Today's comics undermine society

"Take my wife — please."  — Henny Youngman.

You have to hand it the stand-up comedians of yesterday —the ones who played the "Borscht Belt," waxing hilariously of the foibles of life in the 50's and 60s — Norm Crosby, Rodney Dangerfield, Phyllis Diller, and others who did their sets in places like Grossinger's in the Catskills and had a large and devoted following. Many followed up their acts with movie careers of various levels of success. Look around at places like The Comedy Store, or Canada's Yuk Yuk's or the Just for Laughs Festival/TV series, and Comedy Central today. Unless your idea of humor are jokes relating to bodily functions and perverted sex, with a good dollop of words that would make the walls go blue, this current crop of males and females just aren't funny.

The smart-alecks who think they're better, both on stage and in the comedy series they star in — Jerry Seinfeld, Amy Schumer, Brent Butt,  Darrin Rose and Ellen DeGeneres are at the top of this list, supplanting those who went before them, like Roseanne Barr, Lewis Black and Louis CK and Dennis Leary. This second bunch have a real mean streak, with anger — just how fake is it? — peppering their routines. And they're grousing over EVERYTHING — Dennis Leary's rant from his special Lock and Load about his inability to get a regular coffee at a chi-chi coffee joint is a prime example.

And you have the crude, rude, sex-oriented and gross-out brand of humor that goes beyond the occasional swear words. John Belushi, on Saturday Night Live and films like Animal House and the Blues Brothers; Fritz the Cat was probably thee first cartoon whose opening sequence featured Robert Crumb's famous feline urinating while standing on a girder.

The early comedians had a wealth of great material making fun of peoples' foibles, whether it was driving habits, TV preferences, behavior at sports events or other public places. The newer crop of comics just tear down institutions like straight marriages, the nuclear family, and oh yes, being against "bad guys/issues" like racism, fundamentalist Muslims, reaction against militant feminism. Belushi "pioneered" the kind of humor that featured bodily noises, vomiting, disgusting bullying behavior and all kinds of rock music that generations have been lapping up.

Hey, see what happens when you try some of the "slapstick" you see in some comedy films or "treating" your friends to off color jokes (some, like race-based jokes, can land you in jail or on the receiving end of a nonwhite's anger). But they're famous and they can get away with it, just like many of them they get away with beating on their spouses, girlfriends — another source of nonwhite "humor".

No, I'm kind of bored with Sarah Silverman cracking wise about the menstrual cycle or Gallagher flattening a milk carton with a hammer. Eventually people give up on some comics; look what happened with that idiot Andrew Dice Clay — when's the last time you saw him?
Hopefully, more of us will get tired of waiting for the "Decency Leagues" to picket comedy clubs to have crude, blue and rude comedy turfed, and just turn the remote off. Today's so-called comics undermine our society, making vulgarity, racial self-loathing and perverted sexual acts 'acceptable' for no other reason that no one opens their mouths to say, hey, that's going too far; When we get used to  this kind of comedy, we all lose.



Michael Jackson: A Feminist Icon Gone

We all saw and heard about Michael Jackson's sudden death; from the moments that the news channels announced the ambulance showing up at his home, and Michael Jackson's dying body being carted to the hospital, and the announcement of his death on the afternoon of June 25. We all endured the non-stop coverage, news specials and exposes that saturated TV until the afternoon of July 7th, and for days beyond that — a non-stop circus of pseudo-reverence and craziness that was not even at the level of that of the moon landing, the wedding and death of Princess Diana, or even the death and funeral of John Kennedy.

All this for a “minstrel.” Not a humanitarian who gave most of his fortune to really help people, not a man who cured cancer or who managed to end a world war, but just a man who sang and danced and who, at many times in his life, engaged in the sort of behavior that would land you or I in prison or in a mental institution.

Michael Jackson barely lived fifty years. He grew up exploited (willingly, and obscenely well-paid) by the TV and recording industries, allegedly abused by his father, and ending up a confused, disturbed, frail man before dying an ugly, undignified death, and whose only real legacy is being measured by those in charge of Motown Records, Sony Music, and all those who profited from him (and will continue to). Even in death, his memorial was an eerie farce. One of the first things commentators acknowledged were the large patches of empty seats in the Staples Center where the service was held. The helicopter shots of Jackson's hearse and motorcade seemed to miss the crowds of fans we were told would be in the area... there were no massive crowds I saw lining the roadways from the church to the stadium venue. All morning, everyone from the Los Angeles police chief to people who allegedly knew Jackson were quizzed by news anchors on the "preparedness" of L.A. for any trouble from thousands of potentially grief-stricken fans maybe wanting a splinter to take home from the "King of Pop's" coffin. In one camera shot on the large black sign inside the stadium (I don't know if it was bad lighting or a creepy image deliberately left), only Jackson's pearly smile peered out at the audience, next to his name. After some solemn words, the service became a Michael's Greatest Hits Cover Party , with contributions from Mariah Carey, Lionel Ritchie, Usher, Queen Latifah, and Smokey Robinson, to name a few (at any moment I expected the voice of Danny Glover, imploring me to "Get this once in a lifetime tribute to the King of Pop on DVD or Blu-Ray, Order NOW!").

Maybe the saddest, most ticked-off people alive were the Zionists whose plans for the world were put on hold so we could all have a two-and-a-half-week cry-in for the Gloved One. Not even these all-powerful elites could have predicted that a drug-soaked Michael Jackson would keel over, die and knock everything off the news for days to come.

And as for Michael Joseph Jackson? As he grew from a darling of whites to an ego-driven, spoiled man who had to rely on gravity-defying shoes and other special effects to augment a thinning, poisoned body, just why did so many women elevate him to status just below godhood? If anything, the obscene level of mourning and sorrow at his death revealed the extent of the self-loathing that whites have had pounded into them for decades all over the world. It is a disease that they, and most of those in the music business, are still passing down to their children. So what if he sold more records than any other musician? His very life away from the microphone was a train wreck; he had more appearances, skin hues, religious affiliations and legal hassles than the entire cast of a 1960's Hollywood Biblical classic. He endangered the life of his toddler. His image as a humanitarian — all window dressing, played for the willing cameras and as tightly-controlled as his dance routines. Even the aftermath, with the ugly struggle for "his" kids, and the scandals over who will get his estate and who (if any) fed him the drugs that eventually killed him, is a disgrace.

Of those who should be singled out for special Jerk of the Millennium Award nominations, there is the potty-mouthed Debbie Rowe, who leeched her way to fame and fortune as a shameless harridan who got her way-long-past-fifteen minutes of fame, and who later snarled at the cameras when it came time for the lawyers and trustees to throw the spoils of Jackson's wealth (and his debts) at the circling vultures. Indeed, Jackson was the epitome of the matriarchal ideal of the black man, non-threatening, effeminate, about as macho as a doily; the closest he ever came in his videos to appearing "masculine" were those portraying him as a gang member or the "smooth gangster."

White women have been swooning over "black" entertainers for decades, despite the fact that they aren't really exclusively black. On the East Coast of the United States 11% of "Afro-Americans" are white. while on the West Coast, the figure is 22%. They certainly aren't as full-blooded African as the Bantu or Mandingo tribes, despite their ability to transfer rhythm and quick movement to their performances. None of Jackson's own kids are biologically his, yet his family managed to have the tear-filled white daughter claim what a great daddy Michael was before collapsing into the arms of her "aunts" LaToya and Janet: Heaven knows what those kids' lives were like away from the tightly-managed media access.

Let's face it, Michael Jackson's death was a bad day for teens of both genders.They saw that for all his fame, his alleged talent, and all the "goodness" that has been endowed upon his character, that he was human, capable of ruining his own life, the lives of others, and of manipulating people to his will and to serve the whims of his fragile ego. So large was that ego that with a frail, sick body that he continued to abuse as those closest to him just didn't have the courage to stop his self-ruination, he still planned to make even more millions with one more "This Is It" concert tour. At his rehearsal. recorded just days before his death, he looked stiff and pained, contrary to what the media wags cooed as they played the tape; he was definitely out of it, and not in control.

Now, he is dead — a feminist icon only to be remembered by a ruined gender in search of the next "non-threatening" man who can dance. Michael Jackson now lies alone in a grave, and hopefully, we can all go back to thinking about the real things that are more important. Like the reality of addressing world war and its real causes, poverty, the corrupt in power, and the evil of crime, among other matters.

Michael Jackson, this was it for you. Now let's all get back to life, okay?


Gay Pride Parade: Open Window Whorehouse

For the naive among you, Pride Week is the week-long series of events, parades and the Devil-knows-what-else that goes on once a year here in the Big Smoke, devoted to the (ahem) culture of gays, lesbians, trans-genders, drag queens, trisexuals, and Gee-that-floor-lamp's-lookin'-good crowd. It's become so much a part of the mainstream in Toronto and across this land, that its organizers have even dropped the word "Gay" from its' original title.


And so, your humble scribe headed for the steamy summer confines of Toronto's Yonge Street on June 28 for the wind-up parade (no jokes, please). I wanted to see if the Fetish-Fest lived up to all the hype, only to have my suspicions confirmed: the Pride parade was (and is) an open window whorehouse, so reflective of the matriarchal society that is Canada today — one in need of overhaul, and soon.

Sitting in my pre-parade perch at McDonald's on Yonge near College, I saw the whole street decked out in rainbow Gay Pride flags: Mickey D's, however, decided to stick to its usual red and brown and yellow. It's drizzling on and off, and Toronto paramedics beforehand were warned by the provincial labor board to be on hand to tend to the ow-ies that any gay folks picked up. The first thing that struck me as the many floats sailed passed was the unbridled lack of shame exhibited by the near-naked men or many races and nationalities: (guys who were "in shape" were boogying with Pillsbury Doughboys and elderly men. Of the foreign floats, Uganda was first, followed later by "Positivo Latinos!" (that's HIV-positive gay men), all showing their flags from places like Argentina and Brazil, shucking and jiving and stripped down almost to their birthday suits. I was glad I didn't order a Sausage McMuffin.


In fairness, the costumes were colorful, and the entire gay spectrum had a float or two: transsexuals, drag queens, Proud Parents of Gays, etc. not too many of the leather Village People biker Nazis this year, although there were dykes on bikes (a Pride Parade favorite, judging by the tweeting to whistles and screams from both genders. About halfway through I saw the raison d'etre for the growth, acceptance and economic and political clout of homosexuals for the last four decades: The floats of the United and Anglican Churches, both denominations run by women (ergo, pro-homo) since before they were imported here from Merrie Olde England (One boomed out through the loudspeakers — I guess no one this year had the dough to hire or form a band — Shania Twain's Man I Feel Like A Woman). In feminine-run and feminized societies, gay men are the inevitable result, the next step down from the gal-friendly harmless "metrosexuals" that they coo over so much nowadays.

The hedonism and arrogance from the early days of gaydom in the USA (as set off by the famous Stonewall riots in New York City) grew like The Blob to a deviant worldwide pseudo-lifestyle, where fun, fun, fun is the norm and a revulsion among gays against children is part of a hidden agenda that is only now starting to come out. The Green Party had a float, but chickened out on the rainbow flag, opting for a flag with just many shades of green.

The Pride Parade was indeed a happy affair despite the rain; even the lesbians were smiling, looking as happy as Madonna. In the thick of it was our Mayor Dave Miller. With stories of strike-abandoned garbage piling up everywhere and the stench citywide being as common on the local news as the lottery winning numbers, His Nibs still showed up in pink shirt grinning like a hyena. The media, especial Rogers' City-TV and CTV's CP24 news channel couldn't get enough. the latter running parade coverage into the early evening (they ran the parade twice).

People from all over — Europe, Mexico and even Rochester, New York — made the journey to see the Toronto Pride parade. So entrenched is homosexuality and its many deviant deviations in Canadian society that the organizers were able to get away with its most arrogantly- worded theme for 2009: "Can't Stop, Won't Stop." About half of the paraders I noticed were non-white and I found it interesting that the lead-off float was to promote open gay rights in Uganda. Gay cops, gay firemen, gay military personnel, all had their ride in the rain, and even a small contingent from SEIU, my former union, "strutted their stuff."

The growth of gay communities, along with the special rights and legal privileges being given to them (including recognition/legalization of civil unions and gay marriage) in North America, is of great concern. The steady and sneaky eradication of the nuclear family by the "ZOG"-wrecked economy, and its promotion by the controlled media, bodes ill for all of us. Growing up in Toronto, I was never aware of homosexuality even existing in Canada until a 1967 episode of the old CBC drama Wojeck that focused on gays (who then, really had to "get a room" until Pierre Trudeau and his Liberals decriminalized homosexuality just a few years later). Gay life became the stuff of double-entendres in sitcoms like Three's Company and when disco became the rage, gay, bisexual and gender-bending "artists" like the Village People, Boy George, the New York Dolls, Lou Reed, David Bowie, Elton John and Melissa Etheridge became rich chart-toppers. A whole separate economy was gay-market-oriented, just as it was for blacks and Latinos. And the media sympathy train was chugging full-speed ahead, getting steam from incidents like Stonewall, the killing of San Francisco's Harvey Milk (Hollywood squeezed two films out of that) and of course, the outbreak of AIDS.

Today, homosexuality has hit its apex, and has nowhere to go but down. Yet it is still in the mainstream, a dangerous development that is accepted as much as multiculturalism. Major cities celebrate gay pride with parades much like Toronto's, where everyone has a damn good time and women unconcerned with the future of the white people gyrate right along with these "non-threatening" males — "no breeding needed," just dance the night away. The religious denominations that have strayed away from the part of Christianity that made homosexuality a no-no right from Genesis (It's Adam and Eve, not Adam and Steve), support it to the hilt and support and march for gay rights (not that there's many left to fight for now). The harridan-run churches are among the biggest obstacles when opposing homosexuality, not to mention the idiotic and treacherous laws and governments who have all but made heterosexuality as much a taboo and a source of ridicule as homosexuality once was.

The status of homosexuality, and how we think of those who practice it, is something we need to think about and re-think hard — for the sake of all our futures.

And that may just well be the one mixed blessing of Pride Week.


God Takes a Back Seat in Catholicism


Catholics — remember Catholic school? I do. I remember it as a major part of my youth. I remember the mystery, awe and yes, respect of religion, the sacraments, and the tradition and reverence involved. Long before I ever uttered a word in this nation's other official language, I was phonetically reciting in Latin the Pater Noster (Our Father) Agnus Dei (Lamb of God), and sang Christmas holy carols like Adeste Fideles (Oh Come All Ye Faithful). And there was Catholic school, where a wise, lovable Going-My-Way-type priest was balanced with a younger priest and the terror of Immaculate Heart of Mary school. Mother St. Mary, who tolerated no insolence and was not above smacking a Grade One student with a strap. Catholicism taught me morals. It gave me balance and strength during the hard times of my life. It made me a better person. I believe that having a sense of spirit is critical for all Mankind.

I wasn't too happy when "Vatican II" came to be and things began to change in the Church. Nuns dropped their proper habits to wear dark suits and skirts. The beauty of the ancient hymns was replaced by bearded clowns strumming guitars, and the ancient Latin mass was replaced by English. Positions such as abortion on demand and women priests were not only not punished by threat of excommunication, but were tolerated and left to fester. The whole religion was diluted and destroyed into a pro-Red touchy-feely Humanist Lite cult devoid of encouraging personal discipline, and, as tragic events unfolded, also tolerant of the most aberrant sexual behavior among priests (not to mention the cover-ups and a wrist-slapping Pope). Just recently the news focused on a Miami priest who was caught snugglin' his honey and who, after getting the heave-ho and defecting to the Episcopal Church went and married her; way to be there for your congregation, Father Funboy.

Oh yeah, morality and compassion are so gone from modern Catholicism. When was the last time you heard anyone, from Pope Benedict on down to any head of any archdiocese, condemn the torture and degradation Americans have inflicted on their "enemy combatant" prisoners, or scream blue murder to shut down the torture chambers at Abu Ghraib or Guantanamo? It's almost like they were back in the days of the Inquisition; the levels of torture and human degradation are pretty much the same then and now.

After "the troubles" settled in Northern Ireland, there's been no real renewal of Catholicism, no priests out there in the streets as activists for the Catholic faith; they’re too busy prostrating themselves to the occupiers; internationally, Catholic values and so-called organizations and spokes people are duds.

Today, whatever Catholicism is and how it is practiced, is nothing like it used to be. It has abandoned tradition, sacrament and its liturgy and purpose for a facade of hipness, and is a scandal-ridden, corrupted shadow of its former self. And that, sadly, applies to its congregants. The 82-year-old Pope Benedict XVI is more like a Benedict Arnold, shutting out the traditionalists who want to see that religion's heritage upheld and its traditions restored to the liturgy. The white man's position in the Church? Forget it. Today's it's only the non-white old women using the Catholic Church to push for economic gain and advantage for South American and Filipino women — but considering Catholics' role in bringing multiculturalism and the Third World to Canada, that's not surprising. The soviet European Union is a-okay with them. And there are no calls I heard from the Pope advising major world powers to stop meddling in places like Iran, Iraq and Pakistan.

And there is such a lack of anger over the recent rash stabbings and other attacks in and around churches, there's no desire to speak out against the violence; like the many priest sex scandals, the procedure is to ignore and/or deny it or sweep it under the rug-

Catholicism — quo vadis? Until there is a renaissance and a return from feminism, Leftist agendas and Third World favoritism, I can't say much in its favor, except to impart an old greeting from its Latin mass: Dominus vobiscum, et cum spiritu tuo (The Lord be with you, and with your spirit).



Where are the men?


The other day I was enjoying a nice summer day and on the house radio was one of those Toronto stations (I think it was Virgin FM or Kiss FM) and was trying to figure out just how old some of the male singers who were caterwauling their techno/rap hits were. I didn't think any of them were old enough to legally drink a beer judging from the lack of deep-voiced warbling that dominates the boom-boom-boom these stations are famous for.

You don't hear a lot of really-male-voiced singers nowadays — I mean deep, husky, bass voices that could almost make the floor shake, the kind of voice that made songs like Volga Boatmen famous. Since the 1980s, the Top 40 and other pop music charts have been dominated by wimpy-voiced "non-threatening" young singers like Justin Bieber and Michael Buble who make girls and women of all ages swoon with their perfect hair, zit-free skin (Bieber now also makes coin as a shill for a manufacturer of anti-pimple medicine) and the macho presence of Tinker Bell. Even on his worst day, Elvis Presley still could project more masculinity in a love ballad than a handful of these little snots in a two-hour concert.

If we go back and forth in time, we can derive a correlation between the boy bands of not that long ago (Backstreet Boys, N'Sync, New Kids on the Block, Boyz2Men, to name a few) and the British bands going back to John, Paul, George and Ringo (a.k.a. The Beatles). I remember seeing their picture for the first time on an album cover and saying to myself, if I ever showed up with my hair that long my Dad would drag me right then and there to my Aunt Helen's, who saved us lots of dough on haircuts with her Eaton's Home Shaving Kit. The British invasion bands and their hairlines were just as long and longer, and many of the male (?) members of these "minstrels"™ looked so feminine skinny I wondered how they could lift their instruments, let alone play them. Later in the Eighties, came the punks like The Sex Pistols and Boomtown Rats and the gearbox/glamour bands like Queen and KISS who shared venues with the sadly aging specimens like The Rolling Stones and the "geezer bands" like The Grateful Dead, who count as among their fans Al Gore and war-hag Hillary Clinton. From there cam the love balladeers (black and white) and later, the new century's answer to disco — techno-pop, all percussion and voice. You didn't even need a bad suit to dance at the clubs playing it — just a few Michael Jackson moves down pat.

The castrada boy singers are just one aspect of how singers, actors, comics and other male celebrities have done their part to make the macho, masculine man look like a fools, nut cases, wimps, bullies and various other types of guys you wouldn't want at your Christmas party or near your kids. Honestly, folks, you may laugh at the manic behavior of Kramer on Seinfeld, but if anyone you had at a social function tried to ape his overbearing weirdo ways, dollars to doughnuts he'd have his lights punched out.

They're all over the movies, these male wimps and clods, in films like the new Will Ferrell flick The Campaign, to anything with Jewish smart-ass Adam Sandler. In real life, who's still near the top of popularity still? Why, meltdown king and convicted woman-beater Charlie Sheen. On TV, they come fast and furious, from the techno-nerds of The Big Bang Theory to the over-sexed and crude dolts (black and white) in new series like TBS' Sullivan and Son and Comedy Network's upcoming Men At Work, added to the male casts of Corner Gas, Hiccups and Dan For Mayor. On these shows, men are cranky oldsters, innocent overgrown kids, clueless jerks and lovable slobs. Occasionally a male guest star appears for the female characters to gush and moon over, but all the guys on the above shows are just caricatures and clay pigeons to shoot down for their latent lack of manners, childishness, bad table habits, bad tempers and, oh yeah, lack of hipness. TV gals just want to have metrosexuals. As it happened with Woody Allen, the young, whiny Jewish nebbish evolves in films and TV into the gruff, tough old grouch who's sort of lovable and the straight young nerd still can't shake that effeminate, whiny way of dealing with women — his mom, his girlfriend, his female relatives (In an interesting case of life imitating art, Big Bang Theory star Jim Parsons just outed himself). And on the upcoming fall series on NBC and CTV The New Normal, two gay guys try to have a kid through a surrogate mother (hint: both are as masculine as a crinoline prom dress)

Oh yeah, and evil. On TNT and Bravo Canada, J. R. Ewing and his Texas brood are still up to no good in the remake of Dallas, while over on NBC, they're preparing for this coming winter a TV version of Hannibal Lecter and on Showtime (US) and Movie Network in Canada, brutal serial vengeance killer Dexter continues his bloody ways, while the Starz network in the US has just launched the second season of Boss, with Kelsey Grammer as a wicked and ailing Mayor of Chicago.

I don't see a long future full of men — healthy, moral, masculine men, the kind a healthy women would be attracted to. And as long as the public keeps lapping up the image and aping of what men are on TV and in movies, I'm kind of dreading life in the West for the next while. Let's keep our fingers crossed for the next Real Male Renaissance,



Glad to have known you, Martin


No, no 9/11 conspiracy stuff from me this week. I'd like to remember an old friend whom I have known since my early days in the seventies.

Martin Weiche, who passed away on September 2, was one of what I call 'the originals'  the group of people I first met in 1972 as I joined the Western Guard during its transition from the Edmund Burke Society. In those days I had so much to learn — of politics, of history, of ideology. There was an intensity of being part of a movement that was a risky business operating in a town where Maoists and Trotskyites occasionally flex muscle and slung two-by-fours in our direction. Martin Weiche not only was a great guy to have in our corner on the many days we had to give many of these reds a workout, but he also provided a sense of comradery [sic] and warmth, and was a source of inspiration, a historical connection to our European heritage, and one of the most courageous men I ever knew.

Where to begin about Martin? He owned a big spread near London, Ontario, he had a big family that included two sons (among his family of nine young'ns) who were not only big and tough, but took their driving lessons apparently from A.J. Foyt (as I learned from one white-knuckle journey from the London bus station to Martin's place many years ago), he was one of the most upbeat, funny men I ever knew in my almost 40 years of politics.

And yet for all his jolly demeanor, he was a man of action. A former National Socialist pilot who came to Canada, coincidentally in November 1951 (just a month before I was born), he made his money constructing buildings. He ran as an open National Socialist in the 1968 federal election, the year that the queer Carnation Clown Pierre Trudeau got his claws on Canada in order to turn it into a multicultural nightmare. Time after time, he fought alongside of us back in the days when the more violent factions of the local Toronto reds would show up at our rallies and meetings and go from being sorely in need of a lesson in manners, to being just sore all over. One particular time I was glad to have him around was at a Western Guard meeting one warm summer in the mid-seventies at Latvian Hall on College Street. To look at him you wouldn't think of him as a guy who could go a few rounds, but inside his body lay the heart of a warrior, and he gave the reds a pasting as well as the rest of our street toughs half his age. It was he who at that meeting prevented the commies from turning my then-new political activity into a stay in intensive care.

Martin was a man I deeply respected. Despite having to listen extra hard to get past his German accent, he was like a grandfather I never had. Kindly, full of zest and life, he was always quick with a one-liner. Had he stayed in Germany and decided not to be a National Socialist his wit could have made him that nation's Johnny Carson. In all the time I knew him, he was one of the very few I remember who never lost his temper, and always retained a puckish outlook on life, and when he smiled you just barely perceived a glint of mischief.

One thing I admire to this day is that he never cast off his racial beliefs, despite the ridicule and hassle the Jews, their media and the police at all levels aimed at him. He was a full-blooded, die-hard racist and a National Socialist in an era when so many white liberal Canadians just could not believe there was a man so devoted to that ideology that he would display a large swastika on his property like a crop circle.

I think that one of the reasons he and I got along so well in the early days was because I believe he saw potential in me, part of a new generation of racists: smart, media-savvy and with the ability to carry on as the number of our ideological elders dwindles yet again with his passing. He was an inspiration to me, and though there is again that little sad twitch I feel inside when one of us passes into the next world, there is a sense of satisfaction and again that flood of memories that come in a rush (as it does to all of us who lose a friend.)

Like so many of us who have hung together as racial and ideological brothers regardless of the differences in our ages and our personalities, Martin Weiche is immortal. He truly is an original — a man of humor, optimism, wisdom, courage and commitment to all he believed,  that he demonstrated with the kind of comradery [sic] and in combat that puts some of us to shame.

I will miss you Martin Weiche. Each summer as I sit in the warm sun I will think of your kindness and the courage you took to the end of your rich, full life. You never compromised, you never quit. You carried on in the proudest path and traditions of the heroes of the racist movement.

Rest well, my friend. You are missed and you will be honored until the day we are reunited in that golden void where the immortal men of the North gather, drink and talk of the days of our mortal lives on Earth.

Forgive my German, Martin, but, auf wiedersehen. 



Ted Kennedy's Tarnished Legacy


Saturday, August 29, 2007: As I write the opening lines of this column, in the background there is the somber voice of kosher conservative Fox News Channel's Sheppard Smith heaping praise upon the "liberal lion" of the Left, Edward Moore Kennedy, as his body is being carried out to a Hearse awaiting burial in Arlington National Cemetery beside John Kennedy. It's pouring rain in Massachusetts, and umbrellas are everywhere. Already, there has been at least, if not more, media coverage of his death, with the never-ending tributes and funeral masses, than of Michael Jackson's death, whose birthday would have been today. All local programming on Boston channels was virtually wiped out upon learning of his death on August 25th.

Let's get it out in the open right away. Ted Kennedy was a lout. He was a womanizer, a killer who got away with the death of Mary Jo Kopechne at Chappaquiddick, and a race traitor who did his best to endanger American white people, as much as his brother JFK did in the early 1960's before being cut down by an assassin's bullet. Like the rest of his family, he sleazed his way through politics, an Irish crook (no letters, please, I'm half-Irish) on the same level as killer Whitey Bulger, the fugitive who also had others do his dirty work. He had a soft spot for the commie IRA, and was all for the current push to flood Ireland with non-whites, this, years after spearheading the end of US immigration quotas based on nation of origin in 1965, which ended up wrecking the racial demographics of America forever against whites. As a leading Democrat — who wore the Kennedy name and reputation the way that John Gotti wore the sobriquet of "The Teflon Don," his power was such that he was one guy you didn't cross in Washington.

In the 1980's Mr. "Ladies Man" championed women's libbers and gay rights, and defended abortion rights advocates such as Vice Presidential nominee Geraldine Ferraro, and arm-twisted Soviet leader Mikhail Gorbachev into releasing a number of Soviet Jews including Anatoly Scharansky. In 1991, he and his son Patrick and nephew William Kennedy Smith were involved in an encounter with two women in a bar in Palm Beach, Florida, which ended in rape accusations against Smith.

It baffles me still, a bit, to see all this love being heaped upon a man who acted throughout his life not as dignified and responsible and moral as we used to expect from a public official, let alone a US Senator, but a lustful, boozy, out-of-control jerk more at home falling off the furniture on New Year's Eve, who used his name, his power and the absence of morality in his conscience, to slip out of trouble again and again and again, all the while flaunting himself as a great man. Then again, Ted Kennedy was a living symbol of what America and Americans have become and still are today: a nation of murdering, warmongering, sexually immature and hedonistic bullies who can't figure out why (or pout like a petulant child) whenever someone says they don't like Americans.

Yet, in the finality of it all — as he stands before the “Final Decider” — all his money. power and name will surely be of no use to him when he gets dispatched to the fires of hell. Perhaps the best tribute of him comes from the liberal Boston Globe: "It underscored the evolution that surprised so many people who knew the Kennedys: Teddy, the baby of the family, who had grown into a man who could sometimes be dissolute and reckless, had become the steady, indispensable patriarch, the one the family turned to in good times and bad."

Some patriarch! Goodbye Teddy; It was not a matter of "We hardly knew ye" — t was a matter of the truly good of us knowing you too well.



Violent men, violent games, violent culture

Wow, it's dangerous out here. To see what's still hot in films and on the tube and the latest in home entertainment flying off the shelves (Grand Theft Auto's newest edition), it's amazing how many brave souls still risk that trip to the mall.

We're all responsible in a way for the current no-morals, no-religion, anything-goes kind of society we live in. We shrug off atrocities like home invasion murders and children who go missing and later found dead, body parts found washed on beaches, and we take the Amber Alert as a fact of modern life before checking out the hockey standings.

We're past being outraged enough to demand from our lawmakers to crack down on killers and to stop letting more and more of them into our country. Some of us think it's cool that we in Toronto have a cheapskate mayor who flies to Texas to round up tourism and get rockers to come here while his part-time driver gets busted for drugs, the latest in a long string of scandal that has included drunkenness and possible association with drug dealers.

The "modern"men of the media — Walter White of Breaking Bad, blood-splatter specialist/blood spiller Dexter Morgan, and film "heroes" like Machete (about to return to the screen) glorify mindless, brutal violence; in some cases, it is justified as revenge for another murder or horrific atrocity. In the media, two hundred and fifty wrongs make a right. And these series and films score big bucks from young people.

Our kids are turning into dead-brained zombie-loving dolts with their ears in their I-Pads and their hands constantly texting and tweeting, and enjoying stuff like Dexter and that aforementioned just-finished cable TV opus of drugs and violence Breaking Bad. Younger kids bug mom and dad for the latest violent version of Grand Theft Auto, games where you can kill, run over and shoot people in cyberspace and cause all manner of animated destruction and mayhem — good preparation for when they're old enough to cause crap in the real world as mom and dad are away (constantly) instead of supervising their little snowflakes.

I've gone over in this space ad infinitum how our society's youth are being literally programmed by music, cinema and TV and online to become kill-bots. Forget history or geography, your teen just might be getting his education from a tape of Halloween II or Friday The 13th, or any blood-spattered orgy called "entertainment." Add to that the plethora of TV shows like Almost Human, Vampire Diaries and the about-to-premiere series The Originals and Dracula and you have a possible next Luka Magnotta festering in front of the TV or Dell computer. And the ads aren't much better: Guys are wimps, nut-bars or surly while they're flogging everything from fast food to cars.

Primetime's newest fad — superheroes — offers a angry vigilante named Arrow, who returns to his city after being left for dead on an island. Being rich, like Batman's alter ego, he gets to dispense street justice in a hoodie and wearing green war paint around his eyes.

If you're in charge in your home, remember you're in charge of the remote and the TV, and your kids.  Remember, you are the parent first and the "pal" second. Talk to your kids about what they watch and play, and talk to them about values. Keep at it until they listen if they bristle. If all else fails, take and cut off access to the TV and the electronic fun toys. It might just make them listen. And it just might save them — and you — from a lot of misery, hassle and heartache.



The Racist Hall of Fame II

Here's some more folks I have known over the years, about to be immortalized via the Internet:

WOLFGANG DROEGE: What's to say that hasn't been before. I remember Wolfgang as a pleasant, polite man who got along great with kids. He was generous when he had money, headed up the government-financed Heritage Front and sadly, died a tragic, violent death. His persona was unforgettable, tough, yet ready to converse, and fond of suede and leather jackets. He was a man who stood out as the head of the Heritage Front and became the focus of a lot of media (and Zionist organizations') attention.

ERIC THOMSON: Here's an interesting looking chap, bespectacled, with a short haircut, brown Khaki shirt and Sam Browne belt, a guy who passed police muster and became an inside man for them over at the Zündelhaus. He wrote for Straight Talk magazine as "E.R. Thomson" and also penned an autobiographical fictional tale (?) titled The Chosen One, published by a firm brazenly calling itself CIA Press. In the Western Guard and for Ernst Zündel, he was a tireless worker who at the end, left a note to Ernst reading: "I'm tired of opening the mail; goodbye."

STEVE HAMMOND: If you've ever met a Brit who was tough, near uncontrollable, drank like a fish and was fun to watch, chances are you might have met the one from Blighty. Steve was a good fighter, ready to go after a few "decent drams" and made the rounds traveling through the US, being photographed at racist demonstrations. He was a real party animal with a friend who also had a penchant for good times. He later resettled in England, where he underwent a transformation of his person around the area of his chest and identified himself of the female gender. He truly is not the man he used to be.

EVAN JONES: Tall, short-haired with a mustache and a commanding military bearing, Evan was a regular in the Western Guard days, available for duties both glamorous and mundane; he wrote a piercing article called The Eunuch-fication of Canada's Armed Forces in Straight Talk under the pseudonym Dexter Worthy.

DONNA UPSON: Here's a girl who gave Ottawa mayoralty candidates a run for their money when she actually ran for mayor of Canada's capital; She worked with the Nationalist Party in Toronto, coming from a group of skinheads and working with us as one enthusiastic activist. Her eagerness at times put some of the male racists to shame and referred to yours truly, who acted as a mentor to her and teased her with the term "rookie." We got along great and hopefully, she will return to active service.

MARIAN McGUIRE: Tall, attractive and well-spoken, Marian represented a positive, presentable image of White Nationalism. This Irish "colleen" appeared on Canadian television as a spokeswoman, and her courage under fire (as you might expect from the media) was tested when she was held on the island of Dominica. She wrote articles for Straight Talk and was one of our most popular and literate activists.



Bob's white racist honor roll (Part One)


In my almost 42 years in politics, I have known a number of people— worked with them, socialized, discussed world affairs, drank with — and fought reds and sundry other human refuse alongside of them in the Western Guard and later the Nationalist Party. Each of them had their own personality, their own way of doing politics. We shared a common bond of fraternity and political goals, I'd like to take some time to mention some of my most memorable.

Gerry Doyle: A young man who shared his racist/anti-communist beliefs with his brother Mike. Two more different men you could not ever meet: While Mike was quiet and thoughtful, young Gerry was quite the wild one. He was never afraid to take on a red or anyone who challenged anyone from the Guard or its predecessor The Edmund Burke Society. Together we went on many a moonlight mission postering. delivering flyers door-to-door or engaging in political propaganda, and Gerry always had my back and became one of the most feared anti-communists among the Trotskyites and Marxists who populated the violent Toronto left of the 1970's.

Armand Siksna: Those who have followed this movement know Armand, an energetic Latvian nationalist with a deep love of his nation and his racial identity and his years of dedication fighting the Reds both intellectually and physically. If there were a Hall of Fame for racists or nationalists, it would not be complete without Armand, whose courage under persecution after being charged under Canada's tyrannical hate laws, speaks for itself.

(The Honorable) John Ross Taylor: He was dubbed by Canada's media as the nation's "High Priest of Hate" and was one of the first people who clued me in on the real story vis-ŕ-vis the economy, history, Social Credit, and racist ideology. For a man at 75, who had leg problems, you never saw a man walk so briskly down a street; he was a health food advocate, impeccably dressed, and always a gentleman, even-tempered who hardly ever lost his cool.

John Coutts: A native of the UK with a perfect Bing Crosby Irish face, John was one of the kindest men I ever knew. He traveled with me on vacations. He was knowledgeable, and had an affinity for country and western music. He was a perfect gentleman with everyone (not just the ladies), and no one ever had a bad word to say about him.

Jack Prins: The "gentle giant," Jack Prins (and his wife Sabina) was another stalwart from the early days. Before politics, he had earned a sort of sports notoriety as professional wrestler The Masked Marvel.

Geza Matrai: Now here's an activist who made worldwide news when he jumped on the back of Soviet Premier Alexi Kosygin, shouting "FREEDOM FOR THE CAPTIVE NATIONS!" Hungarian by birth, he was a happy-demeanored, yet passionate activist who helped to put the abuses of Communist Russia and its Soviet captive satellites into the eyes of the world.

Paul Hartmann: Tall, strapping and formidable. Paul established himself as both an well-informed intellectual and a force to be reckoned with among Toronto's left in the 1970's. He was a devoted dad and also presided over ceremonies as a priest of Odinism. His active life was suddenly and tragically cut short when he died of mysterious circumstances.

Kastus Akula: Another "elder European" who was with us from the early Edmund Burke Society/Western Guard days as a staunch anti-communist and distinguished himself s a novelist with a work published in English and his native Belorussian. Tomorrow Is Yesterday.

Dawid Zarashansky: "Tarzan" as we came to call him, was another guy who could be counted on in virtually any situation. Brash and ready for anything, he bared a "White Power" T-shirt at a theatre protest, making the local papers the next day.

George Zapparoli: George was an enigma of a man, a count and a descendant of the noble Italian Lombardis. In Canada, he lived modestly near Toronto's Regent Park housing complex. A man in his later years, he could walk at a fleet-footed pace that only John Ross Taylor could match. He was a prolific writer, contributing to various publications such as Straight Talk and Aryan, and his daughter Titti. was a great help, distributing thousands of flyers in the city. Although an urban man, he could easily adapt to the outdoors, which he did in many trips to our old farm near Tweed, Ontario

Jim Simpson: Jim was a man who had great skill building things; he remade an entire bathroom, and his careful craftsmanship is still on view today at my home. Yet for all his care, he did not tolerate fools (as he saw them) gladly.

Ronnie (Veronica) O'Hare: Ronnie's great strengths lied not just in her indispensable clerical skills (she was instrumental in typing and correcting the old stencils used to produce Straight Talk magazine, but was refreshing to listen to in conversation, particularly if someone displayed any rudeness or ignorance, Ronnie's tongue was a weapon that put them all in their place quick.

Bert "Country" Hiltz: Young and energetic, this small-town lad was an interesting addition to our circle in the late 1970's, His innocence and occasional naďveté was refreshing.

Mike Brown: To look at him with his military winter coat and longish hair, you might think Mike was a leftie. No he was one of us, selling and distributing literature on the street and near subway stations.

John Percy: If anyone could be termed a fashion plate, John was it. He had a penchant for stovepipe pants and whatever style of clothing was in, John would likely be wearing it. Although not as much an activist as others, he was a character in his own rite [sic].

It would take volumes to go through the many, many people I have known since 1972, those whom I was active with and those who straddled activism and the background. Yet, politics is made by people and in their own way they gained a sense of history and permanence being with us and around us. Each of them, wherever they are, I hope, are holding their heads high with confidence and the knowledge that they were (and are) part of a great movement of people at the edge of time, and of our eternal memory.



Ode to Canadian Patriots


This Canada Week, just for a change, instead of the usual fare
I thought I'd reflect on our progress up here
And the good people who got us there.
"The only thing needed for evil to win,
is for good men to do nothing (at all),"
Those were the words of Edmund Burke,
and his namesake's Society's call;
Always our rock, always our leader, who led us from Day One
Till racial awareness was a household word
Don Andrews got the job done.
From the EBS to the Western Guard, to the Nationalist Party's epoch,
He was there to man the trenches in front
He talked the talked and he walked the walk.
In a hotel, he, and music teacher Leigh Smith,
and Paul Fromm were the original three
laid the EBS groundwork, for a group that would fight
For a Canada independent and free;

And later, in Ottawa, clad in green
Donna Upson caused quite a stir,
Running for Mayor in the nation's capital
Was the one they called Baby Hitler.
Let us pause in respect for fallen Wolfgang Droege,
Led the Heritage Front, then was gone
And the HF's Jim Dawson, and Ken Barker,
They was a big men in more ways than one.
Young Geza Matrai, from Hungary,
and his daring feat, 'twas quite grand
Jumping onto commie Kosygin's back,
and cried freedom for all captive lands.
And John Ross Taylor, wise to the enemy's ways, of their deeds and cunning he'd preach;
Longtime enemy of the reds and the Zionists,
to them, quite a lesson he'd teach;
He cornered them in the courtroom, with the truth that glowed like light;
"Truth cannot be a defense" said these weasels;
To his last hour he'd not relinquish the fight;
There's the man of Allan Gardens,
William John Beattie by name
When first he hung out the swastika here,
free speech would ne'er be the same.

And the Latvian gent Armand Siksna, who would tolerate none who were rude
Jim McQuirter, budding Klansman, quite famous
As a racist and a Sunshine Dude.
Hats off to all the early stalwarts,
serious Joe Genovese and Jaanus Proos;
And to the ones who came later like Max French, who was
alternately staid and footloose;
Mel McCready, from the Isle of Erin, irrepressible iron-willed boy
Pete Metrewski and the crew of young skinheads
Who made the reds and ARA holler "oy!"
There was stoic and wary Jim Simpson,
Bob Ruminski, with a grin ear to ear
Leo Jutting, the Australian adventurer,
who knew the good life, good art and good beer;
Gerry "Mad Dog" Doyle, a great friend
A hero to the white nationalist cause,
Limey Stephen Hammond, now known as "Andrea"
He's just not the man he once was.

Evan Jones, who was a great seamster,
Klan robes were his own specialty,
And Armin Aurerswald, who graced both our land and our race
With his own sizable family.
Dr. George Zapparoli, a noble man
of quiet bearing, and a Lombard by birth
And Chris Greenland, never short of ideas
And also considerable girth;
Norm Smith, who had a sad ending,
a perennial, soon, he too was gone;
And the Odinist Norwegian Paul Hartmann,
Keen of brain, large of heart and of brawn.

Let us also salute James Brookman, who won a
following in a councilor race;
Brenda Kildey and her boundless energy, who
could never stay in one space.
Belorussian Kastus Akula, whose books spoke
of his nation's pain;
And Estonian Arnie Polli, who never tired of
the political game;
From Lithuania came Gil Urbonas,
a man of his place and his times,
And a quiet, Irishman who came here from the U.K.,
John Coutts, A.K.A. James Grimes.

And let's pause to also mention George Burdi
An activist and reverend too,
In the flesh, and online and in print
He remained a white racist guru.
There was Rod Young, who was there from the earliest days,
Henrich Van Windt, also along
Captain David Astle, a movement pioneer,
Newshound David Sloan too, did belong,
And from the sun-drenched British Columbia coast
Fred Woodward sent occasional dispatch,
And in typing and spelling and clerical finnesse
Janice Solary was truly unmatched.

There was John Godfrey, John Jewell, old-timer
Bill McPherson.
There was Bert Hiltz, who we called "Country" ;
And two others, a couple who were into spy games
Also part of the movement's history,
They were Hector the Albanian, rumoured CIA man, and
Anne Burton, who hated fluoride;
There was Jurgen Neumann, his skill with cameras evident
In his productions he exhibited with pride.

There was a master of metals, Horst Gobbels,
With a blowtorch, created beauty,
There was young and sarcastic Tom Druery and
Romana Andrewchuk, a Ukrainian cutie
There was Janice Arsenault, the Acadian,
The HF's Chris Newhook, tough as can be,
Dawyd Zarshansky, A.K.A. "Tarzan",
His tough guy image fitted him to a "T";

There were the three Daves, Sutton, Carpenter, Franklin
The first two from hamlets quite small,
Dave Franklin, he was a lover of the fish
In his tank, and cared for them, one and all.

Let's not forget all the ladies, who joined in the activity
Many of them were as tough as the men of the fight
And just as sharp, I'm sure you'll agree.
There's Ann Ladas from Greece, a credit to them
Danube Swabian Rose Perri, too;
And Straight Talk assistant Veronica "Ronnie" O'Hare,
whose tongue cut down morons and fools;

And Victor and Wendy, the Ians, McDonald and Chalmers,
And Ken from Mississauga, friend true.
And also these name shall go into the trome
Those of Grant Bristow and Robert Toope

From Canada's London, there is Martin K. Weiche
A man we would occasionally come see,
And Al Overfield, the only one of our band
Who could trace his line back to Tecumseh;
There was Jeff Goodall, civil servant
And the electronics whiz Michael Doyle,
There was Donna Elliott and husband Wayne, a tree surgeon,
made his living with saw, and in soil;
And baseball-capped Jimmy Spearin, with a vision he would apply,
A white traffic signal man, his idea;
"White man says go" was his cry.

Of the intellectuals, there was Xavier,
Who could converse on any topic at hand;
And our Hollow Earth theorist and cat-lover Ivan Boyes
Still waiting for the Venusians to land;
And John Percy, who adopted a punk style
Before punk was seen to be cool
John Globus also contributed, and
"El Gusano (worm)" Frank DeMarois, too;
Merill Orr and his portable respirator
Always a breath of fresh air
Reliable Frank Andrews, call a meeting
And you knew he would always be there.
There was Francis Walsh, nicknamed "The Funkster,"
Al Brown, his camera always near.
And Tom Reade, as at home talking politics,
As with his motorcycle and a beer.

There was wrestling's Masked Marvel, Mr. Jack Prins,
A kind man, and who always was heard
And his spirited wife, Sabina,
Who went sky-diving and soared like a bird;
Gary Schipper, who played axe and railed
of "hippie-crites", his passion would burn,
And while we are talking performers,
There's Rob Livingston and Janice and more
Flamenco guitarist John Thomas, who knew
Classic Spanish music down to its core:
There was Peter ("The Actor") Herod;
Actor and male model Bob Mann contributed, too;
There was Ilmar Kitsas and Urmas Toming
Proud Europeans both, through and through.

So many of those in the vanguard
Were men with lady friends who pitched in
There was Victor Pataki and his friend Wendy Forbes
Geza's friend Maria, proud Hungarian.

There was a funny old guy named Bill Colimay
Who'd lived quite a colorful life,
owned a mine and drank his coffee two cups at a time and
Asked us to pray for him and his wife,

Imprisoned Brad Love, and Ernst Zündel,
Caged men whose spirits are still free;
Our Dale Gribble, John Morgan and also Russ Varey,
Who amused with his flim-flammery.
Let us not forget, let us mention honorably
Other stalwarts who should not be missed,
Mr. George Barkhouse and Mr. Verner Cinis,
the Latvian and anti-Communist.

And all those from the seventies who helped with Straight Talk
The premiere Racial Awareness magazine
Those who contributed prose and who sold
and produced it and placed it to be prominently seen;
Stefan Lustofka and his brother,
Quebec's James Phillips wrote articles galore
And brave men like Mike Brown, Hamilton's Len Gilliard,
Sold S.T, on the street by the score,
And in its pages we were to read of our news and the views
The birth of the White Confederacy:
The trials, the heroism, forever in print,
The struggle for true democracy.

There was the charming Marian McGuire,
Who gave our image more polish and class
George Keeping and his brother, always ready for action
And willing to kick commie ass;
Let us also remember Jack Morrison,
From Social Credit's Ontario days
And the "Chosen One" novelist Eric Thomson;
Was he really in the CIA's pay?

And let us include in this list Marc Lemire
and Barbara Kulaszka, here, too
Who hung in against Orwellian tribunals and
Would not flee at the enemy's first 'boo';

And let's give a few lines in salute here,
To the western heroes who had fought the good fight:
Alberta's James Keegstra, Battling barrister Doug Christie,
Who knew telling the truth was just right;
Joining them, persecuted Bill Noble,
To the tyrants a dangerous brain,
Professor Terry Tremaine, the "Mathdoktor"
Targeted in tolerance's name.
Tom Winnicki, four years ago sentenced,
To four months in the dungeons for "hate"
And Chris Kemperling, against gay agendas,
Lost his livelihood, a punishment great;
Also we honor here Melissa Guile;
Al Kulbashian, Peter Kouba, Glen Bahr,
Ciaran Donnelly, were more of the many the law said
Carried Freedom of Speech way too far.
There was Jessica Beaumont, Bob Wilkinson,
Alexandro di Civita, and
Craig Harrison whose names we also add to
The hounded of the so-called fair land.

We cannot forget comrade Terry Long,
Fought for freedom and truth without fear,
Stared down JDL thugs, defied federal bugs,
After starting Aryan Nations here.

And Darcy Hopkins, another man fallen
An unshakable spirit to the end
And "Kick-ass" Kevin, and Tony and his proudly white crew
Many times the white race they'd defend,
And more ladies to mention, Nicola, Vicki, Karen,
Diane, Kathleen, Roxanne, thanks to you all;
And "The Baron" from Sweden, rich in money and spirit.
In his own way, helped when given the call.

There are so many worthy of mention;
names faded in time and in space
And those I've left out, they will understand,
their contributions cannot be erased.
The many nations of Europeans who helped us,
Communities diverse. big and small,
the young and the old, the rich and the poor,
were the ones, the most helpful of all:

Ukrainians. Romanians, Croats, Serbs, Italians
Hungarians and Bulgars as well,
Belorussians, Czechs, Slovaks, many from the oppressed
who knew to first-hand, the meaning of hell;
Men from Latvia, Estonia, Lithuania too,
Eastern Europeans, strong-willed and proud,
Whose bretheren lived under Red Russia's cruel boot, and
Pleaded in voices passionate and loud;
Let's also remember the people of small-town Ontario
Unforgettable in character and name
Specifically, Swastika and also Kaladar,
site of many a weekend's war game.

Those of us who are part of the white people's tribe
Owe them all a heartfelt "thank you";
And no, I'm not modest or bashful,
But I'm in that list somewhere, too.

Oh the many activities, projects and groups
A few men who loved freedom produced,
The tyrants had no idea of the resistance, defiance
When those who craved real freedom were turned loose
The White Confederacy, European Heritage Week
Singular ideas like no other
And when black crime begat the White Peoples' Vigilantes
Toronto's politicians and mayor all took cover.
We can't thank the koshers, we can't thank the cops,
Or the media or print's fourth estate;
It's they who kept putting fuel on the fire,
Slandered white race survival as "hate";

As we pause now to dwell of the good in this land
Let us all in unison celebrate
What they all did to make our race proud, make it wise, just and good
What they all did to make our race great.

Every one is a flag for our racial identity
A credit to our race and our nation,
And each one of these heroes truly deserves
a "Real Order of Canada" commendation.

Let us raise a one-handed salute to them all,
Each, a woman or man of the hour
For all, in one way or another helped uphold
White survival, white pride




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