Rill

You common, low-life trashy bastards.

Yeah.

I got a rill for you.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7AIE1vz90B0

Meth

Meth

            Can you believe that your computer’s dictionary gives the chemical formula for this stuff?  --  C ₆ H ₅ CH ₂ CH(CH ₃)NH(CH ₃) -- this from the same brotherhood who guards knowledge like the hounds of hell?

            Wikipedia writes as though this life-wrecking synthetic is a medicine used to “treat” undesirable conditions of the mind and body.  The Wiki goes on for miles in a “comprehensive” how-to.  How to make it and how to take it.  They go so far as to write how one can shove it up his *** for a longer lasting high.

            Yeah the Wiki is a piece of work.  Mister 9:11’s insidious, covert, sneaky, back-door defiler.  Teaching little kids how to say dirty words and be a kinky pervert by the time they hit middle school.  If they see a new word scrawled in the school bus dust, Wikipedia is sure to have a “comprehensive” how-to manual written about it.  Complete with instructional drawings.  Damn skippy.

            So let’s call the spade.  Crystal Meth Amphetamine is as much of a disease in our society as cell phone pornography.  One can walk through a cemetery and find friends not so old who just couldn’t leave the stuff alone.

            You recall John Belushi.  He was like that with cocaine.  And like cocaine, methamphetamine is a kick in the pants.  It can turn a couch-frump into a dynamo in one snort.  Playing on one’s ego.  Sudden life-of-the-party. 

            The phenomenon is short-lived, however.  Hard and fast wrecking ball to health.  Priceless, precious health.  Who doesn’t value it?  Who doesn’t want it?  Healthy people don’t need doctors.  Think about it.  Healthy people feel good and enjoy natural energy.  They got a Colgate smile.  Pink, firm gums.  Strong choppers.  Dense bones.  They feel “tremblingly alive.”

            Instead of building you up, speed breaks you down.  Hey bozo – I don’t have to tell you to wake up do I?  You’re speeding. 

            LSD is speed-based.  Will keep you wide-awake for 24 hours.  They put poison in it to make you see things that are not there.  Arsenic.  The operative for hallucinations is poison.  That is why peyote buds and jimson weed make you see things that are not there.  They are poison plants. 

            Poison on this side of “lethal dose” will make you hallucinate before it kills you – which it eventually does.  The brain, which interprets ocular stimuli, begins to malfunction something fierce.  Which makes me question what is currently going on in “nursing homes.”  I go walking down the halls and am clasped by people in wheel chairs who tell me things like, “there’s a man sitting on my lap and he won’t go away.”  What kind of daily drugs are they feeding these people?  I asked a nurse sitting behind a nearby desk and she nervously told me that they were not allowed to discuss medications.  I bet they aren’t.  Medicine is now a secret.  Why do you think that is?  They call it “HIPAA.”

            Yeah drugs are a scourge.  Any of them we take for “medical” purposes come with side-effects.  Sometimes the side-effects outweigh the benefits.  Drugs are not natural. 

            In our fabulous bodies the Engineer designed an endocrine system.  A natural pharmacy of glandular secretions that port into the bloodstream whatever the body needs at the moment.  Adrenaline, endorphins, estrogen, testosterone…

            During the nubile years of a woman, for example, hormones dictate much of her physical function and behaviour.  To rise above these monthly rhythms, supernatural intervention is required.  Hence the difference between a Holy Sister and a home-wrecker.  Or a Holy Sister and that Mossad skank who seduced and murdered Mr. Hamas.

            Synthetic speed and the opium poppy should not be clumped together.  I believe the Chief made opium poppies for Navy Corpsmen.  For when Marines step on booby-trapped Howitzer shells.  Or false-flag bucket bombs.  Aye,  Mr. Nettanyahoo? 

            “I believe” that the same sons-of-bitches who keep marijuana illegal are the men behind crystal methamphetamine.  And every bottle of hard stuff distilled.  The same satanic bastards who fly heroin and cocaine over here by the tanker loads.

            “I believe” these men are part of the 9:11 collective.  All part of the swarm of locusts that produce movies like Spun.  A cultish youth flick glamourizing  methamphetamine.  How sexy it is.  How swank and happenin’ it is.  How if you abuse this drug, you too can be swank and sexy.  And if you decide to become a meth cook, you’ll be an all American hero like Mickey Roarke in his cowboy hat.  Built like a brick shit-house, fearless and seminal. 

            Oh boy. Now quick – everybody run out and start making this stuff so you can make a fortune and be a desirable chick-magnet like the ageless, cosmetically-enhanced Mickey Roarke. 

            If you check the stats, you will find that after this movie (Spun) hit the streets, crystal meth took off like a rocket.  Particularly among the unlettered, low income folks.

            

            Whoever wrote the script to this movie should be burned at the stake Catholic-style.  Like every man who had a hand in 9/11.  Along with every stick of israeli terrorism since their counterfeit inception.  Hanging is reserved for lesser criminals, you sons-of-jackals.

Che

Che

I am convinced the reason Mr. 9:11 snuffed "Che" is because he was too good a commie.  And "intellectual" enough to be a threat.  Guevara actually believed the commie creed.  A crusader for the "cause."  I think he was a purist and suffered a love for the peasant.  He bought the jewish ruse that is communism.

Guevara took their ball and ran with it.  Well oops.  He didn't know that communism is a "bait and switch."  The schemers focus on the poor and uneducated.  They promise them utopia and the moon.  While fanning the flames of rage against their betters.  Right before a communist revolution they anthem and shout "liberty, freedom, fraternity, equality, justice" and the like.  The poverty-stricken, ignorant wretches snap it up like sucker minnows.  Clueless of their impending fate.  By the time they smell blood, it's too late.  Gotchyaa.  Suckers!

Che was one of the suckers in that he believed the commie shit.  Little did he know that communism is a jewish supremacy plot.  He wasn't a jew.  So do the math.  The marxist agenda is jewish world domination.  In communism, whoever is not a jew is either a slave or dead.

Fidel Castro is jewish.

Che was a rebel with a cause.  Too young and impetuous to "be still and know that I am God."  Caught up in his sap and fury.  The proof in this pudding is a photo of him hobnobbing with doofus existentialist philosopher Jean-Paul Sartre and his “la feminista” squeeze, Simone de Beauvoir (The Second Sex in two volumes, makes being a woman read like a disease, bitch please).  Che was barking up all the predictable trees.  Woof.

Exhibiting a familiar stamp on his murder, they still use his photograph to advance communism world-wide.  Advertising is their forte.  “They” – the collective of whom I speak, is personified as “Mr. 9:11.” 

They are a swarm of locusts with no leader; yet move upon their targets in unison.  They will make short work of your crops with their aerosol haze.  And turn a land-owning farmer into a share-cropper over night.

Like they use Jim Morrison’s photograph to advance alcoholism and skirt-chasing.  And Marilyn Monroe’s to push flesh-bartering in women.  Ever the wily subverter.

Ever the hawker, Mr. 9:11 knows that nothing sells like sex, death and beauty.  So in Che, Jim and Marilyn he gets killer advertising.

I cite these three, using Guevara as a springboard, because I believe that people are often murdered for advertising and “news-writing” purposes.  Mr. 9:11 prides himself at how many birds he can kill with one stone.  In Guevara he gets a rival out of the way and a commie poster-boy to boot.

During my journalism studies, I read about a “news writer” who stormed into his office one morning, exclaiming how he longed for a train-wreck or some other calamity that he could write about.  Case-in-point.

When young beautiful people die, it’s news.  If they are commie revolutionaries, rock stars or movie stars, it’s even bigger news.  Mr. 9:11’s media chimera can then spring into action.  Rake in the cash while spreading his fungus that much farther.  Exemplifying how he likes to get two birds with one stone (Michael Jackson, hint-hint...)

With jewish celebrities, it would not surprise me if their deaths were staged and we can now find them at a villa in Costa Rica.

In the case of Jim Morrison, between benders he was given to doing his own thinking.  I believe this put him on the “marked for deletion” list.  As the son of a Navy admiral, he was offered a good education and actually read the text.  This forces one to think analytically.  He gets used to doing his own homework.  Develops study habits and et cetera.  The same can be said of Che Guevara.

Hence the present campaign to dumb down the masses with television and low-brow gossip rags.  Think of TV and magazines as one fish for dinner.  And a formal education as the tackle box and fishing pole.

Jim and Che knew how to fish.  But were young enough to snap up jewish ruses like "free love and communisim."  Haa.  Have you checked the stamps they're handing out at the post office lately?  It's wake up time -- big time.

 

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.  Château-villa on a lake.  Diodati.

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.

He 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.  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. 

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 Althorp.  Lac Leman is represented here.  The Jura, aye, our grade is steeper.   And our horse is a keeper.  Mr. 9:11 dare not modify him 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.

Stylin'

Yeah, you're bad. Wearing combat boots that Belleville Boot company has manufactured by commie slaves whose heart ain't in their work. I just pulled a pair of desert super-lights out of a box. The right boot is one inch wider than the left boot. Flip the tongue over and it reads, "Made in China."

While you dupes are getting your legs blown off on bucket bombs, your nation is being economically raped by the jews -- who started this war in the 1st dam place. They call it "out-sourcing." Let us not forget the leech-like suck of their income/sales/property taxes taxes and more taxes. Their 40% interest loans to the poor. And their foreclosure campaign to dispossess the working class of a life's earnings.

Yeah, you're stylin' in your Chinese boots there buddy. Keep on losing limbs for Israel. They care about you and your momma. Why don't you get your butt home and help us fix what's wrong with this place.

Hurt

This article from Press TV corroborates what I have gleaned from sources in the field.

Our military men who witnessed and participated in the slaughter are now waking to the burden of their crimes. Psychologically left holding the bag, they feel the hurt of "this is gonna hurt me more than it hurts you" -- hurt. The mental burden of the assassin. The gut-pang of guilt that gnaws at mercenaries. The clanking chain of Jacob Marley.

That moment when you gun somebody down who never offended you. That moment when you squeeze off the rounds into an assigned target. Or fire a missile into somebody's house from your computer keyboard. That's the one.

That moment will haunt you until the day you die. http://www.presstv.ir/detail/204441.html

Pity the Fool

Lew Puller, Jr. went through this "can do/feel good/snazzy" after losing his legs to a booby-trapped howitzer shell. He came back from the Nam a fragment. And got on with his life. For twenty years or so. Took up a law practice. Big fancy desk at the Pentagon. The whole "poster-boy" nine yards. But inside he suffered gravely.

Right now this kid is riding high on flash-bulb fever. I've seen a lot of Marines like him. I want him to be "okay" as the Jewish shrinks always say. I want him to have quality of life for the remainder of his days. Because I love those boys. And know their sacrifice.

They trusted their corporate government to be glorious ideology. They believed CNN and what they were told by their recruiters. They believed the stuff we got in boot camp. They trusted their leadership. They are always young and march on assigned enemies with 100% blind faith.

Marines are like Rottweilers. They trust their handlers. And give their all to defend and protect. They charge on command at what they believe is an enemy. Pity the fool who betrays their allegiance. Pity the fool who rapes their youth on a false-flag battlefield. Pity the man behind the curtain who planned 9/11 and sent this boy to make war on people who never offended us.

http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2011/10/10/beyond-the-battlefield-part-1-tyler-southern_n_999329.html?icid=maing-grid7%7Cmain5%7Cdl1%7Csec3_lnk1%7C103027