Monday, May 28, 2012

The Best Room

I went to Carnton.   And listened to a load of slanted rubbish that passes for history.  From an historian with “bribed and threatened” writ upon the face.  From this purchased mouth issued a signature that had been forced down my throat at universities.  So I know it well.  American history has gone to hell.

Just like General Cleburne said it would.

The tour guide’s definition of “the Best Room,” was cursory.  As were many other points along the tour.  They downplayed what should have been salient – like the sizeable brick slave quarters and other items of proof to the contrary of their hate propaganda.  Not a peep about the sardonic tennis courts built two feet from Mrs. McGavock's Confederate Cemetery.  They were sure to rub everybody’s nose into the blood-stained floors.

They omit what they find damaging to their smear campaign.  Kind of like the swimming pool at Auschwitz that nobody is supposed to see.

Expect no tokenism or commie correctitude from me.   Just a straight shot.  Preferably to the forehead.

“The Best Room” is a formal sitting room in country halls.  “In my Father’s house are many mansions.”   A mansion is a very nice house.  Nicer than most.  So let us toast. 

Here’s to the palatial estate.  To manors and manners.  And to the families who lived there.  Here’s to the grand old home-place.  To the sprawling manse.  The Celtic castle.  And German schloss.  Ch√Ęteau-villa on a lake.  Shelley, you were such a rake.

Field Place in Sussex is an English country manor.  Unlike Colonel Andrew Erwin’s Beechwood, Mr. 9:11 didn’t burn this mansion down.  Because Shelley’s memory helps foster Marxist ideology.  Such as Godless whoredom.  Shelley’s home-place needs to stand.  It conveniently and subliminally celebrates the Communist Manifesto

A windfall like Percy Shelley has been used by “the enemy within” to subvert us for at least a century.  Therefore you can read a lot about Field Place from the same pen that smears the Old South. 

The enemy within is a spy, traitor, usurper, and economic rapist.  He is a debaucher of youth.  Just take a walk through any mall and look at teen fashions.  I personify him as St. John did.   Taking poetic license, I call him Mr. 9:11 in reference to St. John the Divine’s Chapter 9, Verse 11 of The Book of Revelation.  Abaddon.  Apollion.  The Destroyer of all that is right and good.    Mr. 9:11 can be defined as today’s burrowed-in bolshevik bastard.  He is international.  Seemingly ubiquitous but makes up a small percentage of the world population. 

That is why Mr. 9:11 is presently devising ways to kill millions of people who might suddenly revolt and wipe him off the map (preferably by the gibbet).  If you have doubts, look into the night sky with telephoto lenses.  See for yourself.

During my walk through Internet search engines, not a word about “the best room.”  Why not Mr. 9:11?  Is it because what goes on in a Best Room is not something you want us to value?

Manor houses and the Aristocracy who inhabited them are hated by Mister 9:11 for the same reason he digs Percy Shelley – a stumbling, impetuous college boy who reveled in his daddy’s money.  Took a wrecking ball to his father’s name.  Rejected the Law of God so he could defile teenage girls and sow wild oats.  What an embarrassment this boy must have been.  If he were my son, I would have tied him to an oak and whipped him.  Then I’d put him on a plow for the summer.

Mister 9:11 abhors natural leaders, virtuous ladies and their gentle-
men, fairness and decency, justice, honour, character and the Godly personages to whom these virtues belong.

Mister 9:11 is the architect of the French Revolution, the Bolshevik Revolution and the Cuban Revolution.  He devised the Vietnam War (stop Communism?  What the hell for…).  Heroin requires a smoke-screen.  And what a smoke-screen it was.  Ever see so many body bags and dog tags?  What’s that you say?  A great loss of life?  Mr. 9:11 is the architect of “9/11.”  I do not believe that is a co-incidence. 

I believe the chips fell that way so “you guys” won’t have trouble remembering who Mr. 9:11 is.

Of course Mr. 9:11 would advance existentialism along with Percy Shelley.  He wants you to think and believe that things happen by chance.  He wants you to go to Las Vegas (lost wages) and gamble.  He wants you to believe in Lady Luck.  He wants you to live by the seat of your trousers – not by the Law of God. 

After his daddy cut him off the old money, Shelley lived on credit like most Americans.  And yup – by the seat of his nankeen trousers.  His college-kid atheism and sexual free-stylin’ won him the fame of Mr. 9:11’s badly-written books.  Where Shelley is glamourized, romanticized and puffed up to high heaven.  He is cast broad like a bad seed for the callow mind.  Loam gullible, fertile.  Where he is sung sung sung to death.  Romanticism my ass.  Shelley was just young and stupid, pretty lyrics notwithstanding.  RUSH the rock band haddum too.

Get off him little girl.  He will lead you to the cold, jagged rocks.  The hard crash of your fall.  It’s a cliff.  You can’t un-jump it.  So think before you leap.

In my Old South there were many mansions.  I’m sitting not far from the site of one right now.  Just a green hill overlooking the Nile.  Sans the hippo and the crocodile. 

Many mansions were burned to the ground as fine as Field Place.  Finer than the Villa Diodati.  Lac Leman is represented here.  The Jura, aye, our grade is steeper.   And our horses are a keeper.  Mr. 9:11 dare not modify them genetically.  Who then would win his races?  Gambling fool.

Yeah, I got your Field Places.

Call them Mattapany.  Beechwood.  Carnton.  Mount Vernon.  The Hermitage.  Monticello.  Let them represent and speak for a multitude of others lain to ashes by the federal terrorism of 1861.

In these mansions I see a Best Room.  A room that has been snuffed out of text like John Kennedy was snuffed out of government. 

That is because it was in this room where people did what they seldom do today.  They sat and enjoyed each other’s company in lofty ways.  Read aloud in the Queen's English to the delight of listeners rapt.  Aye post-modern rabble, I say, from their libraries of good books.  They made respectable eye contact during the craft of polite conversation.  It is a talent.  Like good writing or making music.  In the Best Room, one called on his wife or daughter to sit at the piano and touch a cathedral ceiling with her song. 

Glorious and genuine things happened in the Best Room.  People were amused, educated, courted and entertained there.  What did not happen there is what happens today damn-near everywhere: 

idiot-box-television, idle gossip, smut, mindless video games, FaceBook bullshit, Twitter-Twaddle, AOL wife-swapping and spiritual filth like a rotting corpse.  I too see through your white-washed sepulcher, Apollion.