Namibian Peace Corps America's Last Hope

[Philadelphia, 5/25/16]

When two commenters got a bit heated, with biff calling ebear “dumbass,” which got “grow the fuck up” as retaliation, I jumped in, “OK, guys, let's just cool it. Let's get back to discussing the many issues raised in the article. Thanks!—Linh.”

This cordial calling for peace from both sides, hence “guys,” triggered this response from ebear, “I thought I was. You mean putting Mr. Indignant in his place doesn’t meet your exacting standards, oh ye who constantly rips on Ron Unz and the Mighty Jews? Fuck you, you self-important hypocrite. Unsubscribe.”

Amazing, the unhinged emotion, but also the flawed logic, for I have only attacked the unreasoning of Ron Unz and Jewish thinking. I have never said “fuck you” or “grow the fuck up” to Unz (or anyone else), because that would illuminate nothing, plus make me look like the one who needs to grow up.

Spending three decades in Philly, I heard “fuck” every fourth sentence, and often in three sentences in a row, for that’s just how we talk, yo, but I never heard “fuck” or “shit” once during five months in Namibia. Their restraint, and, yes, civility, forced me to curb my lingo.

It wouldn’t be a bad idea to start a Namibian Peace Corps to deliver higher standards of behavior and English to heart of darkness Americans.

How bad has it gotten? When ADeceptive Pseudonym complains that John Derbyshire has become “a complete idiot,” goeshittheragman responds, “agreed – i think it’s too much gook food. ya know he’s married to a slant eye’d slopehead, don’t you?”

That’s at the highfalutin Unz Review, where for several years, I shudder to remember, I acted more or less as the Namibian Peace Corps.

Defending Unz, two white sexpats with years in Asia said free speech should be absolute, but that has long been a Jewish ploy to push degeneracy and drag down civilization. Think porn and pop music.

Though it’s seeping in, such Jewish progressivism hasn’t quite poisoned Vietnam. Ugly old men can’t just strut naked during Pride Parades, freakish drag queens don’t educate first graders and there’s no debate about what’s a woman. What are you, stoopid?

If you go to a lecture by, say, Thomas Sowell, you can’t just shout, “Shut up, nigger!” That’s only free speech at a Jewish outhouse like Unz Review.

Consider this sign I just saw in Vũng Tàu:

West Lake Bún Chả
We beg to announce:
Restaurant begs to increase prices
5,000 đồng [21 cents] per portion
[...]
We beg to thank our valued customers!

Translating, I didn’t Americanize its language by eliminating “beg” [“xin”], for that’s crucial to its tone. Though xin cám ơn, meaning to beg to say thank you, is very awkward in English, that’s the politest way for Vietnamese to say thanks.

Consider also these lyrics by the top Vietnamese rapper, Đen Vâu:

Oh, without you, mom, I'd have been trash
With neither foundation nor order though I may sit up high
The computer I recorded my first songs
You had to earn through days of sweat (drenched)
Now that I can work and make money
All you need to do, mom, is sit back to enjoy oh (tea)

Oh those miserable gray days
With swirling wind and you, mom, so thin
Sometimes you passed out on the street from hunger
You didn't dare to buy clothing
Didn't dare to spend money out of worries (for me)
Now I coolly carry a bag to buy you a Dior bag

My first words were taught by whom (you, mom)
My first letters, who held my hand (you, mom)
My first mistakes, who corrected me (you, mom)
My first stumbles, who pulled me up (always you, mom)

Yes, it’s corny as shit, excuse my Philadelphian, but I’m sure glad Vietnam hasn’t gone full gangsta, Howard Stern or Jerry Springer.

After spending nine months in the US in 1831-2, Alexis de Tocqueville observed:

Americans, in their relations with foreigners, appear impatient at the least censure and insatiable for praise. The slimmest eulogy is agreeable to them and the greatest is rarely enough to satisfy them; they pester you at every moment to get you to praise them; and if you resist their entreaties, they praise themselves. One would say that, doubting their own merit, they want to have a picture of it before their eyes at each instant. Their vanity is not only greedy, it is restive and envious. It grants nothing while demanding constantly. It is entreating and quarrelsome at the same time.

Ever more pronounced, this trait will only get worse as the country sinks further into idiocy, degeneracy and bankruptcy.

Where is the Namibian Peace Corps?!

Fuck, man, it’s already too late. On Unz, the chimping out intensifies because, you know how it is, what Jews want, Jews get, especially among Angry White Pussies. Most don’t know no better, and the ones who do don’t dare do nothing.

Writing this at Café Ca Dao, I’ve been sitting outside to get away from noise distractions, but it’s extremely hot. Done, I’ll go inside to listen to bits of Johnny Cash, Patsy Cline or Don McLean, etc. Already, the best of the USA survives outside it. Japan’s Jonathan is the ultimate American diner.

It’s too bad they don’t have “American Pie,” but its lyrics border on the surreal or even nonsense. Still, they resonate and ring true. Fresh off the C-130, I heard them for the first time in 1976. Even with my very limited English, I was captured, but then, the other hits were “Disco Duck,” “I Never Wanted to Touch a Man” and “That’s The Way I Like It,” etc.

Written in 1971, just two years after America’s top moment, its “moon landing,” McLean sang of the end:

And in the streets, the children screamed.
The lovers cried and the poets dreamed,
But not a word was spoken.
The church bells all were broken.

And the three men I admire most,
The Father, Son and the Holy Ghost,
They caught the last train for the coast,
The day the music died.

And they were singing, “Bye bye, Miss American Pie.”
Drove my Chevy to the levee but the levee was dry,
And them good old boys were drinking whiskey and rye,
Singing, “This will be the day that I die
This will be the day that I die.”

To save Americans from themselves, and the rest of the world from the jewjacked USA, America can’t die soon enough.

From its ashes, humbler, thus saner, communities may rise. From ruins, they’ll fish out half burnt copies of Leaves of Grass, and maybe even an Edward Hopper painting. The luckiest kids will glory in Krazy Kat.

With no playback machines, all canned music will be lost, so Thelonious Monk will just be an improbable name from a queerer country, one that took almost no time to waste and betray all of its hope, a remarkable achievement.

Bye bye, Miss American Tatt. Steer my Tesla to the Safeway, but the Safeway’s been ransacked. Them MAGA boys have no fentanyl left, so they can’t even croak, “This will be the day that I die.”

[Berkeley, 3/20/13]