Behold, The Bearded Ladies!

Updated: Feb 25

I'm sure I'm not very manly. There's much room for improvement. Hopefully I'll get a chance to do that later in the year, with gym equipment and my weight-training program. I've been quite hampered recently and bound by issues in my private life that deny the possibility of much future thought.

I'd been out on my front porch, just messing about, under some distinct stress and mental malaise in the background. I was about to walk down to the local shop. I had a small stick in my hand, a twig which one of my stepchildren had picked up on our woodland walks, and absent-mindedly used it to prod my neighbour's BMW's front-right tyre.

Later that day I was arrested. The four policemen looming over me told me that she had made a complaint that I "swung a wooden club at her car". It seems she also presented them with her house-broom as evidence, passing it off as a weapon she had pulled from my hands as I threatened her and sabotaged her vehicle. I protested that that was nonsense, but was taken off, dragged naked from my book and my warm bath, hogtied with reinforced straps, carried out under their arms, still in the nude, and locked in the clinical steel holding cell at the rear of their vehicle, like a hunter's trophy-kill. My elderly father had stepped in to complain and to shield me, but they just knocked him out of the way.

They were a little sadistic in the cells, as seems quite common - not providing any toilet paper and refusing to look away as I sat down to relieve myself. It wasn’t cynicism or spiteful humour exactly, and I sensed a coldness in them, like there was an unbridgeable void between us. I noticed a drying bloodstain high up on the wall and wondered what had happened before I’d got there. Also, they all had very strange hands. Very smooth and with the hair shaved, or otherwise non-existent. I noticed what seemed to be a slight dysgenic element to their fingers and wrists, and a certain asymmetry to their odd, podgy faces. When the spoke to each other, it was in brief staccato snippets of banal information, in dulled flat monotone, as if they were on radio chatter, and otherwise were unable to maintain a normal conversation. They seemed to be talking about a mixture of what new external training programs presented the best financial benefit in the long run, and how to perform new takedown techniques. Very odd people. I felt like the only human in there.

Eventually, deciding they couldn’t charge me with anything, they made some phone calls with the local hospital. An adult social worker was called to analyse my mental health, as they are fond of doing. I told him about the Police sadism, and my neighbour's on-going one-sided feud. With a high-pitched whining voice, he utterly dismissed me, and pressed on with questions about how I felt, with the implication that he was trying to arrange me a hospital stay, whether I liked it or not, as he felt I was under the weather, and a bit confused. He had noted that I was an “anti-vaxxer”, and that I had refused a PCR test.

I grew impatient, and annoyed, having had enough, and leaned forward and punched him hard in the face, bloodying my knuckles on his nose. I think it was my own blood. He shrieked at me, like a seaside Vaudeville entertainer "oooo, sucker punch, Benjamin! Violence is un-acc-eptable!". A sucker punch is generally delivered to the back of the head, as far as I remember, whereas he got to see this coming.

The Police growled in their ingrained middle-class manner, and threw me hard to the floor regardless, damaging one of my ribs on the right side, and dislocating my left shoulder. My partner later informed me that she knew he was an open homosexual. In retrospect, it's lucky I wasn't charged on the spot with a hate crime. However, I was placed in a doubled-over crouch position, wrenched to my feet, with my arms dragged up behind my back and locked in grip of their interlocking forearms, and with my head simultaneously pushed down by their palms, putting enormous stress on my legs, neck and back, and pulled out at double-pace, as they power-walked me over to the neighbouring Psychiatric assessment unit. I fell to the ground at one point, collapsing in vocal exhaustion and pain, and grazing my elbows, knees, and cheeks on the tarmac, however I was yanked up again and the process continued. It seems the IDF has trained them well.

At the unit, I was thrown like a worn sandbag into a small, bright, barren white room, whilst they stood guard. The social worker tittered about in the background. I thought for a moment that they were going to let him in to have his revenge, as he had rolled his sleeves up. However, a psychiatrist arrived on the other side of a clear glass panel to the left of me, and his curt, metallic voice rasped out of a tannoy-system on the ceiling, as he interrogated me via the camera high up on the right wall. I was given a full mental assessment, and judged to be unwell, in no small part based on my Covid-19 views, so was interned in isolation in their cold, immigrant-staffed facility for two weeks whilst they patronized me, degraded me, and forced me to take their grim medications on threat of indefinite further confinement. Ultimately, I was let go back to their community team. I wasn't having any of that.

A blonde female walked in to analyse me. I told her she was unwelcome in my house and asked her if she felt lucky. I pulled out my vaporizer, took a quick breath from the mouthpiece, turned it and pointed it at her head like a pistol, 'cocked' it with my other hand, and pulled the 'trigger', making a double-tap "pew pew" noise with my mouth. She screamed and jolted backwards with her hands up to protect herself, as if shot, then scampered back out the front door to her car. It appears she had less grasp on objective reality than me. I have never seen her again.

The day after a male walked in. Quite tall. Greying hair. A little beard. Smiling. He sat down. I loomed over him and scowled. "Hello Benjamin, I'm Sean!". "Tell me Sean, do you like Feminism?". "Oh yes Benjamin, I think it's marvellous. It's so great that we can empower women!". "Get out of my house, Sean, and take your sweet, soy-infused mother face and your underground railroad for self-destructive Marxist female supremacy with you." He remained smiling, or at least frozen, with him little teeth and cuddly grey hamster cheeks locked into a display of inert and submissive cheerfulness. I'm not sure what he was thinking, I have not seen Sean since.

Now an older woman called Theresa is still coming round. She seems quite a patient person. She coped with me calling her kind "zombie slave-drones for a kakocratic Zionist dystopia", and notes down, with a polite weariness, that I appear to be a little "anti-authoritarian".

Having attended the local clinic for an interview with the Jewish-looking Psychiatrist I am now placed under, I was able to quit taking those blasted 'meds', albeit first having to invoke The Nuremberg Code on her (which she promised she would look up on her smartphone later). She pleaded fervently with me, and scolded me, and launched into a sales pitch for the efficacy of Big Pharma brain-poisons, then pleaded some more whilst reminding me of her authority and professional expertise, then counselled me on how ill I had been, and how much she cared about me and was worried for my health, then simultaneously scolded and pleaded a little longer, until eventually relenting, after approximately 45 minutes, and dismissing me from the room with a very sharp glance, closing her folder of notes with a snap, and informing me that I would still be kept on their system, and that, in the event of any sign of future illness, it would be very likely that she would thoroughly review this decision on her part to allow me (presumably) to retain free informed choice over bodily sovereignty in the face of pseudo-medical, anti-White, Police State Totalitarianism.

I had wanted to explain more of my position to her, as she took a keen interest in noting down that I had political opinions.

Although it was tempting to explain to her a little of what had been on my mind at the time, with thoughts of Henry Kissinger; Russia and the Mossad and ISIS and Palestine; and China and Israel; and Iran; and the intelligence community and the US military and Alex Jones and Roger Stone and the post-puppet-presidency role of the failed businessman Donald Trump; and the Kennedys and the USS Liberty and the King David Hotel, and Jeffrey Epstein and Ghislaine Maxwell and Bill Gates; and the Bunting-Cloverleaf map; and the Talpiot Program and Unit 8200 and the IDF; and September 11th 2001; and Eurasianism and Geopolitics and Alexander Dugin and the alt-right; and the comprehensive fed infiltration of White Nationalism; and the ADL and the David Elias Goldberg report; and The City of London and the Bank of International Settlements and The Federal Reserve; and even a brief mention of Zionism, and of Jews such as Benjamin Netanyahu, even, or indeed the rest of them, I decided that it was probably not worth her while being made aware of these small considerations as she was evidently quite content cradled in her current predicament of mind and besides, I knew I would be considered, by conventional internal mandate, totally mad.

Unlike Sean, my Dad doesn't have a beard anymore. I told him off gently in the street today after he gave £3 to a fat, ugly Syrian (or Roma?) immigrant woman selling The Big Issue. Interestingly, as I stormed past her shaking my head, she fixated on him, but, as the money was handed over, it was me she looked at, and me she gave the cheeky smile and the "thank you!" to, with vindicated smugness. I hate that thinly veiled propaganda 'magazine', for the Liberal-cum-Globalist-cum-Communist content. The writing is also bog-standard. I am, in general, not in favour of random handouts, or supporting those who do not give much of a toss about our country, and the issues that affect our own wretched feudal citizens, more than seeing us as a naïve and compliant piggy bank which they can eternally raid.

Dad replied that I was a bigot. Perhaps he liked her dress, or something.

I do have a small, trimmed beard and moustache myself though. I hope it gets longer.

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