Redstater's "Rip Van Whitey"

[AmericanBTGoG]

Caught up with Redstater after reading the first few chapters of this work in progress (where have I heard this before) over at Angry White Dude, one of my favorite sites. He kindly agreed to let us reproduce his work here. He's open to comments, questions, and conversation. Hopefully, he'll find us a comfortable crowd in other threads as well and enter the asylum.

This work is much different than AA's, but I found it really well written and engrossing. But, uh-oh, its not PC!

I'll post chapters as I can. Hopefully, Redstater will join us and post his own chapters, though. And any other stuff he chooses.

[AmericanBTGoG]

"Rip Van Whitey" Part 1




A Prehumous Writing of RedStater Knickerbocker

By Woden, God of Saxons,
From whence comes Wensday, that is Wodensday,
Truth is a thing that ever I will keep
Unto thylke day in which I creep into
My sepulchre.

– Eric Cartman

Whoever has made a voyage up the Hudson must remember the Catskill mountains. At the foot of these fairy mountains, the voyager may have described the light smoke curling up from a village. It is a little village of great antiquity, having been founded by Dutch colonists. In that same village, there lived many years a simple good-natured fellow of the name of Rip Van Whitey.

He was a descendant of the Van Whities who figured so gallantly in the chivalrous days of the pre-modern era. He inherited, however, but little of the martial character of his ancestors. I have observed that he was a simple good-natured man; he was, moreover, a kind neighbor, and an obedient hen-pecked husband.

Indeed, to the latter circumstance might be owing that meekness of spirit which gained him such universal hatred and envy of the execrable great brown hordes; for those men are most apt to be weak, obsequious and conciliating abroad, who are under the discipline of shrews at home. Their tempers, doubtless, are rendered pliant and malleable in the fiery furnace of domestic tribulation. A termagant wife may, therefore, in some respects, be considered the root of all evil.

The white children of the village would shout with joy whenever he approached. He assisted at their sports, made their playthings, taught them to fly kites and shoot marbles, and told them long stories of ghosts, witches, and Indians Native Americans Original Peoples. Whenever he went dodging about the village, he was surrounded by a troop of them; and not a dog would bark at him throughout the neighborhood.

The black children of the village, however, sensing weakness in good old Rip, would never hesitate to clean his clock as part of their primitive and savage “knockout game”. Rip would seldom be able to recall the event, having smashed his frail head upon the concrete, but he refused to believe the accounts of witnesses that it was the poor wittle bwack children—angelic, ever-innocent, forever oppressed—who would do such a thing. Rather, he listened to the talking heads of the Ministry of Truth and academics in the towers of Higher Indoctrination who insisted he tripped over his own white privilege; and that, even if it were poor wittle bwack kids cold-cocking him for no reason whatsoever, he deserved it because racism. And slavery.

The great error in Rip’s composition was an insuperable aversion to all kinds of self-defense. It could not be from the want of courage. He would never hesitate to flip the bird from the confines of his minivan to someone he deemed too aggressive a driver (unless that driver was black, of course); he would never hesitate to bravely denounce the racism and nativism of his fellow whites when they objected to their civilization being submerged under the Great Brown Goo. In a word Rip was ready to come to anyone’s defense but his own—and to any race’s defense but his own. But as to doing racial duty, and keeping his society in order, he found it impossible.

One fine day, whistling, he walked through the door of his ramshackle house and found himself immediately subject to a squealing tirade from his enraged wife.
Shrew

The loving wife.

“WHYDOYOUALWAYSSLAMTHEDOORANDLEAVETHETOILETSEATUPA NDNEVERTALKTOMEANDALWAYSFEELLIKEYOU’RE
IGNORINGMEANDNEVERREPLACETHEPAPERTOWELSANDDON’TEAR NENOUGHMONEYANDWENEVERGOOUTANYMOREAND—”

With that, all of the long-stemmed wine glasses in the china cabinet shattered from the pitch of her voice alone. There was a welcome moment of relief from the verbal fusillade as they both stared incredulously at the site.

But just as quickly as the moment of silence came, it went.

“SEEWHATYOUMADEMEDOYOULAZYIGNORANTHATEFILLEDBIGOTE DRACISTSEXISTHOMOPHOBICANTISEMITICNEONAZI
ISLAMOPHOBICXENOPHOBICNATIVISTTEABAGGINGREDNECKI’L LTAKETHEHOUSEANDTHEKIDSANDLEAVEYOUHOMELESS
ANDCHILDLESSANDF***WITHYOURHEADUNTILYOUKILLYOURWOR THLESSSELFTHESEBOOTSWEREMADEFORWALKING
IAMWOMANHEARMEROAR…”

At this point, he decided to go for a walk.

To be continued…

[ex_machina]

RedStater here (aka Ex Machina). Thanks again for posting. I am still getting up to speed on this site, so not sure how my work will be met. As you mentioned, it is not PC. Very much so. Apologies in advance to anyone offended. Not my intent to offend. But I do calls 'em as I sees 'em.

PS: Though I'd like to, I can't take much credit for the good writing as much of it is lifted directly from Washington Irving's original work.

[unseenone]

If you want to change your name, drop me a PM.

[W.Lynn]

That's ok, we aren't much PC either, except in mockery. We like AA's work a lot, but even he takes a little while between releases. Something about trying to have a life or something.

Most of us are hoping his current events will fuel something awesome in our seanachi.

[AmericanBTGoG]

Welcome, ex (can we call you ex?). Wander around a while. If you like, say hello in the "Welcome Mat' where a lot of folks stop in to say hello. Feel free to comment on anything.

About PC, I was just joking. You'll find what is probably the most un-PC bunch of paste eaters, window lickers and short bus riders as have ever been assembled outside of a special ed convention. We don't take ourselves too seriously (one of the things I like about AWD's site). We drink, we carouse, we cuss, we insult, we look at pictures of nekkid women (OK, some of us - including me - look at nekkid women) we laugh and cry together, we help each other in the real world, we chase sheep (well, we don't, I don't, but we have our suspicions about some folks here). We insult each other, there's about nothing sacred. We learn from each other. We are Patriotic - with a capital P - but way far from monolithic in our views. And while we may insult each other, we are still respectful - usually. And we are family, or tribe, or whatever you want to call it. Truckers, mechanics, ranchers, entrepreneurs, homesteaders, LEO, office people. retailers, maybe even a lawy -- no, I can't say it.

The original crew came together because of the chapters AA was posting. When that slowed or stopped for a time, we found that we had grown on each other, kinda like a fungus and, surprising everyone including ourselves, the group not only didn't drift apart, it continues to grow.

Long way to say kick your shoes off and stay a while. And don't be worried about saying the wrong thing (unless its kissing up to Ebama. Obola is not a favorite here, to say the least. Oh, and most, if not all, are not real fans of the Religion of Piss. Just sayin'.)

BTW, noted your tag over there included NY. I spent many years up and down NYS, laying my head from Brooklyn to New Paltz (never in Tarrytown (wasnt that Rip's stomping grounds though I drink Pappy Van Winkle bourbon), to Narrowsburg, to Albany, to Ithaca.

And some a-holes here say I run my mouth too much.

[AmericanBTGoG]

"Rip Van Whitey" Part 2


Poor Rip was at last reduced almost to despair; and his only alternative, to escape from the danger of the “vibrant”, Federally-imposed “diversity” of his once-charming town, and the clamor of his feminazi wife, was to take a gun knife slingshot in hand and stroll away into the woods.

In a long ramble of the kind on a fine autumnal day, Rip had unconsciously scrambled to one of the highest parts of the Catskill mountains. He was after his sole solace of porn hunting, and the still solitudes had echoed and re-echoed with his cussing as he tried to find cell service with which to pull up hornyhousewiveswholovebbc.com. Panting and fatigued, he threw himself, late in the afternoon, on a grassy knoll, covered with mountain herbage, that crowned the brow of a precipice. From an opening between the trees he could overlook all the lower country for many a mile of decaying suburban sprawl. He saw at a distance the polluted Hudson, far, far, below him, moving on its silent but polychlorinated biphenyl-poisoned course, with the rainbow reflection of oil slicks, or the sail of a lagging bark, here and there sleeping on its glassy bosom, and at last losing itself in the smog-enveloped highlands.

On the other side he looked down into a deep mountain glen, wild, lonely, and shagged, the bottom filled with fragments from the impending cliffs, and scarcely lighted by the reflected rays of the setting sun. For some time Rip lay musing on this scene; evening was gradually advancing; the mountains began to throw their long blue shadows over the valleys; he saw that it would be dark long before he could reach the village, and he heaved a heavy sigh when he thought of encountering the terrors of Diversity at Dark—and, should he survive that, the bottomless vitriol of Dame Van Whitey.

As he was about to descend, he heard a voice from a distance, hallooing, “Rip Van Whitey! Rip Van Whitey!” He looked around, but could see nothing but a buzzard circling overhead. He thought his fancy must have deceived him, and turned again to descend, when he heard the same cry ring through the still evening air: “Rip Van Whitey! Rip Van Whitey!”

Rip felt a vague apprehension stealing over him; he looked anxiously in the same direction, and perceived a strange figure slowly toiling up the rocks, and bending under the weight of something he carried on his back. He was surprised to see any human being in this lonely and unfrequented place, but supposing it to be some one of the neighborhood in need of his assistance, he hastened down to yield it.

To be continued…

[Tex]

RedStater here (aka Ex Machina). Thanks again for posting. I am still getting up to speed on this site, so not sure how my work will be met. As you mentioned, it is not PC. Very much so. Apologies in advance to anyone offended. Not my intent to offend. But I do calls 'em as I sees 'em.

PS: Though I'd like to, I can't take much credit for the good writing as much of it is lifted directly from Washington Irving's original work.

Welcome to the site, Ex. Don't apologise for being unPC. If people get offended when faced with the truth, that is on them. Those types usually don't last long around here, so there is not much need to be nice to them.


Tex

[angeryamerican]

Ex, un pc is just the old normal, I liked the old normal.

[AmericanBTGoG]

"Rip Van Whitey" Part 3

On nearer approach he was still more surprised at the singularity of the stranger’s appearance. He was a tall, slender young fellow, with slick-backed hair largely concealed under a derby, with a clean-shaven face. His dress was of the antique American fashion—a three-piece pin-striped suit with a club collar and gold bar under the perfect knot of his purple necktie, coordinating with the cufflinks in his French shirt. He bore on his shoulder a stout keg, that seemed full of liquor, and made signs for Rip to approach and assist him with the load.

Though rather shy and distrustful of this new acquaintance, Rip complied with his usual alacrity; and mutually relieving one another, they clambered up a narrow gully, apparently the dry bed of a mountain torrent.

As they ascended, Rip every now and then heard short cracks, like abbreviated thunder, that seemed to issue out of a deep ravine, or rather cleft, between lofty rocks, toward which their rugged path conducted. He paused for an instant, but supposing it to be the muttering of one of those transient thunder-showers which often take place in mountain heights, he proceeded.

Passing through the ravine, they came to a hollow, like a small amphitheater. Upon entering, new objects of wonder presented themselves. On a level spot in the center was a company of odd-looking personages playing stickball. They were dressed in a quaint outlandish fashion; some wore Oxford bags, others seersuckers, with suspenders or belts, and most of them retained their suit vests, of similar style with that of the guide’s.

Most discomfiting of all, was that they were all porcelain white. Every last one of them.

There was one who seemed to be the commander. He was a distinguished looking gentleman, with an amiable though aristocratic countenance; he wore an impeccably pressed suit, a skimmer hat, small spectacles, and—quite scandalously—clutched a cigarette holder between his teeth.

(The whole scene might have reminded Rip of some classic piece of art…were Rip ever exposed, at any point in his long tenure in his multicultural, diverse paradise, to anything resembling art.)

What seemed particularly odd to Rip was, that though these folks were evidently amusing themselves, yet they maintained the gravest faces, the most mysterious silence, and were, withal, the most melancholy party of pleasure he had ever witnessed. Nothing interrupted the stillness of the scene but the noise of bat on ball, which, whenever they met, echoed along the mountains like short peals of thunder.

To be continued…

[AmericanBTGoG]

Ex, calling you "ex" causes, not of your doing, me some agita. May I refer to you as "deus" or better yet "deuce?"

[AmericanBTGoG]

"Rip Van Whitey" Part 4


As Rip and his companion approached them, they suddenly desisted from their play, and stared at him with such fixed statue-like gaze, and such strange, uncouth, lack-luster countenances, that his heart turned within him, and his knees smote together. His companion now emptied the contents of the keg into large flagons, and made signs to him to wait upon the company. He obeyed with fear and trembling; they quaffed the liquor in profound silence, and then returned to their game.

By degrees Rip’s awe and apprehension subsided. He even ventured, when no eye was fixed upon him, to taste the beverage, which he found had much of the flavor of excellent gin. He was naturally a thirsty soul, and was soon tempted to repeat the draught. One taste provoked another; and he reiterated his visits to the flagon so often that at length his fear was overpowered, and he decided to converse with his company.

“My name is Rip Van Whitey,” he slurred, “And it’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

The games ceased and once again the crowed looked at him with an uninviting glower. The awkward silence was too much for poor Rip to bear, so he gulped his beverage nervously.

The men looked away, some returning their attention to their game. The commander apparent took a step toward Rip, revealing a slight limp steadied by the use of a cane. He plucked the cigarette holder from his mouth and cracked a polite smile at Rip.

“My dear fellow, do you know who we are?”

Rip shook his head, a sense of shame coming over him.

“We are the beginning of the end. We are revelers between two awful and pointless racial civil wars. We are the heroes who seeded a generation of traitors. We are the creators and enablers of the beast that would crush our kith and kin. We are the men who built an empire so powerful it took the entire world a century to destroy it. But destroy it they did.”

“I don’t have any idea what you’re talking about,” Rip admitted, thoroughly befuddled.

“But of course you don’t, kind sir, for what has been hidden from you since birth may as well have never existed. But I assure you: It did exist.

“They will lie to you when they say there was no such thing as the “good old days”, that there was no “golden age” in this nation.

“For if you knew what has been lost, you would revolt tomorrow.

“Those who have engineered your subjugation have profited royally from it. They sit perched atop Glitterati Hills, looking down from their gated compounds with nothing but contempt for you and vicious glee over your suffering. All the while, you remain blissfully unaware that your situation could be much improved if only you had the nerve to question what has been forced upon you—and why.”

Rip’s eyes began to swim in his head. He had only one recourse, which was another trip to the flagon. The distinguished gentleman limped after him.

“There are unpleasant realities no one wishes to hear, Rip Van Whitey, but no man should ignore. The fact is your beloved paradise below has been destroyed, and intentionally so. How do you fail to see it? Do you think that the random savagery to which you are so woefully accustomed is normal? Do you think the constant disturbances of the peace, the endless streams of profanity, the stupidity, the idleness, the violence, the thuggery, the thievery, the squalor, the filth—do you think these are elements inherent to civil society? If so, what, exactly, makes it so “civil”?

“Look around you now. Do you fear for your life? Do you fear for your pride? Do you have any concern at all that you will be treated in anything but a decent and respectable manner by us perfect strangers? No, of course you don’t. This—this—is the nation which once was. And this is the nation we, our children, and our children’s children, forfeited.

“Why did we forfeit it? Because we were naïve. Because we were credulous. Because we were lazy. Because we were compliant. Year after year, law after law, generation after generation, we became more ensnared by the Leviathan we created, failing to heed the warnings of the Cassandras, or, more often, dutifully following orders to tar and feather them for daring to utter heresies against the Utopia “diversity”, “multiculturalism”, “equality”, “democracy”, and total government was certain to bring.

“But in the end we saw the error of our ways, and took up the struggle against our fate. After all, we were warriors.

“But you, dear Rip, joined the chorus of voices who denounced us, vilified us, ridiculed us, marginalized us. Like our children, you preferred to worship the idiocy of youthful fantasies than respect the wisdom of the aged. You allowed yourself to be emasculated by a shrew of a wife, then demonized those who chose to remain men.

“What is it, Rip, that compels you to such deplorable behavior? Is it cowardice? Is it envy? Is it foolishness? Certainly it can be no respectable quality that makes for such shameful ways.

“We forged the closest thing to heaven on earth humanity had ever seen, and then we let it be destroyed by an ungrateful, ridiculous generation. But when I see so-called men such as you, I wonder whether you don’t deserve everything that has been visited upon you.

“So drink up, Rip Van Whitey, and enjoy the game. And as you immerse yourself in the entertainment, consider whether you will continue to ignore reality, or choose to take arms against a sea of troubles. Just know that we don’t care. You have forsaken us, and we have moved on. It is your world now. Make of it what you will.”

With that, the distinguished gentleman limped back to the crowd who resumed their attentiveness to the game. Rip stared off into space, unsure of what he just heard and exactly what to make of it. So, feeling queasy, he poured himself another beverage.

And with a few more sips, he fell into a deep sleep.

To be continued…

[AmericanBTGoG]

RE: Part 4

You're starting to hit a little close to home. +3

[tk]

I'm a little offended . Them's some big ass words your using. I'm liking it so far please keep up the good work. TFK

[ex_machina]

Thanks all. Will stop by the welcome mat to introduce myself to the wider audience. Pleasure to be here...