Dreidel Futurism: A response to castizo futurism

Dreidel Futurism: A response to castizo futurism

I’ve been hearing alot about this so called castizo futurism in which people claim that its Ok to race mix with a part Amerindian woman because the spaniards did Now while I can see the appeal of a woman with a great backstory. as we can see with Porn search data that true aryan men prefer tidders rather then assets. I must insist we add The ashkenazi to our catalogue of breedable women not only are they endorsed by Jared taylor we also have a 2nd figure that we all hold dearly to our hearts here at the starboard stuff endorsing the plan and if this isnt enough for you the reader to behold we have a third endorsement from our Hotep Niggas on the east side. Now there is something interesting that the basketball american says “your of the khazar empire and you’re no different then a white american) which if you do a simple engagement into the khazar theory you would realize the more eastern Huwytes elites had adopted the faith of the synagoge of satan, the black african americans were truly the real jews and the “white jews”are just the same as cucks who have been led astray.  so under dreidal futurism we can bring them back into the fold and eventually make Israel the new white ethnostate! That concludes our section on this tonight I will make more articles detailing he details of ths plan.


Black hebrew
Pastor anderson with hard hitting facts
(Jared taylor endorsing dreidel futurism)   


Everyone Wants To Be A Roman

National Socialists= Roman rune coons
American Nationalists = Roman Anglos
Southern Nationalists = Roman slave owners
Odinists = Roman slaves
Ethno-Nationalists= Roman separatists
Catholics = Roman Israelites
Orthos = Roman gyros
Prots = Roman barbarians
Eurasianists = Romans of the third kind
Castizo Futurists = Roman Aztecs
Fascists = Roman Romans
Libertarians = Roman (((merchants)))
Conservatives = Roman retards


Borthers Never Fight Alone


A guest post by Cory Moores

LISTEN: Theme music for this encounter

Cold rain showers the city of the REEEEEEEEserves. Hail the size of gambling dice howl through the air, pelting windows and flesh like stinging insects. A pale dint of moonlight haunts the sky in its alabaster glow. Atop the tallest building in REEEEEEEEserves, the Onyx Obelisk, a fight for the ages reaches its climax.

Ignis [beaten, bloody, wearied but determined. Barechested, the determined youth is dressed in but dark slacks and snakeskin shoes, all stained with blood. He is surrounded by dozens of fatally beaten clowns and the original lineup of Panic! At the Disco members]: “Let her go.”

Spencer [Dons the adornments of the Ripper, jeweled cane in hand, vestments rippling with scarlet highlights]: “Ahhh, ever the strong, silent type. Curt in your feeble statements. I must say” *giggles*, “I’m impressed by your display. You’ve made a mess of Greg Johnson’s finest manslaves.” *claps his hands together*

Ignis: “Where is she? My nico nico nii.” *growls*

Spencer: “So singleminded! It’s almost cute~ Yes, yes, I have your mestizo whore in my possession. But I’m afraid the Dark Cabaret has groomed and broken her, as it will you, Ignis. You are fighting for a figment of your imagination, you pitiable soul. You shall join her, yet not as you imagine. You will become yet another broken shell as she is! To arms, my Turanic horde!” *dozens of muscled men of Turkic ethnogenesis seemingly leap out of nowhere and join the fray*

Ignis: !!!!

[Unidentified voices, in unison]: “Borthers never fight alone! AMREN!!” * Paul McCarthy, CJ Vandal and Bradshaw Wilson storm out of the roof access*

Spencer: *laughs delightedly* “Ahh, I see you have brought company. How utterly exhilarating! You’ve made this all so convenient for me, Sir ignis, allowing me the pleasure of striking all my rivals all at once. Let us be met in final conflict then, and you shall rue the taste of my cane!”

Aryan Neoscientology: Techne, the siren

A long time ago in the distant land of Priam, there lived a man, Midas. His wife was not very beautiful, but she was virtuous and bore him many sons and daughters. While every life has its joys and sufferings, Midas had lived better than many others, and considered himself very fortunate. His many children had spread far and wide throughout Priam, acquiring much glory and fame in the process for their family. They all looked to the future with great optimism and confidence. Midas, too, looked forward to the higher heights of fortune his children’s work promised to bring. With his vast wealth, accrued over many years, he attracted many persons to him, as moths are attracted to the heat of the Sun.

One such person caught his attention in the city one day. The most beautiful woman he had ever seen was sitting with a lute, singing a song honoring his accomplishments. She stared directly into his eyes, and he was enamoured instantly. He brought the woman, Techne, back to his home as a treasured concubine. Ignoring his jealous wife, he spent more and more of his time in the thrall of Techne. She had all manner of talents; music, poetry, fine art, pottery. She amazed him every day by revealing yet more wondrous feats of prowess and ability.

It had been weeks since he had seen his wife or any of his children. Feeling guilty, he left the abode of Techne to see his wife. When he arrived, he found that she was in a grave state of unhealth. She had become fat, and she could only move from her bed with the assistance of her servants. When Midas asked what had happened, it was revealed that Techne had planted an incredible garden that had been feeding all the family and servants in the house. The plants had miraculous growth and tasted sweeter than any that could be bought at the market in the city. His children still seemed lively and fit, so he forgave his wife her grotesque state and returned to Techne.

More time went by with Midas thoroughly hypnotized by Techne’s godlike talents. Whenever he could summon the will, he would leave her for a time and check on his family. Soon he found that his children had been changed as well. His young sons were always smoking the flowers from a field that Techne had planted, being uninterested in leaving the home and succumbing to their own laziness. His daughters had followed their mother, becoming fat and unproductive. He tried to get his sons to leave the home, but they became angry and withdrawn. His daughters would not leave either, and refused to marry the suitors he had found for them, citing their nervous anxiety as the cause. Midas soon found himself vexed by their disobedience, and he grew impatient to return to Techne.

It became clear to Midas, after months of time had passed, that Techne was sterile. She could bear no sons or daughters, and his time spent with her was in vain. The world continued spinning around him, but his gaze was always fixed on her.

When the governor of the area began to wonder what had happened to this great man who was his subject, he went to the estate of Midas to inquire. Nobody had seen Midas in a year, nor his younger sons, nor his younger daughters, nor his servants. Upon arriving, they were greeted with a disturbing sight. Everyone living there was stuck in a trance. They all laid in their beds, unmoving, with their eyes unfocused. The woman, Techne, would administer food to each of them periodically, for they could neither act nor think on their own. The life had eroded from their bodies. Though their hearts still beat and they still ate and drank, they were dead. Their will had dissolved. Their souls had been consumed by the siren who now was the sole inhabitant of the home.

The governor thought to attack and destroy her, but he too came under her spell when he looked into her eyes.

Canadian Catamite Chronicles Vol. 4

The following is a guest post from Varg Vikernes:

Greg knows he’s blocked from this site, so we’ll all wait for him to select another pseudonym and come at me again.

I have a very active and talkative commentariat, but they all seem to scatter when Greg appears. I wonder why that is?

That’s a rhetorical question, of course.

Mad props to Daniel Maywhort, whose heart is as big as a mountain, to Frank, who is everything that Greg Johnson’s product-of-the-month Jack Donovan goes to bed wanting to die for not being or having, and to Dave Dean, who I always want to speak up a bit. I miss his effortposts. Since Greg can see you now, Dave (Greg is Fowler) there’s no reason in you remaining silent.

Leo Yankevich, the best poet in the English language, curses me for criticizing Greg. “If you had real job” hisses Yakevich “you would not talk so.”

Ah, how quickly the peasants forget that the reason one has an independant income is precisely to safeguard the culture and to ward off tyrants. Chesterton and the Distributists did not forget this lesson. I wish I could grant one to everyone worthy, so that Johnson could be pushed off a cliff, as he deserves. Instead, he uses that list he stole from CMT to terrorize the movement, to retard it, to travel Europe in box seats. I am sorry to say it, but nothing can be done for the alt.right. It was sabotaged before the beginning by vipers nursed in our own nest.


Canadian Catamite Chronicles Vol. 3

The following is a guest post from my own self:

MORE power of Greg Johnson: Leo Yankevich just unfriended me. Greg probably threatened to cut off his royalties as he dies of cancer if he didn’t denounce me.

I left the alt.right in 2013, which is when Greg turned against me in earnest. I seem to have his undivided opinion now. Success is the obsessive stalking of a bitter queen.

As I’ve said: people in Margot Darby’s group are afraid to come forward publicly to tell that she is passing around “Greg Gossip”, namely that I’m a Jew.

Oh, yeah, the alt.right is going to take the fight to the Jews! This group of brave fighters shows their true colors virtually every day. Aaron JC, you betrayed me for Greg and didn’t even get the job. What a pitiful shit you are. Maybe if I abuse you publicly, he’ll give you a good job. His current blondes are aging out, don’t you know?

Justin Trudeau

Canadian Catamite Chronicles Vol. 2

The following is a guest post from Satan:

It is a matter of public record that R.G. Fowler is Greg Johnson. Among the letters that I can produce at any time is from the first time you started spying on me, using this name. I wrote you asking why you would be spying one me? Your answer: “I heard that your lunacy had taken a new turn” and then asked why you would spy on me as R.G. Fowler, who you yourself had sold me a book as, on the subject of Savitri Dev. You didn’t have an answer for that one.

I would summon Hamish to testify at the spies you had set on my site, Greg, but he’s blocked me and is your creature now. I think you two really are a perfect fit for each other and therefore do not regret the loss.

Hassun, Jesse,Ab, John, Rasa, Scott, Jean, Pavel, Wendi, Millicent, James, Gretchen, Vi, Leo, Brad, Alex, Alex, Bilbo, Dave, Heinz, Scott, Frank, Zeke, Matthew

Why are you here, Greg Johnson? You’ve been blocked, so why appear as a known sock other than to harass me?


Canadian Catamite Chronicles Vol. 1

The following is a guest post by my alter ego, Raven Gatto:

Greg Johnson asks: “Are we Sith Lords now, Raven?”

I reply, If I’m not shy about comparing myself to a failure as Obi-Wan, I failed with you, I failed with John Morgan, with Colin Liddell, with Jay, I failed with Hamish. Who, by the way, you spoke to MORE frequently when he was off in Scotland AND at greater length than his own boyfriend, who was so distraught by this that he was ready to do hurt to himself or at least give up on life after becoming convinced that Hamish had abandoned him in his affections. Whereas you, with your regular communications with Hamish, did not suffer this neglect. Sith like? I’d say so, on almost all sides.


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