Covid Feuilleton #7

As published at SubStack, 1/8/22:

[Berovo, 9/23/20]

To balkanize is to break up into small, mutually hostile political units, as prompted by ethnic or religious differences. Though Yugoslavia was touted by many leftists as a multicultural paradise, it was held together by a high-living dictator, Tito, who ruled for 35 years, until his death in 1980. Right or left leaning, the infantile love dictators, a Big Daddy to take care of everything, but what they’ll get is a Big Brother to step on their smooth, soft face, with a few tatts to mask its naivete. Hypnotized by Jewish thinking, privileged, pampered Western “radicals” have no idea, so they openly worship red tyrants, the only kosher kind. How many cliché sputtering dough-faced soyboys have I met in my life? “It’s the only hope for the downtrodden, man!” Granted, Tito was not nearly as bad as Hoxha in adjacent Albania, but why should anyone have a hypocritical dictator lord over him for life?

Post-Tito, Catholic Croats, Catholic Slovenians, Orthodox Serbs, Muslim Bosnians and Muslim Albanians violently balkanized, with the mostly Orthodox North Macedonians, who are essentially Bulgarian, also breaking off. 

On 9/23/20, I took a bus from Belgrade to North Macedonia. My first few days there, I spent in Vladimirovo, the home village of my friend Aleksandar Todorovski. Since we were only ten miles from the Bulgarian border, I asked Alex if he would be understood on the other side.

“Of course!”

“So you speak the same language?”

“Pretty much.”

“So you’re Bulgarian!”

“No, we’re Macedonians.”

With only 1.5 million people, North Macedonia is a weak, landlocked country. “Wouldn’t it make sense, Alex, for North Macedonia to merge with Bulgaria?”

“No! Why should we take orders from Sofia?”

This exchange about a tiny, obscure nation is pertinent because it stresses, again, that most people are essentially regionalists, with an attachment to a very specific region and way of life. Often, we bristle at commands from 500 miles away (and sometimes, from just across the room!), so obeying diktats from any global government makes no sense whatsoever.

If Macedonians and Bulgarians already have different demands, how can you impose uniform policies on Angolans, Vietnamese, Costa Ricans, New Zealanders and Ukrainians, etc., but that’s what globalists are trying to do with their “vaccines” and “health” passports, with Covid as a pretext.

Klaus Schwab, “The world will be a very dangerous place if we do not fix multilateral institutions. Global coordination will be even more necessary in the aftermath of the epidemiological crisis, for it is inconceivable that the global economy could ‘restart’ without sustained international cooperation. Without it, we’ll be heading towards ‘a poorer, meaner and smaller world.’”

Verbal tricks from a mass murderer, that’s all. By coordination and cooperation, Schwab means universal subjugation under a cartel dominated by Jews and blue-blooded whites, all Satanic. Even if Schwab was Vietnamese and not Jewish, I would still say fuck you! Nothing is uglier than unchecked arrogance. Coupled with power, it’s genocidal.

The Vladimirovo house where we stayed needed fixing up, which Alex was doing bits at a time, for he worked in Skopje, 95 miles away. This will be his refuge, though, should everything go to hell. With its tiny plot of land, Alex won’t be able to grow much, but at least he’ll be surrounded by hundreds of people who have known him, and his family, forever. Unlike most of us, Alex has maintained ties to his organic community, with its wattle and daub houses, religious festivals, goats, sheep and solid, friendly folks with a deep-rooted heritage they would be willing to die for. No society has survived any other way, although often, even that isn’t enough.

[Berovo, 9/24/20]

Communist countries and other dictatorships used to have nearly-impossible-to-get exit passports, to prevent their citizens from going abroad. None ever tried to keep millions locked inside their own homes for weeks, or even months, until the Covid plandemic, a truly unprecedented achievement! To repeat myself, the most salient feature of totalitarianism is control of movement.

Life wasn’t virtual decades ago, though. Now, a man in solitary confinement can have all sorts of autonomous, masturbatory pleasures, such as venting impotently at honeypot websites that dissipate if not misdirect his anger. Jerking off, though, is his main political and social opiate.

In Skopje, I met a 36-year-old dentist, Zoran, who was just waiting for Covid restrictions to be lifted, so he could emigrate to Australia. His English was halting but improving rapidly. In Perth and Melbourne, Zoran had relatives ready to take him in. Not only that, there were four Macedonian women down under willing to marry him. Spinsters, obviously, so no great beauties, but they were still under 40. When Zoran told Alex he would only wed for love, Alex set him straight, “Just pick one with a house! That’s the most important thing. You need a house to live in. If you make enough money there to buy a house, you’ll die before you’ve paid it off!”

After five weeks in North Macedonia, I decided to fly to Lebanon, where my friend “Taxi” would put me up for as long as I wanted. Moreover, it was in Hezbollah country, so how could I resist? I’d get to look into Israel without entering it.

Near midnight on 10/27/20, Alex drove me to the airport, with his son and Zoran also in the car. Saying goodbye, I joked with Zoran that perhaps we’d see each other in Australia. Neither one of us expected that free, open country to still be closed more than a year later and, not only that, to suffer the worst Covid policies anywhere, with extended lockdowns, forced “vaccination,” vast quarantine camps and protesting citizens lustily beaten up.

By 1/1/22, two despairing Aussies have set themselves on fire, with the New York Post reporting on the second victim, “Australian man self-immolates after ranting against COVID vaccines.” Very unbiased, eh? Madmen rant.

Undeterred, Zoran has consented to be Pfizered twice. It’s just the new normal. To live again, one must be Jew jabbed, even if it means to die, abruptly even, or be maimed.

No one knows how much longer must Zoran wait, but he will certainly wait, for at the end of the Covid rainbow, an unloved, unattractive wife and much needed house beckon. Also promised is an early death that can come at any moment. Hundreds of thousands have already dropped.

[to be continued, of course and unfortunately]

[Bitola, 10/8/20]

Ghosts, Not Quite Ghosts

As published at Unz Review, TruthSeeker and LewRockwell, 12/7/21:





In Hanoi in 1998, poet Phan Huyen Thu gave me an anthology of the earliest Vietnamese prose, a book that’s now in a box in Moorestown, NJ, at my friend Ian Keenan’s house. Along with all my other books, which constitute my mental terrain, roughly, I won’t see it again. Life is loss, in installments.

Though I read every page with much interest, all its characters have disappeared, except a certain ghost that used to bother people at a Hanoi wet market. Meaning no harm, he was just frustrated, it’s clear, at not being seen and heard properly, like the rest of us, especially now.

In a 15th century account of just over 100 words, this ghost lives, then, an individual with sane, normal needs. Though fleshless, he’s social and keeps no distance, unlike too many of us, entombed, as we are, in a chimeric fear. Snap out of it, fools!

Granted, we had faded into nearly nothing even before this. By consensus, we had agreed to become mostly virtual. Still, handshakes were normal, hugs were OK and we routinely saw each other’s lips, teeth and tongue. Now, with our body’s last exposed orifices concealed, we move singly along, rubbing against nothing.

This regiment of self-erasure hasn’t been followed universally, however. Here and there, as in Sub-Saharan Africa and most of the Balkans until recently, people have maintained their ordinary tics and intercourses. During my 21 months of Covid-enforced wandering, I’ve been lucky to encounter life as it has always been, with people, almost unthinkingly, just being themselves, most gloriously. Let’s meet three.

In downtown Skopje, there’s Ramstone Mall, which bills itself as not just a center of shopping, but of friendship. Filled with anticipation, I barged in and wasn’t disappointed. In a wooden shack, there’s a white haired man drawing portraits under a sign, “ART STUDIO/ SAIGON / SABEDIN EJUPI.”

“Excuse me, Sir, but why is your studio called Saigon? I’m, uh, from Saigon.”

Showing not the least surprise at having such an unlikely visitor, 64-year-old Sabedin Ejupi explained that when he was 11, a chocolate company had a promotion. Each piece of chocolate came with a picture of a national capital. If you could collect the entire set, you’d win a prize.

Sabedin and his friends, then, bought way too many pieces of chocolate. With infinite patience, they gathered, you know, Washington, Paris, Moscow, Peking, Seoul and Cairo, etc., but no one ever came up with Saigon. With the Vietnam War raging, that elusive city was always in the news, like a daily taunt to these frustrated Macedonian boys.

Fate touched Sabedin, however, for he heard there was a place that sold these pictures. He went there and, sure enough, they had the extremely rare Saigon one! What a miraculous snatch!

Winning, Sabedin wasn’t just the envy of all his friends, he became Saigon, that unreachable, ghostlike city now reduced to just one tiny, inaccurate photo. It could have been anywhere, really. More Saigon than me, Sabedin was still Saigon half a century later, and he’ll die as Saigon, of course, without ever seeing his namesake.

My first morning in Cape Town, I walked nearly the length of Kloof onto Long. In any new city, each building is curious, each shop sign, each passerby. Near the corner of Wale, some grinning guy at a sandwich stand yelled at me, “Hey!”

I just had a long flight, I thought, with two layovers. I slept on the floor in Rome. I haven’t had breakfast. Just leave me alone, man. I don’t want your sandwich. Looking at him, I nodded and grinned, quickened my pace.

Each time after that, he would do the same, even when I was on the other side of the street, so I said, “You’ve got to stop yelling at me, man. I’m afraid to walk by you!”

Finally, I bought a cup of coffee from this dude. We talked. As I got to know him better, I realized he yelled at everybody, in the most cheerful way. Seeing a woman walking by, he might say while putting two fists to his chest, “Oh, I’m so happy!”

“You’re a total whore, man. You flirt with every woman!” I ribbed.

“They’re beautiful.”

“Hey, that’s a good attitude. I hate guys who always judge women. She’s this, she’s that, but then, look at you, man!”

“That’s right. Ha, ha!”

“Hey, you didn’t say hello to her!”

“Which one?”

“That one.” Studiously, we stared at this lithe woman in a tight, gray dress strolling away.

“I didn’t see her.”

“She’s offended.”

“I can’t say hello to her if I don’t see her.”

Twenty-seven-years-old, he had never been outside South Africa. Though white enough, he actually had a colored father, whom he had no memory of. His dad was abusive to his mom, so she moved away and raised two sons alone. She’s English.

Like most working people, he was not a reader, it’s clear, so his knowledge of the world was very limited. So what. Once, he asked me if the Portuguese language was native to Angola? Another time, if cheeseburgers were popular in the USA?

Like most South Africans, he’s fluent in Afrikaans and English, of course, but since he didn’t have a third language, like most South African blacks, he was trying to teach himself Xhosa. It’s not easy, he stated, for there were few resources online, but he was determined. Each language is a new, unsuspected universe. Plus, none is as rooted to that land as Xhosa. Going nowhere, he dug.

Already, I’m in Windhoek five weeks. I’ve just moved into my second apartment. It’s bigger, quieter yet cheaper. My landlord is an Indian who’s interesting to talk to.

Most of the streets in my neighborhood honor German composers, Beethoven, Bach, Wagner, Brahms, Schubert, Strauss, Mozart and Gluck. Hey, where are Mendelssohnstrasse and Schoenbergstrasse?! For such blatant antisemitism, Windhoek must be renamed Stevereichstadt, Bobdylanburg or, simply, Streisand.

Compared to Cape Town or, frankly, Columbus, Ohio, Windhoek is a bit dull, but this suits me fine, for I need rest. There are no cafes or restaurants near me, just an old woman across Beethoven who sells lunch, I suppose, from a single pot. I haven’t asked her to lift the lid.

Half a mile away, though, there’s Old Location, a bar and restaurant named after a black neighborhood that was cleared out by the South Africans, when they ruled Namibia.

Drinking a Hansa there one day, I met our final character for this article. Seeing Joana walk in, the barmaid tensed up, but served her anyway. A short, wild-eyed woman in her 60’s, Joana lost no time raving. Clearly unhappy with this earth, she started to rant about space exploration.

“So you’re a philosopher,” I said.

“And a politician!”

“Why do you want to go to space? There’s nothing there. I’d rather stay here.”

“But we must explore!”

Turning to the barmaid, I asked, “Do you want to go to space?”

“Are you making fun of me?” Joana snapped.

“No, I’m just saying. There’s nothing out there. Everything is here.”

“You’re right. It is horrible, but everything is here.”

Frowning slightly, the barmaid clearly didn’t want me to encourage Joana, but it was too late. I learnt she was an ex-teacher who lived with several relatives just down the street. “Come,” she said, “I want to show you how we live.”

Leaving my mug, I said to the unsmiling barmaid, “I’ll be right back.” Joana walked out with her beer.

In Vietnam or Naples, you can often see how strangers live by walking by their homes, or stare into their rooms from your upper floor window. In the USA, you can live next to a cannibal for several decades without knowing it.

Every so often, there’s a muffled scream, but it’s just his TV, obviously. “Please don’t stab me!” Geez, he really likes horror movies, you conclude.

Just like that, I met an articulate old man, cigarette smoking old woman, smiling young woman in curlers, pretty teenaged girl and a chubby boy, all related to Joana, and all living in houses without electricity or running water. Useless TVs, stoves and microwaves silently mock them.

The old man had been a laborer until disqualified by age. The woman in curlers was unemployed, though with an associate degree in tourism and hospitality. The teenaged girl was Joana’s granddaughter. After her mother had died, her father disappeared.

In Joana’s home, I noticed a bible in English, but also My Groot-Groot Storieboek in Afrikaans, with marked her as a Baster. Her lighter skin reinforced this conclusion. Of mixed Dutch and Bushmen ancestries, Basters are centered in Rehoboth, a town of just 29,000 people. It’s instructive how they cling to their bastard heritage. You are who you are.

With indignation, Joana showed me her just-received layoff letter:

We write this letter to inform you that your services have been terminated effective 1 November 2021. This has been necessitated by your continued absence from work.

This has costed the school a lot in terms of service delivery, if not reputation. It is paramount that your perennial illness can not be tolerated. The school through the Principal’s Office tried to consel you to clarify that your frequent unauthorized absence from duty is not encouraged in our work environment, but you did not take heed of this.

Despite the warnings and a fair chance to mend your ways, there has been no change […]

As the only one working in that extended family, Joana should not have tossed her job away, obviously, but I don’t know the forces that have shaped or deformed her down the decades, nor if I could have survived them any better. We slog along until we break down, go mad or drop dead.

Stumbling along, we often help each other, but suddenly, all basic human acts, from smiling to touching, or just being together, etc., are absurdly thwarted, if not outlawed. Even breathing freely has become illegal. Keep your mask on, over your nose!

Beyond madness, it’s evil. Only the most moronic or complicit can excuse this anti-life agenda. There are no missteps here. They’re squeezing the life out of us, step by step, deliberately.

A while back I suggested that, at the very least, each man should be left alone to be ordinary. Sneering, a supercilious reader countered that Jews must aspire for the sublime and, moreover, we should follow their example!

The divine, though, is already in every batted eyelash, grain of rice, smallest act of generosity or scuttling cockroach. Normality is our birthright. How dare they pervert that, and why do we go along?

Hezbollah or Bust

As published at Unz Review, 10/31/20:

So where was I? As I was saying, traveling during Covid is not exactly relaxing. Entry rules can change overnight, and flights may be canceled at the last minute. No really means no, just like on your first date, all those moons ago. You ain't getting in, so stop begging.

On my last day in Skopje, I got a Covid test just after dawn, with the negative result arriving just two hours later. It was far from a Shawn Kemp slam dunk. The day before, I had drank rakija from a bottle shared with two strangers. Walking around, my friend Alex and I had run into two friendly old farts, just sitting in the shade, watching pigeons. When one gave me the plastic bottle, I just had to gulp down a bracing shot, then another one. It would have been extremely rude to rebuff such as spontaneous gesture of kindness and universal brotherhood.

One man was 70-years-old, and the other was 78 and a former truck driver. Each had a cheerful disposition, bulbous nose, firm posture and fine complexion. With Alex translating, I asked the ex truck driver if he had a girlfriend in each town, and that got him talking all right.

"I've had sex with over a thousand women! That’s right, over a thousand. If I saw a beautiful woman, I had to fuck her!"

This casanova had driven as far as Kuwait, so we asked if he had pleasured an Arab woman. No, unfortunately, although one did all she could to seduce him.

"She pulled up her burqa, and there was no panties, but I couldn't." We all cracked up. He popped his eyes, bunched his fist and lifted his arm in an illustrative uppercut, to mimic that distant arousal. "I just couldn't. In Kuwait, if you stole, they chopped your hand off." The long-hauler didn't care to have anything of his chopped off.

He spoke quite fondly of the Tito years, and even did a Partizan salute, so I aped the man after my parting shot of rakija. When he said, "I loved Tito," his friend chimed in, "I loved Jovanka!"

*

Alex is a take-charge kind of a guy, which means he's a facilitator, protector and sometimes bully. He'll do what he thinks is right. In school, Alex stood up for kids who were picked on, even if it meant fighting their harassers. Alex slapped classmates to stop them from smoking.

In college, Alex argued with a hardline Marxist professor, which resulted in him getting an unjust D. Years after Socialism's collapse, however, Alex caught this man leaving a church, so he shouted, "Hey, I thought you didn't believe in God!"

Surprisingly, the old red graciously responded, "I was wrong."

Seeing a single typo on my Covid test result, Alex went to the lab to get it corrected. "We don't want to take any chances."

Set, Alex drove me to the airport after midnight, in an orange-lit smog. "Look at this pollution," Alex grumbled. Parts of the highway were under repair, yet poorly marked. "That's just typical," Alex shook his head. In the backseat sat Alex' son, Slave, and our mutual friend, Darko.

Thirty-six-years-old, Darko's an underemployed dentist just waiting to emigrate to Australia. I had visited his grandma's village, Prostranje, to see all of its empty houses. Half a century ago, Prostranje had a thousand people. Now, there are only ten, and no one is doing anything, not even farming. Guided by Darko, I dropped in on a 95-year-old man and his 62-year-old son, a former factory worker. A grape arbor graced their house's entrance, and strings of hefty, curling red peppers were dangled to dry. Once, 15 people were crowded into this handsome, solidly built house, now crumbling on the outside.

Inside Prostranje's well-maintained 19th-century church, I admired the still-vibrant and rather spectacular frescoes. This is heritage, lovingly preserved. Using pitchforks, dark devils with darting red tongues poke naked sinners into hell, where wolves may devour them. I inspected its made-in-America bell. Inside its long-dead elementary school, there was a mini pub with four photos of Tito, in a medal-bedecked military uniform, suit, and, with a hunting rifle slung on his back, looking suave and regal on horseback. Yugoslav maps and army jackets shared a wall with a religious icon. Behind the bar, there was a photo of a half naked woman, barely covered by lurid green leaves.

Darko, "I come here, my parents come here, to fix our old house. We do everything ourselves. I feel good when I'm here, because this is my village, my history. My family has been here more than 300 years."

Despite all that, he'll have to leave his beloved North Macedonia soon, because he's still unmarried and living with his parents, like so many other professionals in this broken economy.

Just before disappearing into the airport, I hugged Alex goodbye, gave Slave a fist bump and accepted a gift pen from Darko.

"We'll meet again," I optimistically said. "Maybe in Sydney!"

"Yes, we'll meet again!"

*

My plane was supposed to leave Skopje at 4:45PM, with a layover in Istanbul of just 1:45, but my departure was changed to 2:35AM, which meant I had to slump, slouch, schlep around and nod off inside Sabiha Goksen for 16 hours! I couldn't go into town without a visa, a requirement I had forgotten about.

In the international transit section, there were McDonald's, Burger King, Starbucks, Subway, Popeyes Louisiana Chicken and Sbarro, plus Turkish chains Mado Cafe, Maca Cafe, Secco Kafe, Karafirin Bakery, Simit Sarayi and Usta Doneci, etc. Trattoria Milano, Heroes Sports Bar and a few others had gone out of business, presumedly because of the coronavirus crisis. With so much time on my hands, I could observe there was very little traffic at this airport, though occasionally, it would be swarmed for half an hour or so, thus giving the impression that everything was still normal.

Set apart in the mezzanine was a very pleasant eatery called Big Chefs, so that's where I sheltered for several hours. With its tables civilly spaced, everyone had his serene bubble, and the music was elegant. Louis Armstrong and Ella Fitzgerald's singing Irving Berlin's Cheek to Cheek has to be among the peaks of American culture, and Betty Carter scatting, riffing and growling One of My Favorite Things is pretty damn awesome too. I felt blessed.

Suddenly, I heard English coming from the next table, but it was spoken so softly, I had to strain to make sure it was really the Queen's. The young couple turned out to be from Liverpool, and they had only come to Turkey to get new teeth. He was a mechanic and she's an accountant.

Flashing his sparkling chompers, the bearded man said, "I only paid 1,800 Pounds. In England, that would have cost me 5,000."

"Where did you go?"

"Izmir. It's down south, by the ocean. This doctor is very famous. A lot of English people go to her."

His tank topped girlfriend added, "I got mine done, too." Showing off blameless teeth, she smiled. "I paid 5,000. It would have cost me 14,000 back home."

"Looks great!"

In Turkey ten days, they never had a chance to even hang out in Istanbul, one of the world's most resonant cities. It's really deep, man. Now they were going back to work. Before Covid, they had planned a trip to Paris and Amsterdam, which they had never seen. They had traveled a bit, though, with trips to Tenerife, Krakow, Torino and even Bali. Years from now, people will look back in astonishment at how accessible this entire earth was to even the working class of privileged countries.

*

Just before we boarded, a middle-aged Turk was turned away from another flight. Enraged, he unleased a tirade that stopped and started, with no security guard nearby to calm him down. There was so much hurt in his anger, I almost expected him to sob.

In any totalitarian state, just getting on a plane is nearly a miracle, so if you haven’t experienced this abject hope, anxiety and fear, consider yourself pampered. Freedom of movement is among the first to be taken away, and it’s already begun.

My Pegasus mistress tore my boarding pass so gently yet authoritatively, I felt acute love, then moved on. Though mine was a window seat, a woman had taken it, so I sat in hers. Flying into Beirut in the dark, I wouldn’t be seeing much anyway.

The passport, Covid and customs checks at Beirut's airport were surprisingly hassle-free, so, just like that, I was out in the warm Lebanese air. I had a driver, Ali, to take me to Al-Quala'a, just over an hour south of Beirut, and why was I going there? To be close to Israel, of course, for can any Jew resist this visceral yank?

*

It wasn't quite midnight, yet all the streets and houses were barely lit, and there were almost no open cafes or restaurants. Although I knew Lebanon was in a severe economic crisis, I wasn't aware there were scheduled electricity blackouts daily, and capital control had been imposed for a year, so that Lebanese could only have rationed access to their own money in the bank. On top of a corrupt government, there was also Beirutshima, and a suspicious series of wild fires that many Lebanese attribute to Israel. Before you dismiss them as paranoid or "anti-Semitic," a meaningless word here, consider how many times Jews have attacked their country, and that Jewish fighter jets daily violate their airspace. That roar above the clouds has become so familiar, locals barely notice it.

Wiry, dark and mustached, Ali's a cheerful ex-cop of roughly my age. Although I had been informed he didn't speak much English, Ali had more than enough to chatter with me. He had learnt English by watching American TV shows and movies, he said. His first foreign language was French.

"You never took an English class?" I asked.

"Never!"

"That's incredible." Perhaps Ali had worked overseas, I thought. "Have you traveled much?"

"No, I do not travel. I love Lebanon too much!"

I couldn't help but chuckle at that odd answer.

Ali, "My daughter is in Australia."

"Wow! You should go see her."

"No, she come to see me. She has three sons."

"You haven't seen them?"

"One, six-years-old, has come to Lebanon."

"That's good."

"My wife go to Australia. She stay there two months."

"So she travels..."

"Yes, she been to Syria, Iraq, Iran, Australia."

"I love to travel."

"A friend invite me to America. He say he pay for my plane ticket, give me money to spend. I say no. Another friend invite me to Arabia. If I don't want to go to America," he laughed, "why I want to go to Arabia?"

"Just go, look around, eat new food?"

"No, I like it here. I love Lebanon."

On our right, there was just enough light to reveal the ocean. Highway signs indicated unfamiliar towns and cities, and even Sidon was unrecognizable because it's called Saida here. A brightly lit, humongous bakery flashed by. Al Forno was like a casino.

Ali was sipping from a can of Heineken. "I drink when I drive. I drink beer and scotch and whiskey. I drink beer in the morning, afternoon, evening, night."

"How many beers do you drink a day?"

"I don't count them."

"Do you drink beer at a cafe, in your village?"

"I'm the only one, drink beer, in my village!"

"Wow! So where do you drink?"

"I must go to another village," meaning Christian ones, such as Sarba, a village inhabited by descendants of 11th century Serb crusaders.

We passed several churches, with one giant one, on top of a hill, in Maghdouché. Jesus and Mary had sheltered in a cave there. We saw mosques, of course, and Hezbollah billboards and banners.

Since they are on the front line against Jewish power, you'll be delivered too when they win, God willing, whether you call Him Jesus, Allah, Buddha or Vishnu. You must join me, then, in rooting for these Arab fighters. If only the rest of us had their balls and brains, this war would already be over.

When Ali says “before the war,” he means Lebanon before 1975, but his country has been continuously under siege or attacked by Jews since 1948, with the founding of Israel. More than any other nation, Jews trigger war. It’s what they do, for profit, revenge, conquest or sadistic, righteous fun, judging by how much they cheerlead each new one.

Just think of all the wars they started in the last century alone. Just think of the one you’re submerged in, right now.

That fuse is getting short. Three more days before hell breaks loose. It’s all planned at your expense. Though way late, you still must act, if only to save what’s left of your ass. There’s still some flesh there, though pitiful. It may grow back.