Where's Gratitude?

The Left denies the agency of "oppressed" groups, forever acted upon, never acting. This is necessary in direct correlation to the negative effects of a given group's actions.

No one is seen as having less autonomy than black Americans, for instance, as a group or individually. It's practically a source of pride for those who contribute to the Narrative. Blacks have dominated in this category about as long as they've dominated the NBA. But there's a new kid in town, and his name's Abdullah. Or Mohamad. And that really does cover about half of these assholes. These guys, with phones full of aggressive porn and beheading videos, are going to test the patience and faith of entire nations. But so far MSM narrative discipline holds here in America while leaning on open police censorship in Europe.

 Because of the Left's success in obscuring the agency of black Americans, a model which they readily adopt to Muslims now, we're all a little less equipped to understand not only what is happening, but the extent of things. Even the average conservative citizen who's paying as much attention as he can doesn't come to comprehend the degree of depravity and hostility with which he, as a natural born Westerner, is confronted in the form of Europe's new Muslim rape gangs. If that citizen were to truly compare these men to the other men of the world, dispassionately, objectively, without bias, he would be struck by their moral inferiority. By the profound lack of gratitude displayed, a lack that can only mean one of two things: these are either the meanest or the dumbest people on earth. Mostly I think it demonstrates their contempt for us. But that too is lost, when you can't even get past the "white guys are terrorists too" obfuscations or the "widows and orphans" bunting. God help us.

Diary: Yesterday Afternoon

A tall man standing in front of Mary's strip club steps purposely to the curb and leans into an automobile grill. As if he's trying to be heard through a hole in a wall he shouts, no, screams into the car's impassive plastic faux-metalwork.
I head upstairs. The wood steps feel solid but still creak plaintively underfoot, even if you step lightly. All day like this, I think, this desiccated wood pleading for the fire under the plodding feet of junkies, addicts, head cases and those just-in or just-out of homelessness. For them this is home. And I can just make out the man out the street, screaming again.
I come back out and the man has resumed his position against the wall between the club and the motel. He's standing still but somehow you can just see the familiar manic energy--of the long term homeless crazy--coursing through him under the old army jacket he fills out no better than a coat hanger. Maybe he's not that, maybe I'm wrong. Why was he screaming into the car grill after all? To mute the sound, that's all. And it is an ideal sound attenuator! The face of a car's radiator, with it's countless cataracts formed in thin metal, the vibration-absorbing liquid behind it; it's as if it's designed for the purpose, right down to the box of contained air formed between radiator and the narrow slat in the grill through which he--thoughtful, resourceful madman--directed the barely controlled wail of his profound, building misery.
And I'm off down the street.

Dark Prophecy

"And you, systematic Utopians, who make an abstraction of human nature, fomentors of atheism, fed on chimerae and hatreds, emancipators of woman, destroyers of the family, genealogists of the simian race, you whose name was but lately an outrage, be satisfied: you shall have been the prophets, and your disciples will be the high-priests of an abominable future!"

--Alfred de Falloux, De l'Unite Nationale, 1880