Douglas Mercer
January 27 2025
Over at the thin gruel peddling Counter Currents Richard Houck is asking if he is still a dissident. A better question is was he ever a dissident and the answer is of course a resounding no. Trump has been in office some seven days by now and they are already starting to crow as if they had already stormed Berlin from the Beer Hall and gone from strength to strength routing their enemies. Why, Trump has deported some Mexicans and is about to end Birthright Citizenship, and Denali will be McKinley again, and they think that it’s the time of victory for their ideals (such as they are). But there are some forty to fifty million illegal aliens in this country and the amount that Trump ends up deporting will be like spitting in the ocean, he’s not closing the barn door after the horse is gone, he’s shutting it after the race aliens are already well in. Had we done this, say, in 1990, it might have made a difference, but so far gone are we along the primrose path to Mudville that any action now will have no more effect than trying to empty Lake Geneva with a serving spoon.
You see the folks at Counter Currents, and their fellow travelers down the beaten path (I’m looking at you Gregory Hood or James Kirkpatrick or whatever the hell your name is these days) like to think of themselves as the responsible ones, the ones with their heads screwed on right, but really they can't distinguish their asses from a hole in the ground or their elbow, whichever comes first. Why, they will set up a Think Tank of Whiteness and flap their gums in front of a microphone as they whistle off key in the graveyard and record it all for a non-existent posterity. Their take on anyone who dissents from their pink tea and molly coddle mish mash approach is that we are “edge lords” proving once again that like their thinking their vocabulary is stuck at what it was ten years ago. An edge lord, for anyone who cannot remember when the “optics debate” raged to no purpose, is for them anyone who has bedrock principles stemming from the drastic and draconian nature of our crisis, and who is not willing to sway in the breeze of the first paltry bit of good news.
They will accuse us of wanting to be the “underdog” and not being willing to see that that famous Nice White Country is just one more Executive Order away. And so they applaud themselves, count fantasy chickens which will never hatch, as they bask in the illusion of their faux victory, and chastise anyone who can still operate his brain and is willing to use his two good eyes. How puerile their world view appears after one reads the bracing words of the great Wolf Stoner, a man who is impervious and steeled against the inconsequential blandishments of the come on let’s get happy put on a happy face toddler thinking that oozes from the sodomite Greg Johnson’s shop. Stoner knows the score, that there is no political solution, there are no shortcuts, that, on the contrary, any starting endeavor in this field will always be dirty, heavy, and bloody.
Hacking through impenetrable woods, digging trenches, killing enemies, burying best friends and relatives; no luxuries, no holidays on the French Riviera, no fancy clothes and cars; only hard work, suffering, and ardent belief in higher ideals. It is painful, but it is the way of nation-creation.
It’s not the Hooray Harry approach of Houck, but it has the inestimable virtue of comporting with reality. As for Houck he’s a guy who once wrote a saccharine and syrupy essay about how he once purchased a light fixture at a Pizza Hut and trumpeted it as if he had just struck lightening through Ardennes Forest and ended up waltzing down the Champs-Elysees. But then that guy has always been a fly by night lightweight and flyweight, so much froth on the waves, just like the whole sick crew over there. You hate to burst their bubble by removing the pacifier they have stuck firmly in their pie holes, and it’s hard to reason with anyone who puts on the fabled rose-colored glasses and finds himself in a fool’s paradise replete with Day-Glo pats on their own backs. Perhaps they will wake up one day from their dormant and dogmatic slumbers—when the cold water of the truth washes over their innocent neophyte faces—or when they first begin to hack their way through those impenetrable forests.
