Injured Parties

Biting the Hand That Holds Out the Olive Branch

December 28, 2015

Pictures say a thousand words, especially pictures of social justice warriors. Here’s a picture of Frank Joyce, a white man who recently pecked out a screed called “White men must be stopped.” And here’s a candidly horrifying snapshot of Gillian Schutte, a miscegenatin’ white South African slag who scribbled one of those endlessly tiresome “Dear White People” open letters to white people from a white person who is ostensibly enlightened enough to see whiteness as a cancer.

Those are faces that were born, marinated, and sculpted in a culture of relentless white guilt. They are ugly, defeated, self-hating, despicable mugs, the type that would likely enjoy being spat upon. If I were nonwhite, I’d feel entirely justified in walking up to such pathetic visages and saying, “Thanks for your apology—now give me your wallet.”

Then take a gander at John Wayne and Rita Hayworth back when there was no such thing as white guilt—back in the “bad old days” when there was no institutional culture of apology. In fact, look at nearly any white person in photos prior to the 1960s and tell me they don’t look more robust, dignified, and full of life than most welfare-siphoning, medication-gobbling, self-loathing, guilt-wracked, demoralized, virtue-signaling white folks these days.

People look better when they’re on the attack than when they’re in retreat. And that’s why most white people don’t look very good at all these days.

Nonwhites have a legitimate reason to fear an end of white self-loathing. When white people don’t hate themselves, they end up doing something horrible—like ruling the world.

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