Danger Orange

 

In the early morning hours of a busy night, I heard the cardiac thump of a large chopper.  As it got closer, I noticed that it was at low altitude.  Curious, I left my work and walked into our back garden.  An olive tree covered most of it.  So I stood under the tree and looked up through its leaves.

Illuminated by its own running lights, I saw distinct and descript markings of a U.S. Coast Guard helicopter as it hovered near our bed room window.  You can not miss one of those at that altitude.  Blazing danger orange and white.  Hitting our big, undressed window with a spot light.  The chopper hovered there for an inordinately long amount of time.  They had no idea that I was watching them.

That room belonged to our cats.  They like to lay in the sun and watch birds.  But not at two in the morning.  The boys in uniform learned that there was "nothing to see here."  Awe.  What a bummer.  The depravity of these wankers gave me the creeps.  I realised that they were abusing their station.  Instead of rescuing people from the sea, these perverts were flying around Miami "tom-peeping" into bed room windows.  You can find the same thing going on at ground level.  Pick a town.  Any town.

The following night, they were seen doing the same thing on the other side of our street.  There is a similitude in what they did with what is today ubiquitous.  Beware, young ladies, of the telephone.  Should you need to call a place of business to conduct some business -- oh beware.  If a man answers the phone, there is a good chance that his breeches are un-zipped.  

Porn has reached saturation level.  Even illiterate white trash can find porn on their cell phones.  For this you can thank the same people who are dumbing down your dictionaries.  The same gang who are taking literacy away from your children while pushing drugs on them.  The demon-spawn who tell your kids that they are space dust.  That life is purpose'less and there is no God.

Pat Tillman said it best.  Only the devil's henchmen remain.  All the good men are getting out of the Army.  "Momma, why am I guarding the poppy fields?"  Since the 60's, our streets have been coursing with heroin and cocaine.  That's why, Pat.  

Today you can add meth and all those addicting pills that "doctors" prescribe to your mother.  In some states, you can walk into a gas station and buy edible Delta-8.  It is a synthetic THC (tetrahydrocannabinol).  That stuff chips away at short-term memory.  An essential function of the brain.  You need it to drive safely and to do anything else.  Like whether or not you just took another dose of D8.
 
Since Miami is strung along the beach, every square inch is accounted for.  They have residential crowding to the glades.  A peeping tom can get his jollies in that town.  Lotta dope.  Lotta booze.  There are roof tops on the beach where inebriated women don't even know they are getting schtupped.  Yeah, it's a real show.  Be careful where you go.  Never accept open-top drinks.  Anywhere.  Ever.

I work the night shift, bitch.  So I'm wide awake when you think I'm sleepin'.  And know what you did to Pat Tillman.  You ain' Airborne and you ain't shit.  There's one battle field in the offing that you do not get to watch from your pent house.  No sir.  You gonna be down in it.  No more planning wars for other men to fight.  No more profiteering.  No more false-flagging.  No more gloat-&-bragging.  No more hired guns.  No more bull runs.  Just a full-on taste of God's Business End.  The Day He avenges the blood of His Saints.  That will be the valley of the shadow for you.

Word Power

 

Most school kids use their "on-line" dictionaries to look up words.  I wager that most people turn to their ever-present cell phones for this action.  Cell, in this context, hearkens back to the word cellular.  What kid can define that.  It means short-range radio.  Understand that.  

Abbreviations of a word can lead people astray from their meaning.  It behooves the devil, who wants to dumb you down.  Case-in-point:  URL.  Most computer literates cannot tell you what this even means.  URL is an abbreviation for "uniform resource locator."  Bitch please.  To me that feels like it came from a lack-luster computer geek of the past whose daddy had money.  Because the university was on the receiving end of his "donations," they let his kid pretend to know stuff.  

URL means web address.  That's all it means.  How lame is that.  How stupid is that.  Some people are not the sharpest tools in the shed.  But because daddy has money, he will buy their way through academe.  I went to school with plenty of these guys.  They all drove carrera's.  

Back to your dictionary.  The devil's people are excising it the way a butcher slices up the dead.  Beautiful words that put a fine point on what you say are being cut out of your on-line dictionary.  They are dumbing down your world.  Unless kids wag around an old Webster's, they are at the mercy of whatever words that "somebody" deems they should know.

That is no way to fly.  Invest in an old dictionary.  Keep it on your desk and reach for it often.  Never put your trust in "books" from a digital format.  Digital in this context means "of computers."  There is a reason for real libraries.  And there is a reason they burn books.  Real books, not digital books.  

Real books are volumes full of knowledge.  They wanna take those away from you.  To keep you stupid.  So they can lord over you.  If you don't own the knowledge, you are at the mercy of those who do.  Knowledge is power.  We get it from words.  

Communication is about the use of words.  Morse code, smoke signals, nautical flags, sign language and other symbols all translate into words.  Words are how we think.  

The English language is an ocean of words.  Beautiful, deft, adroit words.  When you dumb down your dictionaries, you take word power away from your children.  Literacy is in the cross-hairs.

When you stop teaching them how to write cursive, you cripple their ability to communicate in writing.  There is exquisite pleasure in penning a letter.  Down to the smell of ink.  The devil's people are taking away your ability to think.  

They want you to be a team player though.  Do what you're told.  Fear death like the sting of a thousand scorpions.  Turn a blind eye to what is wrong.  Go along to get along.  Be part of the gang.  Part of the flock.  Suck up to satan.  Hick'ory dick'ory dock.  Turn a deaf ear to Walking Horse pain.  Be the devil's bitch.  Burn your trash in the rain.

Don't do it.  Home-school your kids.  Take 'um away from the yids.  Snatch the ball and run with it.  Cross the court.  Have fun with it.  Do not fall prey to subversion.    Do not be afraid to cast aspersion.  Quit being politically correct.  That's pinko speak for bending to the pressure.  Stand your ground.  Stop quibbling around.  "God did not give us a spirit of fear."

Get off the broad path and raise your kids right.  Start with God's Word and an old dictionary.  You cannot teach them what you do not know yourselves.  Blow dust off the King James Bible.  Populate the shelves.

 

Granite

 

The same gang that brought you sizzler mini-skirts and diazepam, brought you this chicanery.  First they trick young women into wearing clothes that are a disgrace.  Then they convince older ones that they need gravestone for a counter top.
 
What happened this morning is not the first time a glass exploded after tapping the rock.  Hell no.  I have shattered dishes, chipped coffee cups and busted up many treasured items on my slab of granite. 
 
No wonder the church ladies are crocheting doilies.  Those are to keep your dishes from exploding when you put 'um on your counter top.  I knew the risk of having a granite counter long before we moved to this house.  But you can't seem to get away from them.  They have been a stupid fad for at least 15 years.
 
The average American is gullible.  He believes TV, newspapers, magazines, a spinning ball earth and the fast-talking man in a white coat who tells him that his wrist is broken.  In 5 places.   And will require surgery.  Better check that x-ray, fella.  It may be, instead, a hair-line fracture calling for only a cast.  Oh yes my velveteen bunny.  Get that 2nd opinion.  With the x-ray in your face.  The medical industry is full of corporate predators.
 
The mother-in-law had a saying, "If you act like a pancake, you will be eaten as one."  That is how it works.  So don't be a mouse or a bunny.  In these waters you must needs be a tiger shark.  Pelagic top-feeder.  Merciless and sharp.  Or they will tear you to pieces. 
 
Or sell you a granite counter top.  What a ridiculous fad.  Let's segue into the next allegory.  Keeping up with the Jones'es.  Remember back in high school?  Some "popular" girl shows up in a stupid, uncomfortable outfit and by the end of the month, every girl who can afford it, has one too.
 
That is what happened with granite counter tops.  T6 has been studying humanity for centuries.  They even brag about it in their incendiary treatise (The Protocols of the Learned Elders of Zion).  They know what you people fall for.  Pride of life is everything to most folks.  But.  "Pride goeth before a fall."
 
When I see a slab of granite, I think "grave stone." King Carter's Sarcophagus.  The tomb of Ronnie VanZant.  Dude, it's a funeral monument.  A place for us to store and commemorate dead bodies.
 
A crypt where the horses don't wanna go.  The Baltic island of Oesel used to be part of the Holy Russian Empire.  Settled by German nobility, they had family crypts of granite and marble.  Slabs and walls of it.  The coffins were lined up down there for generations. 
 
I'll never forget it.  There was a man in their family who decided to cut his throat one morning with a shaving razor.  From ear-to-ear.  They found him in a pool of blood and wagged him on down to the crypt.
 
Ear-to-ear.  Boy done a good job on hiss'eff.  And exemplifies why suicide will put your soul in the hurt locker.  Let it be a lesson to you pride-of-lifers.  This guy was the reason horses would freak out when they had to pull carriages by the place.  Oh man oh man.  The terror of those horses was a telling wall of what went on down in the crypt.  Such terror that some of them dropped dead of it.  Animals can see things most humans cannot.  What were they seeing?  The noises coming up from the crypt were getting heard by people though.  What they found will make your hair stand on end.

 
Bolsheviks re-named Oesel and usurped it along with the Russian Empire in 1917.  Go visit.  That crypt is subterranean.  I bet it is still there.  Who would have the guts to go down there?  No bolshevik.  They serve the devil with two hands.  But are notorious cowards.  That is why they hire bottom-feeders to do their dirty work.  Crooked mechanics and old-lady stranglers.  Today, entire armies.  That is why they wean your kids on war-killer video games.

 
As for the haunted crypt of Oesel, you can read all about it on pages 186 - 194 of  U.S. Congressman Robert Dale Owen's book (Footfalls on the Boundary of Another World), published in 1875 by Trubner and Co., London, Brighton).  Don't read it alone nor at night.  Owen waited till the end of his life to publish case studies that he compiled for decades.

 
We are first spiritual beings.  Sojourning in flesh for a term.  God is the owner of our body and soul.  Never think otherwise.  Nor let the devil's people divide us.  They have corrupted texts, infiltrated churches and defiled just about everything.  Why Queen Isabella ran them out of Spain in 1492.  It was not about Cristo Colombo sailing the ocean blue.  Nor any other of their cock and bull.
 
Granite is a rock.  Meant to weather centuries.  Simon Barjona was a fisherman on Lake Galilee when our Lord changed his name to Peter.  "Thou art Peter, and upon this rock I will build my Church.  And the gates of hell shall not prevail against it."  (Matt 16:18)  Peter means rock.  Therefore the Holy Roman Catholic Church is built on Saint Peter.  Whether they are popeless or not.  They will never be hopeless.  Not if Peter and Leo XIII live in their hearts.  Peter the Rock, people.  He was their first Pope.  As long as they have Peter, they have hope.
 
Segue back to my counter top.  For Christ Mass, I sent some of you double-paned coffee cups.  The big, 16-ouncers from Grosche.  Since a lot of us are stuck with granite counter tops, be warned and take a lesson from what happened to me this morning.
 
The Grosche glass cup is my favourite of all time.  And I shall have another.  Be careful with these cups near granite.  If you so much as tap or let it slip from wet hands, the granite will cause an explosion of glass to rival the horrors of Oesel. 
 
Shards of glass will explode in all directions with a violence.  Like a shockwave of daggers.  I am typing with a band-aid on my finger where one of them struck me.  The noise it made was like somebody firing a pistol next to my ear.  PLEASE BE CAREFUL.
 
The other stupid thing about granite counter tops is how they camouflage everything from dead flies to a new dime.  Most of them are a mosaic of earth tones that glare up at you.  We have a mottle of black, brown and nine shades of grey with amber veins meandering through it.  Try to find a bobby pin and you cannot do it.
 
Granite slabs are things of beauty that belong in cemeteries.  But because they were in "style," people went into debt to get them.  Now they can't tell if they are clean or dirty.  Kind of like men who wear brown underwear.  Young ladies, I advise you to avoid these characters.  Tighty-brownies will never do. 

 
And no, I never wore sizzlers.  Just platform shoes that nearly broke my ankle.  And a translucent, sky-blue "visor" of no efficacy on the beach.  Because that stuff was in style.  You get me?  Style.  Like a powdered wig two miles high.  Like white vinyl shoes and clackers.   What exactly is style?
 
Do your own thinking.  Ask your own questions.  If something has no utility, toss it in the rubbish.  Forget about the Jones'es.
 
Clothes, furniture, shoes, counter tops, etc., should be useful, salubrious, comfortable and prudent.  Anything less is a gimmicky swindle.  Don't blame Grosche's coffee cup.  They make a work of art that not only keeps hot coffee from burning your hands, but also is big enough to keep your tail bushy.  (happy gerbil face)
 
Gerbil wheel, here I come. 


Smelling the Coffee

 

This is for Abigail Folger.  John Kummer.  Steve Parent.  Leno LaBianca.  Rosemary LaBianca.  Voytek Frykowski.  Sharon Tate.  And her viable, un-born son.

I feel compelled to share my digestion of the weekend of 9 and 10 August 1969.  Because my intimate knowledge of those whom I suspect, makes for an educational and thought-provoking read.  They have been paying people to kill me for many years.  Only God determines the hour of my death.  They killed my cat though.  After a detailed examination by a veterinarian, it removes any doubt -- what these people are about.  I gottum down like a farmer knows his goats.  To God be the Glory.  In the Name of the Father, the Son and The Holy Ghost -- I rest my confidence.

Some write that Miss Folger was assassinated (one of their favorite words).  Others write murdered.  Assassinations involve military marksmen, mercenaries, hired bottom-feeders and government agents.  Any combination of these will work together.  Like the way demons work with human spirits of the damned to do the devil's dirt.

First I went looking for Abigail in the family plot (Oakland, CA).  Not there.  Buried at Holy Cross (Colma, CA) four days after the blood bath at Roman Polanski's house.  Abigail Folger and her boy friend spent a lot of time over there, house-sitting.  The Polanski's had a dog and kitten.  Folger was 25 and righteously courting a future husband.  I say that because he was broke and not doing well in tinsel town.  Giving it a go as a screen writer.  A degree in chemistry didn't make him a pharmacist.  But he was charming.  There was no other reason for her to be with him.  They were both Catholic.  Marriage was a glide track.  She had daddy's money and didn't need anyone else's.

I remember her every day when I take my first sip of coffee.  And now, for the first time, I am smelling it.  Abigail died young.  But first earned high marks in Catholic schools and Harvard.  She was a horseman and a good Christian girl who just happened to be a wealthy heiress.  And who met Voytek Frykowski through a mutual jewish friend. 

How convenient for Polanski, who said that he was giving Frykowski money to help him out.  Voytek was a class mate of Polanski's from back in Poland.  He left home to break into the movie business.  Being Catholic is not good for your career in hollywood.  Ask Mel Gibson and Mark Wahlberg. 

Then there was John Kummer with three strikes against him.  He came from a German Catholic family.  And spent too much time with his Irish Catholic ex-girl friend.  It should be telling that on Saturday Night Live, not many years later, they were lampooning Kummer as a social climber.  He was just a hard working boy who earned success in a fast-lane town.  So they resent and mock him for it.  Resentment and mockery are their hallmark.

Kummer and Tate were equally-yoked in the spirit.  But Kummer had been reduced to a bleeding heart admirer, after getting bumped out of the saddle by Polanski.  Who was directing Tate in The Fearless Vampire Killers.  Polanski also starred in this tacky shit show.  I saw it on the late-late (not late enough) show when I was a kid. 

It should be telling also -- that Polanski pimped Sharon Tate to Hugh Hefner for a photo spread in his magazine (Playboy 1967).  That stuff does not wash off.  Once a woman gets winkled out of her clothes for the camera, her good name is no more.  I can only imagine what her family thought of Polanski after that.

The photo spread was shot on the set of Polanski's vampire movie with Tate in character.  I have seen the photos.  They looked like they were taken after a day's shooting, when people have drinks and unwind.  She was in a bubble bath like the one in the movie.  It appeared to be the same movie set they used in the film.  She looked pleasantly tipsy.  This is a common trick for getting a girl out of her clothes.  Who doesn't know that but the young women it happens to -- then it's too late.

Penthouse was next.  But now she was pregnant.  It ruined any chance of more exploitation.  She promised that once she became a mother, she would quit the movie business.  Therefore, pimping her to sleazy magazines just came to a halt.  And so did more bimbo movie scripts.  No more bang out of this one.  

Her husband's true colours can be seen in a home movie.  It seems unlikely that she knew they were being filmed.  What Christian wife would submit to that?  Vincent Bugliosi made sure to mention it in a book he wrote with help from Curt Gentry (Helter Skelter, the #1 true crime best seller of all time).  How true it is remains to be proven.

In 1977, Polanski got caught drugging a 13 year old girl and taking advantage of her.  Samantha Gailey was her name.  This is why he cannot come to the U.S.  He fled the country and found asylum in France.  He is a fugitive in this country.  A man who pimps young women to sleazy magazines is the tip of an ice berg.  Slipping drugs to a young girl so he can have sex with her -- is not okay.  I don't care how many birds-of-a-feather buddies he has in hollywood.

Kummer bought the zeitgeist before he bought the farm.  Enough good grass will do that for you.  It was the swingin' sixties just like the commies wanted.  A blade that cut both ways for Polanski -- in that Kummer was spending time at his house while he was away.  Heck, was that baby even his?  It would be a generation before DNA testing could find out.  Kummer had to be a burr under the saddle.  He was 30 times better looking and wore tighty-whitey swim trunks.  Still in Sharon's hair.  Literally.  Kummer was a hair-dresser.

He was a barber in his Navy hitch -- four years during the Korean War.  After he got out, he went to beauty school and parlayed his craft into a lucrative business.  It was a showcase for his talent.  What he did with Jim Morrison's lilting, curly hair was a master piece.  The list is long for more of that.  He had to open a second salon and train a bigger staff.  Hollywood flocked to his gifted hands.  That does not make him a social climber.  It just makes him good at what he does.

Roman Polanski was in London the night somebody killed all the Catholics in his house.  So they pin it on Charlie Manson and a few doped-up hippies.  Are you kidding me?  The whole thing reads lame.   It clunks like recreational murders they pin on Mexican boys who can't speak English.  Little indigenos who are as illegal as they are illiterate.  Clueless, they get dragged off to prison.  Covering the ass of a snuff-party pervert.

How else would all these lurid photographs make it into the public domain?  Along with slab shots of JFK and Collette MacDonald.  No law suits from the families.  Why not?  Doesn't that point to "who dunnit." You can easily find crime scene photos on the internet.  And autopsy reports.  These are viciously guarded and kept from the public in most cases.  For matters of decorum and medical protocol.  But not for these people.  Why not?  I believe it is for the convenience and perusing pleasure of somebody with a glass of cognac in one hand and cigar in the other.  That ain' gonna be your jail birds.

Who is breaking a sweat trying to control your internet?  Who bottle-necks your social media?  Who owns your social media?  Who penalizes you for expressing your opinion on their servers?  Who sends the eff bee eye to your house for it?  Who controls your local police and all the three letter guys?  Who imprisons people in Europe for expressing doubt about the hollow cost? 

I believe Charlie Manson was like one of those scape-goat Mexicans.  Except he wasn't illegal.  And he could speak English.  The photos of him that appear criminally insane -- look like speed and mescaline to me.  Once in jail, they got you by the ass.  And can drug you with anything they like.  Then snap a photo. 

After long enough in an empty concrete cell, you will sign anything.  It is easy to get people to crack.  Just keep them in there long enough without food, water and sleep.  If they smoke cigarettes, so much the better.  People will say anything you want for the camera.  Like that stuff from Susan Atkins, for example.  She looked fried out of her mind.  Drugs are handy for that.  Like the dope they inject you with just before surgery.  Benzodiazepines make you pliable, obedient and disconnect your fight or flight response.  Charlie and friends appear to have been heavily drugged while in custody.  And then framed. 

How hard would it be to convince drifty hippie girls that they blacked out on a bad trip?  Under long duress and pressure.  "Sign here, and we'll let you go pee and have a cigarette."  Gettum high enough and tellum they are auditioning for a movie.  This was, after all, Los Angeles.  There are so many ways of smelting a "confession" out of innocent people.  Drugs, hypnosis, duress, torture.  Then you can make them prison place-holders.  No independent journalist will ever get near them.

Since "some people" are notoriously two-bird, this way they take care of Charlie's hippy colony breeding like rabbits over at the old Spahn Ranch.  And fix what's ailing Mr. Movie Director at the same time.  No oscar's yet for his satanic movies, but he should have gotten one for his performance at the funeral.  There were the numerous, obligatory interviews.  Never seen an eye so dry.

Common scenarios apply.  There are many reasons men have for wanting to kill their wives.  Infidelity is one.  And who can blame them.  During Nixon's term in office, they were tapping white house phones.  How bigga stretch would it be for Roman Polanski to have that done to his house.  No man likes to be called a cuckold.  Ego's are big in hollywood.  Swingin' sixties or no swingin' sixties.  Those yellow press journalists rode around in helicopters to see whose car was parked in whose driveway.  People talk. 

The press are voracious mako's.  This feeding frenzy went on for decades.  They like train wrecks, wars, catastrophes, massacres and mayhem.  Because it sells papers, movies, books, magazines and slanted TV shows.  They get a million miles out of dead movie stars and Princess Diana's.  I am of the firm belief that when things are peaceful for too long, they hire thugs to murder people so they can write about it.

Does this sound like a guilty man to you:  https://youtu.be/dAdpMdYrRrI    I believe that Manson was behind the Tate/LaBianca murders like I believe Osama bin Laden was behind 9/11.  I believe Dr. Jeff MacDonald slaughtered his family like I believe Germany killed millions of Roman Polanski's.  Some things are just enormous lies.  And they fly because of what a famous man once wrote, "People will believe the bigger lies, because they refuse to believe that someone could tell that big of a lie."  Human nature is predictable.  Consider it a weakness.

They tell so many lies they can't keep 'um straight.  When I was a kid in junior high, I cracked that book of Vincent Bugliosi's.  Convoluted, lame and elaborate tales of how and why a group of homeless hippies suddenly went on a sophisticated mission to kill people they did not know.  You could smell the baloney for miles.  But I was a wide-eyed kid who swallowed it with the rest of the world. 

Memorized the whole shee'bang.  Ain' a kid no more.  That stuff read like damage control.  Recently got on the net and read a whole new generation of cock and bull.  By a whole new generation of bull-shitters.  None of today's lies remotely match the ones in Bugliosi's book.  Liars always forget their lies.  That's why Mark Twain wrote, "If you never tell a lie -- you never have to remember anything."  Because truth resides in long term memory.  Lies do not. 

Like today's random domestic terrorism, anybody who sees it has to die.  That is why they end up shooting so many people.  And why they shot Steven Earl Parent.  He just happened up the driveway and saw them.  And just happened to be Catholic.  This was a massacre of Catholics.  Because everyone at this address was Catholic.  And so were Rosemary and Leno LaBianca who got butchered the following night.

It breaks my heart to hear the post-mortem smear jobs floating around about Steve Parent after all these years.  He was an 18-year-old boy, still living with mom and dad.  They say that he had homosexual tendencies and was out on a "booty-call" the night he died.  And that he had a police record for stealing electronics.

The devil knows us by our feel.  Like we know him.  And so do his people.  Because they are all plugged into him.  And his lusts they will do.  Like we are plugged into the Holy Spirit.  Leave it to those whom Jesus called "children of the devil."  The father of lies is their daddy.  And was a murderer from the beginning.  Why would they say anything good about Christian souls?

So.  They stabbed Abigail Folger to death.  The poe leece noted her red night gown the next morning.  But it was actually white.  They tortured John Kummer and Sharon Tate.  Who was 8 and 1/2 months pregnant.  They made sure to ugly-up Kummer and bash his face in.  Was that a love note from Polanski?

They hate Germans almost as much as Catholics, Muslims, Russians and Greeks.  Abigail's mother was an El Salvadorian patrician who married a coffee tycoon.  https://youtu.be/wggAiEnQAvo

Kummer's fake hollywood name was Jay Sebring.  That hokey movie Shampoo was a post-mortem smear job.  Like he was supposed to be a sleazy rounder.  They couldn't make him a homosexual.  I think he was in love with Sharon Tate until he died.  She was supposed to have been his bride.  Kummer was in high demand because he was good at an honest day job.  Who in hollywood can say that?

The only thing Kummer and company got wrong was to think that because they were popular, the world was their friend.  Who could hate them?  Who would harm them?  Why have a gun in the house?  Why lock the doors?  Kummer had a bullet hole to go with the rest of his wounds.  They made sure nobody would open his coffin.  You should'a hadda pistol, Johnny. 

House full of sitting ducks with cut telephone lines.  And dope-smokin' Tex Watson was supposed to know the location of and the difference between an electricity box and a telephone box.  In the dark.  And just happen to have the right tool to cut the line with like he does this for a living.  How likely is that.

Those who did the killing knew what kind of knife to use.  It takes a big one to stab through a sternum and into the heart.  Somebody knew their anatomy.  And appears to have done this kind of work before.  With more muscle than a girl would have.  The autopsy reports are proudly displayed.  Complete with slab shots.  One in particular is beyond the pale.  What has Abigail Folger done to deserve this gross indignity?  One and a half inch blade, four inches deep. 

Keep guns in your house, people.  Where you can gettum fast.  And teach your kids how to shoot.  Daddy taught me early and told me never to point a gun at anyone  -- I did not plan on killing.  Before leaving for Europe, Daddy gave me a loaded pistol and said to sleep with it under my pillow until he got back.  My sister and I would be alone in the house for weeks.  In an old farm house with no neighbors for miles.  Daddy said, "If anybody comes through that door, you kill that son-of-a-bitch."  And I said "yes sir."  If you go to movies, malls, crowded venues or wall mart, you should carry a pistol.  Our times make the wild, wild west look tame.

As a parting shot, I took honours history and stellar astronomy.  Everything they taught me was a lie.  Therefore, what from the media could be true?  The same people who own and run the media, published all my college text books.  The sources for what I wrote can be found in the public domain.

 T R U E   H I M M L E R

T h e    R e v i e w s    

 

This book claims David Irving as its author.  Much of the text bears his signature, however, there appears to be admixture.  Early in the book, one encounters the obligatory smear on Adolf Hitler.  It is not like Irving to write of the Chancellor that he was the mentally deficient heir of a bastard.  This book is not about Adolf Hitler.  It is the lionizing biography of Heinrich Himmler.  In 496 pages.

 

On page 497, one gets hit with a vague and disjointed barrage of "author's notes."  After 106 pages of this un-scholarly, convoluted mess, there comes an index.  The whole enchilada took somebody 639 pages.  Numerologists can have their fun with that.  But for this review I will stick to my line of work.  And say that it is also not like Irving to disregard proper academic format.

 

Cantering along, one gets a clear portrait of Himmler.  Dutiful son.  Devout Roman Catholic.  Chaste.  Virtuous.  Fastidious scribbler in his diary.  Voracious reader.  Soldierly and brave.  To use Irving’s words, “ever the white knight.”

 

Yet pebbles of contradiction lay in the text.   One encounters supposed comments made by Himmler’s brother and widow about how Heinrich was a coward.  How can he lead the SS and be anything but an Alexander?  The predictable and hackneyed smears of Himmler’s enemies jump off the pages in stark relief to what should be Irving’s writing.  Those familiar with Irving’s other books will see it plainly.

 

Even the nickname that Himmler’s mother used for him, suddenly peppers the text  -- clearly meant to smear him.  Because in English it is a vulgar and derogatory term.  But in German, it is a common term of endearment for the name Heinrich.  This is not something Irving would have done.  Not scholarly.  Not like him.

 

At the end of this biography (p. 494), one gets the feeling that Irving’s text is truncated.  Stops abruptly, with “He had yet to see a single dead person.”  The reader is left hanging for more.  A sudden precipice of “where to now?  That’s it?  What about the years you have not covered before Himmler’s sadistic murder?” 

 

On the next page one slams into an epilogue that does not read like Irving.  It amounts to a hastily-written one page of damage control.  A cloven hoof print with which the Holy Roman Empire is intimately familiar.  Oh yes, my little peeps.  They play for keeps.  Hailing hard from Byzantium.  All the way back to Constantine and Saint Helen, his mother.  Holy Crosse in the sun. 

 

Where you gonna run?  Cornered like a rat. 

 

Why do you think they changed the name of Constantinople to Istanbul in 1930?  They don’t want you to know that Constantine the Great was a Roman emperor.  By one wave of his hand, corrupt and decadent Rome became the Holy Roman Empire.  And reigned for 1000 years. 

 

This Trojan horse of traitors who erases our history -- broke a sweat trying to contaminate this biography.  Subverters of all that is right and good. 

 

Let us survey the evidence.  As we shout from commie statues everywhere, “Viva Cristo Rey!”  I’m reviewing a book today.

 

Endnotes have no superscripted numbers before page 492.  Why not?  Endnotes are listed under “notes and sources” in composite fashion.  Why?  One is left with a whole page to search over.  They are listed by only the page number.  As if a reader has that much time to search and hunt for something.  Sources should be listed under “sources” and endnotes under “endnotes.”

 

On page 497, “Abbreviations Used” appears to be sources used.  And questionable ones at that.  Holocaust Museum?  The list is cryptic at best.

 

The layout for endnotes, sources and citations is a morass.  Where is the author’s bibliography?  At the hoax museum?

 

Page 523:  wrong page cited.  Page 121 should be page 122. 

 

Page 20:  wrong spelling of Luneburg.

 

Page 81:  line 11, “morning suit” should read “mourning suit.”

 

Page 93:  why is the objective truth labeled a poison because Chancellor Hitler is the one who points it out?  The next three pages are smear sheets on Adolf Hitler.  Isn’t this a biography of Himmler?

 

Page 113:  Twelve lines down, “…Inge Barco hooked-up with them.”   Here is another phrase out of character and time sync.  It is rather an Americanism in current use.

 

Page 122:  half way down the page, there is an erroneous comment about how “Turks expelled Armenians in 1915.”  It was rather jews false-flagging it.  They called themselves “the Young Turks” whilst massacring Armenians and their children.  They chopped off the hands of children and watched them run around in the desert, bleeding to death.  Ever the impostors.  Irving would not have written so gross an error.

 

Page 128:  This is not a British phrase, “when the roll is called out yonder…”  It is incorrectly stated anyway.  It is supposed to read “when the roll is called up yonder…”  A popular Christian hymn from the American South.  And one with which Irving would likely not have been familiar.

 

Page 152:  Last line, bottom of page.  What is so outrageous about Mein Kampf?  Irving would not have written that.

 

Page 178:  Twelve lines down, what is the source for the comment about a euthanasia programme?

 

Page 191:  Bottom of page, “globe-trotter” is out of character and time-sync.

 

Page 200:  Harping on Hitler again, “The whole thing was a charade…”  What about Adolf Hitler was anything but the earnest Christian truth?

 

Page 210:  Bottom of page, last paragraph, first line, “…which is why we…”  Who are “we”?  Also on pages 213 and 214, supposedly Irving uses plural possessive pronouns (we, us, our, etc.)  This occurs throughout the text, whereas in his past books, Irving uses “I, me, my, etc.”   He proudly owns his work.  But in this book he appears to have more cooks in the kitchen who are helping him with the stew.

 

Page 215:  Mid-page, comment about modern term, “Antifa-men.”  Out of time-sync and incongruent with history.

 

Page 245:  Half way down the page, “…Heydrich’s son told us…”  Who is us?

 

Page 255:  What are the sources for this smear sheet full of hooligans, homo’s and crack-pots?  Are these not Christian men?

 

Page 279:  Half way down the page.  Whoa!  “The story was…”  Where is the footnote and source citation for “how the story was?”  The story was???  How is that biography?  Nothing Irving would have written.  At bottom of page the phrase “bumped off” is used.  Another out of time-sync and out of character.

 

Page 282:  Half way down the page, “When the real killing began…”  and “Half a dozen years later…”  Why not six years later?  Who is the writer here?  What is your source for this?

 

Page 284:  Speculation and conjecture are not Irving’s style.  The phrase, “…was heard to say…”  is not Irving’s wont as a historian.  What is the source?  Where is the citation?

 

Page 285:  What nauseating alliteration, “calculating commissioner of killings…”  How can Himmler be that and also be “an eternal white knight?” 

 

Page 286:  Line 13, what is meant by, “true national socialism (that is not what it later became)”  ?? 

 

Page 295:  Lindenfycht is spelled “Lyndenficht” and “Lindenfycht” on the same page.  Half down the page and at the bottom.  Somebody does not seem to know the correct spelling.  Irving is fluent in German.

 

Page 298 and 299:  Author talks out of both sides of his mouth here.  Irving would not do that.

 

Page 299:  Bottom paragraph, claims that Reinhard Heydrich’s papers put Catholics at the top of a list of “Germany’s most dangerous enemies.”  Oh yeah?  Heydrich, Himmler and Hitler were all Roman Catholics.

 

Page 316:  Line nine, “painter Adolph von Menzel…”  no German spells Adolf like that.  Irving was fluent in German.

 

Page 321:  Why do these photos begin with Himmler’s corpse?  It is followed by chronological family photos.  Irving would not have done that.

 

Page 338:  Noting another of many phrases that Irving uses to paint a portrait of Himmler’s character, “the puritan, incorruptible Himmler…”

 

Page 371:  Bottom of page, the eight-year-old Gudrun is called “infant.”

 

Page 378:  First paragraph, “Catholic Austrians would prove more dedicated, amoral and ruthless…”   How so?  Source?  Citation?

 

Page 379:  Why is the newspaper Der Sturmer called smutty?  Source?  Citation?

 

Page 395:  Half way down the page, last sentence, “…probably quoting what Hitler actually said…”  Conjecture is not biography.

 

Pages 407 and 408:  Tops of pages, “Cut-throats and flunkies?”  Qualify that.

 

Page 430:  “homes invaded, women raped and 90 people murdered…”  Oh yeah?  Source it.  Your end notes qualify nothing.

 

Page 478:  Second paragraph, in what appears to be more from a sloppy ghost-writer, Himmler’s secretary is smeared for being the mother of his two bastard children.  No source.  No citation.  If this were true, we would have been reading about these kids on the cover of every yellow rag and magazine for the last 78 years. 

 

Page 487:  “Hitler wanted a few false-flag ops on the Polish border.”  Baloney.  He didn’t need them.  The Poles and Czechs were doing a bang-up job with real atrocities against the Germans – who were trapped on their WW1 land seizures.  Qualify this comment.  It is not in your endnotes.

 

Pages 598 and 601:  sloppy work, guys.  Endnotes got mixed up.  Chapter 38 got repeated and scooted others out of sync.

 

Throughout the text, there are too many ellipses.  Leaving readers without good context for quotes used. 

 

In summary, I believe this book is the unfinished work of David Irving that has been commandeered and corrupted.

 

 

 

 

Exit Stage Left

To whom it concerns:  Part of my Calling is to educate.  Since you are a "goer with the flow," it should not be a stretch for you to go with my flow.  The only flow that matters.  All the other flows of your life have been judas goats.  If you do not know what a judas goat is, the time is high for you to look it up.  As for taking cheap shots at my academic record, dude, the list is long of effs at mid term.  it became par for the courses.  predictably, depending on who was teaching them.  and doing a shitty job of it (also predictably).  the devil's people never make good teachers unless they are showing you how to cook meth or have perverted sex.  That was some white water i was fighting too.  the challenge became -- just to graduate.  i left the local u. with a 3.8.  Despite the haters.  when i hit the oscar and golf, they went for my throat with all they had.  same thing happened in minnesota and the bravo.  i realised there was an "element" in academe that was out to get me.  by last semester it began to dawn on me.  who these people were and why they are still fighting ww2.  their Christ'ian enemies are all dead, yet they still beat the horse.  they are weaned to hate the last nation who gave them the drop-kick.  not a word about the 55 others who have done exactly the same thing, for exactly the same reason.  Since 700 Anno Domini.  That's "A.D." in case you didn't know.  It is Latin that means "Year of Our Lord."  this is why they have changed it to (C.E.).  That is for "common era."  Totally bogus.  It means nothing.  Just more of the devil's gibberish.  People choke on lots of that today.  It is by design.  Confusion is his wingman.  My mission is to keep people like you from getting confused.  So pay attention.  Everything I'm writing here is beyond the craft of man.  I would not dare claim it.  Be aware of my humility.  I just rose from a 103+ fever.  Life is fragile here below.  See, the deal with a fever, is that it sometimes burns so hot that it fries your brain.  Think of the brain as a computer.  That is why november india sierra charlie had to beef up the air conditioners on their main frame floor.  That big main frame got real hot.  thing is when a computer over-heats, it shuts down.  everything crashes.  your brain does the same thing on yellow fever, sepsis, scarlet fever and assorted strains of influenza.  you don't survive the fever.  because when your brain reaches a certain temp, it shuts down.  when that happens, your lungs and heart shut down with it.  flat line.  exit stage left.  you'll know then what a judas goat is, if that was your flow.  going along to get along.  don't do it.  your ego will not leave here with you.  nor your fiat money.  our anatomy is fragile.  we can slip away so easily.  all it takes is a fever.  you better believe that God has the helm.  clearly we never do.  in the case of the common reprobate, He just lets 'um twist in the wind.  they deserve what they get for thinking that they are the captains of their soul.  be advised that your current dictionaries are full of lies.  they use every trick to confuse the school kids.  the word reprobate has nothing to do with calvinism.  Calvin was a frenchman who taught that we are saved by Grace.  The myth of "predestination" is more baloney from team 6.  the word "reprobate" means a stubborn fool on the broad path to damnation.  heading for the black abyss.  right where the judas goats led him.  often times dangling their money carrots.  money is the root of all evil God said.  Case in point.  boy you better listen to me.  because i am assuredly whistling dixie.  their elegant, noble and blessed civilisation had little to do with thralldom.  though that has been the way of the world all the way back to Moses.  france, england, portugal and many others had african captives working on their plantations.  the traffickers, however, were the same gang that snatch your kids from wall mart.  the missing kids who don't star in snuff films, spend their time  sucking cox in houses of prostitution.  no i'm not making this up.  no motive.  most people have a motive for what they do.  get some read.  but be careful where you get it.  start with The Word of God.  if you are interested in what went on in the old south, read the fremantle diary by cold stream guard officer lieutenant colonel james arthur lion fremantle.  queen victoria sent him to investigate the cotton blockade.  the truth from a 3rd party outsider with no motive to lie about anything.  a fabulous read.  i believe every word of it.  As for God's mighty Word,  i have led you people to water.  but i cannot make you drink.  God said "I am the living water."  pseudo-Bible scholars quote that often time.  but they couldn't tell you whom he was addressing.  it applies to each of us.  but was given initially to a quippy girl who came to draw water.  while His men went off to get food, Jesus sat down by the well to rest.  It was Jacob's well.  Here comes this loose-livin' chick with a water jar.  She of course was a Samaritan.  And God said to her, "give me to drink."  She quipped, "you people usually don't talk to us Samaritans and now you want water from me?"  God answered saying, "if you knew Who I was, you would be asking me for water -- living water."  She bantered back and forth with Him a little bit.  And God said "go get your husband."  She quipped "I have no husband."  The Lord said "you have well spoken.  For you have had five husbands and are currently shacked up with the new guy."  Bam.  God knows us at 360 degrees.  She went running back to Samaria and said there was a man at the well who knew everything she had ever done.  and that He was the Christ.  That was the first thing she got right.  And i am certain that her life improved from there.  Living water, people.  get yourselves some of that before a fever burns you off the stage.