay-to-play.

Which would be fine if they didn't already charge everybody 30% just to sell on their platform.

Publishing house apologists who've been predicting newpub's doom for years have long warned that Amazon would take a bigger slice of the royalty pie. But the royalty squeeze never came.

Except it did, and I just showed you how Amazon cut your royalties under your nose.

Your AMS ad spend may as well be an additional cut Amazon takes out of your earnings.

To end on a bright note, my own experiment with AMS recently concluded. I followed the ad gurus' advice as best I could--even going so far as to buy special software that helps pick keywords.

Long story short, none of my ads turned a profit. I shut them down.

The first day after I terminated my ads, my book sales rose by 30%, and they've stayed at the higher sales volume.

That tells me AMS isn't the silver bullet the eggheads say it is; nor is it the only way to drive sales.

What's driving my sales is you, the reader. Which is just how I like it. Thank you!

Keep supporting small businessmen who want to entertain and inform you, and someday soon, we'll find a viable alternative to the megacorps. My new best seller lays out how.

Till then, do what you can where you are with what you have.

Read it now!


Corona Kayfabe

Masked Shoppers

As the Coronavirus lock down drags into its second month, the stress is starting to take its toll. By and large, people are channeling their cabin fever into arguing about the lock down online.

Granted, venting to randos on social media is a good way to blow off steam. But even an effective coping mechanism can become a problem if overindulged.

The anti-globalist counterculture has been busy acting out a cautionary tale to this effect. Several dissident outlets have given themselves over to daily quarantine-themed pouting sessions.

It tells you a lot when commentators who previously made sport of Libertarians start raising Cain about government tyranny because they can't attend MLB games or dine in at McDonald's.

That's not to belittle anyone's frustration or downplay any real suffering. Folks in dissident circles which pride themselves on self-awareness should know better, though.

A common refrain among counterculture types is the Death Cult's love of the memory hole. Our rulers, they're fond of pointing out, advance their agenda by pushing a favored narrative while striking opposing views from the record. That way, the frog boils before he notices the heat.

Those on the Right who spend all day railing against the shutdown should take their own warnings to heart. Narrowing public discourse to a pointless debate between two false choices is standard operating procedure for the elite media. Now the same people who dismiss conventional politics as a Globetrotters-Generals game are wearing out their keyboards over Corona kayfabe.

The Right's initial reaction when the pandemic was first breaking was to train its guns on globalism. When you have a Chinese virus whitewashed by a crooked transnational org wreaking social and economic chaos, making hay over the global elites' complicity is the sound tactic.

You look around now, and it's as if everyone in the counterculture forgot the root cause of the crisis overnight. They talked a good game about Conservatives never meeting a crisis they didn't love to waste, but they don't have much room to talk now.

Rest assured, the enemy are not letting this crisis go to waste. The Libertarians were right about the powers that be using the pandemic to justify expanding their power. Many on the Right have taken that warning to heart. Sadly, they've also imbibed the Libertarian bent toward feckless impotence.

Bring this up in counterculture circles, and you'll get a barrage of black pills back.

"The lock down is a globalist's dream come true! Mom & pop stores are shuttering while the megacorps prosper!"

Besides being counterproductive, that objection isn't entirely true. While big business has much greater resistance to financial crises than your local corner store, even a megacorp isn't invincible.

Disney--which makes most of its money from theme parks--just reported a 90% drop in their quarterly profits.

Apple and Amazon failed to meet their quarterly income projections and are facing massive supply upheavals that could help other companies outmaneuver them.

"Disney, Apple, and Amazon will be fine!" the black-pillers insist. "The government will bail them out!"

That point is both true, and exactly the kind of incestuous globalist racket we should be raising hell about.

In case you've forgotten why we're here, let this be a reminder.

While 33 million Americans are out of work, Congressional Republicans are stonewalling a relief bill because it, "disincentivizes people from working." Exactly which jobs they're meant to be working at is unclear, especially since the government can't be bothered to pause the torrent of immigrant workers.

Straining the gnat of social distancing while swallowing the camel of replacement immigration isn't just foolish, it's downright suicidal.

You judge a spirit by its fruits. The spirit that incites pointless bickering over arranging the furniture while the house burns down is a spirit of defeatism and despair. Reject it accordingly.

And now, more than ever, don't pay people who hate you. With oldpub in its death throes and even the megacorps reeling, voting with your wallet may achieve more than just a protest vote.

Don't Give Money to People Who Hate You - Brian Niemeier
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