It’s been a while…

December 3, 2014

But I thought I’d check in. FarceBuke has slapped me on the wrist for 7 days because I made a truthful comment about the Ferguson Chimpouts. Seems truth is a no-no at the liberal limp wristed FB.

Oh well, fuck em. I have better things to do anyway.

Latest Jewy News

October 6, 2009

Angry neighbors slam (jew) slaughterhouse proposal

NEW HEMPSTEAD – A group of residents angry at the prospect of a large slaughterhouse near their neighborhood met Monday night to discuss ways to stall the facility, which they say was planned without their input and which was promised $1.6 million in state funding.

The approximately 30 residents were mostly from New Hempstead, though outside invitees from Preserve Ramapo and county Legislator Joseph Meyers (jew?) were present. The site of the proposed facility is on Route 45 in New Square, separated from the homes of some of the attendees by just the width of the state road.

“We need to let our timid legislators know that we are a force to be reckoned with, that we are not going to let this slide,” said Barbara Greenwald, who hosted the meeting in her home.

“Our homes are our asset. This project is putting that asset in jeopardy,” she said.

Since New Square began looking to replace a 5,000-square-foot slaughterhouse at the edge of the village with a larger, state-of-the-art chicken-processing plant, neighbors have protested, saying their quality of life would be infringed upon by odor and traffic.

New Square Deputy Mayor Israel Spitzer (definitely a jew) has said that neighbors’ fears about the plant are misplaced and that there would be no odor or other environmental issues.

Various municipalities, including New Hempstead and Clarkstown, and the county’s Planning Department have also been critical of the proposed facility.

Initial plans were for a 50,730-square-foot structure, but officials now say it would be about 26,250 square feet.

Angry neighbors said the village of New Square has not been upfront about its plans and that no public meeting was held to gauge their view. Spitzer has acknowledged in the past that that no public hearing has been held on the issue of the slaughterhouse.

A public hearing and an environmental review hearing are scheduled for Nov. 10.

However, state officials have said that in paperwork submitted by New Square while seeking the $1.6 million Restore New York grant, the village stated that a public hearing was held in April. A legal notice appeared in The Journal News prior to the meeting. It did not mention a slaughterhouse, just that the hearing was for reconstruction of a 7.8-acre lot.

Most residents at Monday night’s meeting said they were not informed about the April hearing even though they live close enough to the site that New Square was legally obligated to inform them through mail.

At two prior meetings, they said, New Square officials said they planned to build an office or residential complex at the site.

It was only days before a scheduled public hearing in June was canceled that residents heard that a slaughterhouse was being planned.

“Something changed within a couple of months. I’m not sure there was full disclosure,” Greenwald said.

Preserve Ramapo Chairman Robert Rhodes said that in the long fight against the slaughterhouse, residents need a village board that will fight for their interest. If the current board does not stand up to New Square, he said, a new one could be elected.

“We have to go to court to stop this,” said Meyers, adding that residents may have to finance a legal battle. “That could be a difficult, expensive and painful process.”

The gathered residents vowed to stop the proposed slaughterhouse but would not discuss strategy in front of a reporter. Another meeting was planned for the days before the Nov. 10 meeting.

However, state officials have said that in paperwork submitted by New Square while seeking the $1.6 million Restore New York grant, the village stated that a public hearing was held in April. A legal notice appeared in The Journal News prior to the meeting. It did not mention a slaughterhouse, just that the hearing was for reconstruction of a 7.8-acre lot.

Most residents at Monday night’s meeting said they were not informed about the April hearing even though they live close enough to the site that New Square was legally obligated to inform them through mail.

At two prior meetings, they said, New Square officials said they planned to build an office or residential complex at the site.

It was only days before a scheduled public hearing in June was canceled that residents heard that a slaughterhouse was being planned.

“Something changed within a couple of months. I’m not sure there was full disclosure,” Greenwald said.

Preserve Ramapo Chairman Robert Rhodes said that in the long fight against the slaughterhouse, residents need a village board that will fight for their interest. If the current board does not stand up to New Square, he said, a new one could be elected.

“We have to go to court to stop this,” said Meyers, adding that residents may have to finance a legal battle. “That could be a difficult, expensive and painful process.”

The gathered residents vowed to stop the proposed slaughterhouse but would not discuss strategy in front of a reporter. Another meeting was planned for the days before the Nov. 10 meeting.


APF Deal Let Shady Firm Provide Law Enforcement For Hardin

The news that a mysterious private security contractor has been hired to take control of a prison in the tiny Montana town of Hardin has set off some outlandish conspiracy theories — like the notion that the deal represents the first wave of President Obama’s plan to “have all major cities locked down” by the end of October.

But one related concern — that the contractor, now calling itself the American Private Police Force, could take over law enforcement duties for Hardin — turns out not to be far-fetched at all. Indeed, the agreement that APPF — at the time known simply as American Police Force (APF) — signed with city’s economic development arm, the Two Rivers Authority (TRA), specifically provides for that possibility.

The notably bare-bones contract — just 11 pages covering a deal to operate a prison — was obtained last month by the Billings Gazette. It states:

[APPF] shall have the option to enter into a separate agreement with TRA for the purpose of constructing a law enforcement training center on the premises of the Two Rivers Detention Center and/or to provide additional law enforcement services to the TRA and/or the City of Hardin. (our itals)
For years, Hardin has been embroiled in a dispute with Big Horn County over its desire to provide its own law enforcement services, rather than relying on the county sheriff’s office.

Around the same time last month that the contract was made public, the Gazette’s Becky Shay — now, after an abrupt career switch, APPF’s beleaguered public relations rep — reported:

[Company official Michael] Hilton said APF has proposed that, if Hardin creates a police department, the company would provide the initial officers and hire a local chief of police. APF has already purchased Mercedes vehicles that are being outfitted and will be available for patrol cars, Hilton said.

The training center also could provide some officers to support the city, he said.

Soon after, APPF officials rolled into Hardin in those Mercedes vehicles — SUVs, in fact — sporting logos that said “City of Hardin Police Department.” After that sparked concern among some residents, both the company and the TRA appeared to backtrack in their public statements, downplaying APPF’s ambitions to take over law enforcement, and focusing exclusively on the prison project.

In other words, it was not far-fetched to imagine that a shady security contractor with a history of criminal fraud and alcoholism, who has released scant information about his company’s background, could have been put in charge of a town’s law enforcement operations.

That may be the scariest point of all in this entire episode.


The following is an e-mail from an anonymous patriot that is meant to counter all the liberal attempts to white-wash Ted Kennedy’s disgraceful betrayal of America and his equally shameful personal life. Feel free to send this article to all your friends. –Editor’s Note.

As soon as his cancer was detected, I noticed the immediate attempt at the “canonization” of old Teddy Kennedy by the mainstream media. They are saying what a “great American” he is. I say, let’s get a couple things clear and not twist the facts to change the real history:

1. He was caught cheating at Harvard when he attended it. He was expelled twice, once for cheating on a test, and once for paying a classmate to cheat for him.

2. While expelled, Kennedy enlisted in the Army, but mistakenly signed up for four years instead of two. Oops! The man can’t count to four! His father, Joseph P. Kennedy, former U.S. Ambassador to England (a step up from bootlegging liquor into the US from Canada during prohibition), pulled the necessary strings to have his enlistment shortened to two years, and to ensure that he served in Europe, not Korea , where a war was raging. No preferential treatment for him! (like he charged that President Bush received).

3. Kennedy was assigned to Paris , never advanced beyond the rank of Private, and returned to Harvard upon being discharged. Imagine a person of his “education” NEVER advancing past the rank of Private!

4. While attending law school at the University of Virginia , he was cited for reckless driving four times, including once when he was clocked driving 90 miles per hour in a residential neighborhood with his headlights off after dark. Yet his Virginia driver’s license was never revoked.. Coincidentally, he passed the bar exam in 1959. Amazing!

5. In 1964, he was seriously injured in a plane crash, and hospitalized for several months. Test results done by the hospital at the time he was admitted had shown he was legally intoxicated. The results of those tests remained a “state secret” until in the 1980’s when the report was unsealed.. Didn’t hear about that from the unbiased media, did we?

6. On July 19, 1969, Kennedy attended a party on Chappaquiddick Island in Massachusetts . At about 11:00 PM, he borrowed his chauffeur’s keys to his Oldsmobile limousine, and offered to give a ride home to Mary Jo Kopechne, a campaign worker. Leaving the island via an unlit bridge with no guard rail, Kennedy steered the car off the bridge, flipped, and sank into Poucha Pond.

7. He swam to shore and walked back to the party, passing several houses and a fire station. Two friends then returned with him to the scene of the accident. According to their later testimony, they told him what he already knew – that he was required by law to immediately report the accident to the authorities. Instead, Kennedy made his way to his hotel, called his lawyer, and went to sleep. Kennedy called the police the next morning and by then the wreck had already been discovered. Before dying, Kopechne had scratched at the upholstered floor above her head in the upside-down car. Kopechne was able to stay alive for a while breathing a bubble of air inside the car.

One source notes “A diver was sent down and discovered Kopechne’s body at around 8:45 am. The diver, John Farrar, later testified at the inquest that Kopechne’s body was pressed up in the car in the spot where an air bubble would have formed. He interpreted this to mean that Kopechne had survived for a while after the initial accident in the air bubble, and concluded that: ‘Had I received a call within five to ten minutes of the accident occurring, and was able, as I was the following morning, to be at the victim’s side within twenty-five minutes of receiving the call, in such event there is a strong possibility that she would have been alive on removal from the submerged car.’ ”

The Kennedy family began “calling in favors”, ensuring that any inquiry would be contained. Her corpse was whisked out-of-state to her family, before an autopsy could be conducted. Further details are uncertain, but after the accident Kennedy says he repeatedly dove under the water trying to rescue Kopechne and he didn’t call police because he was in a state of shock.

It is widely assumed Kennedy was drunk, and he held off calling police in hopes that his family could fix the problem overnight. Since the accident, Kennedy’s “political enemies” have referred to him as the distinguished Senator from Chappaquiddick. He pled guilty to leaving the scene of an accident, and was given a SUSPENDED SENTENCE OF TWO MONTHS.
Kopechne’s family received a small pay out from the Kennedy’s insurance policy, and never sued. There was later an effort to have her body exhumed and autopsied, but her family successfully fought against this in court, and Kennedy’s family paid their attorney’s bills… a “token of friendship”?

8. Kennedy has held his Senate seat for more than forty years, but considering his longevity, his accomplishments seem scant. He authored or argued for legislation that ensured a variety of civil rights, increased the minimum wage in 1981, made access to health care easier for the indigent, and funded Meals on Wheels for fixed-income seniors and is widely held as the “standard-bearer for liberalism”. In his very first Senate roll, he was the floor manager for the bill that turned U.S. immigration policy upside down and opened the floodgate for immigrants from third world countries.

9. Since that time, he has been the prime instigator and author of every expansion of an increase in immigration, up to and including the latest attempt to grant amnesty to illegal aliens. Not to mention the pious grilling he gave the last two Supreme Court nominees, as if he was the standard bearer for the nation in matters of “what’s right”.

10. He is known around Washington as a public drunk, loud, boisterous and very disrespectful to ladies. JERK is a better description than “great American”. “A blond in every pond” should be his motto.

Let’s not allow the spin doctors to make this disgraceful drunk and whore of anti-American special interests a hero. It’s shameful that more people don’t know what his real legacy is.

Courtesy of Josh In Kentucky - an artist from

Courtesy of Josh In Kentucky - an artist from

Ted Kennedy, R.I.H. (Rot In Hell)
O-bitch-uary: He pushed the forced racial integration of schools, draconian gun control, anti-free speech laws, abortion of White babies, the homosexual agenda, and uncontrolled nonWhite immigration. Now the drunken, murderous kid brother to John and Bobby is pushing up daisies, too. Good riddance to bad rubbish. Try swimming your way out of a river of fire, traitor. It only happened seventy-seven years too late. Now, ride your brothers’ coattails to Hell. Death comes inexorably to even the wealthy, privileged, and powerful.

Mary Jo Kopechne was unavailable for comment.


I’m getting sick of some things I’m seeing lately. First off is this constant nigger-love that is permiating society like the smell of a backed-up septic system. For example, that Gates nigger who was properly arrested by a White cop doing his job. It’s a natural reaction to bust a nigger that shoulders a door and then refuses to cooperate when confronted.

The nigger, and of course the jew media, are crying racism and racial profiling. Gee, REALLY? You mean it isn’t an overly-common occurance where niggers break into homes on an ever-growing basis to the point that most White folks (like the 911 caller and the cop) have to resort to basic survival decisions based on past confrontations with the violent darkies? Shit, I’d lay out a nigger if I saw him trying to break into my or my neighbor’s home. NIGGERS are criminals. That’s the bottom line. Don’t believe me? Go check out the crime stats compiled by the U.S. Department of Justice and the F.B.I.

And along these same lines, I’ve been getting ultra pissed every time the commercials for Broadview (used to be Brinks) security systems. You want to talk about racial profiling? Why is it that every home invader, burgler, rapist, etc. in these commercials is White?! WTF?! Not a nigger to be seen in any of their commercials… oh wait. The niggers you may see in their commercials are the heroic operators at the other end of the security system coming to the rescue of the poor violated White female whos home and security has been breeched by the evil White male criminal.

I’ve thought about writing this company and asking them what the fuck their problem is but I have better things to do with my time knowing damn well they do this crap on purpose. It’s all part of the malignment of the White Male.

Then we have these two gooks that needed saving by the first nigger Prezident, Bill Clinton, from the horrors of North Korean justice. These two gookessess are “media journalists” and they got popped spying on NK. Well today they are splattered all over the jewtube whining about how they were so oppressed and how they are so glad to be back in the USSA. The media has followed every fart and bathroom break of these two slopes like they are some kind of heros or something. It makes me sick. They are two worthless slants. If I was a soldier coming home from two tours in Iraq or Afganistan and not even being met by one person wanting to by me a brew or shake my hand for my sacrifice while these cunts get the red carpet, I would begin a shooting spree like has never been seen in the history of man.

I could go on for hours, days, weeks, months, years, decades, centuries about shit like this. The bottom line is that this country, if not the world, is slipping into hell. Nothing is as it should be. Evil is in charge and short of nuking the world to rid it of these bastards, I don’t know what it will take and when it will start to clean these fuckers from the rest of us that remember what reality was supposed to be like.

Something Passed By…

August 3, 2009

Johnny James was sitting on the front porch, sipping from a glass of gasoline in the December heat, when the doomscreamer came. Of course, doomscreamers were nothing new; these days they were as common as blue moons. This one was of the usual variety: skinny-framed, with haunted dark eyes and a long black beard full of dust and filth. He wore dirty khaki trousers and a faded green Izod shirt, and on his feet were sandals made from tires with the emblem still showing: Michelin. Johnny sipped his Exxon Super Unleaded and pondered that the doomscreamer’s outfit must be the yuppie version of sackcloth and ashes.

“Prepare for the end! Prepare to meet your Maker!” The doomscreamer had a loud, booming voice that echoed in the stillness over the town that stood on the edge of Nebraskan cornfields. It floated over Grant Street, where the statues of town fathers stood, past the Victorian houses at the end of King’s Lane that had burned with such beautiful flames, past the empty playground at the silent Bloch School, over Bradbury Park where paint flaked off the grinning carousel horses, down Koontz Street where the businesses used to thrive, over Ellison Field where no bat would smack another softball. The doomscreamer’s voice filled the town, and ignited the ears of all who remained. “No refuge for the wicked! Prepare for the end! Prepare! Prepare!”

Johnny heard a screen door slam. His neighbor in the white house across the way stood on his own porch loading a rifle. Johnny called, “Hey, Gordon! What’re you doin’, man?”

Gordon Mayfield continued to push bullets into his rifle. Between Johnny and Gordon, the air shimmered with hazy heat. “Target practice!” Gordon shouted; his voice cracked and his hands were shaking. He was a big fleshy man with a shaved head, and he wore only blue jeans, his bare chest and shoulders glistening with sweat. “Gonna do me some target practice!” he said as he pushed the last shell into the rifle’s magazine and clicked the safety off.

Johnny swallowed gasoline and rocked in his chair. “Prepare! Prepare!” the doomscreamer hollered as he approached his end. The man was standing in front of the empty house next to Gordon’s, where the Carmichael family had lived before they fled with a wandering evangelist and his flock on his way to California. “Prepare!” The doomscreamer lifted his arms, sweat stains on his Izod, and shouted to the sky, “O ye sinners, prepare to—”

His voice faltered. He looked down at his Michelins, which had begun to sink into the street.

The doomscreamer made a small terrified squeak. He was not prepared. His ankles had sunk into the gray concrete, which sparkled like quicksilver in a circle around him. Swiftly he sank to his waist in the mire, his mouth open in a righteous O.

Gordon had lifted the rifle to put a bullet through the doomscreamer’s skull. Now he realized a pull of the trigger would be wasted energy, and might even increase his own risk of spontaneous combustion. He released the trigger and slowly lowered his gun.

“Help me!” The doomscreamer saw Johnny, and lifted his hands in supplication. “Help me, brother!” He was up to his alligator in the shimmering, hungry concrete. His eyes begged like those of a lost puppy. “Please…help me!”

Johnny was on his feet, though he didn’t remember standing. He had set the glass of gasoline aside, and he was about to walk down the porch steps, across the scorched yard, and offer his hand to the sinking doomscreamer. But he paused, because he knew he’d never get there in time, and when the concrete pooled like that, you never knew how firm the dirt would be either.

“Help me!” The doomscreamer had gone down to his chin. He stretched, trying to claw his way out, but quicksilver offers no handholds. “For God’s sake, hel—” His face went under. His head slid down, and the concrete swirled through his hair. Then—perhaps two seconds later—his clawing hands were all that was left of him, and as they slid down after him, the street suddenly solidified again in a ripple of hardening silver. Concrete locked around the ex-doomscreamer’s wrists, and his hands looked like white plants growing out of the center of the street. The fingers twitched a few times, then went rigid.

Gordon went down his steps and walked carefully to the upthrust hands, prodding his path with the rifle’s barrel. When he was certain, or as certain as he could be, that the street wouldn’t suck him under too, he knelt beside the hands and just sat there staring.

“What is it? What’s going on?” Brenda James had come out of the house, her light brown hair damp with sweat. Johnny pointed at the hands, and his wife whispered, “Oh my God.”

“Got on a nice wristwatch,” Gordon said after another moment. He leaned closer, squinting at the dial. “It’s a Rolex. You want it Johnny?”

“No,” Johnny said. “I don’t think so.”

“Brenda? You want it? Looks like it tells good time.”

She shook her head and grasped Johnny’s arm.

“It’d be a waste to leave it out here. First car that comes along, no more watch.” Gordon glanced up and down the street. It had been a long time since a car had passed this way, but you never knew. He decided, and took the Rolex off the dead man’s wrist. The crystal was cracked and there flecks of dried concrete on it, but it was a nice shiny watch. He put it on and stood up. “Happened too fast to do anythin’ about it. Didn’t it, Johnny?”

“Yeah. Way too fast.” His throat was dry. He took the last sip of gasoline from the glass. His breath smelled like the pumps at Lansdale’s Exxon Station on deLint Street.

Gordon started to walk away. Brenda said, “Are you … are you just going to leave him there?”

Gordon stopped. He looked down at the hands, wiped his brow with his forearm, and returned his gaze to Brenda and Johnny. “I’ve got an ax in my garage.”

“Just leave him there,” Johnny said, and Gordon nodded and walked up his porch steps, still testing the earth with the rifle’s barrel. He sighed with relief when he reached the porch’s sturdy floor.

“Poker game at Ray’s tonight,” Gordon reminded them. “You gonna make it?”

“Yeah. We’d planned on it.”

“Good.” His gaze slid toward the white hands, then quickly away again. “Nothin’ like winnin’ a little cash to take your mind off your troubles, right?”

“Right,” Johnny agreed. “Except you’re the one who usually wins all the money.”

“Hey, what can I say?” Gordon shrugged. “I’m a lucky dude.”

“I thought I’d bring J.J. tonight,” Brenda offered in a high, merry voice. Both Johnny and Gordon flinched a little. “J.J. needs to get out of the house,” Brenda went on. “He likes to be around people.”

“Uh … sure.” Gordon glanced quickly at Johnny. He darted another look at the white hands sticking out of the street, and then he went into his house and the screen door slammed behind him.

Brenda began to sing softly as Johnny followed her into their house. An old nursery song, one she’d sung to J.J. when he was just an infant. “Go to sleep, little baby, when you wake I’ll give you some cake and you can ride the pretty little poneeee….”

“Brenda? I don’t think it’s a good idea.”

“What?” She turned toward him, smiling, her blue eyes without luster. “What’s not a good idea, hon?”

“Taking J.J. out of his room. You know how he likes it in there.”

Brenda’s smile fractured. “That’s what you say! You’re always trying to hurt me, and keep me from being with J.J. Why can’t I take J.J. outside? Why can’t I sit on the porch with my baby like other mothers do? Why can’t I? Answer me, Johnny?” Her face had reddened with anger. “Why?”

Johnny’s expression remained calm. They’d been over this territory many times. “Go ask J.J. why,” he suggested, and he saw her eyes lose their focus, like ice forming over blue pools.

Brenda turned away from him and strode purposefully down the corridor. She stopped before the closed door to J.J.’s room. Hanging on a wall hook next to the door was a small orange oxygen tank on a backpack, connected to a clear plastic oxygen mask. Brenda had had much practice in slipping the tank on, and she did it with little difficulty. Then she turned on the airflow and strapped the hissing oxygen mask over her nose and mouth. She picked up a crowbar, inserting it into a scarred furrow in the doorjamb at J.J.’s room. She pushed against it, but the door wouldn’t budge.

“I’ll help you,” Johnny said, and started toward her.

“No! No, I’ll do it!” Brenda strained against the crowbar with desperate strength, her oxygen mask fogging up. And then there was a small cracking noise followed by a whoosh that never failed to remind Johnny of a pop top coming off a vacuum-sealed pack of tennis balls. Air shrilled for a few seconds in the hallway, the suction staggering Johnny and Brenda off balance, and then the door to J.J.’s room was unsealed. Brenda went in, and lodged the crowbar between the doorjamb and the door so it wouldn’t trap her when the air started to leak away again, which would be in less than two minutes.

Brenda sat down on Johnny Junior’s bed. The room’s wallpaper had airplanes on it, but the glue was cracking in the dry, airless heat and the paper sagged, the airplanes falling to earth. “J.J?” Brenda said. “J.J? Wake up, J.J.” She reached out and touched the boy’s shoulder. He lay nestled under the sheet, having a good long sleep. “J.J, it’s Momma,” Brenda said, and stroked the limp dark hair back from the mummified, gasping face.

Johnny waited in the corridor. He could hear Brenda talking to the dead boy, her voice rising and falling, her words muffled by the oxygen mask. Johnny’s heart ached. He knew the routine. She would pick up the dry husk and hold him—carefully, because even in her madness she knew how fragile J.J. was—and maybe sing him that nursery rhyme a few times. But it would dawn on her that time was short, and the air was being sucked out of that room into a vacuum-sealed unknown dimension. The longer the door was left open, the harder the oxygen was pulled into the walls. If you stayed in there over two or three minutes, you could feel the walls pulling at you, as if they were trying suck you right through the seams. The scientists had a name for it: the “pharaoh effect.” The scientists had a name for everything, `like “concrete quicksand” and “gravity howitzers” and “hutomic blast,” among others. Oh, those scientists were a real smart bunch, weren’t they? Johnny heard Brenda begin to sing, in an oddly disconnected, wispy voice: “Go to sleep, little baby, when you wake I’ll give you some cake….”

It had happened almost two months ago. J.J. was four years old. Of course, things were crazy by then, and Johnny and Brenda had heard about the “pharaoh effect” on the TV news, but you never thought such a thing could ever happen in your own house. J.J. had gone to bed, like any other night, and sometime before morning all the air had been sucked out of his room. Just like that. All gone. Air was the room’s enemy; the walls hated oxygen, and sucked it all into that unknown dimension before it could collect. They both had been too shocked to bury J.J, and it was Johnny who’d realized that J.J.’s body was rapidly mummifying in the airless heat. So they let the body stay in that room, though they could never bring J.J. out because the corpse would surely fall apart after a few hours of exposure to oxygen.

Johnny felt the air swirling past him, being drawn into J.J.’s room. “Brenda?” he called. “You’d better come on out now.”

Brenda’s singing died. He heard her sob quietly. The air was beginning to whistle around the crowbar, a dangerous sound. Inside the room, Brenda’s hair danced and her clothes were plucked by invisible fingers. A storm of air whirled around her, being drawn into the walls. She was transfixed by the sight of J.J.’s white baby teeth in his brown, wrinkled face: the face of an Egyptian prince. “Brenda!” Johnny’s voice was firm now. “Come on!”

She drew the sheet back up to J.J.’s chin; the sheet crackled like a dead leaf. Then she smoothed his dried-out hair and backed toward the door with insane winds battering her body.

They both had to strain to dislodge the crowbar. As soon as it came loose, Johnny grasped the door’s edge to keep it from slamming shut. He held it, his strength in jeopardy, as Brenda squeezed through. Then he let the door go. It slammed with a force that shook the house. Along the door’s edge was a quick whoooosh as it was sealed tight. Then silence.

Brenda stood in the dim light, her shoulders bowed. Johnny lifted the oxygen tank and backpack off her, then took the mask from her face. He checked the oxygen gauge; have to fill it up again pretty soon. He hung the equipment back on its hook. There was a shrill little steampipe whistle of air being drawn through the crack at the bottom of the door, and Johnny pressed a towel into it. The whistle ceased.

Brenda’s back straightened. “J.J. says he’s fine,” she told him. She was smiling again, and her eyes glinted with a false, horrible happiness. “He says he doesn’t want to go to Ray’s tonight. But he doesn’t mind that we do. Not one little bit.”

“That’s good,” Johnny said, and he walked to the front room. When he glanced at his wife, he saw Brenda still standing before the door to the room that ate oxygen. “Want to watch some TV?” he asked her.

“TV. Oh. Yes. Let’s watch some TV.” She turned away from the door and came back to him.

Brenda sat down on the den’s sofa, and Johnny turned on the Sony. Most of the channels showed static, but a few of them still worked: on them you could see the negative images of old shows like “Hawaiian Eye,” “My Mother the Car,” “Checkmate,” and “Amos Burke, Secret Agent.” The networks had gone off the air a month or so ago, and Johnny figured these shows were just bouncing around in space, maybe hurled to Earth out of the unknown dimension. Their eyes were used to the negative images by now. It beat listening to the radio, because on the only stations they could get, Beatles songs were played backward at half-speed, over and over again.

Between “Checkmate” and a commercial for Brylcreem Hair Dressing—“A Little Dab’ll Do Ya!”—Brenda began to cry. Johnny put his arm around her, and she leaned her head against his shoulder. He smelled J.J. on her: the odor of dry corn husks, burning in the midsummer heat. Except it was almost Christmastime, ho, ho, ho.

Something passed by, Johnny thought. That’s what the scientists had said, almost six months ago. Something passed by. That was the headline in the newspapers, and on the cover of every magazine that used to be sold over at Sarrantonio’s newsstand on Gresham Street. And what it was that passed by, the scientists didn’t know. They took some guesses, though: magnetic storm, black hole, time warp, gas cloud, a comet of some material that kinked the very fabric of physics. A scientist up in Oregon said he thought the universe had just stopped expanding and was now crushing inward on itself. Somebody else said he believed the cosmos was dying of old age. Galactic cancer. A tumor in the brain of Creation. Cosmic AIDS. Whatever. The fact was that things were not what they’d been six months ago, and nobody was saying it was going to get better. Or that six months from now there’d be an Earth, or a universe where it used to hang.

Something passed by. Three words. A death sentence. On this asylum planet called Earth, the molecules of matter had warped. Water had a disturbing tendency to explode like nitroglycerine, which had rearranged the intestines of a few hundred thousand people before the scientists figured it out. Gasoline, on the contrary, was now safe to drink, as well as engine oil, furniture polish, hydrochloric acid, and rat poison. Concrete melted into pools of quicksand, the clouds rained stones, and … well, there were other things too terrible to contemplate, like the day Johnny had been with Marty Chesley and Bo Duggan, finishing off a few bottles at one of the bars on Monteleone Street. Bo had complained of a headache, and the next minute his brains had spewed out of his ears like gray soup.

Something passed by. And because of that, anything could happen.

We made somebody mad, Johnny thought; he watched the negative images of Doug McClure and Sebastian Cabot. We screwed it up, somehow. Walked where we shouldn’t have. Done what we didn’t need to do. We picked a fruit off a tree we had no business picking, and….

God help us, he thought. Brenda made a small sobbing sound.

Sometime later, red-bellied clouds came in from the prairie, their shadows sliding over the straight and empty highways. There was no thunder or lightning, just a slow, thick drizzle. The windows of the James house streamed crimson, and blood ran in the gutters. Pieces of raw flesh and entrails thunked down onto the roofs, fell onto the streets, lay steaming in the heat-scorched yards. A blizzard of flies followed the clouds, and buzzards followed the flies.


“Read ’em and weep, gents,” Gordon said, showing his royal flush. He swept the pot of dimes and quarters toward him, and the other men at the round table moaned and muttered. “Like I say, I’m a lucky dude.”

“Too lucky.” Howard Carnes slapped his cards down—a measly aces and fours—and reached for the pitcher. He poured himself a glassful of high-octane.

“So I was sayin’ to Danny,” Ray Barnett went on, speaking to the group as he waited for Gordon to shuffle and deal. “What’s the use of leavin’ town? I mean, it’s not like there’s gonna be anyplace different, right? Everything’s screwed up.” He pushed a plug of chewing tobacco into his mouth and offered the pack to Johnny.

Johnny shook his head. Nick Gleason said, “I heard there’s a place in South America that’s normal. A place in Brazil. The water’s still all right.”

“Aw, that’s bullshit.” Ike McCord picked up his newly dealt cards and examined them, keeping a true poker face on his hard, flinty features. “The whole damn Amazon River blew up. Bastard’s still on fire. That’s what I heard before the networks went off. It was on CBS.” He rearranged a couple of cards. “Nowhere’s any different from here. The whole world’s the same.”

“You don’t know everything!” Nick shot back. A little red had begun to glow in his fat cheeks. “I’ll bet there’s someplace where things are normal! Maybe at the north pole or somewhere like that!”

“The north pole!” Ray laughed. “Who the hell wants to live at the damned north pole?”

“I could live there,” Nick went on. “Me and Terri could. Get us some tents and warm clothes, we’d be all right.”

“I don’t think Terri would want to wake up with an icicle on her nose,” Johnny said, looking at a hand full of nothing.

Gordon laughed. “Yeah! It’d be ol’ Nick who’d have an icicle hangin’ off something’, and it wouldn’t be his nose!” The other men chortled, but Nick remained silent, his cheeks reddening; he stared fixedly at his cards, which were just as bad Johnny’s.

There was a peal of high, false, forced laughter from the front room, where Brenda sat with Terri Gleason, Jane McCord and her two kids, Rhonda Carnes and their fifteen-year-old daughter, Kathy, who lay on the floor listening to Bon Jovi tapes on her Walkman. Elderly Mrs. McCord, Ike’s mother, was needlepointing, her glasses perched on the end of her nose and her wrinkled fingers diligent.

“So Danny says he and Paula want to go west,” Ray said. “I’ll open for a quarter.” He tossed it into the pot. “Danny says he’s never seen San Francisco, so that’s where they want to go.”

“I wouldn’t go west if you paid me.” Howard threw a quarter in. “I’d get on a boat and go to an island. Like Tahiti. One of those places where women dance with their stomachs.”

“Yeah, I could see Rhonda in a grass skirt! I’ll raise you a quarter, gents.” Gordon put his money into the pot. “Couldn’t you guys see Howard drinkin’ out of a damn coconut? Man, he’d make a monkey look like a prince char—”

From the distance came a hollow boom that echoed over the town and cut Gordon’s jaunty voice off. The talking and forced laughter ceased in the front room. Mrs. McCord missed a stitch, and Kathy Carnes sat up and took the Walkman earphones off.

There was another boom, closer this time. The house’s floor trembled. The men sat staring desperately at their cards. A third blast, further away. Then silence, in which hearts pounded and Gordon’s new Rolex ticked off the seconds.

“It’s over,” old Mrs. McCord announced. She was back in her rhythm again. “Wasn’t even close.”

“I wouldn’t go west if you paid me,” Howard repeated. His voice trembled. “Gimme three cards.”

“Three cards it is.” Gordon gave everybody what they needed, then said, “One card for the dealer.” His hands were shaking.

Johnny glanced out the window. Far away, over the rotting cornfields, there was a flash of jagged red. The percussion came within seconds: a muffled, powerful boom.

“I’m bumpin’ everybody fifty cents,” Gordon announced. “Come on, come on! Let’s play cards!”

Ike McCord folded. Johnny had nothing, so he folded too. “Turn ’em over!” Gordon said. Howard grinned and showed his kings and jacks. He started to rake in the pot, but Gordon said, “Hold on, Howie,” as he turned over his hand and showed his four tens and a deuce. “Sorry, gents. Read ’em and weep.” He pulled the coins toward himself.

Howard’s face had gone chalky. Another blast echoed through the night. The floor trembled. Howard said, “You’re cheatin’, you sonofabitch.”

Gordon stared at him, his mouth open. Sweat glistened on his face.

“Hold on, now, Howard,” Ike said. “You don’t want to say things like—”

“You must be helpin’ him, damn it!” Howard’s voice was louder, more strident, and it stopped the voices of the women. “Hell, it’s plain as day he’s cheatin’! Ain’t nobody’s luck can be as good as his!”

“I’m not a cheater.” Gordon stood up; his chair fell over backward. “I won’t take that kind of talk from any man.”

“Come on, everybody!” Johnny said. “Let’s settle down and—”

“I’m not a cheater!” Gordon shouted. “I play ’em honest!” A blast made the walls moan, and a red glow jumped at the window.

“You always win the big pots!” Howard stood up, trembling. “How come you always win the big pots, Gordon?”

Rhonda Carnes, Jane McCord, and Brenda were peering into the room, eyes wide and fearful. “Hush up in there!” old Mrs. McCord hollered. “Shut your traps, children!”

“Nobody calls me a cheater, damn you!” Gordon flinched as a blast pounded the earth. He stared at Howard, his fists clenched. “I deal ’em honest and I play ’em honest, and by God, I ought to…” He reached out, his hand grasping for Howard’s shirt collar.

Before his hand could get there, Gordon Mayfield burst into flame.

“Jesus!” Ray shrieked, leaping back. The table upset, and the cards and coins flew through the air. Jane McCord screamed, and so did her husband. Johnny staggered backward, tripped, and fell against the wall. Gordon’s flesh was aflame from bald skull to the bottom of his feet, and as his plaid shirt caught fire, Gordon thrashed and writhed. Two burning deuces spun from the inside of his shirt and snapped at Howard’s face. Gordon was screaming for help, the flesh running off him as incandescent heat built inside his body. He tore at his skin, trying to put out the fire that would not be extinguished.

“Help him!” Brenda shouted. “Somebody help him!” But Gordon staggered back against the wall, scorching it. The ceiling above his head was charred and smoking. His Rolex exploded with a small pop.

Johnny was on his knees in the protection of the overturned table, and as he rose he felt Gordon’s heat pucker his own face. Gordon was flailing, a mass of yellow flames, and Johnny leapt up and grasped Brenda’s hand, pulling her with him toward the front door. “Get out!” he yelled. “Everybody get out!”

Johnny didn’t wait for them; he pulled Brenda out the door, and they ran through the night, south on Silva Street. He looked back, saw a few more figures fleeing from the house, but he couldn’t tell who they were. And then there was a white flare that dazzled his eyes and Ray Barnett’s house exploded, timbers and roof tiles flying through the sultry air. The shock wave knocked Brenda and Johnny to the pavement; she was screaming, and Johnny clasped his hand over her mouth because he knew that if he started to scream it was all over for him. Fragments of the house rained down around them, along with burning clumps of human flesh. Johnny and Brenda got up and ran, their knees bleeding.

They ran through the center of town, along the straight thoroughfare of Straub Street, past the Spector Theatre and the Skipp Religious Bookstore. Other shouts and screams echoed through the night, and red lightning danced in the cornfields. Johnny had no thought but to get them home, and hope that the earth wouldn’t suck them under before they got there.

They fled past the cemetery on McDowell Hill, and there was a crash and boom that dropped Johnny and Brenda to their knees again. Red lightning arced overhead, a sickly-sweet smell in the air. When Johnny looked at the cemetery again, he saw there was no longer a hill; the entire rise had been mashed flat, as if by a tremendous crushing fist. And then, three seconds later, broken tombstones and bits of coffins slammed down on the plain where a hill had stood for two hundred years. Gravity howitzer, Johnny thought; he hauled Brenda to her feet, and they staggered on across Olson Lane and past the broken remnants of the Baptist church at the intersection of Daniels and Saul streets.

A brick house on Wright Street was crushed to the ground as they fled past it, slammed into the boiling dust by the invisible power of gravity gone mad. Johnny gripped Brenda’s hand and pulled her on, through the deserted streets. Gravity howitzers boomed all across town, from Schow Street on the west to Barker Promenade on the east. The red lightning cracked overhead, snapping through the air like cat-o’-nine-tails. And then Johnny and Brenda staggered onto Strieber Circle, right at the edge of town, where you had a full view of the fields and the stars, and kids used to watch, wistfully, for UFOs.

There would be UFOs tonight, and no deliverance from the Earth. Gravity howitzers smashed into the fields, making the stars shimmer. The ground shook, and in the glare of the red lightning Johnny and Brenda could see the effect of the gravity howitzers, the cornstalks mashed flat to the ground in circles twelve or fifteen feet around. The fist of God, Johnny thought. Another house was smashed to rubble on the street behind them; there was no pattern or reason for the gravity howitzers, but Johnny had seen what was left of Stan Haines after the man was hit by one on a sunny Sunday afternoon. Stan had been a mass of bloody tissue jammed into his crumpled shoes, like a dripping mushroom.

The howitzers marched back and forth across the fields. Two or three more houses were hit, over on the north edge of town. And then, quite abruptly, it was all over. There was the noise of people shouting and dogs barking; the sounds seemed to combine, until you couldn’t tell one from the other.

Johnny and Brenda sat on the curb, gripping hands and trembling. The long night went on.


The sun turned violet. Even at midday, the sun was a purple ball in a white, featureless sky. The air was always hot, but the sun itself no longer seemed warm. The first of a new year passed, and burning winter drifted toward springtime.

Johnny noticed them in Brenda’s hands first. Brown freckles. Age spots, he realized they were. Her skin was changing. It was becoming leathery, and deep wrinkles began to line her face. At twenty-seven years of age, her hair began to go gray.

And sometime later, as he was shaving with gasoline, he noticed his own face: the lines around his eyes were going away. His face was softening. And his clothes: his clothes just didn’t fit right anymore. They were getting baggy, his shirts beginning to swallow him up.

Of course, Brenda noticed it too. How could she not, though she tried her best to deny it. Her bones ached. Her spine was starting to bow over. Her fingers hurt, and the worst was when she lost control of her hands hands and dropped J.J. and a piece of him cracked off like brittle clay. One day in March it became clear to her, when she looked in the mirror and saw the wrinkled, age-freckled face of an old woman staring back. And then she looked at Johnny and saw a nineteen-year-old boy where a thirty-year-old man used to be.

They sat on the porch together, Johnny fidgety and nervous, as young folks are when they’re around the gray-haired elderly. Brenda was stooped and silent, staring straight ahead with watery, faded blue eyes.

“We’re goin’ in different directions,” Johnny said in a voice that was getting higher-pitched by the day. “I don’t know what happened or why. But … it just did.” He reached out, took one of her wrinkled hands. Her bones felt fragile, bird-like. “I love you,” he said.

She smiled. “I love you,” she answered in her old woman’s quaver.

They sat for a while in the purple glare. And then Johnny went down to the street and pitched stones at the side of Gordon Mayfield’s empty house while Brenda nodded and slept.

Something passed by, she thought in her cage of dreams. She remembered her wedding day, and she oozed a dribble of saliva as she smiled. Something passed by. What had it been, and where had it gone?

Johnny made friends with a dog, but Brenda wouldn’t let him keep it in the house. Johnny promised he’d clean up after it, and feed it, and all the other stuff you were supposed to do. Brenda said certainly not, that she wouldn’t have it shedding all over her furniture. Johnny cried some, but he got over it. He found a baseball and bat in an empty house, and he spent most of his time swatting the ball up and down the street. Brenda tried to take up needlepoint, but her fingers just weren’t up to it.

These are the final days, she thought as she sat on the porch and watched his small body as he chased the ball. She kept her Bible in her lap, and read it constantly, though her eyes burned and watered. The final days were here at last, and no man could stop the passage of their hours.

The day came when Johnny couldn’t crawl into her lap, and it hurt her shoulders to lift him, but she wanted him nestled against her. Johnny played with his fingers, and Brenda told him about paradise and the world yet to be. Johnny asked her what kind of toys they had there, and Brenda smiled a toothless grin and stroked his hair.

Something passed by, and Brenda knew what it was: time. Old clocks ticking down. Old planets slowing in their orbits. Old hearts laboring. The huge machine was winding to a finish now, and who could say that was a bad thing?

She held him in her arms as she rocked slowly on the front porch. She sang to him, and old sweet song: “Go to sleep, little baby, when you wake….”

She stopped and squinted at the fields.

A huge wave of iridescent green and violet was undulating across the earth. It came on silently, almost … yes, Brenda decided. It came on with a lovely grace. The wave rolled slowly across the fields, and in its wake it left a gray blankness, like the wiping clean of a schoolboy’s slate. It would soon reach the town, their street, their house, their front porch. And then she and her beautiful child would know the puzzle’s answer.

It came on, with relentless power.

She had time to finish her song: “… I’ll give you some cake and you can ride the pretty little poneeee.”

The wave reached them. It sang of distant shores. The infant in her arms looked up at her, eyes glowing, and the old woman smiled at him and stood up to meet the mystery.

Copyright © 1989 by Robert R. McCammon. All rights reserved. This story originally appeared in the collection Blue World and Other Stories, first published in April 1989. Reprinted with permission of the author.

Why not?

August 3, 2009

I’m posting this pic because it is #1) true and #2) funny as shit…

There will come soft rains and the smell of the ground,
And swallows circling with their shimmering sound;

And frogs in the pool singing at night,
And wild plum trees in tremulous white;

Robins will wear their feathery fire,
Whistling their whims on a low fence-wire;

And not one will know of the war, not one
Will care at last when it is done.

Not one would mind, neither bird nor tree,
If mankind perished utterly;

And Spring herself when she woke at dawn
Would scarcely know that we were gone. – Sara Teasdale

There Will Come Soft Rains from Peter Cotter on Vimeo.

There Will Come Soft Rains

Let’s get it right this time, eh?

by Lt. General (Retd.) Abdul Qayyum, Pakistan Army

The total population of Jews all over the world is 14 million. Half of their population lives in America, while 2 million live in Europe. The total population of the Jews living in Asia, including Israel, is only 5 million. This is nearly 15 million Jews, whom, with American support, have worsened the lives of over 1.5 billion Muslims living all over the world.

Since Jews dominate over the American politics, journalism, and economy, so despite the fact that their population is 100 times smaller than the world’s Muslim population, Muslims seem to have a population 100 times smaller than the Jewish population. There are many reasons for the fateful condition of the Muslim world. One of the most important reasons is the low standard of Muslim countries and the utter lack of united Muslim leadership.

Secondly, Jews are ahead in all the fields of information knowledge and education, particularly in the field of science. For example, Albert Einstein, Sigmund Freud, Karl Marx, Milton, Freidman and many other intellectuals were Jews. Apart from this, Jews invented many important useful medicines and devices like Polio vaccines and the artificial kidney cleansing apparatus, et cetera. Within the last hundred years, out of 1.5 billion Muslim only three managed to win the Nobel Prize. At the same time, out of 15 million Jews, 180 of them won the Nobel Prize for their outstanding works in the fields of science, education and humanitarian services.

It would be rather astonishing to know that the devices and objects like the micro-processing chip, nuclear chain reactor, optical fiber cable, traffic lights, stainless steel and even videotape were invented by the Jews. As far as the world political horizon of is concerned, here also one can easily find the Jewish domination. Many outstanding top politicians of the world, like former American Secretaries of State such as Henry Kissinger, Madeleine Albright; former defense minister, Caspar Weinberger; the external minister of Soviet Union, Maxim Litvinov; the president of Portugal Jorge Sampaio; and the British external minister, Michael Howard. Chancellor of Austria, Bruno Kreisky and American Treasury Secretary Robert E. Rubin were also Jewish.

The everyday absurdity of news about the “Islamic or Muslim Terrorism,” “Islamic Bomb,” news of attacking on Iranian leadership and the propaganda about Pakistan being a “Failed State” happens because the Western media is under the control of Zionist lobby. Wolf Blitzer of CNN, Barbara Walters of ABC News, Eugene Meyer of The Washington Post, Henry Anatoly Grunewald of Time Magazine and Joseph Berger and Max Frankel of The New York Times are also Jews. The sole reason for the backwardness of Muslim nations is their failure to acquire higher education and knowledge. The most intelligent students of mathematics and science are Jews.

The number of considerable universities in the Muslim world is only around 500, while in America, the numbers of universities is 5,758 and in India the number goes beyond 8,000. The world literacy rate is 90 percent, while the rate in the Muslim world is only around 40 percent. Apart from this there is not a single political leader from the Muslim world who can be described as a high profile politician. If Muslims get united then 57 Muslim countries, including Middle East and Eastern Asian countries, which are known as the gold mines because of their rich the resources of oil and natural gas, will be united.

However, despite this Israel, which is so tiny that it can’t be easily traced on a world map, surpasses the Arab states that are more than 100 times larger than it. However, the time is not far away when the superciliousness and the state terrorism of Israel will be grounds for its downfall.

In 1982, 3,500 Palestinian migrants including children, women and the elderly were put to death in the Shateela and Sabra Migration camps. Now, Israel has once again started terrorism with its ground and air attacks on Palestinians and has killed more than 1000 Muslims. Now, the brutality of Israel has reached such an extent that in America there is heavy defiance against the Israeli brutality. Now the brilliant Americans have realized that the real cause for their disparagement all over the world is their leaders’ pro-Israel policies. However, the Bush government has not made it blatant in its policies that it is shamelessly defending the Israeli hostilities demonstrating its lack of conscience. The Bush administration is providing the economical and military assistance. And because America has veto power in the UN Security Council it doesn’t allow any resolution condemning Israel to pass.

Sir* Mohammed Iqbal, a greatest Muslim intellectual and Urdu and Farsi poet, in one of his Urdu poem has rightly said that:

“The throat of Whiteman (American and British) is into the claw of Jews” (the Jews control all the decisions of white people).

Benjamin Franklin is one of the greatest personalities of American History. Americans considers him a founding father of the nation just like George Washington. Franklin was born in January 17, 1706. In his youth, he had started a printing business. He was committed to it till 1750. Later he started to have scientific experiments and inventions, and he gained a top place in this field.

After 1770, Franklin became involved in the freedom movement of America and received the honor of drafting the Declaration of Independence. Later, he became the member of the Constitutional Convention and signed the American constitution. For this, he is considered among the founders of America. In its Dec. 30, 1998 issue, “The Independence” called him as the Man of Millennium.

One of his famous quotes is, “If you would not be forgotten as soon as you are dead and rotten, either write things worth reading or do things worth writing.” As far as the achievements of Franklin are concerned, the American regards him as the “Millennium Man” till today. He left many great literary pieces that people still read after 200 years with great pleasure and admiration. Here some of the excerpts of a speech delivered during his address to the “Constitutional Convention”, on the topic of Jewish immigration.

He said, “America is facing a great threat from Jews for their existence in American land, since the every land where Jews resides has not only demonstrated their moral degradation, but they have found in the economical scams too. They have created their own state in the state and when they are confronted on their deeds they economically strangled their opposing country, as they had done it in Portugal and Spain. If we didn’t constitutionally extricate them within the period of 100 years then they would dominate over the country and will even rule on us and eventually will destroy us. I warn you, if our constitution did not get absolute freedom from them then your children and their children and the children of their children will curse us in graves. The attitude of Jews doesn’t resemble the American way of thinking. So they are very dangerous and are a threat to our country. If they were allowed in the America institutions, they will destroy these institutions. They should not be given any constitutional security at any cost”.

The following statements by Jewish leaders show the importance of the aforementioned statement by Franklin.

According to a broadcasting made on Nov. 3, 2003 by Israeli radio, Ariel Sharon, then the Prime Minster of Israel, made the following statement to one of the his cabinet minister Shamon Perez:

“I would like make you clear on the point that you don’t have to care about the pressure of America on Israel, as we Jews control America and America should have to be aware of it.”

In the Nov. 15 issue of Agence Presse France, the newspaper recorded the following statement of Israeli General and ex-prime minister Ariel Sharon:

“Israel has the right to have the trials of others. However, no other has the right to trial against any Jews or their state, Israel. If I was merely an Israeli, then in the case of finding any Palestinian I had first ablaze him and before putting him to death I would had tortured them.”

Americans should think about the true advice their leader Benjamin Franklin gave to them. At present, the Jews have absolute control over America and its policies to such an extent that even the newly elected American President, Barack Obama, wouldn’t dare to go against their will.

It is a universal fact that there is no doubt that the sole reason for the defamation of America all over the world is the Jewish state, Israel. The earlier Americans get rid of the Jews, the more would it be in their favor. All the brutalities of Israel cross the line. If the Americans did not gain anything from Franklin’s warning, and America keeps getting the hatred and anonymity of the whole world particularly Muslim countries, then the day will not be too far away when the brutality of the Jewish state, with American support, will lead to America’s collapse.

Courtesy of Rehmat at