The following email was received sometime in April just before my eyes failed. It is being addressed, today, 6/22/21.

James, 

Thank you for the WW post. I feel like the goat-sheep analogy is going to pop into my head for some time forward. Like I might wake up in the middle of the night sometime soon and with an insight into where exactly I fall in that analogy. I’m not looking forward to that but I sense it’s coming.

Meanwhile, I’ve got an analogy for you, based on something, but mostly intuition and sheer speculation. First the speculation: France purposefully tanked it in WWII. Because their casualties were so high in WWI. So they —whoever the main decision makers were or just by some group decision making thing, decided on a just let it happen, stay alive, rely on “allies,” alliances, deals. I speculate their plan was to fight enough to preserve honor, save the population core, and wait for rescue from the West. I speculate they knew figured the UK, and especially the USA and USSR would eventually take  Germany down, and that Germany’s conquest would flounder. That the French wouldn’t start speaking German and the German’s wouldn’t stick around long enough. I speculate they knew and factored in the various tangible and intangible costs, including such things as a certain percentage of young madamoisselles taking up with Hans instead of Lionel, and made a sort of cold hearted mathematical rational decision to dive. Important point: I’m not positing one tactical one week dive, I’m talking about a dive of 10-15 years making, pre-dating the Nazi’s even. 

I have no primary or secondary source information except as follows.

The entire basis of my speculation is that I had the chance, many years ago, of visiting a few dozen small villes, villages, small cities, south of Paris, and I remember eventually being struck by how every one of them had the WWI memorial statue in the center of town or near the main railroad station or something. And the plague with the names of the dead listed. And the lists had clumps of guys with the same last name. Brothers? Cousins? Father and son? Uncle and nephew? Some of these were small rural basically abandoned towns. WTF? Like 12 guys and 3 of them are so and so and another 2 are such and such?!? And if the clumps aren’t bad enough, when you start doing the math, ‘Ok, the village hall, the church, the ___, that means ... X # of private houses. And there are a Y dead?!? Ok, so there are those farm houses out there.... Then later you check the main stream reports and even they’re like, yeah, just a mind-blowing (for me) casualty rate. 

So they made alliances, knocked themselves out in all sorts of ways and... And it worked!! It worked! They were spared —well, spared compared to lots of others! Genius! Except for a small nagging blow to their pride. Big whoop. We won! But then, years, decades later.... McDonalds. I’m not kidding. McDonald’s. Highways. Suburbs. Everything worked —I’m speculating now about what went through and what goes their minds— everything worked, the Americans even left. But they didn’t leave. McDonald’s. Mc—@#%$ing!!!—Donald’s. That was a price they didn’t see coming. That’s the nudge. The rub.  The ride never ends. They stayed alive. Won on one level of keeping their nation alive, but lost in another, maybe more important way.

Here’s the analogy: Euro-Americans now are the French, between the wars. 

I’ve got to flesh this out.

-Crux Cross

My instinct is to regard the French strategy, which I always thought was obvious, as analogous to Indian reservation strategies adopted by the drunken and unwarlike and feminine aspects of the tribes as an alternative to the fate of Metacomet, Tecumseh, Dragging Canoe, Looking Glass, Sitting Bull and Crazy Horse. Every military thinker on both sides of WWII knew who would win. The only real question was who would get the German scientists. While the dreaming dickhead with the stash led his nation into suicide, the psycho, the drunk and the gimp were simply sharing in the killing of 70 million souls as a means of acquiring the world's best rocket scientists.

Crux, maybe some comments here can help you with the rest. I have spent the past few years traveling about the nation and have happened across various monuments to its shaping. Let me recall some monuments placed by victorious conquerors returned home and place them in context.

In Baltimore, there are numerous monuments in stone placed by the victors of various wars. These monuments share three fates:

-pillaged of bronze by drug addicts

-removed as offensive by transexual advocates

-overgrown and hidden and unheralded by their few advocates to prevent desecration.

What surrounds these monuments:

-drunk and drug-saturated white elites

-drunken and drug-saturated black and white underclass

In Enumclaw, Washington stands a monument to 10,000 men who died clearing the forest on that once clothed that highland of end moraines at the foot of Mount Rainier. The descendants of these men are nearly all gone as the descendants of white urban elites who drove them west with laws and immigrants, now settle down to drink and do drugs and speak of how cutting down a tree is a crime and that hunting for meat is out of step with the vegan times.

Small towns in Pennsylvania: Reading, Lancaster, Oakdale, Ephrata, Bellavue, included, have many banners and plaques commemorating the the liberation of France from the only evil force in world history. None of the locals under 60 read these banners or monuments. The rest of the population are mostly not locals, but aspirational and elite class whites who have fled the rampant crime they cultivated in larger cities. The other immigrants are their drug-providers, the downtrodden folk of color who have migrated to these places largely to sell drugs to the guilt stalked scions of the Dreaming West. Pennsylvania is overdose central, where the locals being replaced by those both over and under them in the social order commit opiate suicide in the shadow of young, smiling grunts of their great grandfather's time photographed before they were sent a half a world away to kill and die for a bigger slice of the American Pie.

In Baltimore, the furthest gone of these replacement zones, being converted to finish the globalist work of WWII, the American Legion post across U.S. Route 1 from the grocery store I used to manage, which is now out of business, has been bought by the Pakistani owners of the bar where I used to eat breakfast before heading into work. That American Legion Post has been converted into liquor and beer storage for the bar across the side street, where you can no longer sit at a table and eat, and is itself a sign post in the shape of a building, flying the banners of money making representing the major brewing and distilling corporations.

Ultimately, anything won by the sacrifice of men whose sons have a price, will be sold. This seems to render the conquerors and the conquered of our hallowed wars equally into the pimps of the Quean of all Whores—and we, their scions, little more than bastards toiling in the shadow of that looming edifice that we are told is a church, though it is the brothel of our birth.