I Speak to the Frogs

Part Two

“We live in a world in which courage is in even shorter supply than genius.”

—Peter Thiel

“I dream of tropical arena, of blood and sand, where men fight for their lives with sun and steel, and women choose the finest champions for breeding stock.”

—ZeroHPLovecraft 

Courage, my frogs. 

Courage, again.

Do not fear the disaster that nears. You can endure, and more.

These years will sculpt you into something monstrous, something fearsome, a handsome, muscled champion you do not recognize. 

You need courage for the dark years to come. Despair haunts us. Some more than others. But these years are an Epoch of Fire, and that fire shall harden us into men of destiny, the barbarians to inherit the world. A rare generation of warrior-scholars. Demonic, feral autists and their disciplined legions of battle-hardened sicarios, gleaming fiercely beside the indigo-blue sea atop a host of golden chariots. Burnished gold shining beneath a radiant sun, the blessing of the Almighty God sanctified upon our Holy Crusade. 

We have been called. And we answer the call gladly. 

Many shall burn, and be consumed. Not us. Ours is a harder path, a nobler path than an easy defeat. 

We inherit a long, tedious struggle.

We inherit all the failures of our parents, and the generation before them. All their debts, careless sins, and long-neglected mistakes will hit our world like a pent-up tsunami. 

Soon.

But you know this already, my frens. That prescient knowledge is the source of your ever-present despair. A sense of doom… Inescapable, inexorable, and inevitable disaster weighs upon your weary soul. Never far, your worries return each week anew.

Look further, into the future that will come. 

See the ruins, and the grim tragedies to follow.

Near the distant limits of our vision, a higher purpose crystallizes into focus. Our task is to rebuild the shattered world amid the ruins of this Dying Leviathan, this arthritic, menopausal Tyrant who thrashes and flounders, fearing her own destruction. The wounded Leviathan bleeds acid onto the land, wrecking havoc and tragedy wherever her ichor falls. She is pregnant. An infant nation rests inside her, a monstrous future to terrorize America. But her baby is already dead. 

She weeps, this obese Leviathan, and her pregnant belly is as big as the mountains, swollen with a fanged, reptilian abomination intended to rampage across the world. Intended to hunt, then devour us.

Her dreadful son is dead.

A monstrous, Sterile Queen rules this Barren Age. She is the perfect symbol of her own excess. She has been poisoned by her own machinery.

The Happy Land of Hysterium is eroding, splintering beneath the weight of her own movements. 

This lunatic regime has no successor.

There will be no birth. God in his mercy has spared us from a competent tyrant to inherit the geopolitical future of America, handed down from the Insane, Vengeful Queen who dominates us today. 

Instead, there will be a savage power vacuum. 

There begins our struggle, our time of heroic deeds. Not during the prophesied death of the Leviathan, who senses her own death, and knows her life is receding. For now, we must simply survive. We hide in plain sight, no different from any Normie. 

The real game begins later.

We are nearing a crossroads. 

It begins in the forthcoming tournament of conquerors, a struggle to claim the unguarded spoils of this serene, virgin continent encircled by oceans. The American continent is the perfect power base for any aspiring warlord. 

And the frogs shall contend.

With all the frenzied, obsessive power of the autists, we shall claim what is ours. The Normies will be enraptured by the intensity of our rage, the clarity of our vision, the beauty of our dreams, the wisdom of our solutions, the joy of our laughter, the friendship of our legions, and most of all by their fascination with our art. Even now, they circulate our memes. Emboldened, we shall craft sensual, provocative art that MOGs amid this mediocre wasteland of Marvel, Star Wars, and endless corporate reboots. 

Today cinema is a graveyard where the necrotic corpses of brilliant stars are dragged about, dimming with feeble, ever-fading light. 

The Normies will march. They will swell our legions behind us.

But only behind us. 

We frogs are the vanguard. Our crazed, animalistic ferocity is the tip of the spear. Without us, an individual Normie has no discipline, no bravery, no focus, no cohesion, no purpose at all. They need our leadership, our relentless bravery charging into the jaws of danger to retain any confidence whatsoever. These Normies are mental children with the body of supreme athletes, entirely lacking initiative. 

Psychology dictates our tactics. 

We must be religious fanatics, autist berserkers, fighting at the front harder than any Normie would ever dream of, gambling on victory with relentless aggression. Without us, their ranks collapse. 

Any fear that haunts you, now is the time to master it. 

Leaders must (appear) to be fearless.

These years have been given to us in preparation of future struggles. 

We must be ready to step into the breach and claim our territory at the instant the Leviathan falls. Someone will. America is an irresistible prize, the most delicious meal that has been devoured in centuries. 

Timing is everything. 

Disciplined, cohesive timing is the difference between an overnight military coup and a long, embittered struggle that shreds consecutive generations of infantry. 

Even a slight delay presents new challenges, brings fresh enemies, emboldens foreign pirates hiding in the shadows. None of us wants to live through an extended power vacuum like the Wars of the Roses, or the Sengoku Period. It would be a nightmare to fight a civil war in the ruins of America as China and Europe armed both sides with NLAWs. Whatever outcome emerged from that fire, blood, and smoke could hardly be named a victory.

So it must be us, and we must strike fast. We frogs must sharpen our instruments, and prepare.

Our task is to tame the wilderness and transform this barren, diseased Hell into a garden where we can raise our families.

And our children will grow into a mighty generation that will conquer the world. Even Mars has been gifted to them. Their reach extends beyond the skies, beyond the moon.   

For that reason God has chosen us, and for that reason we are children of destiny, the champions of a rare and special honor. 

Courage, frogs. Do not despair. This is not the time for blackpills. 

Raise your eyes to the horizon!

Glory awaits us. And the better world that we shall build together — God has promised it to us. We are the children of destiny, the barbarian warlords of Ohio.

This is a time of intense suffering, and prolonged laughter. Both suffering and laughter together. For when our enemies see that no tragedy can break us, no simulation can distract us, no cataclysm can daunt us, no propaganda can discourage us, no technology can intimidate us, they will understand the infinite depths of our persistence. They will begin to comprehend the intensity of our hate for this suffocating, effeminate mausoleum of mediocrity. 

There will be weeping and gnashing of teeth, and the endless REEEEEEEEEEEE of the damned. 

Soon our enemies will know true fear. We have been imprisoned by a tangled spiderweb of bureaucracy for too long.

We are their nightmares. Already they fear us. That fear will grow steadily in the days to come, with every failed attempt to break us. 

It is not easy to live inside a dying empire. Already we have endured too much, and there is more to come.  

Failures of the Christian Church 

“I am sending you out like sheep among wolves. Therefore be as shrewd as snakes and as innocent as doves.”

—Matthew 10:16

There is a vacuum of power in America, and the West. A vacuum of purpose, community, spirituality, dignity, and basic meaning. 

Christians have been given a historic opportunity, a rare ideological vacuum to seize and conquer. Weak governments have long been prey of church leaders. But when I talk to the men and families of my church, it rapidly becomes clear that none of the elders, deacons, or leaders understand the world they live in. 

Deindustrialization and hookup culture are alien terms. They do not think about OnlyFans, antidepressants, housing prices, Antifa riots, Tinder, the Federal Reserve, no-fault divorce, H-1B visas, or anti-white discrimination. They do not think about the hypercompetitive gig economy, which shifts traditional costs onto its workers, or selective enforcement of the law that grows more blatant every year. They do not think about the opioid crisis, except perhaps to be grateful that these deaths of despair are not happening to them.

Each Mother’s Day brings the same sermon: women are underappreciated, mothers are the unsung heroes of our time, single mothers work sooooo hard, children deserve a father.

True, perhaps.   

Each Father’s Day brings the same sermon: Broken families deserve a father, husbands must respect their wives, men are collectively failing in their duty. Obligations await men, with no respect, recognition, or extrinsic reward.

But why? 

How, or why have fathers been weakened and removed from their own households? What forces destroyed the traditional family? 

These are the questions no one dares ask. 

Divorce and the rise of broken families are condemned… without any examination of the underlying causes, without any mention of the sexual revolution and the vicious tradeoffs of feminism. 

As usual, the Normies never question the status quo. And its origins.

Examine the death of traditional marriage as if it were a crime scene. 

Witness the autopsy.  

We Frogs gaze upon the horrific photographs of a gruesome homicide, a gore-drenched crime scene where the Nuclear Family was tortured, mutilated, sawed, dismembered. But with no mention of any suspect, so far. 

A riveting murder mystery needs a murderer… In the far corner of the room, we observe FEMINISM stands casually, inspecting the crime scene beside a team of perplexed investigators. Feminism is a popular, respected member of the local neighborhood. She remains silent while grizzled detectives kneel beside the corpse, dusting the floor for forensic evidence. 

The men are frustrated. 

This appears to be a tough case. No suspects identified. No obvious leads.

FEMINISM has an innocent smile on her face, the sweet face of an angel. A saint. She holds a machete in her dainty hands. Crimson droplets drip steadily from the serrated edge. Nobody notices the machete still dripping blood onto the carpet, after so many hours elapsed. 

Eventually, one of the detectives has a realization. A thrilling Epiphany… A slow, quiet suspicion of the culprit. He looks at FEMINISM, and remarks, “We need more evidence. But I have developed an initial theory. The Nuclear Family was destroyed by bachelors; dirty, handsome bachelors seducing helpless, proper maidens. Fathers are abandoning their children. Young men fear commitment.”

The case has been solved.

Another distinguished success by America’s law enforcement.

The detectives nod, they exchange serious frowns. This has been an intense, nauseating scene; they call it a day, and head towards the bar for a drink with their good friend, FEMINISM. 

It’s all so tiresome. 

But the Billionaire Psycho survives this sexual dystopia unscathed. His scandalous romances continue unaffected.

Women love a rich, violent narcissist. 

Women adore a handsome asshole like Edison Blake. Even when he deceives and mistreats a beautiful woman, cheating with her childhood “friends”. In response, most women thank Edison for simply noticing her. She bruises her body with animalistic sex in his arms, bending obediently beneath him, writhing in his bedroom, squeezing her hips tight against his slow, patient thrusts. She moans his name as his pace quickens. Her legs shudder. 

Later, after the relationship has ended, she displaces her revenge onto her confused, blameless orbiters trapped in the friend zone.

Years later, still furious and unforgiving, she ruins her unhappy marriage with dreams of that first night with Edison Blake, and the fairy tale life that could have been hers.

Sad, but true. 

He stands in the epicenter of the maelstrom. All around him, his friends, his cousins, uncles, clients, rivals, and employees are being wrecked, ruined, defamed, impoverished, and humiliated by intimate relationships gone wrong.

Edison Blake inhabits an island of serenity in the midst of an ocean of anarchy. He is a deranged criminal born into a deranged time, an absurd, maniacal figure suited marvelously to this absurd era. He inhabits the eye of the hurricane, witnessing a panoply of horrors on all sides. 

Edison Blake lives in an affluent, safe neighborhood. 

Of course, he is a Billionaire Psycho. Rarely are others as fortunate as Edison Blake. He inherited a profitable global empire. Edison is usually the most dangerous man in any room —  and always the most unpredictable.

But the Christians are willfully blind to America’s deterioration.

And despite the suffering increasing steadily all around them, they are not particularly interested in investigating the afflictions of their neighbors.  

They don’t want to know, because then they might need to take action. 

Their concern is to provide for their families, to keep their jobs, to obey the law, and remain inconspicuous. 

Nothing more. 

These are men I respect, admire, and cherish. Decent, honorable men. They are my friends. 

And they always will be. 

I do admit there are many commandments in the Bible, it is difficult to practice them all, and that nobody is perfect, including myself, the Billionaire Psycho. Every day I dance with the madness of the asylum we inhabit, demonic addictions, and my own enraged impulses. 

But let us admit the harsh truth: for forty, fifty, sixty years, the Christian majority who lives in America has lost every major political issue. They have marched, waved posters, chanted slogans, paid taxes, voted in every election. And they have been defeated, defeated, defeated relentlessly by a small, determined minority that embodies cohesion.

And when they lost, they quit and submitted, without a whimper. They were never willing to fight dirty, to be ferocious, to leverage the power of their numbers to inflict real damage upon their enemies. 

Even to threaten escalation was too much for their polite sensibilities. Winning is rude, and uncomfortable, so they preferred wearing the dignified smile of the gracious loser. Every year, the victorious lion congratulated the doomed gazelle for his marvelous decency, his unparalleled sportsmanship as he laid down at the beginning of the chase. 

And the excuse of decency, kindness, morality, or formality masks a more basic complacency, the desire to surrender on schedule. As long as their lifestyles remained unchanged, the churches of America were willing to put up token resistance, lose a symbolic battle that was always rigged against them, and then accept the fait accompli. They were given the charade of due process. 

And they accepted it. 

Enough time has passed. 

The pattern is clear. 

This is who they are: Quitters who Surrender On Schedule. 

Considering their sheer numbers alone, the Christians should have been able to run some basic calculations and figure out that for the majority of the country to lose so consistently must have involved major tactical errors — or a rigged, opaque bureaucracy. 

It must have involved electoral, bureaucratic, congressional, presidential, and judicial “manipulating procedural outcomes”.

Perhaps this strategy can be studied?

Perhaps the Frogs should consider forming a small, determined minority that embodies savage, fanatical cohesion…

Perhaps a certain Billionaire Psycho could summon his feudal legions from the gathered families that have sworn him their undying loyalty, and have proven their oaths through ritualized murders of his business rivals…

Ultimately the Christians have failed to live up to the commandment of Jesus: They possess the innocence of doves, but they lack the wisdom of serpents. 

These men are comfortable and happy with their lives. For the most part, they enjoy their chosen paths. 

But they do not understand evil, real evil, the savage, sleazy underbelly that hides beneath the placid surface of modern life… 

The bipolar mother who poisons her children for attention… The vulture capitalist who plunders a Rust Belt town in return for a 3% gain on his spreadsheet, profits which he quickly squanders on imaginary NFTs or a weekend in the Maldives with his underage mistress… The serial killer who smiles, and stabs you because it’s a twisted delight… The arsonist who burns down a forest, a temple because he can… The spastic, caffeinated blogger who defames the reputations of strangers and doxes terrified citizens in return for clicks, web traffic, and dwindling hits of dopamine.  

They do not understand the Jungian shadow of darkness that every dangerous man must confront deep in his soul, something deeper and older than cuneiform.  

Malice, gluttony, and avarice are rampaging unchecked. 

They hide among implications, ambiguity, and unwritten rules.

Billionaire Psycho comprehends evil because he is introspective, he has traveled the world, and he has observed himself for manifold years: the crimes he commits in pursuit of atavistic desires, wild passions, and scholarly fashions. The sins he enforces to secure his global empire, and expand his reach. The pain he inflicts upon the disloyal or disobedient. The sinister, convoluted tragedies he orchestrates as a form of geopolitical poetry, entrapping those who scorn or defy him. The aristocratic vendettas that arise from minor insults. 

Many years ago, Edison Blake stared deep into the mirror, and trembled at the monstrous shadow who met his gaze. A creature with red eyes and red lusts. 

But the Christians do not understand such things, the monsters that have remained hidden for so long beneath the porcelain mask of the “civilized world”. 

They do not understand the words of Ecclesiastes 3:1-3

“There is a time for everything, and a season for every activity under the heavens: A time to be born, and a time to die, a time to plant and a time to uproot, a Time to Kill and a time to heal, a Time to Tear Down and a time to build…”

Collectively, the Christians have chosen peace, obedience, and submission, when it is time for something else. 

Aggression. 

Rebellion. Conquest.

My friends are in error of a pivotal part of the Scripture they bless, profess, express, and confess. But will the churches change? Probably not. As long as they are safe, and comfortable, the churches will remain complacent. 

Obedience to God demands more than what is easy. 

“Rebellion to Tyrants is Obedience to God” — these are the words that Benjamin Franklin suggested for the Seal of the United States. A different phrase was chosen: E Pluribus Unum. In God we Trust. 

My criticisms are mild compared to the letters of the apostles, because it is painful for me to admit these truths. 

I repeat the message of Revelations 3:15-18, given to Laodicea: 

“I know your deeds, that you are neither cold nor hot. I wish you were either one or the other! So, because you are lukewarm — neither cold nor hot — I am about to spit you out of my mouth. You say, ‘I am rich; I have acquired wealth and do not need a thing.’ But you do not realize that you are wretched, pitiful, poor, blind, and naked. I counsel you to buy from me gold refined in the fire, so you can become rich; and white clothes to wear, so you can cover your shameful nakedness; and salve to put on your eyes, so you can see.”

Enough said of this bitter theme.

Disappointment in our friends is a pungent medicine. 

It is enough to love them, forgive them, and understand that no help is coming from the church. 

Frogs must look elsewhere for survival.