My Berlin Hadj

(Note: This essay is a sequel to Homeless in Copenhagen in Greg’s ongoing series “Race-Tour 2016“)

I was in a groggy, allergy-compounded daze for the whole train ride. My night of Danish homelessness really took it out of me. For seven hours I faded in and out, all the while conscious of the sweat and grime that seemed to have replaced my khakis. How appropriate–on my way to Berlin, my Aryan Mecca, and I was getting the full hadji experience.

Despite how I must have smelled, at least I looked human, unlike some others. The train boarded a ship to ferry us from the Danish island of Lolland (actual name) to Merklenburg-Vorpommern, and we went to the upper decks. I munched on a chocolate bar and stared out into the treacherous Baltic that had deprived me of my watch and sunglasses (stolen while I was swimming). But the thing that scared me about this boat was not the sea it transversed, but the people it bore. Some of these fuckers were Soomalii. Others had certainly been pilgrims like me, but I doubt their hadj had terminated at the Spree. Others still looked like they had been boating before. The rest were Danish.

We went back below deck and reboarded the train. My seat-mate was a healthy, middle-aged Dane named Frederik. He must not have noticed the smell, because he played along as I struck up a conversation. He was on his way to Hamburg, to settle some shipping contracts. After some niceties, he brought up Trump in the usual liberal way. Detecting his illness, I decided to offer him a very small, very purple pill–I brought up Shillery’s connections to the Judeo- *cough* neo-cons. He took it well. I then brought up, in the politiest way possible, the Afromuzzie immivasion. I made the usual rational points, which he again took well.

I am always amazed that I can still carry on such respectable, middle-class conversations. I liked Frederik, he was the sort of man for whom I had borne immense respect as a teenager, the sort of man I thought I would become. But that is no longer possible. His opinions were, logically, preposterous. Worse yet they were a profound threat to me and my–our–people. But for some reason I still admired him. He was open-minded enough to listen to my points cooly and sincerely. It seems one can be more frank in speaking outside one’s usual social circle. If there is any value in diversity, it is that. Exposure to diversity is red-pilling.

The train stopped at the first station in Germany. Some officers in peaked-caps (I got hard) walked down the isles doing a face-check. They silently zeroed in on an East African and removed him. Fredrik and I watched out the window as four or five officers escorted the subhuman along the station platform. “Poor chap!” my seatmate exclaimed. I never understood why Europeans think English means British, what the hell. Anyway, meanwhile my spine got erect, my eyes bulged, and my the left side of my mouth quivered into a smirk. I must have crossed my thighs, because no one noticed the full extent of my physiological response. “Mmm” I managed.

I arrived at Berlin, and relief washed over me. I love Germany, but until now, I had not realized how much like home it felt. The street-signs, the chain-stores, the whole material culture is familiar. Most importantly, I have a reasonable command of German. With the languages of Scandinavia my knowledge is only passive and theoretical. I feel like a moron whenever I try to say something. But speaking German is like encountering an old friend. Maybe we have not kept up lately, but we have been through a lot together.

I escalated out of the train station–one of those typically post-war glass and metal things–and found the daylight. The first thing I noticed was the goddamn antifa graffiti. The following photos were all taken right around the train station:

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“The German police protect the Fascists!” If only…
berlin4
“Fuck Nazis, go away!”
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Why do they have to be so tedious?

The lefties here must all be from out of town, because no Prussian would ever write something on a wall, even if he were a commie. I harrowed their filth quickly, because on the horizon the Reichstag appeared. Of course I know all the history. But my real excitement stemmed from how familiar I am with the building’s steps and facade, at least in the virtual world. World War II is the Trojan War for Americans. But we have no Iliad–we have Saving Private Ryan and Call of Duty: World at War. I must have played the Reichstag-level a hundred times, where you, as a Russian, reenact the Battle of Berlin, head-shooting your way through streams of conspicuously fighting-age German soldiers.

berlin1
What it looked like.
reichstag
What it felt like.

At the steps of the real Reichstag I saw the same fight. Two Germans were holding a demonstration in favor of a vaguely nationalist cause. They were getting a lot of silent attention, and a little heckling from some people who, by their age, seemed to be middle-class baby-boomers. What a shitty generation. Eager to practice my German and my politics, I asked one of the agitators what exactly their cause was. Their billboard said something about Germany still being occupied, but I could not tell if they were nationalists–political discourse is so tame in this country. The man handed me a brochure, as if that explained their position any better than the billboard. I asked explicitly if they supported a “Germany for the Germans,” to which he replied affirmatively. I guess that explains the heckling.

berlin2
The Germans can only be proud of being defeated. The flag on the right bears the Russian “Victory Day” pattern.

Perhaps one other fact explains this strange scene. Three flags were flying outside the Reichstag (sorry to any Germany-fags, I don’t recognize any other name)–that of neutered Germany, the flag of the EU, and that of Georgia. Russian Georgia. “What are these cucks trying to pull” I thought. Did the Anglo-Zionist Empire tell Mutti Merkel to make noise about admitting Georgia to some Atlanticist organization? Or is it just Georgian heritage day in Germany? Very strange, but very predictable.

I sat down for a beer and some internet. Where is the Fuhrerbunker? I asked google. Surprisingly, it answered quickly and directly. Wasn’t this information supposed to be secret, lest Nazis like me start treating the site as a shrine? I strode through the streets, past the Reichstag, the Tiergarten, not the occasional Hadji, and the Brandenburg Gate. A bunch of Kurds were lazing about amidst signs and placards. They seemed to be bitching about the Iranian Government. I could not imagine why anyone here would care about their whining, then I turned left and spotted the American Embassy.

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The real government is located in the building on the left
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Scaffolds for the enemies of Kurdish freedom. Not sure why Westerners are supposed to care.

I passed through the throngs and entered a side-street lined with more post-war blockoffices. Ministries and embassies it seemed. The street ended in a T, atop which was a parking lot, interspersed with clumps of trees and surrounded by ugly apartments. I got an excited chill. The scene must have just as miserable when The Dream ended–right here. There was a sign with a map and detailed explanations in English and German. Either the Germans had grown tired of all the inquiries, or this was all an elaborate deception and the Fuhrer had spent his final days somewhere else.

I analyzed the map in an attempt to discern what mattered most to me. Where was my Fuhrer cremated? I have to admit, like everything else about the War, most of my knowledge comes from Jewliwood movies. In Der Untergang, the Germans lay Hitler’s corpse in a pit right outside the entrance to the bunker and burn it with what must have been the Reich’s last can of gasoline. I reckoned that it all happened (if it did at all) right at the lot’s entrance. Goebbels and Magda shot themselves somewhere in what was now the middle of the street. And to think–this sacred ground is subjected to auto traffic and Chinese tourists. The site of Hannibal’s suicide was probably similarly profaned in Roman times. How dare they. It was if the whole scene was calculated induce blase, I wanted to cry–partly to trigger the gawkers–but I could not. Even that they had taken from me.

berlin9

The Eternal Clusterfuck

As soon as I got to Rome, everything went to shit. I deplaned, latrined and went to find the baggage claim (had to check my knife). I strode through a maze of the usual outlets–Dolche and Gabanna, Gucci, some French-sounding ones–tracking the signs for baggage claim. They led me to the wrong section. How is there a wrong section? This is Italy–go to the wrong baggage claim and you’re fucked. Only numbers 11-16, the display-boards flashed too quickly between 6 languages and were loaded with irrelevant information–trains and buses that had either departed or would not depart for hours… and there didn’t seem to be anyone to ask. I got really pissed for a second. Typical, exactly what I had expected from my ancestral people. But then my inner I-tie started to get it.

I went to the “lost baggage” desk and asked a guy in a uniform where my stuff was supposed to be. He spoke English but told me to ask the woman behind the counter. So I demanded of her where could I find it (“domandare” it. “to ask”). She said I was in the wrong terminal, that I had to exit, go around to terminal 3, pass back through security (staff security, not regular). There I’d find my flight’s carrousel. I started to get it. Just say everything clearly and frantically, and these people will make it happen.

I successfully negotiating security, ran the wrong way past a cluster of heavily armed Carabinieri without comment, and found my bag. Then I went to find a bus. Another fiasco ensued. I went to the correct bus-lane and asked the nearest guy. He did not speak English–finally, I thought, this is how I remember Europe from childhood. I broke out the Italanish and got my answer: hurry over to that counter and buy a ticket. Another guy–this one had no idea that the bus for which she was ostensibly selling tickets was late, and that I could, in fact, still buy one. She insisted I buy from another company (all the money is going to the same place anyway, right?).

And then, the operatic climax. Everyone at the airport was trying to get on the same bus. They had formed what passes in this country for a line. It was obvious that not everyone could get on. Some would have to wait another half hour. A pretty blonde girl started smoking–she had the right idea.

She had the right idea
Eh? Whadayagonnado?

The bus rolled up late, and discipline broke down. A lot of people broke ranks to stuff their suitcases in the luggage compartment, but I knew better. I kept my backpack on and clutched my hobo-bag and bumrushed the main door with everyone else. In the melee, an impeccably polite Iberian lady insisted that I had been in front of her. I looked at her and shrugged. It did not fucking matter. Most of us got on the bus, and some Russian girls laughed at those who didn’t. The whole scene was nauseatingly Italian. And the grace-note–the conductor packed the bus to perfection. Everyone, and my backpack, had a seat.

Homeless in Copenhagen

Copenhagen is dilapidated. Its great state buildings have the same unearthly quality as Stockholm’s, but their broad facades and delicate pinnacles are teetering. As they crumble, they will only add to their own magnificence. The decay is clearest at street-level, where, an hour after sunrise, I saw pigeons and gypsies mingling on the rubbish-bestrewn cobblestones.

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Stockholm is squeaky clean. But while the public fora of old Copenhagen look forward to their own ruin, the populace is very alive. Their most striking feature, besides their stature and blondism, is their love of bicycles. The Copenhageners are urban Mongolians. They live in the saddle–whirling around street corners in their swarms. The very streets seem to spew them out in clumps and rushes. If the city’s rotting buildings are its skeleton, then at least its bloodstream still throbs.

I decided not to get a hostel. When Vince and I arrived, it was already mid-afternoon. Because my train for Berlin left the next day at 730, I figured it would be more economical to wander the city until then. We sat down at a cafe for one final session of h8chan photo-dumping before walking to the train station to say our goodbyes. Then I was on my own. I returned to the cafe to bum internet until they closed at 11. Then I was really on my own–for the next eight masochistic hours. But I was prepared; in fact, I had packed for Europe like I would pack for a night in the woods. My lay-out was lavish. I had of course my backpack of clothes and hundreds of dollars of technology. I also carried a satellite hobo-bag containing a Mars bar, a can of Carlsberg, a Greek book and a bag of oats (in the event of hunger).

I started off wandering. As darkness set in, so did the eeriness. The bicycle hordes thinned out. As I walked through a canyon of colorful buildings, I felt myself being followed by a sickly melody. Daring to look back, I saw the gleam of neon–the lone rider had added glow-sticks to his wheel spokes. He must have also mounted speakers somewhere. He rode past, then circled about and faded back into the crevasse of townhouses. An endless ingenuity for flash is the saving grace of the Dindu.

Copenhagen has a lot of gypsies, but it also has bums–a sure sign that the government is not totally soft. I heard one of them–bundled up, lying alone under a colonnade, enjoying a bedtime cigarette–coughing and hacking. Giving in to my whiteness I offered him a couple cough drops. I hastily explained in English and German (the best I could do) that they were “for your throat.” He thanked me heartily–a sure sign that I was correct in my anthropological assessment. The gypsy has no gratitude.

I started noticing the drinkers. Scandinavian reserve at last was giving way to boisterousness. Nevertheless, the Copenhagen club-scene, from afar, feels like the tamer areas of DC. The merrymakers form little clots outside the bar-doors, or lounge about in the biergartens. Not long after it began, the drinking phase of the night ended. Like werewolves, the moon-happy Nords reverted to their usual form. I was finally, fully alone.

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By this point, I was questioning my decision to give homelessness a try. I still had my caffeine pills–but that would only compound the problem. I was tired. So I gave in like a faggot and sat down on a bench. After basking a bit, I lay down, having convinced myself that I was indistinguishable from my environment. My surroundings were certainly beautiful. And here I was, at Copenhagen’s iconic house-lined harbor, LARPing as a bum. I slept for about twenty minutes and moved on, feeling invigorated. Three or four more naps and it would be train-time.

I land-navved my way back to some known streets. My stupid phone was the only thing not letting me down. Unlike at Oslo, this time I had had the foresight to take photos of google-map images of the city. But this time it was Jewgle that was trying to screw me. In Google maps, the street-names only display depending on how far you zoom in, and sometimes not even then. I kept trying to zoom in on the photos, forgetting that they were not useful maps, but defective freezes of an interactive and untouchable cyber-Jew. I still found my way because I’m not an idiot. As you can tell, my mood was disintegrating.

Time for another nap. At yet another cobblestone crossroads, I found a familiar storefront. From one corner, a half-sunken room glowed through a wall of short, continuous glass, like an enormous, boxy fish-tank. But there were no fish, only a grid of polished silver–plates, cups, trinkets, vessels–all gleaming as if they had been plucked from a Homeric poem. Copenhagen’s nicer stores keep their lights on through the night, to highlight the splendor of their wares. It was charming–bright streets, shimmering glass, and lots of designer goods. I always wanted to date a rich girl–if only to feign boredom while visiting such places. And even if Copenhagen failed to provide me that, it still satisfied me to think that the gypsies were stirred to envy at the sight of such finery.

I took my best nap here. Across from the store of silver treasures was a restaurant. The keepers had stacked their outdoor furniture and covered it in a delightfully opaque tarp, the bulk of which lay a meter from the restaurant’s facade. That meter formed a perfectly-cut slit-trench. I scanned the street–no gypsies, no cops–and slid into my hideaway. Free accommodations. I smelled, then wiped the cobblestones to satisfy myself that no one had found the place before me. I would need clean khakis and polo for the train ride. Knit cap on, knife locked-out and concealed, I recharged for another twenty in the silent streets.

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Way more comfortable than it looked.
Good touch. Bad touch. African Touch.
Good touch. Bad touch. African Touch.

Why Blondes Are Cucked

I can’t help but wonder if the pigmentation of the Swedes (being the most Nordic of the Scandinavians and fairest haired) has something to do with their cucked personality traits. Both Carleton Coon and the research of Rushton and Templar show personality traits are influenced by pigmentation. Melanocortonoids have a feedback mechanism with adrenaline and androgens. Also Coon found a plethora of research among eye doctors to show that lighter eyed individuals are more “self paced” where darker eyed individuals were more “reactive.” Basically this means lighter individuals are more tame and react less strongly to adverse stimuli which prevents them from temper tantrums, or fits of rage in the especially melanin enriched. Strangely enough green eyes had a combination between the two. The reason for this was the amount of light let into the brain by the pupil. The more light the more of certain hormones the pineal gland produced. This might serve some evolutionary purpose linked with the change of seasons I hypothesize. Here is Harvard Anthropologists Carelton Coon’s take on the phenomenon.

“Behavioral variations are focused on the differences between “self-paced” and “reactive” responses to sudden stimuli. In the first subjects follow a well-known plan of animal behavior of pausing and deliberating before decision. In the second the subject flies into instant action (in animals), to attack or to flee. Of course, these behaviors are elaborated in man to govern many more-complex and subtler actions in speech and deed.

Light-eyed subjects are more likely to be self-paced, dark ones reactive. These differences are statistically significant and are patently genetic because they are equally represented in all age groups from kindergarten through professional life. When the iris color categories are extended from two to three, the subjects in the middle, with the mixed, green-to-hazel eyes, are found to share the benefits of the two extremes.

In one experiment ten of each of blue-eyed male, brown-eyed male, blue-eyed female, and brown-eyed female college students were wired to polygraphs and shown arousing pictures of sex and violence with appropriate sound effects. The brown-eyed subjects and the females responded more emotionally than the blue-eyed and male ones did.

In another test, the same investigator gave Rorschach tests to forty blue-eyed and forty brown-eyed males. The blue-eyed ones fared better with form than with color and vice versa. In both tests only pure blue-eyed and pure brown-eyed persons were used.

Few people other than ophthalmologists seem to have looked at retinas, nor to have considered it remarkable that the fundus is of virtually the same color as the person’s skin and for obvious reason that the underside of the retina is epidermis

The Negro and the mulatto get 1.75 fcp; the Hindu and the American Indian 1.16 fcp; the brunet European 0.66 fcp; and the Chinese, the blond and the albino get 0.22 fcp. The Negro’s and the mulatto’s retinas let through eight times as much light as did those of the Chinese, the blond, and the albino.

Once inside the cranial cavity, neural impulses produced by the visible light that has passed through the retinal screen follow one of two paths. One lot goes to the hypothalamus…This part of the brain is the primary control tower of the central nervous system for almost all of the self-starting and self-regulating activity of the body-the sleep cycle, body temperature, the digestive process, fighting and loving.”
-Carelton Coon

Also there seems to be a direct correlation with a woman’s natural skin color or level of seasonal tanning and her promiscuity. Darker women are more emotional and are more prone to give into their emotions should a sexy, exotic or novel looking man tickle her fancy. I myself have taken advantage of this tendency and noticed it long before my intro to HBD and physical anthropology. Using my observation I have more or less plundered the Levant, Sub Continent of India and mystery meat of Latin America. I have also explored the Dark Continent which might trigger a few shitlords in the comment section.

Coincidentally the only woman to have ever punched me was a Dinduess (mulatto) whereas Christian Arab women and Latinas have slapped me senseless. White women have been less physical and usually give the cold shoulder. They will either nag or ignore you but rarely get physical during an argument. Blondes are the iciest along with North East Asians. They will leave you at a moment’s notice without even an explanation. It seems with natural blondes the less attention you show them the more they like you. But that’s the Nordic tendency towards gender equality, it makes dominant assholes seem appealing and more alpha to the detriment of society and your tribe. You always want what you can’t have. For women the man who does not shower her with attention will gain her intrigue as it will appear to her that he is of a higher status than her or “superior” to her on a subconscious level.

On a personal note I had a fling with a half Syrian natural blonde (father was Scotch Irish). I also had extended relationship with a natural blonde who was in part Basque of Colombian extraction. She had an olive skinned brunette mother and blonde father, both of whom had Caucasian facial characteristics. Both exhibited the tameness of your average natural Nordic blonde despite their admixture from stereotypically non blonde groups. Both inherited their blondness from their father’s side. Girls seem to inherit pigmentation from their father more so than their mother. Boys seem to routinely inherit it more from their mother.

As far as red heads are concerned they seem to be a different animal all together and the myth of the feisty red head holds true from my personal experience. In layman’s terms Red Heads are sluts. I would estimate my closing ratio with them is near 70% or higher on the first day. Red Headed men also seem especially cantankerous and ornery from a personality standpoint. Let’s just call them the wild men of the white race. Though I have no hard scientific evidence to back up my assertion for red heads being feisty, outside a few small studies. It would seem to go against the general theory of lighter individuals being passive and tamer. But keep in mind the pigment that causes red hair is different than blonde and also caused by a gene which influences anesthesia tolerance.

I highly suggest our readers check out the following links for more information.

http://evoandproud.blogspot.com/2012/03/dark-coloration-and-male-aggressiveness.html?m=1

http://evoandproud.blogspot.com/2013/01/eye-color-face-shape-and-perceived.html?m=1

http://evoandproud.blogspot.com/2014/10/gender-equality-and-gene-culture-co.html?m=1

Are women who tan sluts?

J. Philippe Rushton Says Color May Be More Than Skin Deep

RED DAWN 17: The Eternal Swede

RED DAWN 17: The Eternal Swede

The Eternal Swede–reserved, intelligent, and utterly oblivious to his own interests. Is he doomed? The Afro-Islamic invasion has hit Sweden harder than any other country in Europe. Greg and Vince trek through this Nordic hellscape in search of a patriot. From the nightclubs of Stockholm, to the Husby ghetto, Baltic beaches and h8chan messageboards, it’s all on the line. Is Swemolia just a nightmare? Or a premonition?

Vallkommen till Husby
Välkommen till Husby!

Vince’s articles on our Stockholm adventures:

1) Blonds, Boobs and Swedish White (K)nights

2) Miscegenation, Mulattoes and the Eternal Swede

Greg in Uppsala:

  1. My Roommate was a Refugee: This is My Story

2) Tremors of Resistance

Greg’s article from a few months ago about Swedish underground anti-liberal culture: Pozzed? Sweden has the Antidote!

Pehrsson. “Nationalist politician.” He was a straight-up SS officer.

Miscegenation, Mullattos and the Eternal Swede Part 2

Greg and I rallied and decided to not let our disappointment dominate the evening. We had tried talking to some Swedish students, both male and female at the bar. No success.

It felt like everyone knew everyone, or at least pretended to.

We approached one last pair of Swedish girls and asked their advice about what night club to go to. One looked me straight in the eye and just said she didn’t know with a toss of her hair.

Ouch.

Exasperated, we started heading out to the exit. We saw the Arab guy with another Arab security friend still doing the rounds on the local talent before we left.

Then it was off to Stureplan. We hadn’t been allowed in the night before to Berns or the places nearby so we pivoted and tried the recommended F12 club instead.

Thats when we started to see the third world flood come out on the streets with more intensity than during the day. Mind you, it was already bad in the day, so this was intense. There were many mixed couples. Almost all of them were white girl, black/brown male. (We have plenty of pics of it all to show, in an upcoming photo post)

Neither of us had seen these kind of numbers of mixed couples and we were both from the shining city of POZ that is Washington, DC. And obviously we had been up and down the East Coast of the USSA as well.

It was shocking.

But before I get into the gritty stuff, some observations:

  • There were a lot of gay swedes walking around unmolested by the browns.
  • The browns didn’t cause any trouble with anyone that we saw. In fact they seemed to successfully be mixing it up in many cases with swedish women and groups of swedish men.
  • They were so quiet. No screeching, no hooting. The entire city is as silent as a grave. Quiet hybrid cars and busses, no sounds at all except muffled club music in the distance. Eerie.
  • There were less police at night than during the day. I guess they go home to prepare for another long day being quiet and swedish.
  • A lot of the browns are VERY well-dressed. Your tax dollars hard at work, Sven.

We get to the club and there is a line. Arab security dominates of course.

note that this picture was taken as we left at 3 am. The sun was already rising.
note that this picture was taken as we left at 3 am. The sun was already risen.

They let us in after letting all the people that they know in first. High school all over again, I’m telling you! And we have to pay a cover charge, 200 Swedish Krona. Greg almost had a heart attack.

We get in and we are blown back by what we see. Its a fucking jungle with 90% black/brown men and all white/mixed women. Hip hop blares interspersed with Swedish house music. Greg decides to get a drink and 20 minutes later, after I have gotten my fill of POZ a la Svede- enough to last for a life time, we head over to the outside portion on the club, on the steps. It is bathed in ultra-violet and pink light and the crowd is noticably whiter. We breath a sigh of relief and start chatting up some Swedish girls. They all look rather similar. Frumpy with massive tits hanging out of very low-cut and loose tops.

The conversation seems to be going well with both girl #1 and girl #2. I feel myself slipping into state for the second time that night right up until the moment where they just stand up and leave.

This has happened about 4 times to me already in Sweden, and I am starting to notice a pattern. I’ve only rarely encountered such cold attitude in DC, a city that has been consistently rated as the worst city for men in North America, (perhaps tied with Toronto). And this applies to both men and women, of who I have tried to cold approach in equal numbers. (with different intentions of course)

We leave when the club closes around 3 am. We’re tired and still surrounded by kebab so we decide to just de-tox, sober up at home and try again another day.  On our way, some giddy Swede with a very high-pitched girly voice starts offering to sell us coke. His Eritrean friend is lurking there with him and gets excited that we stopped to talk to the high Swede. “Do you want coke, maybe amphetamine?” He asks.

He is missing teeth and is tiny. His nails are yellow and his eyes bloodshot in his pinched rat-like face. He stands in stark contrast to the Swede. They make a very strange duo. We leave after some hadji woman comes over and distracts the Africans’ attention.

Greg felt like shoahing the African, but I felt like shoahing the Swede.

For some reason we decide to walk, and get lost. We spend the whole night wandering around the city and neighboring islands in the gleaming twilight.

The nearby environs to the West of Stockholm are a world apart. Like the suburbs in the US (used to be anyway) , they are idyllic, safe and white. The bikes are left out at night without any locks, just resting on kickstands along the side of the road. Its clean and silent, like much of the city. The air is clean and there are flowers blooming everywhere. We wandered through it all, bemused and completely sober at that point.

At about 5 am we stumble back to our place, after a full night of wandering around the posh parts of Stockholm (again).

My takeaways from that night are as follows so far:

Stockholm is a city of skinnyfat, effeminate, immaculately dressed Swedish males that stand at an average of 6 ft 2 inches. They dont care to talk to you because they already are and know everything about the world that there is to be or know.

The females are ice-cold snow queen 6-7 range girls with the undeserved egos of Victoria Secret models. No wonder so many Swedish men turn gay.

two for one, where's our pulitzer?
two for one, where’s our Pulizer?

The kebab is remarkably well-behaved but very numerous downtown. They are often seen in the company of beautiful Swedish women as dates or as simple arm accessories to status signal their SWPL qualities. They also mix it up with local twinks (we saw two, pics to follow) and local Swedish men. A true multicultural utopia.

romantic candlelight dinner for two
romantic candlelight dinner for two

We plan to hit the muslim ghettos up soon as well. Greg has already been slumming, so naturally I can’t wait to get going too… Not really. Its shocking. Downtown Stockholm was supposed to be white, alright, and friendly. Instead it was quite possibly the most snobby, SWPLy, cucked spectacle I have ever seen in my life.

More pics to follow.

Part 3: Boomertown- Old Town of Stockholm- Settling in For the Long Nap

 

Tremors of Resistance

Sweden has an otherworldly quality. It is especially evident in the old imperial architecture. The state buildings’ proportions never quite feel right. You notice first the elements of majesty–soaring towers, sturdy walls, almost dorically rooted to the earth. Once your eye moves past the obvious, it gets lost in a sea of plain brick or brightly painted stucco. In Washington DC, that would be the end of it, but the builders of Stockholm and Uppsala understood: contrast is king. So they ornamented their creations with tiny windows and other diminutive flourishes. The Stadshus in Stockholm is quintessential. A mini-Venetian colonnade buckles under four or five stories of sheer brick. The courtyard alcoves reveal statues of rusted bronze, and the roof is dotted with miniature golden figures. Being here in June, I viewed all this through a daze of endless daylight and a haze of uncannily fresh air. If there is a civilization on Saturn, I’m sure it looks like Sweden.

Stadshus in Stockholm. Credit: Wikimedia

Tremors of Resistance

The alien buildings play their part. They put you on watch. In Uppsala I began to understand what to look for. Late on a dry afternoon I disembarked the train and headed toward the cathedral, a fantastic landmark and an empty colossus. I did not get 200 meters before spotting the enemy: a pack of four milkskinned Swedes, sharing bikes and toting red flags. They were not so much riding at me as swerving in my direction, propping the bloody rag of international Bolshevism on their shoulders like a fishing pole. I slowed my steps to pull my camera out and size them up. They wobbled by, taking no notice of my espionage. I’m slick. At this range, their ivory cheeks were smeared with a red and yellow streak. Hmm. Maybe they weren’t crack troops of Trotskyism–just fans of a local team. Whatever–they triggered my anti-antifa alert systems. I’ve seen their kind before.

commiebikebrigade
Sweden Budyonny’s Brigade

The fake commies portended the real ones. As I rucked deeper into the city, I read the signs. Little card-sized stickers hugged metal poles and pipes. Most were harmless advertisements, but some were political. The most common one depicted twin red and black banners: “antifascist action.” There was also an office of Amnesty International. But the farther I descended from the city center, the more encouraging the omens became. I started to sense the stirrings of a real resistance. Continue reading Tremors of Resistance

Blonds, Boobs and Swedish White (K)nights Part 1

If the American high school experience could be extended past graduation and spread out across an entire country, that country would be Sweden.

The Swedes function in a giant clique resembling a society. Large groups of tall, good-looking Swedes prance from restaurant to restaurant, from bar to bar and club to club. Nothing wrong with that I guess… Most of them are older, with loads of boomer types in perfect suits and nice cars ambling around the old city, with not a care in the world.

Mostly its this feeling of benign neglect that gets to you after awhile. Greg and I have both noticed how absolutely no one looks at us here. Not even a passing glance. Even when we order food from the Swedes, they seem to just barely give us a glance while they dutifully fill out the order.

We’re like ghosts here. The city of Stockholm has an elaborate little dance ritual that it seems to go through, and we have no place in it whatsoever. They all know English, but I’ve had less luck chatting with Swedes than when I would stumble with my broken Russian to communicate in St. Petersburg years ago.

The only success we had was on Friday night, where we approached a Swedish 6 sitting alone by the city hall. She was very reluctant to talk at first, but bit by bit we sussed out of her that she had just finished exams and was a computer science major. She said she prefered the company of men, and considered herself laid back.

I could feel my eyebrow shooting up involuntarily. How lucky we were to find a “laid back” Swede…

I chatted with her incessantly for about 15 minutes and then asked if she wanted to go out into the town with us. She hesitated, then agreed. Greg took a backseat in the cultural exchange, and it was left to me to continue the conversation, and after running out of the usual bland chit-chat rapport establishing topics, I switched to talking about the city of Stockholm.

As usual, I did 80% of the talking, dropping little hooks here and there for her to bite on and participate in the convo… But she passed on most of them. Still, she smiled at me enough to make up for her lack of conversational skills, and she claimed she was taking us to a cheap student bar, so we stuck it out.

We hopped on the metro and everything changed. The sleepy little village of stockholm that we had been wandering around that day evaporated. It smelled like piss and the POZ suddenly hit us right in the face. There were so many 3rd world apes, fat brown mullattoos in very revealing attire, loads of frumpy Swedish girls with their tits hanging out and interspersed among them were hipsterish skinnyfat Swedish males.

The Swedish women looked…trashy. (Greg’s opinions about their peasant genetical predisposition to stockiness nonewithstanding.) I have heard claims that Russian women dress provacatively before and found that to be true in my time abroad there. But Swedish women took the cake in terms of revealing attire. It was this bohemian/hippy look that dominated the scene, with girls vying to show off as much cleavage as possible in the most revealing way possible. And all around them were loping third worlders. Blacks and Arabs coexisted peacefully as they loped around the station, the platform and settled into seats on the train car with us.

We popped out by the student bar at a metro station that I will never be able to remember or pronounce and immediately had to present our documents to a very butch lesbian working security at the door.

She let us in without a fuss and we settled in at the bar. It was predominantly white, which was a relief. It felt like any other preppy, SWPLy bar from the East Coast that Greg adores and that I loathe with the utmost intensity.

A curious little experiment followed. I half-offered to pay for her drink and slipped in the question, “or is that not ok here?” She shrugged and said it was fine. But when she ordered in Swedish, she immediatly paid for herself and grabbed her drink without considering the offer. I wasn’t complaining, the beers cost 9 dollars each, and this was supposed to be a “cheap” students place. Besides the spirit of Roosh would have been profoundly disappointed in me if I had.

We grabbed our beer and headed over to a table by the door, it was the only one with available seats, but two of them were already occupied by Swedish girls. We politely asked to share the table, they politely acquiesed…and politely ignored us for the entire evening, no matter how cleverly we tried to engage them.

Ah, high school all over again…

American preventative politeness mixed in with Swedish snobbery and alluring tits just hanging right out of reach- what a combo.

The evening began to proceed more or less normally at that point, until Greg got tapped to step outside by the Arab security guard. I didn’t really notice what happened, and the Swedish girl and I were discussing Russia, and how it was an Orwellian state. Ah, the delicious irony. When Greg came back, I was wrapped up in a game of Truth or Dare, so when the tap came on my shoulder to step outside, I was taken aback.

He pulled me out in front of the whole bar, and just stared at me with his black eyes and kipped his chin up in silence as if waiting for an explanation. I stared at him and imagined the chimneys at Aushwitz billowing out smoke and human debris into the cold Polish sky.

“How are you?” He finally said. “Are you ok?”

“Great” I said.

He just stood there nodding his head and smirking. I began to feel a grin crawling up my cheek too.

The Ordnings Vakt security guard, an ethnic Swede with a viking beard and a massive build  stepped in and told me to drink some water. He spoke in a very soft voice, had baby-blue eyes and had no bone to pick with me. I nodded and he nodded me back inside.

I sat down, puzzled, just as the next round of truth or dare was starting up for our company of 3.

“I’ll do whatever, like literally anything. Seriously. I’ll fucking do it.” I said, feeling my inner Slav awakening.

She giggled, hemmed and hawed and finally told me to go over to the table nearby us with 3 chatting girls and tell them that I was voting for Donald Trump because he would build a massive wall. (I suspect Greg must have brought the topic up while I was having a staredown with the kebab)

I immediatly complied. And was met with a rousing chorus of laughs and taken very very well. They loved it. A great opener. I quickly improvised, trying to capitalize on this unexpectedly great reaction and started cranking up the Jerkboy game. I motioned at the blond’s chest and cupped some air boobs as I complimented her personality. That got an even better reaction, and I felt elated. The rush and thrill of closing in on something tangible gave me that little high I always chase when cold approaching.

But as we talk, I realize that none of them are Swedes. The exotic looking one was obviously not Swedish-she was Kurdish it turns out. The blond looker with the big tits was Finnish and Russian. The third one was fat and I didn’t care.

I tried an escalation move and demanded that the Finn kiss me because of the compliment I paid her. She stood up and planted one kiss on each cheek as the girls whoop-whooped.

“Time to isolate!” I thought. So I asked if she wanted to let me bum a cigarette off her and come outside for a smoke. Her Kurdish friend stridently cock-blocked and demanded that I go out with her instead.

“Bummer.” I sighed internally, but decided to step up to the plate and face this shit testing shiva down. And I wanted that smoke.

She immediatly started talking about the Finn’s boyfriend. (Who was on his way, as they always seem to be.) And then about her Swedish boyfriend, who was “amazing, just amazing.”

I grin and play along. “Swedish men are so sensitive aren’t they?” I tease. “Women love that.”

She detected the sarcasm and laughed. “He’s such a pushover,’ she said and rolled her eyes. A Swede overheard us and started mouthing at me, “Swedes are pushovers, huh?” He taunted. ”

Yeah,” I said back.

I didn’t really want to start a fight, I just wanted to tease the Kurdish girl and get her to say something un-PC to start developing rapport, I meant no insult to Sven, who happened to overhear the remark. Either way, he just shook his head and sauntered off.

Thank god he wasn’t half Russian.

I turn my attention to the girl again and start pressing. “Girls like a man that can be a man sometimes, don’t you agree?”

Her body language immediatly changed as she bobbed her head furiously in agreement. “Wait I have an idea,” she said. “My boyfriend is coming to meet us now, why don’t you flirt with me in front of him to see how he reacts…Don’t worry he’s really nice, ” She added.

By that moment, Greg and I had downed 2 airplane-sized bottles of some 40% alcohol that we had found lying around the apartment. I tossed it down in the interum after I finished my first beer.

And the cigarette was starting to kick in with that sweet nicotine rush you only get if you’re a casual smoker. As I looked up all around me, I saw the kebab that were milling all around the street, the sloppily dressed frumpy women smoking with us, and realized with amusement that I was chatting with another half-decent looking kebab about how it would be fun to cuck Sven…

I was saved from having to answer because of a timely interjection by a white knight who had overheard our conversation and rushed in to cockblock. He took issue with the comment about manliness or something. I didn’t really catch his complaint, I was riding that first nicotine shudder. Either way, he claimed to be a Swede, and I didn’t push back on it- despite the fact that he was clearly brown. Might have been South American actually.

They started chatting in Swedish, completely cutting me out of the conversation, which allowed me to saunter back inside the bar after having to present my documents again to the Ordnings Vakt.

I got back in and decided to push my success.  I didn’t get far, the Arab security guard immediatly pounced on me and pulled me out again.

This time he didn’t stare me down, he just dropped me off back to the same Swedish Ordnings Vakt. The viking looked at me calmly and I waited, feeling my indignation start to boil. “Drink some water,” he calmly told me and let me back in.

I stalked over to our table and started promptly bitching. As I swiveled my head, I saw the Arab security chatting up the same table with great success. He would do the same with just about every girl that entered the bar that night.

“Unbelievable.” I thought to myself and kipped my head over to Greg. He shrugged, and wandered back to chat with the swole Ordnings Vakt, leaving me alone with the swedish girl.

“We can go skinny dipping in the fountain,” she said unexpectedly.

I eagerly pounced and said, “well that would be a story to tell the grandkids. Lets do it.”

Big mistake. I fell for the beta bait hard I suppose. She demanded my Facebook, unexpectedly gave me a smooch on the lips, and then just bounced out of the bar.

Greg rejoined me soon after and we began to discuss our plans to rally and save the night. We decided to go clubbing and try the nightlife again.

Thats when things decidedly took a turn for the worse and left us reeling with disgust.

More of that in Part 2: Miscegenation, Mullatos and the Eternal Swede

RED DAWN 16: SWPL Swede Down

RED DAWN 16: SWPL Swede Down

AI is deploying to Swemolia. Is it as bad as the Daily Mail would have us believe? Greg and Vince are in country, bringing you this SITREP from the epicenter of Afro-Islamic POZ. Maybe the US has it worse… or maybe the AI bros are suffering a case of Stockistan Syndrome.

Next time: The Malmog.

 

My Roommate was a Refugee. This is my story.

Prefatory note: All conversation  in this article is paraphrased. I was not recording or taking notes, so the material in quotes is not verbatim. But neither is it a Thucydides-style fantasy. The tone and content are accurate. A couple other minor facts have been changed to stymie any JIDF fags who are reading this.

Going House-to-House

I have been trying to run this trip on the cheap for two reasons. First, I am constitutionally penurious, and second, I feel a stronger sense of mission when I am subjected to substandard living conditions. Asceticism, imposed or willed, clears the mind. After all I am not in Sweden to have fun.

At first, my plan had been to stay mostly at hostels. This would allow me freedom of movement in accordance with my miserly needs. I can go without bobo comforts like refrigerated food, daily showers, HDTV and a kitchen SodaStream. This is my European Holy War, not a damn vacation. 

The main issue with hostels is security. I am carrying several hundred dollars worth of technology, that cannot fall into the hands of a kebab or a vacationing Australian. Yes, hostels usually offer lockers, but it becomes a nightmare anticipating how to pack, transfer and hide cellphones and laptops and envelopes full of monopoly money– all the while travelling alone and trying to carry out your daily functions. Plus, if something does get stolen, or even just lost, there is no recourse. The thief could have been any one of the bozos in the room, or any one of the staff. Hostels are not all that cheap anyway.

My first night in Stockholm I gave hostels a try, and it still cost me about $30. But for the last week, I have been using AirBnB. Granted, it is all very hipster–you are staying with random people you have contacted through an online app. They could strangle you and smoke your corpse in the pantry and no one would know for weeks. But that is a risk I’m willing to take, because AirBnB is very economical. In Orebro, I rented my own room in a 5-bedroom apartment for two nights for about the same $30. My flat-mates naturally gave off the stench of hyper-modern, hippie-eco-faggotry, but they were very nice. Furthermore, I’d have a few faces to finger if any of my of my dank-meme-spreading tech-tools went missing.

But thirty a night is still more than I want to spend. My inner Jew sang a Kaddish for every lost shekel. Where else could I cut corners? So for my next two night stay–in Uppsala, Sweden’s former capital and home to a boring chain of man-made hills that the Swedes use to bait alt-rightist neo-pagans into believing are an Iron-Age site–I found accommodations for 22 dollars a night. The catch? My host was named Muhammad. Continue reading My Roommate was a Refugee. This is my story.