Let me see if I’ve got this straight…

I was stunned to recently learn, from a source no less credible than Joe Biden, that being black has nothing to do with the color of your skin. Yeah, apparently it’s all about your politics. You can’t be black if you don’t support democrat candidates, of which he is notably one. Despite the fact that Mr. Biden is descended from an ethnic group that is practically devoid of melanin in their skin, he has been able to assume the mantle of authority on this topic. The light reflected off of that pale, flaccid ass is nearly blinding. Were it not for the thin filter of that irresistible leg hair we’d all have been rendered completely sightless by now. Though not stated implicitly in his assertion, what is implied then is that one can not be “white” without white, liberal guilt. I don’t have any so I guess I’m not white? Shocker! Who would ever have believed it?

You know who is white? Let me introduce you to one of the whitest dudes I have ever seen:


That is an interesting quote, isn’t it? There are more, but we’ll circle back to some more of those later.  There seem to be an awful lot of people being given air time right now who enjoy lecturing us about white privilege. Do we have a working definition for what that is? One assumes that this must be out there somewhere, though I’ve yet to hear it. In the absence of a clear definition I’ll take a stab at this. Ready? Here we go….

Martin “King Manic” Weissgerber. King Manic, or Martin the Manic, was his twitter handle before locking up the account. Marty was born and raised in Boston. Brookline, to be exact. If you are not familiar with Boston I can tell you that you will find more racial diversity at a Klan rally than you’d find in Brookline, Mass. He boasts that his father is a Belgian marxist, now a professor. And mama? Why she is none other than Kathleen McKenna, the executive producer at WBUR, Boston’s own number one NPR station. These are the sorts of careers required to pony up the price of admission in an exclusive community like Brookline. So far this is a profile practically dripping with white, liberal guilt. Still, let’s not judge too hastily. We’d better make absolutely certain he is white. One has to be careful about racial identity these days. Apparently it has become a sensitive topic.

Here is a picture from that idyllic childhood. You might be shocked to learn that he is an only child. I’d have never guessed it.

Kathleen McKenna, Martin Weissgerber (in hat), and Tate Mitchell at the Attempted Gallery at the Brookline Arts Center.

Kathleen McKenna, Martin Weissgerber (in hat), and Tate Mitchell at the Attempted Gallery at the Brookline Arts Center.

This is young Marty, circa age 12 or 13. Seems he had a fondness for caps back then too. He is pictured here with mama hovering at his left. Hovering at the left is something this family is no doubt familiar with. Attending art exhibits, working in the community garden, these were the arduous tasks that helped to define young Marty’s world view, until he went off to college.  No dodging gang members or scraping change out of the couch cushions to take to the laundromat for this boy! Nosiree!

College was the esteemed Boston University, that august institution that has produced such glitterati as Nobel Economics Prize candidate Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez.  An education (if one can call it that) at Boston University costs a pretty penny. I wonder how much student loan debt our Marty is buried under? Or did mommy and daddy foot the bill? You guess. Probably reach the same conclusion as me. It seems Martin professed a profound interest in Soviet studies. Apparently BU is one of those schools where one may pursue such courses of study. We can only imagine to what purpose.

Now I’m not one to embrace the idea that white privilege even exists. If it did, then I have been seriously shortchanged. Let’s for a moment, just for the purpose of our discussion, stipulate that white privilege does exist. I suspect it would look pretty much like the life of our young Marty.  If others are prepared to step forward with a more cogent definition of white privilege then I am all ears. Gimme your best shot.

Let’s take a look at some of the product issued from the union of a Marxist professor and an NPR executive producer, and an education from Boston University. Here are some quotes from the mouth of Martin Weissgerber:


  • “Leave it to the Soviets to Make the Most Badass F***ing, Most Effective Gun in the World…AK (47)…The Destroyer of Imperialism and Colonization…That’s Why I Want to Get it (AK-47) Tattooed on Me.”
  • “I’ll Straight Up Get Armed, I Want to Learn How to Shoot, and Go Train. I’m Ready for the F***ing Revolution…I’m Telling You. Guillotine the Rich.”
  • “Let’s Force Them (Billionaires) to Build Roads…Rebuild Our Roads, Rebuild Our Dams, Rebuild Our Bridges. Let’s Force Them…”
  • “What Will Help is When We Send All the Republicans to the Re-Education Camps.”
  • “So, do We Just Cease – do We Just Dissolve the Senate, House of Representatives, the Judicial Branch, and Have Something Bernie Sanders and a Cabinet of People, Make All Decisions for the Climate? I Mean, I’m Serious.”
  • “The Soviet Union Was Not Horrible…I Mean, for Women’s Rights the Soviet Union – I Think – the Most Progressive Place to Date in the World.”
  • Weissgerber Reveals That His Father is a Belgian Marxist Who Participated in the May 1968 Civil Unrest in Paris, France.
  • Weissgerber Says That His Mother is “Really Left as Well, but She Can’t Make Her Views Known Because She Works for WBUR, which is NPR…”


Now you needn’t accept my word for it. Go to Project Veritas and enjoy the video. You’ll actually get to hear it from his very own parasitic turd holster (thanks for that one Rick Sanchez). There is so much to tackle here!

On the first point, I doubt if Marty can figure out which end of the tube that the round comes out of. He’s going to get armed? Learn to shoot? Really? He’s had since January. Surely he would have passed a background check by now. Instead of this, though, we learn that Marty is like most armchair revolutionaries: he doesn’t actually get his hands dirty. Why do that when there is a ready made, oppressed minority to carry that water for him. That’s why he was doling out antifa dollars on North High Street to young blacks in Columbus, Ohio last week.

I seriously doubt that any of those young men would stop by here to visit, much less read, but if they did I would offer them a warning. Perhaps not the warning that you all might think. Perhaps warning is too strong a word. Maybe we shall say that I would offer a caution. That would go as follows:

As a people you have been liberated from slavery for more than 150 years. I have ancestors who fell on both sides of that conflict (that would be the civil war, in case you had not heard), as do many Americans, black and white alike. We hear conniptions spewing from the commentator class at the mention of invoking federal troops to quell the riots in our major cities. You might be interested to learn that the most notable occasions in this nation’s history when this act has been used were in the south, to police recalcitrant authorities there during the reconstruction period, and during the civil rights era of the 1950’s and 60’s. On both occasions these were used to protect African American citizens. Citizens, not slaves. Since that time you have allowed yourselves to be seduced by guilt ridden, white liberals from northeastern universities. They have promised you one New Jerusalem after another. They have rode upon your backs to positions of great power and authority and many, certainly not all, but many of you still live in squalor.  You have failed to learn that these people are using you. Just like you were still all slaves.

Yes, Black Lives Matter. Especially in an election year. The revolution you have all been promised may come. It will likely fail, but in the unlikely event that it should succeed your situation will not be changed, other than to be made worse. You will fight, and bleed, be imprisoned, and some of you may even die. Marty and others like him will ride upon your backs to their promised land without even so much as a scratch. Then you will be promptly forgotten and ignored. When that day comes I say good luck to you. The chance that your fellow citizens will be roused to save you again are practically non-existent. Given your track record that would be as big a waste as giving a donor liver to an unrepentant, life-long alcoholic.




The Bernie Boys are back in town

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A Doom and Reprisal editorial from Ford Wenty, Ale 81 Inn field correspondent



Friends and countrymen, we have entered the surreal landscape of The Wonderful and Frightening World of The Fall. We have encountered the dark and moldy night of Mark E. Smith’s Bug Day. Once a fitting soundtrack for Poe or Tim Burton’s Nightmare Before Christmas, it now chitters at us from dark corners at all sides; like colonies of roaches waiting for the rest of the lights go out. It would seem that it has become Bug Day in our cities across the nation. As the sun sets mindless swarms descend, devastating all in their path; unopposed by pesticide or natural predator.

You, the good citizens, have as the serfs of olden tymes, paid your tribute to the lords of the manor in exchange for their protections. Who among you now believes that you are getting your money’s worth? Please raise your hands now, lest there be any future doubt among us where fools reside. The fools who wear the crowns are already known. In the worst case these guardians have embraced the hoodlums with a mere au fait to the fact these are vandals, offering at least lip service to their solidarity with peaceful protestors. In the best case they are so naive as to sincerely trust that these are indeed peaceful and honestly aggrieved citizens, exercising their constitutional right to peaceably assemble in the pursuit of redress to an injustice. There is little credible evidence to show that there are many of this latter category. Honestly. How could any of them not know that these demonstrations had been hijacked by more nefarious players?  Speaking only for myself mind you, I will not be surprised to learn that some public officials have been rendered impotent by these thugs because they are politically compromised by prior association. My feelings won’t be hurt if I am proven wrong on this, nor will I apologize when in the position to say “I told you so”.

Martin Luther King. There was a peaceful demonstrator against racial injustice. John Lewis and Elijah Cummins, forgiving their later partisan foibles, at least had the cred of actually having been present, and they were peaceful protesters. These and many others from the historic era of the Civil Rights struggle in America marched to assert their liberties. They understood that Liberty is something which only survives in the light. They did not wear masks and they assembled, not at night, but in the light of day.  The common thugs that are being beamed into your homes, whether by television camera or smart phone video on social media, are not peaceful protesters. In one city after another it becomes painfully obvious that these mobs, like insects, prefer to come out at night. One mayor after another issues nightly curfews; a tacit admission that they are either unable or unwilling to gain control of order on their streets. Welcome to Bug Day in America.

Little drops of truth have begun to emerge. Evidenced reports of pallets of bricks, crates of Molotov Cocktails and other logistical support to these nightly assaults. And from those apprehended we get to learn who is posting bond for these people. It is undeniable that this is organized and it is supported. Even in the largely incurious mainstream media one will occasionally find this question, albeit accidentally, now being posed: where is this support coming from? There may be other parties in play, but this is chiefly the work of antifa. The moment this amorphous collection of miscreants are mentioned for possible classification as a terrorist organization, the usual class of jackals and vultures reflexively lurch to their defense.

It is always helpful to any cause to put a face on the enemy.  What does antifa look like? Well I am going to do our readers a favor and go back just a few short months into the Doom and Reprisal archives.  We need only hearken back to our posting of 20 January of this year, Bernie Bros Ballyhoo. Please allow me to reintroduce Messrs. Jurek et Weissgerber:


That is if you don’t recall, or if you care to take the time to refresh your memory. And there is this:


Now that is only a modest sampling of the two parties mentioned in our feature of 20 January. I believe it is possible to go back into the Project Veritas twitter feed from this January past, if you’d like to hear more from the big mouths on these two bags of shit.

Following their exposure during the early primary season their accounts on social media were clamped down tight. Jurek, I suspect, may be out of commission due to some pending charges in Iowa that have surely been adjudicated by now. There seemed to be little doubt of a conviction in that jurisdiction. To be fair and honest I have to say that I do not know this for certain and I don’t care enough about such a shit stain to expend the effort required to find out for sure. This Mr. Baird, from the Veritas video, is a later addition not featured in Bernie Bros Ballyhoo, but his name does come up again elsewhere. And Mr. Weissgerber. I thought it prudent to check up and see what he had been doing since we had last heard from him.

Well funny thing, huh? His social media accounts are still locked down, but…

Earlier this year both he and Mr. Jurek had neglected to erase their LinkedIn accounts. I found some interesting details about each of them on that platform. Upon revisiting these I found Jurek’s page still up, but with no new details. Martin Weissgerber’s page had been taken down, though through a search on the LinkedIn platform there were three results with content about our Weissgerber. I found one of these from Dr. Bikram Lamba, which I offer as worthwhile reading:


This, however, did not shed any light on young Marty’s more recent activities. It did make me go back and make a further query on fakebook to see if there were likewise content mentioning Martin Weissgerber. And I was not disappointed, as you may see below:



I’m certain that we’ll have more to show you soon. Make no mistake that these are the people we are dealing, or as seems more often the case NOT dealing with. Police are paraded before the cameras with all of their expensive and taxpayer purchased toys. While Rome burns. If you are armed be ready. Don’t expect the police. I wouldn’t expect many of these antifa cowards to venture out into our quarters, as they surely know that we are all too well armed and willing. In the event that they do show up at your gates, don’t hesitate. Warning shots are fine. Head shots are forever.


Ford Wenty report end, 2 June 2020



The Floyd case through color blind lenses


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A Doom and Reprisal editorial from Ford Wenty, Ale 81 Inn field correspondent


These are indeed troubled times in which we live.  Regardless of which side of the political divide one finds themselves this is a statement upon which we may find a consensus.  Depending upon which side of that divide one may find themselves this conclusion is reached for differing reasons.  Under current circumstances it would be to the benefit of all concerned if we were to unite upon those reasons which we find in common.  There is no doubt that such commonality exists, yet still it seems to elude us. That leaves us with this question: why?

The images of Mr. Floyd are disturbing. They are disturbing not because they show a white cop shoving the face of a black man into the pavement. They are disturbing because this image is emblematic of the state of affairs nationwide.  What I see is an American citizen being crushed beneath the boot of unrestrained and thuggish application of police powers.  The motto of “protect and serve” has long been replaced by “intimidate and extort”. The politicization of police powers and the militarization of police forces has grown unchecked for the past thirty years. This is an unpopular position to take, but I will say it anyway: many of our so called “peace officers” are little more than hired thugs. I know many will disagree, as is their prerogative, but I will stand by this statement nonetheless.

There is an order that has reigned in this nation for a very long time.  It is a corrupt house of cards that is doomed to fall; indeed, it is beginning to crumble before our very eyes.  Those who sit upon these cardboard thrones know it and are scrambling desperately to preserve their advantage. One need only listen to which side the jackals in our media are cheering for to know that this is true.

Do not make the mistake of concluding that I am cheering for the looters in Minneapolis, because I am not. They are not protestors. They are looters, opportunists of the ugliest kind.  They are spreading far and wide beyond Minnesota while the usual network talking heads cheer them on and lecture us about racial injustice.  These are people who are very concerned about injustice, provided it is the right kind of injustice: one which fits their stale and dishonest narrative. From the images streamed to us from Minneapolis, LA, and most recently Columbus, I am left with only one question.  Are these looters wearing masks to protect against the virus, or to hide their faces? You form your own conclusions. I have already reached mine.

How is looting the Target store, or burning down an auto parts store, or torching cars in the street (cars which one must assume are owned by someone) a form of protest? Who do these acts benefit? The looters? The property owners? No and no.  The only people who benefit from these acts are the race baiters and poverty pimps who preserve their own power and influence by continually stoking this racial division. These people don’t wear masks, except when it suits them. You can see their ugly, lying, bare faces on your television screens every day.

The powers granted through legislative subterfuge, or as is often the case simply seized outright, are no longer legitimate. It is time for consent to be revoked. If only a segment of what constitutes no more than fifteen percent of a population can turn out and behave like this,  and the “authorities” are content to sit on the sidelines and wring their hands, what should they do if all of us say enough? What will they do if all of us show up in the streets, with no masks, no social distancing, and assert our constitutional rights? Not to loot or burn, just to show up in numbers and shout with one loud voice: ENOUGH. We don’t trust you, you got it wrong, now be big enough to say so and crawl back to your lairs. We are taking back our lives.  We would discover very quickly whether or not these authorities are truly interested in our safety, or if they are only the same brand of opportunists as the looters.


Ford Wenty report end, 5/29/2020



More dead fish

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A Doom and Reprisal editorial from Ale 81 field correspondent, Ford Wenty


On the same day that Fred Willard passed on from this realm another Fred also departed. He was none other than Fred the betta, a small, blue fish. While Mr. Willard was renowned among his peers, as well as viewing audiences of five decades, Fred the betta was and still remains an obscure quantity. His passing was not unnoticed by me and I am struck suddenly that dead fish seem to have become a theme in this column.

There was actually nothing remarkable in the demise of this tiny creature.  He had already lived far beyond any reasonable expectation of his species’ normal lifespan, and outside of a very select handful of people besides myself he was a total unknown.  This story, like the recent Of Dead Sharks and Divorce, is not literally about a dead fish (shark or betta); rather it is about the dead fish as metaphor.

For many hours Fred had been a silent companion at my writing desk, he on one side of a six liter glass bowl and I on the other. Ours was a peaceful coexistence, while in two distinctly separate realities. Either of us were able to view the other’s world through the distortion of that glass bowl, yet neither of us able to experience the other’s world directly. Whereas I breathe air, and he water, it was an impossibility for us to exchange places. Despite these facts it is still true that, though I might not see everything inside of the bowl with total clarity, I was still able to observe his behavior.

In his waning days there was much of that behavior that remained the same as before, but there were others which signalled that a change was coming. Fred’s degree of curiosity about the outside had always been limited to whatever should press against the glass of his bowl. A couple of weeks before the end this began to change. Where he had once eagerly swam to the top of the water to greet those who would peer in, he began instead to ignore any other presence. He seemed to “play dead”, utterly disinterested in anything occurring on the other side of the glass. His colors, once comprised of brilliant tones of blue, faded to a sickly pallor of pale grey.  In his last couple of days on this earth he spent most of his time with his belly pressed upon the glass near the surface, his gills seemingly bloated and laboring to breathe. These spells were broken periodically by frantic paroxysms, splashing about aimlessly until spent and then resuming a listless drift. At the end these fits came more frequently and violently, followed by a return to the glass where he would remain still, requiring every ounce of energy just to keep his gills moving. When he was finally done a film covered his dead eyes and he sank slowly to the bottom.

I have been left to contemplate Fred’s passing for nearly two days now and it occurs to me that, like the dead shark of Annie Hall fame, Fred likewise is a metaphor for something more. Not something greater, in any real sense of that word, just something other. There is an unmistakable parallel between Fred’s last days and some of the events we see playing out around us.

There is a certain order that has prevailed in our world for many years. It is an order which, not unlike Fred’s glass bowl, that has been highly insulated. The inhabitants of that bowl have, like the recently departed fish, been perfectly content to remain within it’s confines to shit where they eat. Day after day, month after month, and years on end. They have remained blind to realities that exist beyond their sheltered pool, able to catch mere glimpses of that reality without gaining any further understanding of what else may lay beyond.  Fred was only a fish. It is unlikely that he experienced a knowledge that he was dying; rather, it was an instinct which spurred the changes in his behaviors at the end. The behaviors of those comprising this order would seem to mirror that of the late betta fish. They seem to be flailing about in the same spasms of desperation, like the panicked, drowning soul that thrashes utterly mindless that they might pull others down with them.  Unable to admit to themselves what is happening, though they have the means to know it, they revert to instinct.  Having ignored and denied instinct for so long their actions are purely reflexive.

It was saddening to watch Fred go through those last days. In contrast it is a total delight to watch these craven, privileged shit stains descend into their death throes.  Fred has been given a burial suitable for his place, his bowl submerged into flowing waters that will ultimately carry him to the distant Gulf of Mexico.  He was deserving of more than being flushed down a toilet.  I can not say the same for that dying order. They have already been swimming in the largest toilet ever made for years.  Better they wash up on some distant shore for the birds to pick their carcasses clean, though I still wonder: would they even eat anything so foul?


Ford Wenty report end , 5/18/2020


The Barber of Owosso: a tragic opera in one act

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A Doom and Reprisal report from Ale 81 Inn field correspondent, Ford Wenty

Scene: The Reichspalatz, 12:15AM, 5 May 2020

Reichsfuehrer Gretchen Goering-Hitler had just finished a luxurious bath in mare’s milk; with just a touch of blood from the latest herd of Guatemalan immigrant children. She had discovered that the fresh blood, perhaps due to the tropic of the donors, was far more efficacious than her prior regimen of aborted fetal tissue. The soothing therapy of that bath was well earned, for she had just completed an exhausting day in the special observance of the 50th annual Statist’s Ball; a commemoration of the Kent State massacre. This year the committee had outdone themselves, featuring the sacrifice of a live giraffe (just because they could), and constitution biscuits for communion wafers. The biscuits were a first: it seems they have found that by baking bits of the constitution right into the biscuit, it saves them the time and expense of having it printed on their toilet tissue.

She had returned from the Ball at around 11:00 PM and made directly for her bath chambers. All was well in the Reich and all of her subjects had been turned in for curfew. After a rejuvenating soak she had plans to settle in for a nice, long session reviewing her Pornhub subscriptions. She was mildly startled to find that the giraffe scene had left her in such an aroused state. Shortly after wandering into some bestiality pages, Madame Reichsfuehrer was most rudely interrupted by an official sounding rap at her chamber doors. She froze at the sound and listened intently to be certain there had been. Thirty seconds later it came again.

“Oh fuck me runnin’, will ya? Seriously!?”, she exclaimed in a hiss. She arose from the bed and draped a brilliant red satin nightgown about herself, then stepped into a pair of slutty pumps in matching red. “I’ll be right there…”, she called out as she gained her balance. “This had better be fucking good!”, she thought angrily as she reached to open the door. Unless there was a large quadruped, or two well-hung Cuban dancers named Manuel on the other side of that door, she was not going to be pleased. Her displeasure was magnified many fold at the sight of Gestapo Security Chief, Fritz von Pickelschwanz. He grew stiffly too attention (in the only manner she expected him to be able) and saluted.

“Madame Reichsfuehrer! Zu befehl! I am terribly sorry to disturb, but…”

“Yeah, yeah, Pickledick…, what is it?”

“We have a small problem in Shiawassee County.”

“A small problem? You don’t come knockin’ on my door after midnight with a small problem, Pickledick! What is it? Come on, give!”

“There is a barber in the town of Owosso who has defied your authority, Reichsfuehrer.”

“Yeah? So? You know what to do. No witnesses, right?”

“Er, of course, Madame Reichsfuehrer… it’s just that…”

“Is there a point here Fritz? I’m burning some serious spank time here, okay? What is it, the media? Christ, don’t worry about them!”

“No ma’am! The local authorities already got to him.”

Madame Reichsfuehrer was growing more exasperated by the second. She formed a mocking query with her face. “Annnnnd? What am I missing here?”

The Reichsmarschal’s face grew solemn as he quietly uttered, “The local authorities issued fines, Madame Reichsfuehrer. Only fines.”

It had been bad enough to have her me time interrupted by this pathetic cuck, but this!? The odd peasant here or there to defy her orders was one thing. There were always a few, no matter what measures are taken, but for local authorities to usurp her supreme authority and issue….fines?! This bordered upon apostasy! Her countenance grew black as she glowered at the Gestapo chief. She could feel her heart begin to race, her breathing grew heavy and her temperature rose. Pickelschwanz stood still before her, nervously awaiting instructions. Several tense moments passed as Madame Reichsfuehrer slowly regained her composure.

Briefly she poked her head beyond the doorframe to cast a furtive glance up and down the hall. “Did you come here alone, Pickledick?”

“Yes ma’am.”

“Good. Come on inside. I’m bored.”

Pickelschwanz likewise made a discreet survey of the hall before reluctantly obliging her order. After stepping in the Reichsfuehrer closed the door and turned a very audible lock behind him. He instantly began to wonder if he would be leaving this room with his ass intact. He did not have to wait long at all to find out where this would go.

“Go have a seat on that ottoman at the foot of the bed, Pickledick.” She stated nothing further until he had assumed his place, then resumed. “Although your timing could not be worse, I am pleased that you have brought this to my attention.” From the ottoman Pickelschwanz followed her movements warily as she strolled casually about the room, musing as she went. “I am supremely disappointed in you, Pencildick! Leaving your responsibilities to some hinterland Gauleiters? What find of fucking Gestapo chief does that?”

Sensing that this was about to go seriously awry, Pickelschwanz hastily blubbered the best defense he could offer. “Madame Reichsfuehrer! Please, we simply haven’t enough men to…”

“Hey asshole! I don’t wanna hear excuses! We can let these local yokels collect on traffic stops and local code violations, ok? But I am in charge. ME! You let this kind of shit fly and the next thing you know there will be a caravan of gangbangers from south of 8 mile heading out to Owosso to get their dos freshened up. Do you want that, Pickledick?”

“Of course not, Madame Reichsfuehrer!”

“Of course not. And do you know why? Because that would be anarchy! These people aren’t smart enough to make these kinds of decisions for themselves!” Madame Reichsfuehrer’s eyes glazed over, her face slowly grew into a mask of incredulity. Such ingratitude!

The lengthening silence was excruciating. The Gestapo chief kept his wary eyes upon her to remain ever alert to her capricious whims. He had just begun to summon the courage to ask for her orders when suddenly she let her satin gown slink to the floor. Instinctively he averted his eyes as she climbed upon the bed and spreadeagled herself before him; planting those blood red pumps to either side at the foot of the bed. He could not bring himself to raise his eyes beyond those shoes.

“Lemme tell ya what we’re gonna do, Pickledick. You’re gonna suck on my heels while I rub one out, then you’re gonna drive out to Owosso, burn that fucking place to the ground and kill everyone in it. Everyone but one: You will bring me the Barber!” She punctuated her final command by thrusting one of her heels into his slack jawed mouth.

I’ll spare you the further description of events which followed. Those of you with sufficiently twisted psyches will be capable of forming the visual on your own. All of the preceding narrative is true, recounted exactly as the events occurred. By the tactical use of narcotics, discreetly applied extortion and a fanatical dedication to the Gonzo ethic, this reporter has been able to obtain the truth. This truth includes some rather ugly details in Madame Reichsfuehrer’s back story, details which shall be revealed for the first time in these pages.



Bring me the barber!

I am confident that most of you have determined that we are speaking of Michigan governor Gretchen Whitmer. That is the identity assigned to her current iteration, for you see Gretchen has been among us before. She is in fact Eva Hitler-Goering; the fruit of some long ago Nazi genetic experiment. By my best reckoning Gretchen must be version 6.0, but there is no way to really be certain. Apparently a group of Nazi geneticists, some real fanatical types, made some extraordinarily advanced leaps in the science in the waning months of the war. By those days it was evident to even the most diehard among them that the war was not going well. A plan was formed to create the perfect Aryan female for the purpose of repopulating the master race in some subterranean siege fortress. Genetic material was taken from Eva Braun for her zaftig physical characteristics and appetite for fellatio; from Goering for his height and penchant for flamboyant perversion, and from Hitler because…well, because he’s Hitler.

The first edition of this abomination was smuggled off by MI6 in Goering’s yacht at the end of the war. From there she was spirited away to a remote Welsh farm for further study. Those clever Windsors just can’t resist their anal retentive Germanic heritage. During the ‘50s a program was underway to see if a condensed, freeze-dried version could be developed for installation into their parting colonial possessions. Insta-tyrant: just add water and rule. While this did not come to fruition, there are a series of rather nondescript buildings sprinkled throughout Middlesex that house what might best be described as axolotl tanks, a la Frank Herbert’s Dune universe. A “clone bath”, if you will, where these gholas may be replicated again and again. So our “Gretchen” is but one of several of the same model. I’m sure that by now the Russians have likely developed their own version. It was believed at one time that Debbie Wasserman-Schulz was a Russian version, but this was easily refuted as she is obviously much too Jewish.

In every age, in every guise the Hitler gene shines strong. Whether wearing a brown shirt or a brown skirt. Being born a Buckeye it would be quite easy to chortle at the misfortune of Michiganders, but not even a Wolverine fan deserves this. In the event that the NCAA football season does come off without a hitch, I’m going to suggest to our neighbors to the north that they revise their cheer from “GO BLUE” to “GO BLOW”. This year, more than ever, it seems to fit.


Ford Wenty report end  5/11/2020