There are signs of volcanic life surfacing in long dormant White America. A White hot fire rises. Recently, I saw once such sign, a very small sign, but magnificently portentous because it was an act of pro-White rebellion committed deep in the heart of a decadent anti-White shitlibopolis; the nature of the act was one that I had not encountered before in the wilds of any SWPLville.
A handful of posters promoting an anti-Trump protest march were taped to traffic light poles and other utility boxes near an outdoor cafe. As I watched with growing interest, five corn-fed and bearded White men wearing working class clothes and ear-to-ear shitlib-eating grins strode purposefully from one poster to the next, tearing them down and (respectfully) walking to a nearby garbage can to throw them out. As they performed their valuable public service, an effete, stoop-shouldered white manlet snarled at them from across the street. Even at twenty paces I could see the manlet’s curled lip quivering with menopausal rage.
The Fantastic Five noticed him too and, gathering together in a V-formation of happy force, triumphantly strutted across the street toward the iconic white liberal, whereupon they rudely impaled his personal space to remove the last anti-Trump poster that happened to be on the traffic pole situated at that corner right where he was standing and fuming. One of the Five swung in front of the manlet and made a dramatic show of crumpling the poster and tossing it into the garbage for a sweet three-point conversion.
The funniest outtake from this scene was the manlet’s utter enfeeblement in the face of an impudent provocation from his mortal enemies. Snarling from a distance, he was left speechless and catatonic when the Five entered his comfort zone; his inability to act on his suppressed rage a reminder of his low-T futility. I loved witnessing his libsnarl give way in slo-mo glory to a chin-tucked, downcast-eyed, beta male turtling once he realized the Five were heading his way to commit what he must have fantasized was unimaginable horrors against his nonblack body.
Nothing physical happened, this time, but something much worse occurred: the ouster of the shitlib from his position of power in the public space he considered his own, and his abject humiliation in the face of real resistance.
There’s fight left in White men. The time is coming, very soon now, when the paper tigress of shitliberalism is exposed on the vivisecting table, and unapologetic shitlords stream out of their bunkers armed to the teeth with the liberating knowledge that the passive-aggressive snarl is all their enemies bring to battle, and behind that snarl there’s nothing but cowardly submission.