Douglas Mercer
January 19 2025
The moral and literary stock of Jean Raspail keeps going up and up and, when the conflagration reaches its zenith and the catastrophe is total and unremitting, we will insist that no one claim they were not warned. Paris used to be famous as the haunt of Eliot and Pound and Joyce, or existentialists on the river smoking gitanes, wearing black berets, and waiting for Godot in overheated prose, but now what it is famous for—infamous really—is a horde of niggers squatting and turning the City Of Light into the city of, well, niggers. The funny thing in this war is that no one fired a shot except of course the niggers in the banlieues who chimp out and riot every five years or so like a perverted version of Old Faithful and set the place aflame. Michel Houllebecq told this tale in his novel Submission (2015) but then I would never trust the fate of my race to a guy whose face looks like he smoked ten billion cigarettes and whose moral fiber is akin to scores of cigarettes in a public pay toilet---and all of them sinking.
“In December 2024, the Gaîté Lyrique theater held a conference titled, Reinventing The Welcome For Refugees In France. Fittingly, more than 250 African migrants showed up, were welcomed — and then refused to leave. Five weeks later, they’re still there, along with 50 more who’ve piled inside.”
Yes sir White Homelands can be likened to Roach Motels, the vile scum come in but they never leave. A bunch of crybaby bleeding hearts hold a conference—in Paris the conference is considered a sacred thing, Michel Foucault once sodomized a rent boy at one of them—and they got all high minded and tisked tisked that the black man in Africa must be brought in with open arms and if you don’t agree with that you might as well be Louis Ferdinand Celine exhorting one to kill all the Jews. No matter that not that long ago Hitler’s supposed query Is Paris Burning? could only be answered in the affirmative, no matter that little White girls there get chopped up by Algerians and their body parts numbered, no matter that rape and murder is the migrant's way of life. The minor league writer Camus once wrote a faux ominous book called The Plague in which he lectured us that that the rats always come back, the rats being “Nazis.” But one thing you can be sure of is that at least the National Socialists had the dignity of overtaking Paris the old-fashioned way—through the Ardennes Forest in a lightning strike—and not slinking in via dinghies under the ever-watchful eyes of the UN Human Rights council. And you can be sure also that if the Germans had stayed these plague vermin who go by the name of niggers would not be there, and the city of light would still have a future.
“As you might imagine, after five weeks of cultural enrichment via 300 migrant residents, the venue is now dealing with some climate issues of a different type. As the number of young people sleeping at the Gaîté Lyrique continues to increase, the sanitary conditions are deteriorating day after day.”
Oh yes the cigarettes in the toilet that is now Paris are sinking and no one is willing to flush it. The entire theater now smells like an overused outhouse but then that is just a diorama of the city itself which is just one big sewer and cesspool reeking of piss and shit as if all of Africa unleashed a huge loose stool on the country of France. What is required of course is some pest control and some fumigation, and the cleansing brush of fire, but though some political parties are making feints of being anti-migrant, no one there has the giblets or the stomach for what is required. Instead they will nibble around the edges while all the while the stench grows more dank and fetid, and the brown dregs waft their putrid smell into the nostrils of what’s left of the republic. A handkerchief won’t do the trick, perhaps a gas mask might be in order, or a lot more than a whiff of grapeshot.
“The damage from the migrant occupation isn’t limited to the theater itself, which is located on a lovely square in Paris’s 3rd arrondissement. Among other businesses, an adjacent restaurant has seen its revenue hammered by loss of the theater-crowd traffic, and the business-killing effect of troublesome migrant loiterers. They are ruining my business. They hang around outside my terrace, smoking joints and fighting among themselves. Not only do we no longer get theatregoers because the theatre is shut but we don’t get passers-by either. They’re being frightened away by all these young men.”
Truly the fact that the Gaite Lyriqe, roughly translated as the Gay Lyric, is hurting for business does not make me cry. It’s the kind of place where those “French Intellectuals” gather and put on “cutting edge” culture, which consists mainly of sodomy and video games and graffiti, and niggers on scooters and skateboards, and houses the work of artists churning out meaningless twaddle. It’s so bad now it makes one nostalgic for the exis who at least pretended to know how to read. But from the aerial view those squatting and loitering niggers smoking their hash pipes full of human gristle and taking leaks on the statue of Moliere make one long for the days when the State was someone, for now the state is just a horde of sniveling nobs and cowards who have abdicated all reason, handed over their country to flat faced feral savages, and just talk talk talk but don’t break the glass and get out the rifles. Raspail warned them but they were too busy sodomizing rent boys and reading Derrida warble about the evils of geist to listen.
