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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
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,
Gay Pride Parade: Open
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.
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.
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
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
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
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
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,
have known you, Martin
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
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
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
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
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
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
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
Ted Kennedy's Tarnished
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
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
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
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
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
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
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
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
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
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,
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
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
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
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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