Allow me to introduce you to a concept that hasn’t gotten the attention it deserves: post-cynicism. Quite simply, it is the acceptance of a bleak reality that nevertheless has an uplifting function. For example, an idealist truly believes that welfare aids the needy. The cynic is disillusioned and jaded – he has met the welfare class. The post-cynic? He acknowledges that welfare placates the proles enough and keeps a lid on unrest…for a while.
Nobody personifies the Noble Lie better than Immortan Joe. For those in the know, he’s the villain in Hollywood’s reboot (sans Gibson) of the Mad Max franchise. Immortan Joe controls an aquifer in a wasteland plagued by drought. His women are soft, untouched by the sun, and healthy. Radiation bathed large swathes of the Earth’s populace in this iteration of Mad Max and mutation is a serious concern. Joe’s bald children are his War Boys. Each one doomed to a brief life before succumbing to malignancies. He’s on a mission to sire a healthy (or as healthy as can be) heir. When his wives betray him, he gathers his War Boys in pursuit…one is pregnant!
To assuage the pain of his War Boys, Joe resurrects the Norse warrior paradise of Valhalla. War Boys spray chrome paint into their mouths and charge headlong into death so that they may ride eternal, shiny and chrome (a reference to chromed car parts, they worship V8 engines and chromed parts). War Boys live, die, and then live again. One War Boy named Nux humiliates himself in front of Joe and is cast into outer darkness. In his agony, he stows away with the rebellious wives. One later mocks him saying that Valhalla is a myth and he fights for the breeding rights of another man. His idealism crushed, he reverts to cynicism before falling for one of Joe’s beautiful redheaded brides. Nux, being an idealist, gladly sacrifices himself for her in a truly beta fashion. Tis better to pedestalize a strong chief than pussy.
Throughout the entire film the War Boys are the happiest, most sincere, and endearing characters. They’re having a rollicking good time of things whilst everyone else sulks about sporting platitudes on war and the nature of man. Even in a nominally feminist film the patriarchy is still riotous fun for the band of brothers. Maybe I’ll never be an idealistic War Boy awaiting paradise. Maybe it’s all a sham. But I’ll have more fun riding with my White Brothers than doing anything else.
RIDE ETERNAL, POST-CYNICAL AND CHROME!
Lately I’ve been playing with a label for myself and certain others, that of the Death Cultist. Death Cult has a cheeky ring to it. Surely it conjures up caricatures of robed men and women sacrificing virgins upon an altar. Maybe it evokes the famous banzai charge of the doomed Nipponese infantryman. What I’m using the term for, however, is quite simple – admiration for the man whose life is lived for death. Not indiscriminate destruction or wanton violence, but the unflinching gaze of someone who accepts death as fact of life. He plans around it.
I’ve worked with the dead in a medical setting. Death has lost its mystique for me. What we really fear is leaving our work incomplete when we exit the stage. An old adage says that if you want something done right you should do it yourself. Delegation isn’t easy by any stretch and few can do it effectively. Managers are paid generously for their ability to let go. Let us master ourselves and learn to trust our own judgement. Let us trust our will to impose upon others long after we depart. Superiority is earned.
The path to becoming a Happy Racist is long, hard, fraught with danger, and packed with clichés. I spent seven years wandering the wastes in order to reach this state. It’s not an achievement, mind you, but a mood (albeit a persistent one). Some guys become frothing haters defined only by the objects of their rage and are transmogrified into counterproductive caricatures. Others are absorbed into conservatism after failed missions to racialize “traditionalists” of varying stripes. Happy Racism will prevent you from being co-opted.
The path to Happy Racism is marked by perspective: namely, where you stand in relationship to White nationalism/advocacy/racialism/theology/etc. One must take it into the core of his being – it becomes an organ. It’s situated somewhere in the thoracic cavity, alongside the organ that produces Thumos. Happy Racism can be your calm little center if you let it. Enough teasing, let’s stop the grinnin’ and drop the linen. I’ll define it for you.
First, mood music:
Hallmarks of the Happy Racist:
- Perspective: accept it, society doesn’t belong to you. You belong nowhere and every extant institution is your committed enemy.
- A Line In The Sand: you lack one. You have nothing to defend, only a society to break into. Defense wears a man down. You’re a roving dissident.
- History: you’re on the right side, even if you lose. Blood determines all. Blood created the environment that shapes the blood. Our very existence belies the severity of these facts.
- Attitude: the rotting megalopolis isn’t a tomb – it’s your playground.
- Fanaticism: let it burn low and slow. You’re a smoldering ember whose ideas seep out into the world. Throwing fireballs everywhere is a premature ejaculation.
- Happiness: is psychological observation. Learn what makes them, and you, tick. Smile at the flaws of man and you’ll become a better man.
- Labels: who needs them? You’re a flake, owing no loyalty to any -ism outside of revolutionary WN.