NFL Jokery, Country Music Wokery and the Elevation of a Race to Olympian Godhood

I am sure that readers who have seen network or cable TV have noticed that commercials went from focusing 25% of actor spots on 13% of the population, to over 75%. Every commercial has a melinated actor, especially for goods marketed predominantly to ghost people. Also, where ghost people are permitted they are the butts of jokes or the seekers of wisdom at the feet of their golden gods. Of interest is that dark skinned African types are avoided, such that one might suspect that there is not a mixed race African American of milky to beige hue that could not land a commercial acting job.

For the past five years better ghost athletes have been passed over by the pros for marginally less able Holy Hued athletes, and if the abilities are equal, forget it, cracker. Although a survey of mine noted that blacks only dominated 11 of 110 sports, most sports coverage in the U.S. is of the few black-dominated sports.

In boxing, which was only dominated by blacks in the 1960s and 1970s, but was friendlier to them in the heavyweight division, due to the NFL and Major League Baseball taking so many potential heavyweight boxers [every—and I mean every—pro quarter back or pitcher could be a heavyweight boxing contender], it is a fact, that for the past 20 years, when the heavyweight class became dominated by non-African heritage athletes, and in these past five years with all but two weight classes of 17 dominated by non-African heritage athletes, that coverage of boxing is limited to heavyweight title fights featuring blacks, and that when they lose it is a tragedy for them, not a triumph for the winner.

Recalling that I was told as a young man that I could not box because I was white, that this programming was already in place, that there was something alive in the media system that wanted men of my kind to sit on the sidelines at all sports venues and cheer rather than participate. I have had sports fans, friends, doctors—and heard a broadcast in which white nationalist leader Richard Spencer made the point stridently—state that black men are superior athletes and others cannot hope to compete...despite non-African heritage athletes dominating most sports.

I have always sensed, and now firmly believe after this last week of viewing mainstream TV in spots at a bar where the programming is selected by Amy, a Chinese babe, for the taste of her 40-70 year old Caucasian clientele, that Caucasian self-loathing is an implanted control key placed within us collectively through media.

Some 20 years ago the NFL began changing rules in order to promote passing the ball in order to grow female fan ratings, as women like watching men leap and jump and throw and get bored with men smashing into each other in groups. Thus over-protection of the quarterback changed the game to make cry baby cheater and great thrower Tom Brady the best in his position.

Traditionally, running quarter backs have not lasted long in the NFL, and black quarter backs have tended to that type [Mike Vic, RG3] and have had short careers. Now—go figure—as the most marketable act a franchise of any kind can conduct to appeal to the ghost Guilt fan is to offer opportunity to people of African descent—of a sudden, I have watched 6 NFL games and five of the quarter backs have been of African descent, though very mixed and washed out, not dark at all.

Even a few years ago maybe 3 team captains were black in that league. These are mostly rookie quarterbacks and the commentators who normally are hard on ghost team captains—and the quarter back is the team leader—give these guys a pass on everything. And the players are being even more closely supervised as to how rough they are on the offensive team leader, as if every quarterback is now Tom Brady, who seemed to have his own official force field around him.

I really like watching these athletes. They are working hard, stepping up, not tall enough for the job in general—which appeals to my runty ass—but my Uncle Fred's [1] words ring in my ear, that running a quarterback is stupid. So what does it say that these huge money machines are risking their team captains in ways previously thought rash, in order to field players of African heritage that are not optimally suited for the position? I watched a lumbering, Caucasian beast man, who could not run at all, the quarterback of the Pittsburgh Steelers out play a mսlatto nearly half his age. I think the dude is a rapist—a perfect Viking.

The one thing that has been emerging, which seems like it is going to prevent the total removal of Caucasians from professional football, is that with these little scrambling light-skinned quarterbacks being hunted to extinction by BIG MEAN black defensive ends and linebackers, that the Tight-end position is becoming more important, that tall, heavy, muscular, intelligent athlete is almost always Northern European in origin.

The beauty of even heavily contrived modern sports like football, designed to get men out of the honor culture and into the mob culture, is that due to the contact, that these crude debasing forms attract the best of our young men, who resist colonization by the negative weight of that form and attempt to keep an honor culture alive. The movie Rollerball and my novel Cube studies this as a social corrective born of a social corrosive.

Additionally, it seems like of every two teams matched up, that the most vicious linebacker is a viking type. Football, as evil a use as it has been put to to get most men off of the sports field and into seats eating potato chips and drinking beer while they worship a better man rather than scrap with a rival bar team from across town, has, in its athletic and combative aspects a redemptive value.

So how to further attack masculinity in general and European heritage of honor specifically, through this sport?

That is the media mind question.

The tendered answer is: by acting like a misbehaving high school ball player of Urban African American extraction [2], by dancing in the end zone, cavorting like a clown, strutting like a peacock, doing comic officiating while the referees do the real thing and by acting like a Show Wrastlin' clown. This was on full display, with nobody behaving more like a hip hop rapper in the body of a dominant athlete, then the ghost players. I imagine that the NFL agents at some point showed up at the locker of each ghost player and said, “Look, we haven't figured out how to make you look like Mean Joe Green yet, so if you could at least clown like Ray Lewis, we'll let you play even though you look so pale out there that the color crew is going to go blind trying to tone that shit down—so, fuck the weight room, go to the tanning bed.”

Of note is the extreme fawning cuckery of the commentators who are trying to point out how this guy is from Brazil that just missed that kick, but he's the first Brazillian NFL kicker, so performance does not matter, that the punter is the first ebony punter at this level, and that defensive coordinator up in in the booth is from India, and this quarterback—even though he had all of the advantages a man could have, including high class parents—“is the soul of this team” [in his first year, really?] But despite all of this inauthentic corporate virtue signaling, the objects of it are embarrassed about the focus on their race. They know that they are being used by the rich white fuckers in charge to assure all of the middle class and working class white fans that they can never be found guilty of cheering on a sport that does not support the deification of African Americans and the worship of the men with the nicest ever-tan.

At least the football was redeemed by old, fat, arthritis-kneed Rothlesburger echoing some Germanic rapist forefather of old. But the Country Music Awards was rediculous. [based on that red underline I do not appear to have spelled that correctly]: REE-DICK-YOU-LUSS! These plastic rednecks with fake eyelashes and cowboy boots that never had manure or mud clinging to them tried never to have three white people on camera together. Lionel Richie was one of the commentators, a well known country music man, to be sure.

There were precious few Negroes to go around that venue. Hell, the one I saw in the audience—sweeter than caramel rain—seemed relieved that this was not a thousand years ago and he would have been drawn and quartered so that all these weird-ass blond people could have a piece of him to set above their mead hall gate. It was unseemly, as if a bunch of gangster rappers got together and felt like they had no street cred unless the Jewish guy that managed their label was up on stage with them pretending to be edgy while he was mentally doing the math to fuck them out of their 401-K.

Enter this nice-looking young African American lady who told her story about how she was sent home from school because her “braids were a distraction” and that this inspired a song by a country music maven. Now, this babe that sang, with exotic hair probably taken from ten West African peasant girls—performing a song about “natural hair” while wearing very country music like unnatural hair with an afro flare, was a doll. Shaka Zulu would have slain 5 million additional Negroes to have this bitch in his Kraal. She sang nice, held hands in a way that was calculated to be tracked by camera, with her darker-skinned sister and her white sister, making her the golden-skinned nexus of race-mixing worship in this weird ritual.

The entire country music awards was as plastic as the eyelashes and the NFL body armor. Of note is that both shows were supported by video games and the military, including a blond rapper babe advertising video games in the CMA Awards. The message I got was that whatever style of music you like, that it has been plugged into the command and control template, and that those who listen are owned.

We should recall an axiom of ancient Olympian religion, by which the philosophers such as Aristotle of that time, admitted it was a necessary belief system for the childish multitudes. As he sought the cataclysmic “Unmoved Mover” and the sublime “Cause Uncaused” the men that made his sandals and the women that wove his robes, were content in worshiping flawed and even angry gods. In this way, European Americans worship African Americans as a kind of penance fetish that is a form of eternal self worship, for the doctrine of white over black racism currently asserts the power of godhood in the 'white' person, who by simply being born 'white,' and despite pledging his life for all things 'black,' is still somehow possessed of a supernatural power to prevent a black person from graduating with a doctorate in Physics even though the white person who caused this woeful plight, as if in a fit of dream, has likewise failed to achieve that advanced degree.

Who exactly is The Devil in this situation?

THE DEVIL should be one step ahead ov dis shid... if truff were to be believed.

In this way, our belief in the power of white racism over black aspirations is the assertion that WE are a dreaming god whose very unconscious jealousies can stunt an entire living race in our fitful sleep. Our worship of black folks is merely the fetishizing of a victim of our power, like the deer hunter who apologizes to and thanks his butchered prey on a lonely mountainside.

This clown worship-emulation of American blacks as the symbol of life struggle is in fact the same as Oppenhiemer's recitation from an ancient Indian epoch after his help in creating the atom bomb, “I am death, the destroyer of worlds.” In essence the guilt cult of white supremacy is European American self-worship of ourselves as a collective god of death currently in repose, what Robert E. Howard wrote about in Xuthal of the Dusk, The Devil in Iron and Red Nails when he articulated the malevolence of decadent and of deathly dreaming races.

During these episodes I recalled being with Incognegro at the liquor store where he lives in an all paleface redneck town in Cecil County, MD. Look it up, negro!

Now, this dude is dark—he is crispy, on Tommy Sotomayor's scale. He ain't black. I haven't met a black man yet, though that Liberian that sat next to me at the bus stop in 2016 was almost as dark as this keyboard. When this 33-year old Jamaican-American and I got out of the car at the liquor store, it reminded me of when he took me out on his leaking, mast-less sailboat without a keel to putt around in the mouth of the Chesapeake and all the white boomer rich guys with yachts greeted him like a celebrity. Every man in town, especially the big hair hillbillies in pick up trucks, knew his name and yelled and waved like they were Flips seeing Doug Mac returning to rub out the Japs. I looked at him as he grinned, embarrassed like, and I said, “Bro, you asked me if I'd help defend you against my kin if they rose up. But I'm afraid that these rednecks are going to lynch me so that they can eat fried chicken with you and tell their mamma that they got a black friend!”

This is an odd aspect of this dying civilization, that we have taken our collective historical woes, assigned them to one of our races and take on our own bent back the guilt of the handful of rich bastards who screwed us all over once upon a time. That to me is something of an apex slave mind.

To me, at the dawn of a new age when America will for once have to be a normal nation, a nation in which the greater part of its humanity is enslaved and abused for the benefit of a tiny elite, that it is no accident that we have been trained like medieval serfs to regard the most violent members of our society with nearly divine qualities, and to excuse their rapine and slaughter as something they engage in because they are compelled by a higher evil that rules them. Just as the medieval knight crushed the life out of the working man in service to a higher calling that was Christendom the postmodern dark nite rapes, robs and murders across the cities that we are lead to believe his fathers built, at the ghostly command of our evil and unrepentant ancestors—who were somehow all rich, while we are mostly poor—and for whose sins we stand saddled with their inextinguishable guilt.

Notes

-1. Fred Kern. III, Broke a big Negro's leg in a Texas A&M Game in 1958, Head Coach Calvert Hall Boy's College, Head Coach, Virginia Military Institute, Defensive Coordinator, Army.

-2. In post season NFL play 2020, with no fans in the seats and masked coaches, even then when a touchdown was scored, the eligible receivers for the offense would slide into the camera and flare arms like meaty caricatures of ballerina postures, posing dance routine, like they were polish slave girls dancing for the Sultan.