Bob sent me the following clip of a fine gentleman, a gunsmith and hunter from Wyoming, who lives in grisly country discussing the most insidious federal initiative to drive the remaining paleface Indians of America unto the suburban reservation. The obvious course is suburban gentrification of rural zones, turning a traditional community into an atomized recreation area.

The less obvious course has been the reintroduction of grisly bears, predators recently replaced by human hunters, who are, like hoodrats, above the law and above the hunter's gun and have begun to decimate prey animals and threaten humans, resulting in some hunting licenses being taken away, by way of fewer being issued. The big initiative is the introduction of the invasive pack predator from Canada, the timber wolf, which has culled elk and moose herds as much as 95%, reducing hunting opportunities more. The obvious goal of these initiatives is to reduce hunting by non-elites to zero, just as the same government 140 years ago decided to wipe out the bison to force Indians to become grain eaters.

Watch "Bears and wolves, O My!" on YouTube

Bob Johnson Wed, Sep 18, 1:15 PM (2 days ago)

Although I could not get the video I describe below from the twin cities on my computer, Bob had me view it this morning on his infernal device and was disturbed, wondering if he could ever survive in such an environment where one is not permitted to counter attack the protected predators of our cities.

12 oppressed individuals of ebony hue attacked a large plaeface and even jump stomped him and rode a bike over him on camera outside the Twins Stadium.

It developed with 9 hoodrat scouts and one hoodrat hitter [Fat Boy] milling around him as he sits witlessly at their mercy.

They await the arrival of a bigger fat boy, henceforth Big Boy, who walks up to him, which emboldens the only athletic muscle guy, White Shirt, to take his phone, which causes him to give chase and walk into the staged ambush as Fat Boy #1 punches him.

There are only three dangerous actors here, two without the balls for confrontation with a bigger man. This is an easily managed pack of feral foes.

Then it's on, they pile on and stand sentry by turns, stripping him, whipping him with his belt, etc.

Bob asked me about this and I told him that this would be a playful attack in Baltimore. If you have 12 hoodrats in Baltimore than there are 3 knives and 2 guns. I could have had this and worse happen to me hundreds of times if I were as stupid as this pallid ape. Again, without iron to sharpen our steel where are we? We can thank Ebon Kind for awakening the tiny minority of us who still have enough balls to act upon our plight.

For you rural guys, this is a pack of coyotes, in a world where it's a felony to shoot a coyote.

When the first negro shows up, you stand and began prowling and scanning for the second negro, loosening your hands, shaking out your arms, rolling your shoulders, warming up your ankles.

When the second negro shows up you move off and begin scanning for their reinforcements, for sorcerers have provided these savages with the means to communicate remotely.

When three or more negroes are on station you advance to a more defensible destination hoping to string them out so you can stab them in detail, alert for running obliquely or head on into reinforcements.

If this is impossible, perhaps you are waiting for your girl to get off work, then you put your back to a barrier and slide a weapon into your hand and begin visualizing you taking as many with you as you can, realizing that if you are successful you will have a choice of a lifetime of incarceration or death by cop. You need to be engaged or engage before she comes outside.

Note that even at 10-1 odds the skinny scouts and their single ambush puncher had not the courage to attack this seated oaf, who was bigger than any of them.

Bob asked me how he would do in such a situation, what with being big, old and boney-shouldered, block-headed and half-deaf and bemused by urban settings:

Well, Big Guy, the smartest ones would figure you as a recent mental hospital release. The hitter would show up and look at you and say something that you wouldn't hear as you looked around in a daze wondering how humans could live in such a concrete waste and he'd slap the shit out of White Shirt and say, "Nigga, is you stupit, pulling me in on dis Frankenstein bullshit! Learn yo trade, nigga en get sometin' ain't gonna eat yo dumbass alive while I breakin' my hanz on it!"

Let's have some fun with some of my other friends:

Big Ron, as he smirks and eases up to the biggest one with more swag than any negro there, looks down as he sets him up for a shovel hook and shift and says, "Watch'you lookin' at nig...?"

White Shirt says, "Yo, dis nigga crazy—ledz roll."

To which Big Boy says, "Watch you pullin' me into some Bevaly Hillbilly shit fo, ha Coco Puff?"

Ron is no free to walk off unmolested or pass out pizza delivery fliers and tell them about the weekly special.

Sean stands loosely as Big Boy walks up, snickering, "Oh, we got ourselves some Clark Kent bullshit here—don' ya know Supaman dead, white boy—ayyye, my leg, my leg!" as the compound fracture of his femur splinters out through his thigh and Fat Boy jumps up and down laughing, "Dat shit is too funny, yo!" as White Shirt calls the cops on the defender and the others spread out to await the pending "white-on-white" cop crime.

When Big Boy came up to Oliver to challenge him so that White Shirt could steal his iPhone and lure him into an ambush, Oliver would hand his phone to White Shirt, saying "Hold this, please" and knock Big Boy the fuck out with one overhand right, say, "Give it back, nigga," to White Shirt and then walk off as they all stood dazed and confused about their hitter, until Fat Boy said, "Oh, dis nigga ain't worth shit nohow—y'all should a left dis ta me," and then he and the skinnies would strip Big Boy of his every belonging, except a sock to put on his dick, and then go gangbang Big Boy's 12-year-old sister.

Crazy Mark rampages, growling, "Niglets, die niglets!" knocking teeth across the concrete, kicking felled hoodrats with his stolen engineer boots that he got off that drunk CSX worker in Pig Town, grabs the bicycle and bends it over a skinny and then begins beating piss out of Big Boy until the cops show up and taze his big ass and haul him away to the mental hospital.

Yeti Waters, AKA Big Tony, bare-headed in the sun, having been unable to find a hat that would fit his five-gallon head at the Big and Tall clothiers, notices that White Shirt has some weed in his pocket, walks up to him and says, "Are you gay, or just pretty?" fishes the weed out with his sausage fingers and says to Fat Boy, "Hey, you got a light or you a fuckin' pig?"

As the skinnies gather around and Fat Boy light's Tony's blunt, for which he happened to have a hollowed out Swisher cigar in his pocket for just such an occasion, Big Boy rolls up and punches Tony on the jaw with a loud "Kerack!" and Tony pats him on the shoulder as he takes another toke and says, "What's up, Bro? You must be the Man around here." As Big Boy tries to pretend he didn't hit Tony to hurt, so as not to ruin his perfect Knockout Game record, he chuckles and lies to save face, "Long time no see, Bruthaman—whuzzup?"

Tony then fist bumps him and passes the blunt to him and starts telling stories about getting the shit kicked out of him by the cops when he was fifteen... and the Liliputian minds begin to sway and jive around the concrete altar upon which loomed now their white negro god, risen to free them from The Man with tales of vile cops duped, white bitches ravished and domino games heroically lost to old school jailhouse pimps...

There are many more than one way to avoid being skinned by the Media State Paramilitaries. We just need to understand that God somehow let Charles Darwin sit at his left hand for comic relief as we are tested to see if we are worthy of survival.

Big Ron's Baltimore: A Working Man's View of Urban Blight