Jul 12, 2014

A Better Social Media

I'm a bit fed up being one of those Mark Zuckerberg and Facebook gets to mess with and – makes money doing it. So, I'm moving myself altogether to a better social network – one which shares their revenue with me too.

I'm inviting all of you with a strange and unique voice to stand up with me over here, share, connect with others and get paid for doing so! (The money's very little right now. But, it's free to join and welll worth doing so. Jst he idea though, of getting some of the advertising revenue your activity generates though, that's a great idea!

It's free to join (of course) right here and admin is responsive with questions while keeping the site stable and serving. Come join us, share your world as a blogger and get dollars in your pocket for doing so.


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Jul 11, 2014

A Dishonest Tale; A True Story in Three Parts

A Dishonest Tale; A True Story Part One:

There I was, all of about 23-years-old and working at a McDonald's Restaurant – the State Street location - in Erie, Pennsylvania. It was 1993. one morning, a regular customer of ours came in while I was working the register. He was his usual friendly self, saying hello to me and anyone else he happened to be within earshot of. He just happened to always come across as a friendly person.

During the course of the transaction, I happened to notice a tattoo on – it was his left wrist I believe – and me, in all my Panhandle-ofTexas-know-nothing-wordliness blurted out my curiosity, “Hey, what's the tattoo about?” (Or something to this effect)

He stopped what he was doing and without batting an eye, losing his smile, answered my all-too-nosy question. He began, a little louder than his usual tone-of-voice (and I'll do my best paraphrasing here. It has been twenty-one years since, after all) “When I was six-years-old, I was in Auschwitz. We were all marched into the gas chamber and, just before everyone else was murdered, the door came open and a Nazi officer said, 'I can take one.' Everyone else pushed me up front to the door and I lived. I was smuggled to London later” (This is, to the best of my memory – as a man who can remember some things from his infancy – his exact words, though I am not 100 percent certain. At the time, I did not realize their full significance to me, which they would serve later.)

The moment he finished his statement, the entire restaurant was silent. The usual chatter of the other customers came to a stop. The kitchen crew had even stopped working for a moment. The customers at the drive-through found themselves waiting a minute or two longer, whether they knew why or not. The other customers in the dining room suddenly seemed as if they felt whatever they had been discussing was suddenly so insignificant, compared to the power of this man's few sentences.

Needless to say, I was dumb-struck. Thinking back, I can't even remember if I spoke to anyone else the rest of the day, myself. Just the thought of so many people being killed and yet they chose to put this six-year-old boy's life ahead of their own had me screwed up in ways which are difficult to describe in Human tongues.

He then went back on his way to his table, drank his coffee and read his newspaper, just like every other day of his routine. As per usual, when he was done, he went back on about his way.

Remember this later. It was 1993.

A Dishonest Tale; A True Story Part 2:

Being the sort of young man I was at this period of my life, I took it upon my self to befriend this old man. I found him personable. I found his stories and the way he told them, quite interesting. We talked whenever we could, either while I was at work or whenever I would see him on-the-street.

I liked him, genuinely.

Once, after having left this particular job and hoping to start up a window-cleaning business, I ran into him once more. During the course of our conversation, he asked if I was still at the restaurant. I said, “No. I'm out washing windows now.” He said, “Oh? Well, I need my windows washed. Why don't you come by my place and I'll be your customer.” He then gave me his address at a local hi-rise retirement community (or public housing project. I'm not too sure.). Needing the work, I accepted and went there at the agreed-upon time.

When I arrived, he seemed – let us say – interested in other things beyond having the windows of his sixth-floor apartment cleaned. See, some people find a little bit “effeminate” in some ways and especially when I was younger, had more hair and energy and less belly. I was good-looking, then. And he was very gay.

(In and of itself, not a problem for me. Some of the most intelligent and wonderful people I've ever known were gay. So, this is not about his orientation, specifically, except in demonstrating his real motivations.)

While I was there, I asked him his age – perhaps as a means of reminding him I wouldn't be interested in him, were I gay – he said, “62.” Eventually, as I realized the ploy of offering me “work” had a different connotation to him than it did to me, I left, wishing him a good evening. I never had the “pleasure” of seeing him again, anywhere. I couldn't tell you this man's name these days. But I distinctly remember him saying he was 62. For some reason, unknown to me at the time, the number rang out to me, as he said it, even though he said it, as if it were an embarrassment to him.

Here's why these two parts of this story come together. Grab your calculators (The equations are easy. I promise):

If someone is 62-years-old in 1993, in what year would this person have been six-years-old? The answer is obviously 1937. Even allowing for a couple of years “here” or a couple “there,” the numbers simply do not work.

From the United States Holocaust Memorial Museum, themselves, "...the first killing operations began at Chelmno in occupied Poland on December 8,1941." This “accepted historical fact” conflicts with the claim made by my former friend. In his claim and in his gimmickry later, he discredited himself, as much as he dishonored himself.

Now, do I doubt he was, at some point, actually in one of the camps? No. His tattoo convinced me, very much, he was. History itself convinces me, many people were; Jews, among many others. But, in his desire for attention, sympathy or whatever he hoped to obtain, he shot himself in the foot, by lying to the mere fast-food worker, who was to one day become who and what I am, now.

A Dishonest Tale; A True Story Part 3:

Let me be crystal-clear. Is this one man's story “evidence” of anyone else's claims being false? No. It is only evidence of his, own, personal dishonesty and nothing more, in and of itself. But this methodology – the appeal to emotions alone and the evasion of facts - is so common among those who would call themselves “God's elect” and thereby imply all others are somehow “less.” By the time I'm done, I'll prove this.

I just so happen to be one of those Gentiles, myself. And my people too, those who do not wish to regard the thought-form sometimes known as “Jehova,” as anything of reverence, for our own reasons, have been down-casts and made to look bad, while being falsely associated with those my enemy poses as. By the time I'm done, I'll prove this too.

We are the falsely accused. We are the truly innocent but not the “holier-than-thou.” The false paradigm of the convention of “right and wrong” is often skewed for the benefit of a few, anyway, yet we are also as law-abiding as can be. We have enemies on many levels. We are strong, but we'd rather have peace, too.

I'm simply one of a vast number of others who do not fit into many of your social construct adherents. Some of us have seen through the Big Lie and now live with open eyes. We are connected We are a spiritual family. There are more of us than you are aware and you likely encounter several of us, day-by-day.

Everything I claim in this post is verifiable. Not one fact or statement is invalid. This work has been around longer than I have, yet it is the only path I've ever found which had any sort of a disprovable hypothesis – as difficult as this has often been to understand.

I sincerely recommend only those of a Gentile descent go further. But, responsibility to the responsible and all that. Would you like to learn more? Want to see just how far the rabbit hole goes?

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Jun 30, 2014

Don't Keep Those Non-Existent Eggs In One Basket

As an online web-writer, it's hard enough to make a living. So, in the event one of the sites you write for goes belly-up, make sure you're keeping yourself spread around and not just getting screwed over by just one site.

I recommend variety. Each site has its own style of not paying. And, it keeps things interesting. You might find it best to write for one site which seems to hold their religious/political beliefs against you, while another site has a staff of functionally-illiterate editors preventing you from being published.

(Extra points if they behave like it's all worked out between you two and they chortle along about how much they care about you on Facebook and publicly – just to be extra cruel. The extra points are theirs by the way. You get nothing. To hell with you. Fuck you, in fact.)

But that's not enough variety, I say. To keep yourself jumping and collecting cans – perhaps even getting to the point a “Will work for food” franchise starts sounding like a raise, you need a site with vague, arbitrary rules and an unidentifiable staff telling you “as long as yous don't break rule, you gets pays.”

Remember, you need multiple reasons why you can't send in child support or support your own smoking habit, as some way to numb the pain. This way the ambivalence and frustration makes death seem like the only relief. Then, admin can profit from your work long after you're dead, since, while you're alive, mere lack and want isn't enough satisfaction for the ranchers controlling the cattle.

Jun 25, 2014

Gary Oldman is Spot-on; The Double Standard of Hollywood Sucks

COMMENTARY | So, it's finally coming out. Enough people have had their lives ruined over saying something “bad” - while others are given a pass for the same thing - is something even the Hollywood insiders can no longer deny. The double standards held over any non-Jew are now so pervasive they can only be called what they are – racism.

Gary Oldman is quoted in the following Variety piece “Well, if I called Nancy Pelosi a c*** — and I’ll go one better, a f****** useless c*** — I can’t really say that. But Bill Maher and Jon Stewart can, and nobody’s going to stop them from working because of it. Bill Maher could call someone a fag and get away with it. He said to Seth MacFarlane this year, ‘I thought you were going to do the Oscars again. Instead they got a lesbian.’ He can say something like that. Is that more or less offensive than Alec Baldwin saying to someone in the street, ‘You fag’? I don’t get it.”

I actually have the answer to what some consider a “great mystery.” You ready?

Racism is rife in the entertainment industry. Not, racism dividing the black and white people (which isn't nearly as common as some would have you believe anyway) or between the Latino and the non-Latino. We're also not talking about a division between Asian cultures and any other. It's suppression of all things Gentile.

If you're a Gentile in Hollywood, television, music or even within the writer's world of the Internet, you're nothing. I'm not saying a few Jews have a hatred for all Gentiles. I'm saying the culture of hatred for Gentiles is pervasive and a fundamental part of the religion/personality.. Even worse, the hatred for anyone who will point it out to his fellow befuddled, scared, hypnotized Human beings is all the much more worse.

When Mel Gibson got drunk and griped about the Jews being behind all wars, he wasn't far off at all. But, the criminals behind all of this really hate being exposed.

While there might be some Jews who have come to realize the Talmud is a pile of crap and their “god” is nothing more than a malicious, anti-humanity thought-form, designed to strike fear into the hearts of (and shred the lives of) anyone not bowing before Jerkhova, the history – the culture itself – is one which claims the Jews are “God's Elect” (which means anyone else is lesser, by deduction) and which claims...here...see for yourself what Rabbi Ovadia Yosef himself said in 2010. (To the ADL's credit, the comment from Rabbi Ovadia Yosef has been criticized as hate speech. So, at least they're paying lip service to reason)

Also in the Babylonian Talmud, Tractate Sanhedrin, Folio 57a, shows us the innate double-standard towards the treatment of Gentiles in regards to robbery and murder. Simply put, if an Israelite a Gentile, the robbery can be kept. If an Israelite murders a Gentile, there is no murder.

The concept isn't limited to the Talmud, either. In Joshua (9:27), we read ” That day, Joshua made the Gibeonites woodcutters and water carriers for the community and for the altar of the Lord at the Place the Lord would choose. And that is what they are to this days.”

The entire story of Exodus is, in fact, nothing more than the ancient Israelites trying to claim they would destroy any Gentile tribe, not subservient to them. (Although archaeology teaches us the Israelites did not conquer the Canaanites but rather, descended from them, so it's all really just a false history, serving the purposes of propaganda only.)

Go through it for yourself. Read these stories with your own eyeballs and without ANY preacher trying to confuse your understanding. Let the words interpret themselves.

The concept of Gentiles being only a sub-human is well established in Orthodox Judaism and I don't care if we're told differently. I see actions, not words.

I'm well aware what I'm saying here will not be “popular.” I've been here before, so, I'm fine. But it must be pointed out, this double-standard is bullshit. If Jews are no worse for simply being Jews (And nobody has a say in their ancestors) then, isn't it about time those with the “God's Elect” mentality face some re-education of their own too?

When celebrities have been “shamed” for spitting the truth into the faces of our “benevolent overlords,” they saw how much money they stood to lose. They saw their nice houses going away. They probably even imagined losing touch with their families for being truthful. Unlike celebrities, though, I have nothing left to lose. So, don't expect any apologies from me or statements of regret. That kind of garbage is for liars and cowards.And, I'm not your goyim.

The opinions expressed in this post are mine alone and do not necessarily represent anyone else.
Originally published on Bubblews.

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Jun 17, 2014

The Story of Bo; My Hero And Friend

I've meant to re-tell the story of my childhood friend, Bo, for some time now, because I want to pay tribute to a truly good, loyal friend who once saved my life when I was just a little boy. The original telling was my very first piece I ever published on another site and, since I refused to sit idly by and watch those editors and admin treat myself and others abusively, they removed all of my content as punishment for daring to speak up to their multiple, persistant, repetitive abuses.

To be honest, though, they removed me only after an angry, drunken rant in their forums, so, I kind of understand.

I believe I can re-tell it even better now and maybe with less typographical errors this time around, so it all works out, as is often the case. If I get to sounding child-like in this, please understand, when you remember something happening to you as a child, every time you remember it, you remember it as a child again.


There I was in the small town of Borger, Texas. I don't know if I was eight or nine exactly. I just remember I was very young, very alone and very bored on this particular Sunday. This was back before the days of video games or the Internet, when most kids, with no money, had little more to play with beyond sticks, mud, our own creativity and something we old folks call “outside.”

Wanting something to do to burn up what I now know to be the energy of youth, I decided to go for a walk down to one of the local banks. Although it was a Sunday this particular bank had offices on the second-floor and were accessible for the general public. (Back then, nearly all businesses closed on Sundays and – believe it or not – not all doors were locked.)

We kids would go to this one, particular bank, step in the elevator for a ride to the second floor but, on the way, stop the elevator, open the inner-doors and graffiti the wall now exposed. This graffiti wasn't mere graffiti. It was our version of a bulletin board of a sort. Yes, we were all this easily-amused, back then. This time, I was going there alone.

As I made my mind up and started to leave, my dog, Bo, began to follow in his ever-loyal way. For some reason – which I no longer recall – I told him to stay. Maybe I didn't want to be “bothered” by him and being responsible for him and all that, so the words came out, “Sit, boy. Stay,” in my firmest, little-kid voice.

Obedient, he sat. He stayed, or so I thought - but we're getting to that point. Bear with me here, folks.

Crossing the street, I went through the old school gymnasium parking lot (It's no longer there or my childhood home) and then West onto Seventh Street I went. One-half block later I turned South into an alley between Hedgecoke and Deahl Streets.

I hadn't made it a half-block when it happened. I was frozen-in-fear at the sight of a very large, very vicious, very unchained and very fast-moving dog. He wasn't looking for a petting or an ear-rubbing (which I would've gladly given). He acted more like he was looking for a meal. He had a loud, intensely-scary bark and was, without a doubt, intent on hurting me in ways my young mind was unfamiliar with up until this point in my life.

Any sense of embarrassment over pissing myself in public was a moot point. I knew, in a crystal-clear manner, I was dead. There was no stopping it. If I remember correctly, I was muttering something like “Oh...god...please..no...please...no,” although I can't really say if any sound made it out of my mouth. It's the kind of very real, deep, overpowering fear no kid – and even very few adults – should ever experience.

When you truly believe are facing death, it's not really so much your “whole life flashing before your eyes.” This is a myth. It's really more of thinking about everyone you love. I distinctly remember hoping my mom wouldn't be sad for too long. All in a flash of time, I was actually just as ready as I was scared.

Just as I was steeling my young mind for what I hoped wouldn't be too long or too painful, BAM! A fur-covered, ball of muscle and fierce loyalty lit into the attacker with a fierceness I can't say I've ever seen since this day. He brought more to the aggressor, at less than a fourth of his size, than the bigger dog could handle.

Here's the part of the story which has most who've known me for a while, convinced I'm insane. (And it's okay if others laugh at me for this. I actually feel some pity for those who've never had these kinds of experiences, so laugh away.) As I stood there, watching this, I swear I “heard” my friend Bo tell me “Run, boy”

No need to tell me twice. This entire event had been, at most, a minute. It felt like forever, though, as it was happening. Another sort of relativity? Maybe. But this no time to digress.

By the time I made it home and realized I was finally safe, I suddenly became aware I'd left my dog behind. Being scared for the little guy, I decided to go back for him, to do...something. I didn't know what – but, something.

No need though, Bo came right along as soon as I turned around. Prancing – I'd have to say he looked proud – he came back, the victorious protector. Was I ever gld to see him, too! To say it was just a “bonding moment” is an understatement. Anyone who's ever been in a similar situation knows what I mean.

While I don't remember the following events from this day – It was approximately three-and-a-half decades ago and the rest of this day was not seared into my memory from the adrenaline after all – I remember being closer to Bo from then on than I usually am to most other people.


As I mentioned in the introduction, perhaps it is for the best to have lost over a thousand crappy articles and six years of work when I was booted from the other site-which-really-is-to-not-be-named. Since my first telling of this story, I've remembered how I did, in fact, get something of a chance to repay my best friend. I don't know if I remembered this part of the story at the time of my first telling.

Some months later, I, my brothers and a few other neighborhood hooligans-in-training were admiring a local “tough” and his new motorcycle, as he showed off in the gymnasium parking lot. Somehow, during all this fun, Mr. Motorcycle ran Bo over.

Bo's injury wasn't fatal, fortunately. But all of the skin on one of his back legs was peeled off pretty much completely. The exposed muscle looked gruesome. As a testament to the innate toughness of dogs-in-general, I think as bad of an injury, proportionately-speaking, would've likely caused any man twice my size now to pass out from shock.

None of us knew what to do. I felt horrible, confused, sad and scared for my friend all at once. At some point in the discussion of what we were going to do, my brothers, their friends all decided “we” didn't know what to do and mom already had six kids to feed, alone. No way could she afford a vet bill, they – I mean “we” decided.

They walked away. I couldn't.

(Looking back, it's hard to be angry at any of them for being dumb, financially-poor kids at the time. They just didn't know animals really feel. They knew nothing of my obligation to Bo and, this was a time when “people” didn't understand animals were more than just “dumb animals.” We now understand better, for the most part.)

I picked Bo up, carefully, with no defensive reaction from him. Then, I walked, carrying him, to the only veterinarian I knew of, all the way across town, next to Huber Park. Any readers curious enough, can look up Borger, Texas and look for the distance from approximately 700 Hedgecoke Street to Huber Park to get the general idea of how far I carried my friend. I still wasn't over ten-years-old, had no money but, no way was I going to just do nothing for my friend.

(Come to think of it, I believe it was his right-rear leg, from the memory of how I had to carry him, careful not to touch his injury. And, he was calm the entire walk. Perhaps it was some form of shock – but he was calm the whole way.)

The veterinarian heard my plea for help, saw my tears and bandaged Bo up in a flash. I said I'd be glad to pay it off if he could mail me the bill, since I had not a cent to my name. He and the receptionist smiled and said, “Okay.” I still don't remember either of them asking so much as my name or mailing address, though. I think they just took pity on me and this very well-behaved dog. He was back up on all-fours in a day or two, tops, bandages and all.

Bo is one of my favorite memories. He was one of the best friends any lonely boy, big or small, could've ever needed or wanted. He “ran away” when I had been sent to live in Roswell, N.M. years later but I never forgot him. He was my dog and I was his boy. We were more a part of each other than most people might ever understand. As odd as it might sound to some others, I still miss him.

Thank you for coming along on this journey.

Originally shared on PersonaPaper.

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Jun 9, 2014

My Review of PersonaPaper

Well, yet another online writing site is showing up. This newest one is named PersonaPaper. I can't help but wonder if it's going to work this time. It seems, to me anyway, were one of these sites operated correctly from the very get-go, someone could make a big old steaming pile of cash. But, for some reason, it just never seems to happen.

I mean, site admins always mean to do things right, right? It's never “their fault,” they “meant to,” “they were gonna.” But it just doesn't seem to happen.

So, I thought, “Heck, I'm going to sign up for this new site, find their flaws and rip them to shreds.” So, I signed up. Here's my experience, so far.

The sign up process is, of course, free. It's easy and fast, too. Okay. This is good. But, perhaps I'll see the great, big, glaring warning sign in the next few steps. I'm certain of it, in fact.

The next logical step is to read their rules and see all the legalese which is really just an admin's way of play-pretending to know what they're doing. Usually, they're jam-packed full of jargon and terms meant to both confuse the dog-biscuits out of members as well as make sure the only party to benefit will be the admin, should they so choose to screw the members over.

Hmm. There's a list of clearly-defined rules and an easy-to-understand acceptable-use policy. But I'm not seeing one of those “Just-as-soon-as-we-get-ours-well-then-screw-you” types of agreements. Instead, their terms of use take only a minute or so to read and, by golly, I understood what I was reading as well as gett in to.

Pardon me for the little “eep” sound I just made. This site seems so...different already.

Well now, surely, this Personapaper must have some other flaw, right? I bet it's the submission process is a pain-in-the-neck or takes forever. Yeah! THAT'S GOTTA BE IT! PersonaPaper has a major weakness in their armor and I'm going to exploit it, in order to shame them in front of everyone on EARTH! MUUAAAHAHAHAHAHAHAAAAA!!

Wrong! The submission process is awesome! They have a high-quality online text editor, which offers functions I've never had before – not all in one place. Never before. Not like this. Oh my Guido Sarducci. (Wait until you discover the restore cache function I think I might almost have peed myself just a bit ooooooOOOOOOoooo)

And, once your post is published, they do those “little things” right, too. I remember once being “chewed out” by a site admin for sharing a piece more than once on Google Plus and Facebook. When I replied I h d only done it once, they replied with, “Well I don't know what's wrong...but don't do it anymore,” or something to this effect. It was how THEY put the site together. It wasn't me. It was them. I suppose they just really had no clue what they were doing with their own site.

Anyway, the folks running PersonaPaper seem to be doing those little things right. And little things, well, they're everything. This is only my first day on the site but, like I said, they seem really, truly different. I can almost feel my faith in Humanity being restored as I write this.

Come check out what I'm talking about here. It will cost you nothing but a couple minutes.
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