Colossus of Troy
How a toxic dose of empathy destroys a nation.
Note to readers:
This essay is my longest to date, by far. The topic is something I think is profoundly important, and one I haven’t really touched on before. It is controversial and deeply political. It also contains more personal details than I’m normally comfortable to share.
For all of these reasons, I briefly considered paywalling it. As my longtime readers know, that’s something I rarely do. But ultimately I decided the subject was too important, and the hour too late. If you read my take and find you agree, please consider sharing it with someone you know.
After rereading it, I think the ideal audience would be someone struggling with the official immigration narrative, and noticing that the reality doesn’t quite line up.
After decades living as a night owl, I have finally transformed into an early riser.
Yes, even on New Year’s Day.
My wife was still asleep when I went about my morning routine. This typically wraps up with me squatting on a favorite stoop, sipping a coffee and reading something intriguing (That “something” is usually found on Substack these days, but I will occasionally tote along a rectangular object called a “book.” Savage, I know).
The morning of January 1st was no different. As I scrolled an article about ancient Mithrain cults and their postmodern descendants, a stranger walked past. He looked to be mid-to-late twenties, Mexican and rather intensely pissed-off.
He paused to briefly speak with me, uttering the first human words of 2024 this cat was doomed to hear.
“Español, papi? Español?”
I shook my head, No.
To his great displeasure, it seems. As he stomped off, I heard him call me a “puta.”
While it’s true that I’m not fluent in Spanish, I have picked up quite a bit of it along the way. I guess I owe that to the magical osmosis of living in a “diverse” and “multicultural” city.
Whatever the case may be, puta was most definitely a word that I comprendí.
In other circumstances, I would’ve just shrugged it off. This was New York, after all, and I’ve been called much worse. But it stuck with me, because it served as the perfect coda to an experience I had eight days prior, on Christmas Eve.
I grasped the brass tacks of this young man’s situation, and even generally understood what he was so angry about. This understanding wasn’t due to magical powers per se. It’s because I’m an artist, cursed to pay attention to fine details: the clothes, the hairstyle, the animation and subtle shape of facial expressions, all recombining into an elaborate constellation of clues and hints. You can also scrape a ton of data from the eyes, which contain whole stories if you know where and how to look for them.
The picture that emerged was familiar. The man who asked for help then called me a whore was essentially an alien astronaut, crash-landed on a mysterious, uncharted world. There he found himself immersed in foreign text and sounds that did not remotely compute, and Big Mad that his dream of space adventure didn’t line up with its bewildering reality. Such dark revelations have become commonplace, in those urban campuses which bill themselves as “sanctuary cities.”
I do not hate these astronauts. But I also do not “empathize” with them.
As you’ll see, I literally can’t afford to.
That may sound heartless, to some. It also might sound contradictory to people who know me well. After all, I always advise others to be kind, and strive to be a kind man myself.
But I also know that empathy isn’t the same as kindness. Kindness as I understand it is a marriage of empathy and reason, in which each constrains the excesses of the other. And so, when imbibed heavily in isolation, either divorcee can prove extremely toxic.
The terrain of Toxic Reason has already been well-mapped, in my opinion. So, let’s examine the lethal poisons of Toxic Empathy, as pertains to a crime wave of epic proportions.
This article was inspired by my latest adventure in the flow. But before I dive into those events, I’ll kick things off with the following horrible confession:
There’s a deep part of me that wants to remain in New York City.
That’s not due to sentimentality (or at least, not anymore). It isn’t because I think it can be “saved” either (I don’t believe it can be — at least not by human hands). And while I’ve always been somewhat of a romantic, we can disregard that explanation too. What little romance remained of our fair city was garroted to death by COVID-19 and its adjacent lunacies.
So what is it then? Do I have some kind of secret death wish?
No. If I had to boil down my strange attachment, it would be something like the following:
There’s a certain pugnacious character of my soul that’s proven impossible to quiet. It forever yearns to be down on the field of play, in the thick of the action, rather than some chubby spectator chomping hot dogs in the nosebleeds. And given the darkness of the current hour, that analogy has likewise darkened. This stubborn pugilist begs me to remain not just on the field, but inside the Belly of the Beast. To probe for weaknesses there, and report back our findings.
And what we find these days is consistently astounding.
I live on a tiny island. Or technically an archipelago, both geographically and socially. But my concrete island is also a kind of nation, which happens to border on the entire world. And, much like the larger nation that encloses it, no walls or sentries are left to defend those worldwide borders. More on this grim development later.
Like all New Yorkers who stubbornly remain, my wife and I have been through the ringer. Over the past twenty-odd years alone, we’ve survived financial bubbles, exploding buildings, military occupation, a devastating flood, love-looting, peace-riots and — for a grand finale — a plague of mind-melting insanity, biomedical tyranny and iatrogenic carnage.
We’ve also survived a series of mad kings and their regimes, each one more malevolent and stupidly destructive than the last. This Rule-by-Retard has spawned a string of ever more outlandish stories, which whizz in and out of news cycles by the eyeblink. Admittedly, it’s getting impossible to keep track of them all. Maybe one day I’ll sit down to write a proper catalog.
There are several decades worth of potential Chapter Ones I could choose from. But if forced at gunpoint to pick a prologue, it would be the Summer of 2020. When most outsiders speak of that summer, it’s usually focused on all the peaceful love-riots and truth-lootings. Some of you will venture deeper, into, say, the mass die-off of small businesses that naturally resulted from those. New Yorkers talk about that crap too, of course. But there were other bizarre features of our Love Summer which seemingly go unsung outside our little circle.
For example, there were The Fireworks. That freaky episode is something else I might describe in detail, somewhere down the road. For now, I’ll just say this: If you know, you know.
Anyway, the pace of catastrophic absurdities has only quickened since that summer lovefest. For example, shortly before New Year’s Eve, a “steam pipe rupture” shut down a key thoroughfare in Midtown Manhattan, carrying with it an (ongoing) asbestos scare. This occurred less than two weeks after an explosion at a Brooklyn power plant sparked a massive overnight power outage which — somehow — extended to parts of New Jersey. And a mere three days prior to that busted doomsday seal, an apartment building collapsed in the Bronx.
The latter phenomenon — buildings that just #DiedSuddenly — has become so eerily common in recent years that I’ve given up on counting them.
The details of these and other stories are murky at best. Some of them — like that recent mass blackout being traced to a single faulty line at a DUMBO facility — simply beggar belief. But seeing as New York investigative journalism is deader than the Stegosaur, I don’t expect any clear answers to ever bubble up. In any case, the regime’s latest incarnation seems to give zero fucks about that sort of thing. It has found much bigger fish to fry.
For example, their main priority these days seems to be to bankrupt1 what’s left of the kingdom’s coffers by overwhelming it with so-called “refugees.” In the infantilized progressive’s cartoon imagination, these are “your tired, your poor, your huddled masses, yearning to breathe free.”
I’m guessing the visions of these New Immigrants that dance in their heads are those of childlike español-speaking manqués, incapable of surviving without the White Man’s Western civilization’s compassionate neoliberal assistance. But most often — thanks to the agitprop of our supine local press — they are literally the faces of children.
They are also, of course, almost exclusively non-white faces, of that kind to which they ascribe the status of sacred victim. In perhaps one of Clown World’s greatest ironies, the same crowd who screeches about the evils of “mascoting” and "white saviorism” are themselves drunk-as-hell on that very cocktail.
And while the axiom “progressives are the real racists” is a bit of an oversimplification, it also rings true at a fundamental level. When it comes to the subject of race, something has gone horribly haywire in their ability to self-examine — or perhaps “horribly right,” as far as their spellbinding masters are concerned.
Weirdly, this spell also permits them to re-sacralize certain aspects of America’s past that they’ve been trained to attack and abhor. For instance, their Nazgul programmers and orcish instincts will typically instruct them to tear down patriotic monuments. Such acts of vandalism sometimes even occur with official blessings, as happened with the monument to Teddy Roosevelt once parked on the front steps of the Museum of Natural History.
The quartet of figures had guarded its entrance for more than eighty years before they were suddenly declared “controversial.” Instead of melting them down for scrap — an idea that was actually floated for a time — they now apparently reside in some storage facility in North Dakota.
I can almost see them now: crated-up and dragged down a dismal aisle of equally offensive curios. I’ve got it on good authority that they have top men working on it as we speak.
The Statue of Liberty has thus far escaped a similar fate. I cannot stress enough how utterly fucking weird that is. After all, one might imagine an endless litany of accusations leveled at that gigantic metal broad.
Objectification of women!
Capitalist exploitation of foreign labor!
Colonialist theft of cultural identity!
Something-something discursive something!
The magic trick that saves her is rooted in the progressive ego’s racial obsessions and hypocrisies. They have indeed been granted permission to sentimentally invoke Lady Liberty — but only so long as her big green ass knows her place, and promises to kiss only the brown ones.
And it’s here that my tale of Christmas Eve begins.
Consider it a report from the Belly, told by one of those maniacs who refuses to escape. In the course of relaying it, I will introduce you to a different species of New Immigrant, of a kind you won’t see dramatized on propaganda outlets.
SPOILERS:
It is as far removed from the progressive’s “noble dreamer” version as you could possibly imagine.
“Lookee what I just found in the laundry room.”
Dame Bisone waved a slim paperback at me. The cover sported a certain infamous, torch-toting kaiju in cartoon form. What is the Statue of Liberty? a kid-friendly font shouted.
I frowned back. I hate titles that are also questions.
I also wasn’t too pleased with the kaiju herself, to be honest. She had mutated into a progressive tramp in recent decades, and her latest set of pimps seemed hellbent on triggering an apocalypse. But my wife looked pleased enough with her discovery. So I just nodded, then went back to kicking a scumbag robot in the groin.
The reason she was happy was due to our upcoming lunch date, set for Christmas Eve. A couple we hadn’t seen in many years was coming to town for a visit, with their eight-year-old son in tow. They were Left Coasters who lived in a certain infamous “city”2 that I’d come to recognize as the Sunny Sodom to our Gothic Gomorrah.
They planned to do a bunch of the usual tourist crap beforehand, which of course included a visit to Ellis Island and its colossus. So my wife figured the book would be a relevant gift for the kid (Not to mention a free one; there’s been a whole lot of belt-tightening at Casa Bisone this past year).
Anyway, her “coincidental” discovery of this abandoned tome should have been my first clue about the kind of experience that was on order. It wasn’t. Truth is, I didn’t even bother to flip through the damned thing, much to my later regret. I imagine it might’ve had even more to show me.
December 24th arrived.
We set out on our mission around 1:30 PM. Stood at one bus stop until we realized it probably wasn’t ever coming, then walked a few blocks to board a different downtown line. All the way downtown, in our case, into the shadow of that revolting, syringe-tipped, postmodern obelisk they call One World Trade (or I guess “Freedom Tower” if you’re a slackjawed idiot or trolling).
Admittedly, I wasn’t thrilled about this plan. Not because I didn’t want to hang out with our friends — I very much did. But I absolutely despised this part of town. Hated it even before it became an international monument to eyesores, crawling with grief-tourists and hustlers. I also just resented the idea of a Christmas Eve packed with so much travel. We’d been invited to an out-of-town party to be held on Christmas Day, and packed some bags to linger on a few days more.
So, the order of our Silent Night would be:
A bunch of public transit bullshit.
A twenty-minute hike to the West Side Highway.
2-3 hours catching up with James and Ara.3
Steps 1 and 2 over again, in reverse order.
Pick up luggage at apartment.
Public transit bullshit to Penn Station.
Catch a train.
Transfer to different train.
Take Uber to party house.
Sleep (hopefully).
Meanwhile, my own preferred Christmas Eve strategy probably resembled the following image:
(Minus the fireplace, of course. The only things we’re allowed to set on fire in New York these days are cop cars and storefronts.)
In other words, I just wanted to relax. Throw on some good music. Maybe sing a song or two.
Alas, ‘twas not to be.
We arrived at the restaurant around ten minutes late. No big deal; no reservations were made, and the spot we chose didn’t take those anyway. We quickly found James, Ara and their son Knight, parked in front of a giant TV screen playing a soccer game.
No, I don’t know which game. I’m American.
Surprisingly, both James and the boy did seem interested in the little foreigners and their ballkicking shenanigans. I actually don’t know James all that well (both my wife and I were friends of Ara’s first, to be inherited should any divorce-type situation unfold). But he never struck me as the kind of man who’d be into sportsball. Maybe that’s just my own bias showing; he’s a fellow artist, and as a meta-tribe we typically have little inclination for the sis-boom-bah.
We did a little catching up over pints. The topics are a blur to me; I mostly sat quietly in my comedy sniper’s nest, cracking off jokes whenever a target scrolled into view.
At some point my mind’s eye wafted out of my skull, its lens recording a scene that might’ve been straight out of a modern Hollywood production. Or, at the very least, a beer commercial.
Although we were all either pushing fifty or past it, none of us looked remotely our age. That’s no idle brag; the last time Madam Bisone was carded for an alcohol purchase was within spitting range of Christmas 2022. In fact — given the proper lighting and a little help from the Makeup Department — we really might’ve been cast for such a commercial, even before all standards of telegenic beauty got flushed down the tubes.
That’s not only because our ladies were both stunners (they were and are), but due to the on-trend composition of our forces. Here we saw two mixed-race couples, mid-thirty-ish-looking, dressed down to the pathetic workplace standards of the day. If either James or myself also happened to be some strain of Hispanic, our quartet would’ve looked like a Diversity Dream Team, precisely calibrated according to some new DEI production rule.4
But even beyond the racial checklist, we still might’ve served as perfect avatars for New Hollywood’s priorities. I mentioned that James and I were artists, but the fact was we were all working artists of various mediums. By that, I don’t mean that we were merely “artistic” in our private hobbies, but that we’d each been paid for our work in the commercial sphere. We were professional “creatives” by the business definition.
Due to all these similarities, it would be reasonable to assume we also shared the same values, views, politics and general perception of reality. You’d be terribly wrong, of course. But your mistake is understandable; tribes share markings almost by definition. And because we live in an age where style consistently trumps substance, even our friends probably held the same false assumptions about us.
But one thing I know is this:
If either James or Ara knew our unfiltered opinions on the subject of mass immigration — even if our discussion were restricted to illegal immigration — they would most likely end our friendship on the spot, severing all bonds of love and trust. Their rationale would be that we lacked sufficient empathy to sustain or deserve such sacred bonds. We’d be sentenced in their kangaroo court on Trumped-up charges, expelled into the outer darkness of -ists and -phobes.
This is unfortunately what it means to be friends with a progressive, here in the crumbling, burning, suicidal West of 2024.
Because of their political bent, I knew immigration wouldn’t be the only third rail to navigate. An integral component of the modern progressive spell is that it forces you to swallow the slate whole, without exception.
For instance, on the bus ride down I shared a dark thought with my wife.
“What if we get there and they’re wearing fucking masks?”
They weren’t. But in the course of a conversation with James, it became clear which side of that battle they joined. I don’t necessarily blame them for that; the Enemy deployed its entire arsenal upon COVID’s 5GW battlefield. Shot every bullet in the gun, and then threw the gun.
In their current form, the mainline liberal seems to have been rendered defenseless to nearly all of our enemies’ psychological weapons and tactics. Ironically, this defenselessness scales with their material wealth, which serves to (temporarily) insulate them from the worst effects of progressive policies. And our L.A. friends happen to be doing quite well for themselves. So for them, the New Immigrant probably isn’t just a sequel to the original black-and-white film, but is superior to it for several reasons.
There is of course the holy brownness of the current influx, which will serve to combat white supremacy and so forth. Progressives even used to admit to this strategic component, not so long ago. Remember when “replacement theory” wasn’t dastardly rightwing propaganda, but rather a sunny demographic destiny which the Left constantly bragged about?
You could start at around the 9:30 mark for additional context. But here’s the money quote, from America’s then Vice-President:
See, there’s a second thing in that black box: An unrelenting stream of immigration. Non-stop. Non-stop.
Folks like me who are Caucasian, of European descent, for the first time in 2017 we’ll be in an absolute minority in the United States of America, absolute minority. Absolute minority.
Fewer than 50% of the people in America, from then and on, will be white European stock. That’s not a bad thing, that’s a source of our strength.
Such cheerful talk of white replacement-via-immigration was omnipresent throughout the Obama years. And if you are masochistic enough to watch the speech in full, notice how every time he invokes “immigration” he attaches either “relentless” or “non-stop” to it.
What do these words remind you of?
If you said “peace and love,” you might wanna lay off the MDMA, sport-o.
Those enraptured by the spell will remember this aspect of the hopey-changey era differently (if at all; it seems American progressives are half-goldfish on their birthing parent’s side). But as I wrote earlier, the current wave of “relentless” immigration also hands them the rare opportunity to wax mythopoetic about shit like “national tradition,” and in prose that’s usually verboten for their tribe.
“America is a nation of immigrants,” they sing.
“The land of opportunity! Let freedom ring!”
Now, that’s just fucking weird, right?
Far from the gulag of racist, sexist, Christofascist hellscapes they typically describe, the United States is suddenly and miraculously transformed back into Reagan’s shining city on a hill. The last, best beacon of hope in the world.
And by that, they do mean The World.
As in all of it. All at once. Relentlessly and non-stop.
Consequences be damned.
Because, why not, bigot?
Don’t you know these people are suffering in their home countries? Do you want their children to grow up in illiterate poverty? For their parents to be denied good jobs and homes?
At long last, sir, have you no empathy?
So, let’s rap about the e-word, shall we?
There’s nothing wrong with empathy per se. To feel and express it is a fundamental part of being human. Like reason and imagination, it might even serve as one of our distinguishing characteristics. At the very least, our capacity for it seems to dwarf all other creatures.
That said, empathy is not the same as love. The fact that it’s so often treated as a synonym is part of the disease that’s killing us. At best, it’s a shadow roughly shaped like love. In this case, the larger and more diffuse the shadow looms, the deadlier it becomes.
Question #1:
Is it possible to have too much empathy?
Yes, of course.
Like “too little” (i.e. shortage), “too much” is an inherent constraint on organic life. Literally everything becomes toxic at a high-enough dosage, including necessities like oxygen and water. But these principles of shortage and overflow aren’t limited to material. They are in fractal alignment with your mental and spiritual resources. Just as you could poison your body with too much water, you could likewise poison your mind with an overload of unconstrained emotions or obsessive thoughts.
It’s fairly obvious that too much hatred of Self or Other can poison someone. But it’s a mistake to think that its opposite can’t also pollute and toxify, unintentionally leading to mass misery and ruin. A rule’s a rule: if you can O-D on antipathy, you can O-D on empathy too.
So what exactly might an overdose of empathy look like?
One of the things it might look like is a vast web of black market cartels, trafficking in deadly drugs, firearms and human flesh (including the flesh of children).
The fentanyl5 wave alone is an act of war. For a sense of what “27,000 lbs” of this subtance means, read the following piece by
:
“United States Customs and Border Protection (CBP) agents seized 12,119 kilograms (26,718 pounds) of illicit fentanyl along the country’s southwest border with Mexico in the 2023 fiscal year, which runs from October to September. This marked a nearly 90% increase from the 6,397 kilograms (14,104 pounds) officials seized in the previous fiscal year.”
Let’s call the 2023 seizure an even 12,000 kilograms.
Remember, this is only the seizure total for one year.
12,000 kilograms equal 12 billion milligrams. (There are a million milligrams in a kilogram.)
With a lethal dose of fentanyl pegged at 2 milligrams, we’re talking about enough fentanyl to kill 6 BILLION people.
Relentless. Non-stop.
But the human element of this invasion is a thousand times more sinister, because it preys on our emotions. It’s easy to look at a tsunami of death-powder washing ashore and yell, “Cut that shit out!” It’s much harder to turn away a fellow human being, especially when all your favorite TV ghosts keep screeching that he’s in dire need of your help.
But suppose we switch off the media’s propaganda spigot for a moment, and study the situation from a higher angle. If you do that, what appears superficially to be an act of Christian charity might begin to look like something else entirely.
One thing it might look like is an Orwellian glossary of un-words and anti-meanings. It might look like underage migrants deemed “Unaccompanied Minors”, without acknowledging that many adults have indeed accompanied them on their long journey northward, and many of these escorts extract something much more precious than money as payment at both ends of the trip.
It may also look like the circuitry of already strained public services, overloaded beyond all rational capacity; like a metastatic plague of raped and exploited women and children delivered into sexual slavery; like a bustling black market of organ “donors” who are nothing of the sort; like streets filling with jobless, homeless, alienated young men, who will turn to violent crime by instinct or necessity. It might look like toothless border agents and immigration courts incentivizing the worst crimes imaginable, at an ever-escalating rate and scale of harm.
Most of all, it might look like what it is: order disguised as chaos, with evil profiteers milking the system up and down the chain.
And beyond the so-called “normal” incentives that drive such demonic markets, you might even begin to notice the outlines of various extranational actors and rival governments; entities who seek to inflict maximum damage on a nation without leaving any obvious fingerprints behind.
In this light, these illegal immigrants and “economic refugees” double as a mercenary invasion force, deployed to overwhelm all means of civic, legal and financial accommodation. They become the human equivalent of a DDoS attack, but far more gruesome and diabolical.
As systems of housing, education, maintenance and emergency services are overloaded, the average quality of life will plummet for everyone, newcomer or native. Those who don’t abandon the cities will foot an ever increasing bill for services that no longer function. There will be fighting in the streets. Or more fighting, I should say.
This will get ugly.
Part of the malignance of progressive programs is that they ultimately manifest those imaginary monsters they claim to fear the most. By overloading the city’s functional capacities, we may indeed see outbreaks of nativist violence erupt.6 In a doom-loop worthy of mythic punishments, the progressives will point to this as evidence that ever more radical prescriptions of Empathicol are required.
Put together, these policies will usher forth a total collapse into barbarism. In fact, my city may soon enough look identical to those hellholes we were told these newcomers were trying to escape in the first place, if not worse. And those who do escape it won’t get far — unless you somehow believe that the tidal wave of lawbreaking migrants who’ve already traveled thousands of miles won’t bother trying to find a new batch of empathizers in the ‘burbs.
They might, too… at first. The toxicity is equivalent to the high, after all. And I assume those guilty white suburbanites hooked on cabal news indulge their share of it, if voting habits are any indication. Once they see the damage up close and personal, they might try to quit cold turkey. But by the time they go full NIMBY, it’ll already be too late.
Their children’s schools will be overrun by kids who redefine the term “special needs.” These are kids who cannot even speak the language, let alone catch up with the curricula. Their new hosts may also get a taste of what it means to live near The Projects for the first time in their lives. The call will be coming from inside the house, and the local cops will either have their hands full or will come down with a case of the Blue Flu.
But it gets worse.
In another stroke of wicked brilliance, most of these invaders don’t even realize their secret paramilitary role as saboteurs. Those caravans snaking north are indeed jampacked with many of Trump’s “good people,” who’ve been fed the same lies as their involuntary hosts about their true purpose and prospects.
To those entities who engineered the invasion, the presence of these dupes is a feature, not a bug. In fact, they are the primary bait in the empathy trap that so many progressives have fallen for.
Question #2:
Who is doing this to us?
There are many candidates, and no need to assume that any one of them is solely responsible. Knives are out across the planet for the terminally-ill U.S. Leviathan. The individuals and groups wielding them hope to finish the job, before one of our drooling gerontocrats helps kickoff a fully kinetic World War Three.
One technical element of this strategy is probably to knock the dollar off its reserve currency perch, to perhaps be replaced with the yuan, BRICS or some form of CBDC monstrosity. But there are other attack vectors, some of them very sophisticated and subtle. For example, some attacks seem geared toward the intentional devaluing of property and other assets, which are then scooped up on the cheap by transnational private equity firms. Others might be attempts to trigger a total meltdown of our economy and social order.
Like the mass smuggling of fentanyl, these are acts of war. In fact, I think it’s safe to say that World War Three has already begun, but with its major battlefields mostly occupied by psychological and economic warriors so far. The victors of such battles tend to count their scalps in terms of how much confusion, chaos, infighting and mistrust they can spark.
But we also can’t rule out that at least a portion of the invasion force is literally that; one or more foreign guerilla armies embedding themselves, to be remotely activated when the moment is ripe. And the potential size of such fifth columns should be alarming, to anyone who’s studied the least bit of military history.
The annual numbers proved just as catastrophic. In FY23, CBP recorded more than 2.4 million encounters at the Southwest border and more than 3.2 million encounters nationwide. Just this fiscal year, 169 individuals on the terrorist watchlist were apprehended attempting to enter the country illegally, and at least 1.7 million known gotaways have evaded apprehension since FY2021. Americans did not need more proof that Biden and Mayorkas’ post-Title 42 strategy had failed, but unfortunately, that’s exactly what we have gotten.
For comparison, the U.S. Army currently boasts roughly 175,000 combat troops. And given the bloodlust of our reptilian overlords and the world’s current geopolitical shape, chances are they’ll have their hands full in 2024 and beyond.
And while it’s true that American gun-owners might be able to pick up some of the slack, even a successful resistance would probably incur horrific losses. A homeland war would also seriously degrade our ability to function politically and economically, and may result in nothing more than a Pyrrhic victory that accomplishes the same ends: the death of the American Hegemon. Her citizens are merely the collateral damage.
All that said: Qui bono?
China bono, for one.
For instance, nearly all of the fentanyl ravaging the United States originates in China. And in this retread of the Opium Wars, the opiate itself is the primary weapon of mass destruction:
The two drug cartels that are responsible for fentanyl coming into the United States are the Sinaloa and Jalisco Cartels. They work with chemical companies based in the People’s Republic of China to get their raw materials, which are chemicals called fentanyl precursors. Nearly all fentanyl precursors come from China. These precursors are then made into fentanyl.
But it doesn’t stop there. Companies in China also manufacture other synthetic or man-made drugs—that make the fentanyl threat even more addictive and even more deadly. These drugs include xylazine and nitazenes, which are then mixed with fentanyl to extend the high and increase the cartels’ profits.
That’s not all.
In 2022, the sex ratio imbalance in China was roughly 722 million male to 690 million female. That’s a lot of extra men. And note that in 2023, more than 24,000 Chinese migrants were arrested attempting to cross the southern border — more than in the previous ten years combined.
They typically fly into Ecuador, where they do not need a visa. Then, like hundreds of thousands of other migrants from Central and South America and more distant locations, they pay smugglers to guide their travel through the dangerous jungle between Colombia and Panama en route to the United States. Once there, they turn themselves in to border officials and many seek asylum.
And most succeed, in turn fueling further attempts. Chinese citizens are more successful than people from other countries with their asylum claims in immigration court. And those who are not end up staying anyway because China usually will not take them back.
They first “fly” to Ecuador, you say? It makes you wonder: How do these noble expatriate refugees manage this Houdini-like escape, under the watchful eye of one of the most oppressive and controlling managerial regimes on planet Earth?
Also note that China is far from alone in these flight-assisted migrations. The world has become unbelievably small since the last big wave of “relentless” (mostly European) immigration. In the current wave, citizens of many interesting countries now take advantage of both the shrunken globe and America’s largely fictional “borders” — including those of Cuba, Iran, Iraq, Pakistan and Russia, just to name a few.
Notably, two of the countries listed above (Cuba, Iran) are currently on the U.S. list of State Sponsors of Terror. One (Iraq) was recently and inexplicably removed from that list, and another (Russia) is currently in discussions to be added (SPOILERS: It’ll happen). And while Pakistan didn’t make the top cut this year, it’s still officially listed as a Terror Safe Haven. It’s worth noting that this designation has also been attached to another source of immigration named Venezuela (more on that grim development shortly).
When we consider the soaring trend of all this “relentless” immigration in recent years, Biden’s repeated use of the r-word begins to resemble its original and far more menacing definition.
But to what end? you might ask.
Why would our own government not only allow these non-stop infiltrations of potentially dangerous foreign agents, but actively abet and promote them?
Are these people evil, stupid, compromised or totally insane?
The answer is: Yes.
Dear Reader:
If you’ve made it this far, I suspect that means you think I’m onto something. If you find value in it, then I’ll consider that a success.
That said, I’d like to ask you a favor.
Writing about such topics requires many hours of work. Even the opportunity costs of composing a rough draft are exorbitant, let alone the rewriting and editing required to make it presentable. I can’t afford a staff of researchers, editors and the like. It’s just me, Mark.
It would be different if I was some independently wealthy gadfly. Hell, if I was merely “financially stable,” I probably wouldn’t even have considered paywalling this article. But I did, because I’m not.
The fact is this: as important a part of my life as this blog and its readers have become to me, I simply cannot justify it on paper anymore. Not to my wife, and definitely not to the bill collectors. The numbers just don’t add up, and I can’t write if I can’t keep the lights on.
So if you are currently in any position to do so — even if it’s only for a month or two — please consider helping a brother out. The best way to do that would be to…
Concentrate on the following photograph. Try to inhabit it if you can: sights, sounds, smells and all.
Consider that this picture and others like it continue to both haunt and flatter the American imagination. Like it or not, these images have become a part of our nation’s mythos, as fundamental as Washington chopping down the cherry tree. Or maybe more aptly, they are like Washington’s Axe; the handle and head have been swapped out so many times over the past century, it’s ridiculous to claim it’s remotely the same tool.
And like the fabled axe, the immigration myth’s root reality and poetry were often at odds. For example, the reality of those overcrowded, pestilence-ridden, often deadly boat migrations served as inspiration for the overpraised doggerel below.
Give me your tired, your poor
Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free
The wretched refuse of your teeming shore
Send these the homeless tempest-tost to me
I lift my lamp beside the golden door!
She LIFTS it, damn you!
Beside the GOLDEN DOOR!
It’s worth noting that I could be called the “product of immigrants.” Most or all of my material was shipped in on floating tenements like the one pictured above. And from multiple ports of origin, too; if the world were to suddenly flip full ethnonational, any repatriation effort for yours truly would look quite gory.
I am, in other words, a pureblood American mutt. I have no ancestral homeland to return to, because I have too many of those. And because most of my ancestors met the Green Lady on that early centennial wave, I only “knew” two of them personally and briefly. Both died never learning to speak anything more than a pidgin version of their adopted homeland’s tongue.
One of them even died harboring a lifelong hatred of this country. I’ll never forget a certain night when I visited him on his deathbed — which by then he’d occupied so long it strained the definition. He spoke to me at length in his indecipherable foreign gibberish, my grandfather translating here and there as best he could. Then he handed me a gift: a tattered old paperback copy of The Communist Manifesto. And even that was not written in English.
Maybe that’s why that the cheesy poetry of Ellis Island always left me cold. I was allowed to peek under Lady Liberty’s skirts, and noticed her panties were sometimes crotchless.
But even if those romantic words and images still move you, you should recognize that the form of immigration it champions is long extinct. It’s no longer that perilous journey and one-way ticket, no longer the mythic and permanent exchange of Old for New. For one thing, seas now crossed can be cheaply and easily re-crossed. A migration which once meant weeks spent in conditions that PETA would deem unacceptable for a chicken could now be accomplished on a single plane ride, in the span of a single day.
And such relatively painless modern crossings don’t just include physical distances, but those of distant cultures, commitments, currencies and loyalties. As even many of its proponents will confess, much of the relentless immigration we are seeing is economic immigration. Our “golden door” today isn’t made of rapid industrialization, but of petrodollars and their magical money-printers. The supplicants who visit it aren’t greeted by The Green Lady anymore, but by airport lounges, bus terminals, shady warehouses and CPS waiting rooms.
And in perhaps the greatest difference of all, there’s no longer any need to assimilate, to melt one’s identity into the stew and generate more Mark Bisones. There’s no desire to do it either, from the immigrants themselves or the government officials importing them by the millions. To bivouac and self-segregate is the order of the day.
Español, papi?
Español?
I knew that angry young astronaut would locate a Spanish-speaker soon enough. Whether or not they’d be in the mood to help him is a different story. I’m not even referring to the various charts and polls, which show Latino Americans in-line with the rest of the populace on questions of illegal immigration and border security (and you should hear how they talk in private about that stuff).
I’m talking about the mood, the local vibe.
I’m talking about NIMBY, baby.
Not just any NIMBY, either. The kind of NIMBY so powerful that even Wayward Sisters of the cauldron can’t resist its siren’s song.
It’s worth mentioning that propaganda spigots like “The View” and “Real Time with Bill Maher” typically lag far behind their audiences in terms of shifting progressive goalposts. They still camouflage their horrible, no-good Extreme Far Right opinions in the ghillie suit of sensitiv-a-tones and divers-a-speak, for sure. But their mood has shifted with their fortunes, just like the rest of us racist scumbags.
If left unchecked, this subtle but clear shift on the political Left could prove disastrous, for both the black markets and their sponsors in the government, corporate and NGO spheres.
That’s where Toxic Empathy comes into play.
The supply chain of relentless, non-stop immigration operates under the guise of a “humanitarian” project (albeit one that privileges the suffering of one group of humans above all others). Because of this, it simultaneously traffics in a form of spiritual junk food for malnourished souls. People generally want to perceive themselves as being “good.” Whether or not they actually are good or are doing good is a second-order question. But we all certainly want to feel that (self-)righteous rush.
In this sense, empathy can be compared to an addictive drug. In expressing it openly, we are also advertising ourselves as virtuous moral agents. The reactions of others to these ads — both positive and negative — consequently help to feed our self-perception of inner righteousness. In fact, you might even say that negative reactions to the empathic display satisfy that hunger even more than agreement or praise, because the mirage of moral distance it creates makes you seem even more virtuous by contrast.
As a drug, empathy is highly mutative in effect. Because it maps onto and intensifies the roiling sea of human emotions, it can therefore function as stimulant or depressant, hallucinogen or sedative, depending on the psychological needs of the moment.
Constrained by reason, the empathy drug can serve an extremely useful purpose. When we can visualize ourselves in the plight of a stranger, we might also glimpse the Imago Dei that binds us to each other and to the Divine.
But what happens when empathy falls so completely out of balance with reason that it assumes control?
In a word:
Madness.
And when you’re in the grip of empathic addiction and madness, you become easy prey for a certain class of psychopathic dealer. Sometimes it even becomes hard to separate dealer from addict, as some of the former will get high on their own supply.
But no matter what side of that drug transaction you’re on, madness is the likely endgame. This is especially true for a person who continually wallows in self-righteous emotional states; If we imbibe too much, we risk becoming full-blown empathy junkies who can no longer think rationally about problems. And like all junkies, we fall victim to perverse incentives and warped priorities.
Unfortunately, rock-bottom for empathy junkies who indulge in the premium “high” of national-or-geo politics serves to destroy not only their friendships and family relationships, but their societies at large. They are chasing a dragon that can never be caught, and whose hunger instead grows exponentially alongside the dosage. And as with all junkies, attempts to reason with them or intervene are reframed as personal attacks.
For instance, I was initially tempted to include a vast array of studies and charts in this article, which detailed the horrific consequences of our current border policy. But this approach can lead you towards a different form of madness, in which you stubbornly model other minds in the image of your own. You lose sight of the fact that people in the grip of Toxic Empathy simply will not be moved by reason or logic, no matter how detailed and well-documented. It’s almost hubris to try.
That sounds pretty bleak, when I say it out loud. After all, if only emotional arguments can move these people off the path of mass suicide, then it’s possible their only alternative is to become the embodiment of the kind of mindless, red-toothed, blood-and-soil politics they claim to abhor. By that I don’t mean they’d become populists, or even “nationalists” by any sane definition. I mean they’d become something so hideous that it would make an SS officer shudder.
But there is another breed of toxic empathy afoot. And I think those who engage in that version could still possibly be reached.
I mentioned before that I can’t afford to feel empathy. In one sense, this is literally true.
Unlike our rich Left Coast friends, my wife and I are not doing so well. Each month we struggle to make payments on rent and other basic necessities. We practically never dine out these days (which is why my wife insisted on the lunch date to begin with — we haven’t “splurged” on something like that in a very long time).
Instead we scour both the digital and physical realms for every offer and deal we can find. That’s been a kind of déjà vu for me; I’m reminded of clipping coupons with my mom for hours on end, stashing them in a kitchen drawer reserved specifically for those. I recall standing in those long layaway lines, receiving giftwrapped presents of hand-me-down clothes. It’s all coming back to me. I’m sure many of you can relate.
My point is this: If I am currently struggling to support my own family, I can’t be expected to help a foreign stranger support his own. Under the current regime I’m not only expected to make such a sacrifice, but am coerced under threat of violence to do so. Such threats constitute moral insanity in its darkest form.
That’s because any sane, coherent version of empathy must exist as a series of concentric circles; we help those closest to us first, then gradually extend that assistance outward as we obtain more stability and wealth. “Charity begins at home,” is an axiom which conforms to the kindness-marriage of empathy and reason. It also self-corrects for hubris: as limited beings, we cannot possibly help everyone, everywhere, all at once, and it might be massively destructive to try. That’s because in addition to a drug to be consumed, empathy is also a kind of currency. And just like all sane mediums of trade, it must conform to the law of scarcity.
Consider for a moment the bitcoin model: There are — and only ever will be — 21 million bitcoins in circulation. While valuation is dynamic, the supply is fixed. Without getting into an overly technical explanation, you can think of bitcoin scarcity in much the same you think of precious metals or rare collectibles (though the medium itself is ethereal).
What does empathy look like in this model?
First, we’d accept that the total amount of empathy we can “spend” on helping others— e.g. illegal immigrants, refugees, incarcerated minorities, the homeless, etc. — not only has a fixed limit, but operates with a reduced purchasing power the more you divvy your supply among multiple empathic targets.
The size, distance and resolution of such targets has impacts on empathy cost as well. For example, suppose you wanted to help some collective entity called “the homeless.” Your target is amorphous, abstract. It includes within its umbrella definition vast hordes of unseen human individuals, each of whom may have landed on the streets for a very different reason, and therefore cannot be helped via some one-size-fits-all approach.
Even the expertise required to help at the street level isn’t an exact science, and occurs at a range too distant for you to analyze. For example, a donation website might boast of hiring “a hundred drug counselors” with your dollars. But you have no way to properly vet their hiring process, or to directly gauge their effectiveness in the field.
You are essentially blind-hiring experts who will blind-hire other experts, with no expertise of your own to evaluate any particular causes or effects. So while the distant empathy-donor's imagination fills with sacred victims being rescued, it can only quantify results as numbers on some official spreadsheet.
If you’ve ever tried to directly help a homeless person (i.e. instead of floating donations and/or empathic sentiments to the abstraction) then you probably understand this cost-effectiveness differential well. While the distant empath only sees Number Go Up, your high resolution view shows you that this one is an addict, that one a schizophrenic, that one a sociopath, that one a victim of childhood rape. You’ll also notice a large degree of category overlap.
That’s particularly the case when it comes to forms of madness, both pre-existing and acquired. In fact, decades of life in #MyFairCity have shown me that our epidemics of homelessness and insanity have become concentric circles, with a narrowing annulus between them. And not just any madness: A depersonalizing, disintegrating storm of lunacy of a kind which suggests the presence of demons, even to those who’ve had no personal encounters with such beings.7
To address this dilemma, our last set of empathic rulers came up with a brilliant plan: Set up a billion-dollar, taxpayer-funded slush fund called ThriveNYC, loot it top-to-bottom, then claim ignorance and/or -isms if anyone asks questions.
Number Go Up and Down!
But in the end, the target group of empathy wasn’t served. That’s because they aren’t a “group” at all. They are individuals, who must ultimately (and voluntarily) be helped by the same. That’s empathy working as God intended, not the thieving, scamming, funhouse mirror version the communitarians espouse.
The same can be said of the New Immigrant and the New Refugee. The masses currently flooding our urban centers are not a monolithic group, but rather represent a blizzard of different origins, incentives, motives and costs. Pretending otherwise is the product of a hallucination, amplified by the emotional instinct to feel “good” while ignoring all potential unintended consequences and drawbacks.
Studying those is hard and boring, anyway. It’s much more fun to hold up signs and scream on street corners. To beat your breast about how compassionate and caring you are, and vilify all who question the outcomes.
To help break this particular spell, I will propose three moral principles which I think that people of almost all political leanings8 would agree with:
Stealing is wrong.
Taking on debts you can’t pay back is wrong.
Faking a disability to gain money or unfair advantage is wrong.
With those in mind, let’s return to our Christmas Eve in the flow, and a run-in with a species of New Refugee who would embody the shadier aspects of this feel-good, empathic suicide run.
Lunch lasted about ninety minutes or so. No, we didn’t talk about immigration (and very little about COVID, thank God). Our friends don’t know that I am “Mark Bisone” of Substack, of course, nor of any particular friendship-detonating heresies that my wife and I hold sacred. So we mostly talked about the horrendous state of the arts, with a particular focus on the plague of AI-assisted fart clouds and Frankenstein apps. Then we made our little promises, said our little goodbyes and parted ways.
We completed the reverse trip home, grabbed our luggage, then hightailed it straight to the train station. But despite our best efforts, we wound up missing our intended train, and had to wait another hour for the next one.
Penn Station has always been one of my least favorite spots in town, even outside of the holiday season. The years of COVID and NYPD cutbacks have only strengthened that opinion. Police presence there has become thin and scattershot, the inverse of the early Terror Years. At the same time, the number of homeless, madmen and homeless-madmen has skyrocketed.
This night was no different. In fact, you could say the joint looked eerily abandoned, save for the latter population. Lucky for us, Mark Bisone in full Catman regalia-and-mood looks a lot like somebody you don’t wanna fuck with.
So we waited out the hour in unmolested silence, boarded the next train out, settled into our seats, and shared a kiss (that my wife still initiates such kisses after all these years is a blessing I wouldn’t trade for Cenk Uygur’s weight in gold).
I immediately noticed the large and rowdy group of Venezuelans seated in several rows opposite from us. How did I guess their country of origin? The same way I guessed my New Year’s Day interlocutor was Mexicano, ese: I pay attention to the little things.
For instance, my ear can distinguish between a few different Spanish accents (long story short, these folks were dropping a lot of their trailing S’s). I also guessed it from the way they were dressed — in particular the boisterous young man seated at the front of their ranks (Think paparazzi pics of teenaged Justin Bieber, but more Eurotrashy).
Most of all, I noticed the guy’s shoes: tan leather high-tops with golden eyelets for the laces. Though the gold was likely fake, they did not resemble the footwear of Fanon’s Wretched Army to say the least. Like his compadres, he was clean, well-groomed and happy as a clam. That seemed appropriate enough. It was Christmas Eve, after all, and the arms of the equally festive women in his group were filled with unwrapped presents peeking out of giant shopping bags.
I didn’t think much of them at first. A few years back, I wouldn’t have thought of them at all, and wouldn’t even have been able to recognize them as Venezuelans. The reason I can do so now is well known, by any New Yorker who’s been paying attention.
The federal Department of Homeland Security announced Wednesday night that the U.S. would extend Temporary Protected Status (TPS) to just under half a million Venezuelan migrants who have been living in the U.S. prior to July 31, a designation that grants those who crossed the border without legal documentation the right to obtain work permits and to live in the U.S. without fear of deportation.
While TPS will allow some Venezulans to skip the required 180-day waiting period before they can secure work permits, and presents a simpler application process than seeking asylum, experts caution the change in federal policy is far from an overnight solution.
(Note that the “solution” they refer to above is meant to address a new problem that they themselves helped import, and to a city with no end of intractable problems. But never mind: empathy, like fiat money, knows no bounds.)
As I watch these new arrivals laugh and celebrate, I quietly pose some forbidden questions to The Oracle of Progress:
Why did they come here, O Mighty Oracle?
They are refugees, my child.
What are they seeking refuge from?
Their home country is a wasteland of hyperinflation, crumbling infrastructure, unemployment and violent crime.
But I thought Venezuela was a socialist paradise?
It was! But a secret economic war was waged against them.
Who waged this war?
The fascist, racist, capitalist pig-dog United States of Amerikkka, of course!
Oh.
So then… Why did they come here, O Mighty Oracle?
…
Shut up, Bisone.
The series of events which unfolded next will sound like the content of a “right wing” viral video meme.
First, the car door slid open and a conductor appeared. He was a dark-skinned black man who might’ve been anywhere from forty-five to sixty, sporting the kind of carefully trimmed and shaped mustache that I’ve noticed many of his generation and economic class wear. I spotted a wedding ring on his finger too, practically confirming the archetype.9
He moved slowly down the aisle collecting tickets. I’ve had to work a lot of holidays myself, and in equally thankless and monotonous jobs. He had that same look about him. Not sad, exactly. More of a shrugging acceptance of reality, touched with a dash of self-respect for not letting it get him down. Because of this and more, I saw him as a countryman and brother.
It was when he reached the first row of Venezuelans — the one with Spanish Bieber — that the viral video began to roll.
“Tickets, please.”
Bieber grinned back and shook his head.
“No. No In-glay.”
“Tickets,” the conductor repeated, and held one up to demonstrate.
Bieber turned to the Biebette in the window seat and exchanged a whisper. Then he turned back and shook his head again. “No Ing-lay. No Inglay. Sor-hee”
This exchange kept going for nearly a minute: the conductor trying to explain that they needed either tickets or money, answered by more smiling whispers and giggling, more shrugs and open palms.
It was the giggling that really got to me. I am a man who pays attention, and I recognized this version. I started to get a very bad feeling about it all. If it weren’t Christmas Eve, and Dame Bisone wasn’t with me, Catman might’ve sprang to action, offering to play live translator with the help of a certain app on my Catphone.
“Well, if you have no tickets and no money,” the conductor said, “then I’m gonna have to kick y’all off at the next stop.”
He issued this threat like a parent gently reprimanding children, without losing his good humor. He also made it assuming they didn’t understand one word of it. It turned out he was wrong.
As he drifted on down the aisle, the refugees began to speak more openly. As I’ve mentioned, osmosis has given me the ability to translate a bit of Spanish on-the-fly. And what I managed to pick up from theirs constituted the flow’s Big Reveal for the evening.
First, they were calling us suckers. By “us” I mean their American hosts, who apparently didn’t understand how the world worked. That was the primary source of their giggling. They apparently pulled this trick all the time, climbing off at the next stop, then the next stop, then the next.
Secondly, they had some not-so-nice words to say about the conductor in particular. They were that flavor of disparagements our L.A. friends and other liberals imagine pouring constantly from the throats of “MAGA Republicans” and similar bogeymen (though absent the Southern drawl, maybe). They’d probably be shocked to hear them in this context: flowing off Castilian tongues, rooted in the jaws of these noble savages and holy victims.
What was clearest most of all is that they understood what he was saying. Maybe not perfectly, but enough.
Indeed, they departed at the next stop, even without any prompting from the conductor. They maintained their festive mood throughout, of course. What wasn’t there to be festive about? They had settled in a utopia run by “fools” and “niggers”, after all.
As they stood to leave, I looked at Bieber’s shoes again. I thought of my own immigrant forebears, and wondered what kind of shoes they wore when they met Lady Liberty. If Bieber had treated them this shabbily on the ride over, I suspect they might’ve eaten his own pair to stave off hunger, and sold the eyelets for a rent deposit. That pugilistic spirit doesn’t come from nowhere.
Yes, I am the product of immigrants hailing from many distant lands. I can’t know for sure how many, and couldn’t care less about that.
I only know for sure where I was born. The only home I’ve ever known.
It is under attack.
Not just by the relentless influx of migrants and deadly drugs, swarming across borders that have become largely theoretical. We are under attack by those who pretend to rule us. They include high-ranking elected and unelected domestic officials, foreign governments, supranational corporations and NGOs. The composition of this mortal enemy has been described in detail, here and elsewhere. What they share in common is that they all march under the false flag of Empathy. They only hurt us because they care.
The average progressive’s answer has been to propose endless “solutions” to the endless problems these caring criminals impose.
On New Year’s Day, 2024, I came up with a solution of my own.
I’ll end by looping back to the astronaut of that day, who now seems like as apt a coda as he was a preface.
“Spanish, daddy? Spanish?
“No.”
“Whore.”
When viewed on a long enough timescale, Mankind is a race that seesaws between wanderer and homebody, immigrant and native. “We are all immigrants” therefore becomes yet another statement that might be axiomatically true, in some contexts, but has been co-opted by Satanic crooks and their usefully idiotic, toxically empathetic thralls.
That is how it happens that I am called a whore in my own homeland, for speaking in the tongue of its authors. For the same reason, a hardworking family man is treated like a stooge on Christmas Eve, and called all sorts of foul names for his trouble.
Here is the question that looms before us all, not merely in America but across the invaded West:
What should be done with these New Immigrants and Refugees ?
I see three options on the table:
Option #1: The Path of Toxic Empathy.
Give them as much money, encouragement and compassion as they require.
Reserve a place for their children at our overcrowded and failing public schools. Put them up in fancy hotels whenever possible, or packed like chickens into grade school auditoriums and gyms if not. Build them new homes, or gift them older ones. Do whatever it takes to ensure they’ll never leave.
Commit yourself to learning their languages and customs, too, to make them feel more welcome and included in their new forever-home. Ransack all budgets and break all banks as necessary; it’s only money, after all. And what’s money in the face of a weeping child?
Bend over backwards for them, until you snap your spine. Sacrifice the needs of the many for the wants of the few, because those precious and deserving few are morally superior, and are destined to become the many over time. Treat their arrival as a righteous penance of the West, a bill of holy revenge that’s finally come due.
Option #2: The Path of Toxic Reason
Shoot all foreign invaders on sight.
Make it quick and painless (with an emphasis on quick).
Option #3: The Path of Kindness
First: Build a strong, multilayered and well-defended border wall, backed by a well-armed, highly-trained network of scouts and mobile patrols.
While this emergency project is being completed, arrest as many illegal immigrants as possible, as well as all migrants who’ve been assigned the false status of “economic refugee” by our regime’s fifth-column saboteurs. To help identify them, seize all state and local records, including from any public assistance program or other collaborating agency. Each arrestee must then be treated justly, according to the individual features of the case.
For example, those vampiric fuckwads on the train must be stripped of all their money and goods (those armloads of Christmas gifts, for example, might fit better under the tree of a certain Stoic Black Dad I briefly met). They should be stripped of their fancy shoes and clothes as well, to be replaced by whatever humble attire can be collected via donation drive. Such charities should provide our empathy-addicts a taste of the good stuff, without sending our nation and themselves careening off the wagon.
Buck-naked or otherwise, Bieber and his ilk will promptly be deposited on the other side of whichever line they so flippantly crossed, to discover whether they’ll receive the same gracious treatment from the country who abetted their trespass.
Meanwhile, the Mexican whore-cusser, having little or no money to pay restitution, may simply be bussed back to his homeland. If he has committed any additional crimes during his stay, he must first serve those sentences before removal, with all proceeds from his prison labor paid directly to his victims.
There are sure to be many more complex cases on that massive docket, filled with mitigations and aggravations galore. Justice is blind, but not deaf or stupid. All will be given the chance to state their case, which may influence the relative speed and conditions of their departures. Not all must be fully divested or shamed, to be sure.
But depart they must. Because we simply can’t afford them.
In all cases, the following warning will be issued at the foot of the gate:
“You have been shown a kindness today. You may not consider it one at the moment, and understandably so. But no remotely orderly and functional society could bear the weight of your trespasses, let alone a free one.
“The kindness you are being shown is that you may exit our country with your lives intact, to pursue your fortunes elsewhere in the world. Many nations in the past might have dealt with your crimes very differently. There are citizens among us who think these older methods constitute the better course of action. Or, at least, they see it as the most efficient and reasonable one.
“So, wherever you go from here, no matter what the fates have next in store for you, heed this warning:
“We have committed ourselves to the path of kindness. This time.
“But if you should ever return without a proper invitation, we reserve the right to explore more reasonable options.”
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Technically, we are of course well beyond any sane definition of bankruptcy, and the drive to overrun and “devalue” the real estate is that of our bondholders in both the material and spiritual planes.
It’s often difficult for many New Yorkers to see other American “cities” as such, but that’s particularly the case with the giant suburban sprawl that calls itself L.A.
Not their real names, of course.
Or maybe there’d be no white men in the scene at all, unless one or both were some species of rainbow sodomite.
Big Pharma-developed and FDA-approved. “Safe and effective” until it wasn’t.
Some would say we already are though the inconvenient racial composition of almost all anti-Asian “hate criminals” in New York is often downplayed or entirely masked.
I’ve never overheard the word “demon” peel off a stranger’s lips as often as I have during the past three years. It seems we are remembering something we’d long forgotten at the species level.
Admittedly, those who subscribe to a hard-Left, authoritarian tax regime based on Keynesian economics would in essence disagree on numbers 1 and 2 (and quite possibly #3 as well).
The Stoic Black Dad (or SBD) is a common subspecies of American who unfortunately doesn’t get a lot of airtime these days, contributing to highly distorted racial views on both the Left and Right.
Fucking fantastic article Mark. Question for you though, can you really call someone a friend when you are not able to truly discuss the issues that surround us with them? Lately I've been running into the same issue and feel that those who claim the title of "progressive" are really just petulant children who threaten to hold their breath til they turn blue if they don't get their way. How can any sane adult be friends with people like that? It's easier to talk sense to my 22 month old daughter than it is with a "progressive" who has a masters degree, the sheer dumbing down of American society is something that will be studied throughout the ages by future historians as what not to do if you want to keep society health and functioning.
This was absolutely spot freaking on. Knocked it out of the park. We have a parasitic and psychopathic bankster class that has turned this country into an economic zone to loot and plunder, using the Marxcissistic public officials and activists they've bought at a bargain, and concealing the nature of their crimes under a smokescreen of moral language that they hijack like a guerilla terrorist. We absolutely have to break the spell, at least for as many folks as possible, before it escalates to the next phase, which is coming upon us soon. You're doing God's work, Mark! Great job!