Negros In Space
Posted: Tue Apr 25, 2023 12:20 am
Douglas Mercer
April 24 2023
Those pictures of all those clean cut White astronauts from the 1960s, all with crew cuts and looking all American were iconic; nothing said White America like they did, they sat atop the apex of the White project, the next White men who were going to usher us across the stars. But that did not stop a raggedy black man from bitching and moaning at the time; he was full of resentment at what his betters had accomplished and despite the fact that we Whites were funneling god-awful amounts of money to the blacks it was not enough. He saw those healthy White men who had accomplished something, and it made him mad. Why, that money could have gone to negros. It was true that they would just turn around and blow it on liquor and gambling and whores but still: how dare they go to the moon when the average black man had just burned a hole in his pocket from loose living.
The angry and raggedy negro in question was Gil Scott-Heron and his "song" was Whitey On The Moon. Heron was a dissolute jazz musician and "poet and speaker" who specialized in "spoken word." That means he popped off about things he knew nothing about to moderate acclaim, and was able to scrape together enough money for his hooch and whores. His sole claim to "fame" was the aforesaid song which must go down in history as one of the most outlandish jokes ever perpetrated on the public at large. Africans claim to have had great teeming civilizations in the home continent, spates of Wakandas all over up and down the land; and they claim that they built America as well, but the truth is the only thing they built was a sad and preposterous myth about their greatness in order to mask their paltry achievements. In fact (as everyone knows) the Africans did not come up with the wheel, and the mud hut seems to have been their great architectural accomplishment, and the idea of sailing the ocean blue either never occurred to them or made them scratch their fuzzy heads in wild wonder. They did invent the begging bowl, however, and with the White man on the moon Heron held it up proudly, or as proudly as a man with no shame can hold it.
The idea that someone of this race was even allowed to comment on the moon landings beggars belief; let alone that he was able to criticize it as a waste of resources. What the astronauts were doing was so far beyond his ken that he should have just smiled a toothy grin, shuffled a bit, beat out a bit of jungle music on a bongo and said: man, what will massa be doin' next? But being situated at the bottom of nature's barrel never stopped the notoriously and inexplicably high self-esteem black man from strutting around like he knew something.
"In the 1970 spoken-word poem, Scott-Heron criticizes investment in space when Black people in the U.S. couldn’t afford health care.
Some of the lyrics: A rat done bit my sister Nell. (with Whitey on the Moon) Her face and arm began to swell. (but Whitey’s on the Moon) Was all that money I made last year (for Whitey on the Moon?)”
This is obviously pure green jealousy. The blacks turn the gleaming cities that Whites built into unsanitary and disease and rat ridden war torn hell holes and then their massive incompetence is supposed to be a reason that the White race is not to meet its appointed mission to the stars? The only thing these negros know how to do is drag us down, down to their level, by screaming about our privilege (which we created) and begging for money. The very sight of this uppity black man on top of a jungle syncopated beat railing at us about the injustice of our greatness is the sine qua non of the Africans. In the end this strung out jazzman did some time in the can on a drug bust and died of AIDs. No shocker there, and no sane man mourned him.
***
NASA is getting back to its roots, they started out sending monkeys into space and now they are hell bent on sending black apes up there. They say this ape has got himself some edu-ma-cation but you know that he's an affirmative action Jackson, slipped up the greasy pole of success by a regime desperate to have at least one negro not knocking off liquor stores and knocking up Shaneequa and then leaving her high and dry. The negro in question is named Victor Glover and is he thankful or grateful for the rare opportunity afforded him by the White man and his White science? Hell no, he's not, he is a sniveling little snot and takes every opportunity to attack the White man who helped him out so much. Back in June of 2020 he tasked his White benafactors for being racist as result of the hardened criminal George Floye meeting his long time coming and just fate. He took to twitter and spoke about "social justice" with this colossal regime approved message.
"Remember who is doing space. People are. As we address extreme weather and pandemic disease, we will understand and overcome racism and bigotry so we can safely and together do space."
No wonder they sent this black stooge into space! In a few short words he supported the climate change and the covid hoax, and then went in for the bête noir of the ruling class: racism. He is fully kosher and is fully on board with all the Ruling Class lies, he can don that space helmet just as he's saying that maybe we should be spending more on the poor (ie, the coloreds) than going back to the moon. He's got the big platform now, but he's not at all like those courageous White men who used to fly to the edge of the atmosphere high above the California desert. He's the perfect house negro but now things are different: the negros own the house. And instead of getting little White kids to dream of the galaxies, he'll cut them down to size with a stern lecture about xenophobia and hate.
Remember that under their own steam the highest the ape like negros got was to climb a tree to pick a fruit; and just as he is about to hitch a ride on the White man's technology to a place he should never be Glover is invoking the ill-famed Heron, and being an all-around nasty pest.
"NASA astronaut Victor Glover recently named as the pilot of the Artemis II mission around the Moon, listens to Gil Scott-Heron’s poem Whitey On The Moon twice a week on the way to work."
The poem is all of two minutes long so no one is sure why he need to listen to it over and over again. Perhaps he like to jive to the simplistic jungle beat, or maybe he like to soak in the unvarnished hatred of the White race that the song evinces. It could be that in his black blood he responds to the shuffling rhythms of the piece, or that the he enjoys the idea of a skinny and strung out black man laying in to the White power structure. But whatever it is it was important enough for him to mention this fact to the press, he wanted them to know that he's going to the moon and went to all those big schools but he's ghetto in his heart and he certainly remembers all the injustices his people have faced, and knows that none of it was their fault. And you might think that NASA would be a bit miffed by this reference to an attack on them, but if so you would be wrong. Like every other American institution they are fully in the mode of self-flagellation, and they are trying to put those outdoor barbeques by White men in Houston behind them; and nothing helps them to say they ar sorry than a black man they have promoted singing their ass.
"The rhetoric around NASA, the space industry and space at large is often centered on the idea that space is above Earthly concerns. But space is, and has always been, a reflection of Earth — the good and the bad. Honestly, I started listening to the poem in the car to talk with my colleagues about it, Glover said at the National Space Symposium."
Imagine being one of those two solid clean-cut crew cut White men on the crew and seeing this black man get all the attention. And then to top it off over coffee he lectures you on the historical injustice of what you have dedicated your life to, and tells you the whole place is rotten and racist and then he asks you if you ever have heard Whitey On The Moon? Perhaps they just grit their teeth and keep their mouth shut and wonder about the time when the happy darkie played banjo all summer night long. Or perhaps as he has come up the ladder in an evil time he has internalized the regime nonsense and takes a listen. He might not like the beat but he has to admit to himself the rightness of some of it and as he finally winds his way around the moon the awe and majesty of it will be tarnished just a little by the knowledge that back home little Shaniqua has to endure hate and fear. Either way the one thing you can be sure of is that if we ever do set someone down again on the lunar surface it won't be Whitey on the moon, but the monkeys will finally get their turn, it will be one small step for chimpanzee but the end of the line for us.
April 24 2023
Those pictures of all those clean cut White astronauts from the 1960s, all with crew cuts and looking all American were iconic; nothing said White America like they did, they sat atop the apex of the White project, the next White men who were going to usher us across the stars. But that did not stop a raggedy black man from bitching and moaning at the time; he was full of resentment at what his betters had accomplished and despite the fact that we Whites were funneling god-awful amounts of money to the blacks it was not enough. He saw those healthy White men who had accomplished something, and it made him mad. Why, that money could have gone to negros. It was true that they would just turn around and blow it on liquor and gambling and whores but still: how dare they go to the moon when the average black man had just burned a hole in his pocket from loose living.
The angry and raggedy negro in question was Gil Scott-Heron and his "song" was Whitey On The Moon. Heron was a dissolute jazz musician and "poet and speaker" who specialized in "spoken word." That means he popped off about things he knew nothing about to moderate acclaim, and was able to scrape together enough money for his hooch and whores. His sole claim to "fame" was the aforesaid song which must go down in history as one of the most outlandish jokes ever perpetrated on the public at large. Africans claim to have had great teeming civilizations in the home continent, spates of Wakandas all over up and down the land; and they claim that they built America as well, but the truth is the only thing they built was a sad and preposterous myth about their greatness in order to mask their paltry achievements. In fact (as everyone knows) the Africans did not come up with the wheel, and the mud hut seems to have been their great architectural accomplishment, and the idea of sailing the ocean blue either never occurred to them or made them scratch their fuzzy heads in wild wonder. They did invent the begging bowl, however, and with the White man on the moon Heron held it up proudly, or as proudly as a man with no shame can hold it.
The idea that someone of this race was even allowed to comment on the moon landings beggars belief; let alone that he was able to criticize it as a waste of resources. What the astronauts were doing was so far beyond his ken that he should have just smiled a toothy grin, shuffled a bit, beat out a bit of jungle music on a bongo and said: man, what will massa be doin' next? But being situated at the bottom of nature's barrel never stopped the notoriously and inexplicably high self-esteem black man from strutting around like he knew something.
"In the 1970 spoken-word poem, Scott-Heron criticizes investment in space when Black people in the U.S. couldn’t afford health care.
Some of the lyrics: A rat done bit my sister Nell. (with Whitey on the Moon) Her face and arm began to swell. (but Whitey’s on the Moon) Was all that money I made last year (for Whitey on the Moon?)”
This is obviously pure green jealousy. The blacks turn the gleaming cities that Whites built into unsanitary and disease and rat ridden war torn hell holes and then their massive incompetence is supposed to be a reason that the White race is not to meet its appointed mission to the stars? The only thing these negros know how to do is drag us down, down to their level, by screaming about our privilege (which we created) and begging for money. The very sight of this uppity black man on top of a jungle syncopated beat railing at us about the injustice of our greatness is the sine qua non of the Africans. In the end this strung out jazzman did some time in the can on a drug bust and died of AIDs. No shocker there, and no sane man mourned him.
***
NASA is getting back to its roots, they started out sending monkeys into space and now they are hell bent on sending black apes up there. They say this ape has got himself some edu-ma-cation but you know that he's an affirmative action Jackson, slipped up the greasy pole of success by a regime desperate to have at least one negro not knocking off liquor stores and knocking up Shaneequa and then leaving her high and dry. The negro in question is named Victor Glover and is he thankful or grateful for the rare opportunity afforded him by the White man and his White science? Hell no, he's not, he is a sniveling little snot and takes every opportunity to attack the White man who helped him out so much. Back in June of 2020 he tasked his White benafactors for being racist as result of the hardened criminal George Floye meeting his long time coming and just fate. He took to twitter and spoke about "social justice" with this colossal regime approved message.
"Remember who is doing space. People are. As we address extreme weather and pandemic disease, we will understand and overcome racism and bigotry so we can safely and together do space."
No wonder they sent this black stooge into space! In a few short words he supported the climate change and the covid hoax, and then went in for the bête noir of the ruling class: racism. He is fully kosher and is fully on board with all the Ruling Class lies, he can don that space helmet just as he's saying that maybe we should be spending more on the poor (ie, the coloreds) than going back to the moon. He's got the big platform now, but he's not at all like those courageous White men who used to fly to the edge of the atmosphere high above the California desert. He's the perfect house negro but now things are different: the negros own the house. And instead of getting little White kids to dream of the galaxies, he'll cut them down to size with a stern lecture about xenophobia and hate.
Remember that under their own steam the highest the ape like negros got was to climb a tree to pick a fruit; and just as he is about to hitch a ride on the White man's technology to a place he should never be Glover is invoking the ill-famed Heron, and being an all-around nasty pest.
"NASA astronaut Victor Glover recently named as the pilot of the Artemis II mission around the Moon, listens to Gil Scott-Heron’s poem Whitey On The Moon twice a week on the way to work."
The poem is all of two minutes long so no one is sure why he need to listen to it over and over again. Perhaps he like to jive to the simplistic jungle beat, or maybe he like to soak in the unvarnished hatred of the White race that the song evinces. It could be that in his black blood he responds to the shuffling rhythms of the piece, or that the he enjoys the idea of a skinny and strung out black man laying in to the White power structure. But whatever it is it was important enough for him to mention this fact to the press, he wanted them to know that he's going to the moon and went to all those big schools but he's ghetto in his heart and he certainly remembers all the injustices his people have faced, and knows that none of it was their fault. And you might think that NASA would be a bit miffed by this reference to an attack on them, but if so you would be wrong. Like every other American institution they are fully in the mode of self-flagellation, and they are trying to put those outdoor barbeques by White men in Houston behind them; and nothing helps them to say they ar sorry than a black man they have promoted singing their ass.
"The rhetoric around NASA, the space industry and space at large is often centered on the idea that space is above Earthly concerns. But space is, and has always been, a reflection of Earth — the good and the bad. Honestly, I started listening to the poem in the car to talk with my colleagues about it, Glover said at the National Space Symposium."
Imagine being one of those two solid clean-cut crew cut White men on the crew and seeing this black man get all the attention. And then to top it off over coffee he lectures you on the historical injustice of what you have dedicated your life to, and tells you the whole place is rotten and racist and then he asks you if you ever have heard Whitey On The Moon? Perhaps they just grit their teeth and keep their mouth shut and wonder about the time when the happy darkie played banjo all summer night long. Or perhaps as he has come up the ladder in an evil time he has internalized the regime nonsense and takes a listen. He might not like the beat but he has to admit to himself the rightness of some of it and as he finally winds his way around the moon the awe and majesty of it will be tarnished just a little by the knowledge that back home little Shaniqua has to endure hate and fear. Either way the one thing you can be sure of is that if we ever do set someone down again on the lunar surface it won't be Whitey on the moon, but the monkeys will finally get their turn, it will be one small step for chimpanzee but the end of the line for us.
