The Pool – Nice day for a funeral

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Tony

Dec 23, 2018, 9:17 PM (13 hours ago)

So, this happened at the pool today. I’m still angry....

December 23, 2018 ~ nicedayforafuneral

Me and the younger kid were trying our hand at finishing drywall, when he asked “Can we go to the pool?” He’s been a good helper, so there’s no way I could say no. “Tell your brother to put on some trunks and let’s go.”

Fast forward to the pool. My 2 sons, 8 and 9 years old were playing water basketball, peacefully enough before a group of 3 black kids between about 12 and 14 started in...

Read more at the ink below.

Tony, you should be angry, but not because you didn't get a positive resolution. In fact, you achieved a nearly perfect textbook piece of woke deviltry.

The anger, as I suspect you know, is directed at Society, Civilization, Modernity—the SYSTEM of human farming that prevents you from pole-axing those shit birds with a folding chair, which, in any sane world, would be exactly what should happen, and that the event should be rewarded by a key to the city and an open invitation for you as an honorary lifeguard...

There is nothing in that encounter you could have done better, almost...

One might look at it as a beneficial training exercise for your sons.

In a place like Baltimore, your encounter would have been infinitely more perilous and would probably best be described as a tactical victory necessitated by the operational blunder of going to the waterhole next to the hyena den. But your situation enables limited contact with low-intensity, small-sized ebon scout units, which will clue your sons in on what to expect from veteran main-battle units in their ever-darkening future.

Once you participated in the false civic space sharing, then walking away would have been a moral defeat which would have imbedded anger in your heart forever, until you took a similar situation to contact and disposal, which your civic matrix will not tolerate. Against barking dogs, standing your ground is called for—so long as you remember that it is not your ground, but a temporary domestication space owned by our masters who have placed these savages within striking distance of our dependents for the twin purpose of turning us either into that cucked lifeguard or putting us in prison.

The only thing you need to work on is the post-facto anger because it is toxic, physically and devilwise, bad for you, corrosive to your body and soul. This is the dilemma of the intact human living in the meat-chute of souls, like a wolf forced to live in a dog pen and leashed or shot if he bites back at the dogs. Until the world returns to the wild of the wolf pack, so long as it remains the kennel of yelping dogs, then we have to let our masters pretend we are dogs too. Temporary wild spaces, like riots, 3:30 a.m. in the fog, abandoned buildings, these are fleeting opportunities to be what we were intended and evade the vile Civilized purpose of our manhood being amended. But while we are in the master's kennel with his dogs we have to be able to communicate directly with the vestigial souls of his feral beasts and eventually, through your deviltry, turns these twisted beasts to our own purpose. You bent three feral wills and cowed one ghost automaton. Your goal is for such a future situation to result in the leader of the mud men to become your henchman, his teens your oldest son's henchmen and the lifeguard the butt of their jokes—approved in a limited fashion by your validating nod.

What I'm saying is, that the only way to improve this situation over your own resolution as related in your very lucid account, would be to have the leader of your wrangled beastmen confirm the ghost coward as racially undead as this is beneath your station. Your local yos seem to have potential as grogs against ZOG.

Your curt response and the yelping of the retreating dogs worked out fine. Since the ghost ϲunt lifeguard was not a cop you were even able to go alpha on the ball-licking representative of the civil collective.

Good job and remember to think of it as a chess game, with your only enemy, your opponent being the SYSTEM, not the three ebon savages, not the lifeguard, not the predatory ebon whelps your sons dealt with, but the hideous thing that slobbers, blubbers, lies and twists reality through its billions of oracle portals every day, leering out at us like the tranny pedophile of gods He/She is.

Merry Christmas, Brother.

I'll be rolling into town on the train at the first turning of winter to inspect your troop of Dindustani Skulkers. We'll need to get them mustered out as night watchmen, one trained up as a luggage-bearer for Master Riley's upcoming inspection at our first Conclave of Woke Devils.