Hellstorm--SpanishMillones asesinados. . . Millones violadas. . . Millones torturados. . . Millones esclavizados. . . . No importa lo que haya usted leído sobre la Segunda Guerra Mundial; no importa lo que le hayan dicho al respecto, no importa lo que usted cree que ocurrió en la llamada “buena guerra”. . . ¡Olvídelo! Ahora, por primera vez en más de 70 años, entérese de lo que la guerra y la “paz” fueron para los perdedores. Entérese de lo que le hicieron a Alemania y a su pueblo en nombre de la libertad, la democracia, la liberación y otros términos altisonantes. En sus propias palabras, en detalle gráfico, esta es su historia. . . .


Millions murdered . . . Millions raped . . . Millions tortured . . . Millions enslaved. . . . No matter what you have read about the Second World War, no matter what you have been told about it, no matter what you believe happened during the so-called “Good War” . . . forget it!   Now, for the first time in over 70 years, learn what the war and “peace” looked like to those who lost. Discover what was done to Germany and her people. In their own words, in graphic detail, this is their story…
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Notes From a Graveyard



Note #1

Despite its Italian-sounding name, Antonino is an old German community. At the close of the Nineteenth-Century these thrifty, industrious immigrants flocked to the High Plains around Hays, Kansas, and established their own communities. When I lived here in 1970, I still recall German being spoken in the supermarkets.

In 2009, I found myself once more living in Hays. For exercise, I generally biked to Antonino every day. One way is maybe eight or ten miles but when I got a gorgeous day (often) and when the wind was behavin’ (seldom), and when those two came together, I didn’t complain one bit. Just west of Antonino is the community cemetery. Here I stopped, opened the little gate, then rested and watered in the shade of a large statue depicting the crucifixion. Like the blood of Jesus above, the sweat of Mike below dropped down to the bricks at his feet.

Perched on a gentle slope above the Smoky Hill River valley, this cemetery is a large one, I judge, surrounded on one side by a fancy wrought iron fence and on the others by the ubiquitous post rocks (top, limestone posts cut from the earth to make up for the lack of wood on the plains). But it did seem odd. In that large plot of land–maybe 3-4 acres–only a hundred or so souls rest in peace, and these in the middle, taking up only a fraction of the space. Obviously, the city fathers long ago looked to a day when Antonino would be a booming, bustling hive of industry, commerce and agriculture with plenty of dead folks to fill the plots. But that day never came. Barely a crossroads today, no more than a score of souls call the village home. The dead easily outnumber the living.

Sauer . . . Klaus . . . Pfanenstiel . . . Reichert . . . Wasinger . . . Keberlein . . . Munsch . . .
the names on these New World stones trace back to the earliest beginnings of the Old World. Touchingly, separated from the adults, a children’s cemetery. The two dozen markers here, many made of metal, appear to be done by hand, as if it were the last loving act a heart-broken father could perform for his child.

The plain surrounding the cemetery is almost treeless. I walked about this wind-swept ridge, looking at the markers, avoiding the little cacti that refuse to die after a thousand mowings. Chewing on some buffalo grass that grows here reminded me of oats. A flock of small birds passed high overhead. I had forgotten that wonderful whooshing sound so many working wings make.

Some of the stones have little round photos of the deceased.

Dale F. Rohr, November 19, 1948–June 5, 1969. . . . Dark suit . . . thin black tie . . . innocent looks . . . his high school graduation photo. One year younger than me, we look nothing alike . . . but then again we do. A car wreck? A farm accident? Viet-nam?

An ambulance soon speeds by on the lonely little highway in front of the cemetery, lights flashing but siren silent. The irony.



Note #2

As I sit and catch my breath, sweat boiling down, I rest my eyes for the hundredth time on the sun-splashed Smoky Valley to the south. Harvest is done; now is the time of the tumbleweed out here in the West. On a windy day (which means every day) you’ll see them bowling across a bare field or country road as if they were late for an important meeting. At night, I wonder how many startled drivers have been scared so badly when one of these buffalo-sized bushes suddenly bolt in front of them that they crash and are killed. I wager more die in the West from tumbleweeds in the headlights than deer in same.

Along the fences, the tumbling weeds are halted when they impale themselves on the barbed wire. Some of the skeletal brown things look like crowns of thorns, crucified on the wire. Others are bunched together thick like a herd of buffalo huddled against a blizzard. Funny, but this so-very “Western” of American symbols is not even indigenous to the land. When America was moving west, we imported burlap from Russia. Tumbleweed seeds hitched a ride and the rest is history.

I was sitting here at the Antonino Cemetery one Saturday on the sunny side of the crucifixion statue. All was typically quiet and serene. Suddenly, there were several gunshots nearby. Then I heard a large number of vehicles stopping near the cemetery. This had never happened before so I assumed a funeral was in progress. When I looked up from behind the monument, I was surprised to see six or so white pickups parked on the highway and 12-15 men piling out, all dressed in orange hunting vests. Then it occurred that it was pheasant season. Almost from the moment the men and dogs hit the deck and fanned out over the field opposite, the gun fire commenced. The racket sounded like a pretty decent battle, in fact.

With the neighborhood now gone to hell, I got on my bike and left. I was surprised to see the majority of hunters sweeping the field like some military operation; several “sentries” lingered behind to nail any pheasant who might escape the trap. There was nothing “sporting” about any of this. The pheasants had less chance out there in that stubble field than if they had been caged in a coop. It looked like corporate hunting; or maybe custom harvesting is a better analogy, similar to several combines when they mow a wheat field. I passed a couple of the hunters; to me, they looked suspicious and menacing. I think this hunt had everything to do with killing every living thing in that field and nothing to do with “sport”; the feeling was less of men hunting than it was of a machine destroying. A few miles on, I spotted two men in a field hunting my direction. Since I saw no dogs nor heard one gunshot in the five or so minutes it took me to pedal through the ear-shed, I suppose the men were having no luck. And yet, judging from their friendly waves and smiles, my guess was that they were having a much better time than the “successful” corporate hunters.

A final note on pheasants: One of the most beautiful of all things, these “upland game birds” are also some of the dumbest fowl in all feathered creation. Their brain must be about the size of a sesame seed. I well remember how hard it was to avoid the poor things as they stood stupidly on the roads of central Illinois as I drove back home to Kansas twice a month in the 1960’s. It was almost impossible to miss them. Point is: Not a very wary quarry to hunt.

A final note on this ever-so German burying ground: Two names, one stone . . . man and wife . . . never more.

Pfannenstiel (pr. Fannen-steel)

Dec. 29, 1896
Feb. 26, 1959

July 30, 1899
July 26, 1997




Note #3

Sitting at this prairie cemetery, on a windswept ridge in western Kansas, resting half way on my daily bike ride, I look south several miles to the thin line of trees along the Smoky Hill River. Another two miles beyond that rise are pretty brown bluffs. The view of the valley is unobstructed by trees, power lines or wind farms. The silence is almost perfect.

The land has changed little in 150 years. Each day it took almost no imagination to see it as it once was: One day, I saw the dust from the Butterfield Overland stage coach passing nearby on the road from Leavenworth to Denver City; on another day a hunting party of Southern Cheyenne were returning to Texas for the winter; a group of gold-seekers with “Pike’s Peak or Bust” painted on their canvass passed by on another day; an entrepreneur, peg-legged and patch-eyed, moved west the following day with a wagon load of noisy, nervous cats destined for vermin-plagued miners in Colorado; a column of dragoons on patrol led by young Jeb Stuart; and so on. Most every day I sat and imagined such scenes. Each day, the only thing missing were the buffalo.

The Smoky Hill, stretching from eastern Colorado to eastern Kansas, ran right through the very heart of buffalo country back then. Neatly dividing the southern from the northern plains, this shallow, sandy river was crossed twice a year by the great brown beasts as they made their seasonal migrations to greener grass. Now, only the ghosts of these most American of all animals move over the land. Without them, the prairie has always seemed lonely and haunted to me.

Back in the 19th-Century, killing buffalo was in. Everyone, it seemed, from the bean counter in Boston to the haberdasher in Hackensack, had to bag his buffalo. Not only did travelers in moving railroad cars shoot the animals from the windows for “sport,” but even Indians, now armed with repeating rifles, killed them for the fun of it and left the meat to rot. If something—like killing buffalo—is in vogue, people will kill buffalo. If killing buffalo is not in vogue, people won’t. Do you see a problem with this? No flock of sheep will more blindly follow the leader than humans will follow fashion (witness the current mania for tattoos, piercings and other self-debasements).

Simply put, and as the near-extermination of the buffalo bears out, we cannot trust humans to do the right thing. We must have laws to save our treasures for the common good. Without these laws one hundred years ago, without the establishment of the National Park System, does anyone doubt that the Grand Canyon would now be crowded with casinos and condos? Or that Yellowstone would be parceled out and paved over with patios and strip malls? If one wants to glimpse how our natural wonders fared minus laws, just check out Niagara Falls in New York, the Royal Gorge in Colorado, or even here on the once-pristine High Plains in plowed-over and plundered Kansas.

Better still, witness the buffalo’s fate when there was none to protect him.

There is a small herd of buffalo on the outskirts of Hays—maybe 10 animals. Every time I see these buffalo, or others penned in, I have an overwhelming urge to see them unpenned. I find it sad that these most migratory of American mammals are confined by barbed wire to a few square feet of stubble and manure.

No other animal was more wedded to the prairie than the bison—even their deep brown color matches the soil. With an instinct to move born over tens of thousands of years, it must be maddening to the great beasts, even perplexing, to be confined thus. Humans denied freedom kill themselves or go nuts. And yet, most caged humans have committed some crime against the rest of us; the buffalo’s only crime is existing.

Even though these past ten or twenty generations of bison in Hays have never known a single day of freedom in their lives, the urge to move hundreds of miles each spring and fall must still beat heavy in their great hearts. I have no doubt that if the gate was suddenly thrown open, these buffalo would begin drifting south within days, if not hours. Next spring, I’m sure we would see the same animals moving by here on their migration north.

Do not trouble me with small matters of money or logistics: Would it not be glorious to some day establish a Migratory National Park—a swath of prairie say 200 miles wide stretching from the Missouri in the north to the Rio Grande in the south, in which a herd one million strong could live and roam as intended? Think of those nature films of the Wildebeest migrations in Africa and how impressive they are with the bellowing roar of thousands and the clouds of dust roiling on the horizon. That’s a scene we could have here too . . . again.

Sorry.  Just dreaming with words.

Bread & Circuses: Thoughts on Jocks, Jerks & Jews

Sen. Lindsey Graham, R-S.C., a member of the Armed Services Committee and the Homeland Security Committee, tells reporters that he will push for a vote in Congress to kick the Palestinian Liberation Organization out of its Washington offices and threaten to withhold U.S. financial assistance if the Palestinians seek to use enhanced U.N. status against Israel, at the Capitol in Washington, Thursday, Nov. 29, 2012. (AP Photo/J. Scott Applewhite)

We’ve all seen them.   Beat-up mobile “homes” with crumbling plywood add-ons, doors off the hinges, a pit bull chained-up, two or three hairy, shirtless stick-men drifting about, a three-hundred pound land whale and and her soon-to-be land whale daughter arguing inside; we’ve all seen such places so crappy and disgusting that it’s hard to imagine even wild hogs being caught dead in such hovels.  

And then, more often than not, proudly poking up somewhere in the mess, there fly’s Old Glory, the US Flag.  Why, you ask yourself, or rather, how,  you correct yourself, how can anyone be that ignorant? How can so many hardly-humans with so little going for them, how can they possibly be so pathetically stupid that they would proudly hoist the symbol of their poverty . . . and their slavery? How can they be so proud of any nation in which they are solidly submersed among the lowest of the low? The answer is, of course, Bread & Circuses, that’s how.  In the best tradition of Ancient Rome, just keep the frig stocked with booze and just keep the sports rolling on the tube and most people will suffer poverty, shame, ignorance, degradation, and any other indignity without a whimper.

I’m sure you, like myself, have noticed the heavy preponderance of Jews in the sports world. No, I do not mean actual athletes, I mean those Jews who, as in porn, are ensconced in the high end of the sports world—those who own professional teams, those Jews who are player’s agents, those Jews who announce games and promote sporting events, those nasally Jews who are “experts” and “analysts” on radio and TV, those Jews who are in the highest levels of the sports industry.  Well, as most of you know, sports is one of the leading components of the “circus” aspect of the “Bread & Circuses” maxim.

Now, first of all, just as I am certain that Jews are not behind everything that is wrong with our so-called “society,” I am also positive sports was not some sinister invention of the Jews created merely to steer our attention from more important things, like revolution and throwing the blood-sucking parasites off our backs.  But just as with most things that are wrong with the fast-shrinking white world, Jews may not have been the originators of many of our misfortunes, just as certain am I certain that they, these supreme opportunists, are Johnnies-on-the-spot to turn our misfortunes to their advantage.  Sports may have been handed down from the ancient Greeks but Jews today are clearly instrumental in the promotion of sports and making it much more accessible and attractive to all.  So, it really does not matter whether Jews invented sports or not; the fact is they are using it very skillfully to their advantage today. It is certainly one of the most successful prongs of their attack upon whites.

Porn is one method of rotting out a host society from within; race-mixing on TV, movies and commercials is another. But sports takes a backseat to neither.  The great virtue of sports is that while most moral people will recognize porn for the pernicious and poisonous addiction that it is, and prescient others will quickly spot the Jewish hand in race-mixing, few see sports in the same light. Sports has an almost wholesome, mom and pop apple pie quality to it; cities live and die by their professional sports teams; rooting for the home team is like rooting for your family.  At the end of the day, however, sports is a devilish easy way of keeping an occupied people occupied and their thoughts focused elsewhere, with them hardly even aware of it. The fact is, the young ball players and the porn fuck-bots are manipulated by the same old same-olds.

In my overly long whirl on this big blue ball, I have lost count of the number of sports junkies I have known.  These people think nothing of spending thousands of dollars on tickets, sports gear, large screen hi-def TV, and giving millions of dollars to their favorite college athletic departments. They can cite player stats from decades back and know all the batting averages of their team, know how many passing yards a game an opponent has, know the free-throw percentages of an entire team, and they smugly recite all this nonsense as if it were some great feat of intelligence. Others I have known, others less endowed financially, literally lived, breathed, ate, and slept the outcomes of their favorite teams.  The world can go to hell, but miss a tail-gater?  Never.

Why spend so much time and treasure on something so frivolous, trivial, clearly childish, clearly unmanly, and clearly pointless? Well, for starters, because it’s fun, and safe and takes no thinking.   Fun, in that it is fun to be a part of a something that is winning and be a part of a vast herd of like-minded animals.  Safe, in that it offers an activity that is safe.  Unlike “Wacko” Waldo at work who risks his skin by clandestinely handing out brochures on Jewish ownership of the media, there is no risk of getting fired for rooting for the Steelers or Dodgers.  Sports takes no thinking because like TV, it is a passive pastime in which the brain is out to lunch.

Ultimately, there is no redeeming benefit to being a sports fan. Most teams lose as much as they win. But just as the pinball wizard in days of yore and the more recent video gamer were/are experts at what they do/did, so too is that sports nut who can cite stats of his team and players good at what he does.  One needs to feel remarkable at something, even if that “something” is nothing.  It should also be admitted too that screaming for a team, or against a team, is an excellent way to ventilate.

Whatever, whether they are the growling gargoyles and boozed-up bozos booing in defeat, or whether they are yelling, fist-pumping hot dog-eating fatsos celebrating victory, if patriotism is the refuge of the scoundrel, sports is the refuge of the coward and the brain-dead.


When I think of all the useless eaters in Washington, Lindsey Graham (top) seems to stand out head-and-shoulders above all else.  And, with neocon war-mongers like John McWar of Arizona and gun-grabbing rat-faced Jews like Chuck Schumer in mind, that is speaking heaps, Kemosabe. There is something unnatural about Graham, something unwholesome, something unsettling, something repellent, revolting, regurgitant.  No, and I don’t just mean Lindsey’s continual ass-kissing and cock-sucking of whatever Jewish ass and Jewish cock is stuck in his face; i mean his creepy appearance.

Perhaps it is his mother’s fault for naming a boy “Lindsey.”  Clearly, Graham’s mom and dad were hoping for a girl . . . and, in a sense, they got one. This little squat-to-pee sissy has all the manliness of a gay earth worm. I’d love to see him locked in a room with a tuff ten-year-old girl and see who wins. Vegas Odds: 30-to-1, the girl.

Yes, maybe Ma and Pa Graham wanted a girl; or maybe they looked at the weak chin, the insipid eyes and the dove-like cooing of the baby and a girl’s name simply seemed apt. From all appearance Graham has lived down to this limp-wristed name  with sugar and spice.  Or perhaps it is Lindsey’s undistinct mush for a face; actually, Graham’s face more resembles a large raw oyster than a human face.  Maybe it is his feminine actions and sloth-like motions.  This political parasite is as useless as a bucket of used condoms, and less interesting.  Indeed, watching glue dry would be less boring than watching Graham speak.  If this cuckservative has a wife, I truly pity her.  My bet is that from the first night of her honeymoon with Lindsey to the very present, the poor woman has been, if not a card-carrying lesbian, then she has been too frigid from that horrible experience to ever thaw out to a man again.

What brings out this wrathful rant from me?  I suppose it is the memory of Graham leading all those other political parasites of the GOP in their attempt to kill off Don Trump back when.  Now, so quickly and so forcefully did the American people tell Graham and his girly pals that their revolting opinions carried no weight that had it been a group of men, they would have resigned in disgrace never to show their kissers in public again.  But “men” in American politics are a thing of the past and so we just keep recycling the sissies, like Lindsey, and John McWar, and little Jebbie Bush, and . . . oh, hell, all the political scum who think of themselves as our “leaders.”


Translators of my book, Hellstorm–The Death of Nazi Germany, 1944-1947, are needed for the following languages:


persian (farsi)















If you are fluent in English and one or more of the above languages, and if you would like to make some money while at the same time you are striking a blow for truth, justice and freedom around the globe, please email me for details.


Tom Goodrich


hellstorm french


Millions murdered . . . Millions raped . . . Millions tortured . . . Millions of men, women and children cast to the winds. . . . No matter what you have read about the Second World War, no matter what you have been told about it, no matter what you believe happened during the so-called “Good War” . . . forget it!   Now, for the first time in over 70 years, learn what the war and “peace” looked like to those who lost. Discover what was done to Germany and her people. In their own words, in graphic detail, this is their story….this is their Hellstorm


Des millions assassinés . . . Des millions violés . . . Des millions torturés . . . Des millions d’hommes, de femmes et d’enfants jetés aux vents. . . . Peu importe ce que vous avez lu sur la Seconde Guerre mondiale, peu importe ce que l’on vous a dit à ce sujet, peu importe ce que vous croyez qui est arrivé au cours de la soi-disant «bonne guerre» . . . oubliez ! Maintenant, pour la première fois depuis plus de 70 ans, apprenez ce que furent la guerre et la «paix» du côté des vaincus. Apprenez ce qui a été fait à l’Allemagne et à son peuple. À travers leurs propres mots, à travers leurs descriptions détaillées, ceci est leur histoire . . . ceci est leur Tempête Infernale !


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Fun With Dumb

kup11Ted Bundy, Gary Ridgway, John Wayne Gacy, Jeffrey Dahmer, Danny Rolling, Dean Corll, Earle Nelson, Wayne Bonin, Andre Crawford . . . notice anything here?  No, not the serial killer part; I’m talking about the “law of diminishing name recognition” part.   

Since serial killing has become all the rage and ever so common, fact is unless you are in the big leagues and slay 50 or more you are just a silly nothing nobody.  Competition is keen; there are so many serial killers out there plying their trade—hundreds at work as I type—that they are mostly becoming just a blur, a yawn, a snooze, zzzzzzzzzzz.  Ever heard of Dick Biegenwald?  Didn’t think so.  Ever hear of Herb Baumeister?  Didn’t think so. These guys killed 20 or 30 people, maybe a hundred—who’s counting?—yet they are virtually anonymous.  Why?  Because their slaughter was generic, run-of-the-mill, nothing-out-of-the-norm stuff, just one boring murder at a time.

Now, since everybody wants to be somebody, and since everybody wants to be remembered for being the best at what they do, it stands to reason serial killers are no different.  So, what am I saying?  Just this: Vanilla serial killin’ don’t cut it no more.  Quantity’s out, quality’s in.  SK’s today have got to be imaginative; they must think out of the box and do something “out there” to capture the interest of the public and gain immortal infamy.  Look at “BTK”—Bind, Torture & Kill—he came up with a nifty nickname, he taunted police, he mocked the media, he ghoulishly tortured his victims in imaginative ways, and, as a result, he will be remembered for at least a year or two after his soulless vessel moves on to another port.

The lesson is clear: Don’t  just kill people serially, kill them memorably.

I feel pretty certain just such an approach is at work now.  Since there is no other explanation, I am confident there is a canal serial killer lurking down here in Florida; some innovative psychopath who is looking for eternal fame by grabbing geezers and tossing them into canals.  Only a serial canal killer at large can explain why so many of these old people end up floating dead in these otherwise unremarkable bodies of water.

I also suspicion that we have an innovative murderer loose up near Tampa who is skrewing with sky divers’ parachutes.  As noted some time back, three people dead of chute failure in a year at the same place is highly suspect.  No?

And speaking of chutes: Is some devil up yonder in the “Windy City” doing the same?  Last year a 16-year-old boy was found dead at the bottom of a high-rise trash chute in Chicago.  Just after that an eighty-year-old woman was also found at the bottom of a trash chute in the same city, same building.  It appears both were pushed.  Falling 15 or 16 stories in a dark narrow shaft is a horrible way to go.  And it is making news.  Is there a serial chute killer loose?

If SKs are indeed branching out, the possibilities are endless.  I personally could get behind a serial killer who murdered only Elvis impersonators.  In fact, I could get behind two or three such SK’s.


Boo-Hoo—John Mock was whining in our local paper a while back.  Seems he had purchased some very expensive property a few years ago that bordered an exclusive golf course (all Florida golf courses are—sniff, sniff—exclu$ive).  Well, turns out that the golf course in question was too exclusive.  How exclusive?  Well, it was so exclusive that it no longer accepts ANY members . . . forever.  It recently went belly-up bankrupt. Now, laments Mock, the fairway is just “a hayfield out back.”

“How did that make me feel after spending a considerable amount of money?” asks Mock.

Hmmmm?  Okay.  I can’t resist:  “Get off your pity potty, John. Thousands are living in the woods within a fifteen minute drive of your devalued place and they would give an arm, a leg, and maybe both ears and a few teeth, to have such property even at a dime on the dollar. Sorry your investment went south, John, and sorry your lots lost lots, but lots of folks have bought lots and have lost lots more than you on their lots.  Bear up.  Be a man.  Deal with it.”

Ironic Names Hall of Fame

John Mock, Grove City, Florida (mocked home owner)

There!  Now I feel better.


Mensa Members in the NewsScott Vansice of Port Charlotte was arrested on a sexual battery charge.  The 37-year-old man is accused of dallying with a child last year.  But heck, since there are so many more important cases in the local legal log jam-—jaywalking, littering, loud TVs, etc—the sympathetic judge released poor Scott on probation so that he wouldn’t need suffer any unnecessary trauma by being locked up in lock down.

So, with so much time on his hands, what does Vansice decide to do? He decides to get even with the detective that arrested him, that’s what he decided to do; Scott started stalking the detective.

In addition to tailing the cop in his car and driving by his home, Vansice actually rang the detective’s doorbell early Easter morning.  Now, of all the stupid things a person can do—setting fire to a fire station, burglarizing a home security business, ratting out an Aryan Brotherhood member—stalking a police detective ranks right up there.

And so, for the second time, this public servant was forced to arrest our local nuclear physicist and, for all I know, he may need to arrest him two or three more times before our dear judge decides Vansice should see the inside of a jail, poor fellow.

Do you wonder why cops secretly despise the American legal system? Do you wonder why inside every cop there is a “Dirty Harry” banging to get out?  And do you wonder why me, myself, I, and my, commiserate when cops feel that way?


Final note—Very tuff sledding when you are biking into a twenty MPH head gale, as per today on this narrow slip of sand.

A pure groove, however, when you are coming back the other way with a 20 MPH jet-like tailwind.  Feels fun.  Nobody passing me; I’m passing them.  I am not breaking the sound barrier but I am actually breaking the speed barrier.  Doing 30 in a 25.  Flying under one jungle canopy of palms, banyans, and oaks—HO, HO, HO—just as I passed, a huge limb of the latter landed two seconds behind me onto the road. Had I been going 1 MPH less, I would not now be here typing this blog trying to sound intelligent, interesting and witty.

Moral:  Sometimes speed kills, sometimes speed saves.

Game Changer

BookCoverPreview(4)90ikSince the release of my book, Hellstorm–The Death of Nazi Germany, 1944-1947, I have received scores of emails from those who feel the need to personally thank me. Many of these notes are from some who simply love historical honesty and truth. Others are from the children and grandchildren of those who passed through the evil described in the book. Among most who finish Hellstorm, however, one theme stands out.

Beginning in late 2015 with release of the German translation of Hellstorm, I made it my life mission to see that the book is available in virtually every language on earth. This year alone will witness the release of Hellstorm in Spanish, French and perhaps Greek and Russian.  Next year, I hope to see the book available in Portuguese, Dutch, Hindi, and Japanese. Impressive as this may seem, it is, in my opinion, slow, far too slow.  My hope, my ambition, my driving aim, is to make the book available world-wide within three years.  Why?   Why this rush for so much so soon?  Let me share several comments I have received just in the past two months:

“I just finished Hellstorm.  I want to personally thank you for writing this book.  As difficult as it was to read, I felt I owed it to the victims.  It was, indeed, a terrible book to read but I’m glad I finished it.  I must tell you this: There was me before Hellstorm, and now there is me after Hellstorm.  I am not the same person as before.  Now I see what must be done. Now I am totally committed.  Failure is not an option, that is clear.  If we fail, Hellstorm offers a very accurate and horrific account of what will be our fate, just as it was for those helpless, disarmed Germans. Once again, thank you for this terrible, but necessary book.  I am very certain that such will be the supreme sadness, anger and rage of anyone who reads this that, like myself, they will be ready to do whatever it takes.   ———-an Englishman

“Mr. Goodrich, thank you so much for your courage.  You changed my life.  As I read your book, between pages of shock and horror, I felt the scales fall from my eyes. For the first time in my life I could actually see the world as it is, not as I have been told it is. ”    

                                                                                                      ———-a Canadian

“This book is a game-changer.  If everyone on earth could read it, it would turn the tables over night and destroy the Jewish evil that now enslaves all of us.  What the Jews have done and what they continue to do to us, it is all here in this book, in unmistakable terms.  Make no mistake, this is our fate unless we act NOW!”   ———-an Australian

“I thought I knew everything there was to know about World War Two.  But I was wrong. Very wrong.  I never imagined that the Jewish enemy, and that includes the Allied leaders, was this vicious, this evil, or this depraved.  Unless you know Hellstorm, you do not know the real world.  And unless you know the real world, you are no better than a worm under a rock.  I am filled with rage.  I cannot think of one book more important to our survival than Hellstorm. Thank you!    ———-an American

Now, my plan may sound like a great money-making scheme to some, but I assure you, it is not. The translations of Hellstorm are very expensive and those good men and women—our brothers and sisters in this fight—they who do the actual translations must receive recompense for their time, trouble and talent.  And let me say this right now: Regardless of what happens, if I never receive a dime of support, as long as I live I will pursue this project until it is finished, or until I die, which ever comes first.  My hope, however, is to not spend the rest of my life on this project, but to complete it within the next three years so that I can finish one other very important book I have planned.

To help fund this project, to help reach the entire world in three years, I will be grateful for all contributions, of course, but below are some offers that can speed the process along.  The sooner I am funded, the sooner will I reach the world and the sooner the world will shift on its axis.

$100 donation———2 free copies of Hellstorm

$1,000 donation——10 free copies of Hellstorm and 5 DVD’s of Hellstorm–The Documentary

$10,000 donation-—100 free copies of Hellstorm, 10 DVDs of Hellstorm, and a personal dedication in the book

To help out on this personal project, please drop your contribution in my Paypal account (

My friends, we are winning.  Nothing is more certain in all the world.  The enemy is feeling the heat like never before.  Just as Jewish Communism and the Berlin Wall suddenly came down with a startling crash, no one knows what will trigger the ultimate Jewish fall from power, nor how swift it might occur.  But, as we all know, come it shall.  Help me make that fall come sooner, rather than later.

Cyber War 15


Anyone who has posted a political thought on a message board recently soon becomes aware that a raging cyber war is being waged for the hearts and minds of we whites. If the subject of a post touches upon race, or Jews, or Israel, or whether we need to fill more American body bags simply to make the world a bit safer for God’s Chosen Murderers in the Middle East, very quickly one realizes that there is a concerted effort to attack everyone and anyone who does not toe the Jewish party line on this board or that board.

Much/Most of this orchestrated pro-Israel activity comes from an entity known as “Hasbara.” This Jewish organization, nominally funded by Israel, but fully funded, in fact, by—who else?—yes, that’s right, Uncle Stupid and his slaves slaving in the tax mines—is an unabashed attempt to flood message boards with hundreds of pro-Israeli, pro-Jewish comments and thus kill all debate. Because so many of these hired haters speak and write passable English, the hope is to create the illusion of an American consensus for whatever anti-peace, pro-war policy Israel is backing that particular day. Recently, the Jewish cyber focus has been on Russia and Vlad Putin and Israel’s attempt to stoke a war between the US and Russia (Jews have never forgiven Putin—the “new Hitler”—and Russia—the new “Third Reich”—for putting the kibosh on their murderous plans for Syria and Iran a few years back after the CIA/Mossad manufactured a breathless report stating that Assad was gassing his own people).

These hundreds, thousands, maybe even tens of thousands, of Jewish “cyber warriors” are always very careful to never identify themselves as Israelis or American Jews.  Instead, they write and even imply that they are just your average Republican from Indiana or Ohio who is Red, White & Blue Through & Through and who is just tickled silly to send their kids to fight and die in the non-stop Middle Eastern wars fought for Greater Israel and who thinks that our trillions of dollars to Israel is money well spent.

If one is unfamiliar with the Hasbara folks, there are some quick rules of thumb on how to identify them:

A) Since they are apparently being paid by the number of comments they post and because they are thus always running from message board to message board, generally they post only a line or two, and never anything in depth.

B) Because they are in such a rush there is no room for serious debate on a subject.

C) Because of A) and B) a Hasbara’s comments usually devolve down to slurs, insults, name-calling, and, in keeping with the Jewish character and its fixation on bodily functions and matters carnal, some slinging of psycho-sexual imagery, i.e., very vile, very filthy shit about incest, bestiality, masturbation, goat-fucking, etc.

D) Pretty much any and all references to “Hitler” and the “Third Reich” are clear indications that a Jew troll is on the other end.  Apparently these people cannot resist the temptation to use these words even though they prove to be dead give-aways.

Odds are, if you encounter any of the above, or if you run into any anti-white, anti-gun, pro-minority, pro-“migrant” comments on the boards, then these are clear indications that Jewish cyber termites are hard at work.  Become a “Hasbara Hunter.”  Unlike their opponents, Hasbara Hunters—known among the select as “88’s”—do not get paid a dime for their efforts but they have a pretty big gun in their arsenal—-the Hasbara Jew calls it “hate”. . . “racism”. . . “bigotry”. . . and “anti-semitism”. . . . Whites call it “Truth.”

Any way, since at heart I am a collector—I have collected stamps, I have collected Olympic stick pins, I have collected odd or shocking surnames—I have amassed a number of comments on message boards that our fellow Truthers have fired off in their fight with these Hasbara trolls. Below, pretty much as they appeared, you will find a few of these comments.  Some are quite hilarious.  Some are spot on.  All are angry.  By the way, please feel free to cut and paste any of these and then next time you see someone arguing for World War Three with Russia, or next time you read that someone thinks the US should nuke Iran, or next time someone argues that Israel is Uncle Stupid’s only real ally in the Middle East, then you are armed for action.


Headline:  “Trump’s ‘America First’ Neo Isolationism”

of course the israel-first jewish media would blast Trump for placing the interests of America ahead of that of israel—if that day ever came to pass then their dear, dear israel might have to make peace with its neighbors and quit stealing palestinian land. as far as treating ‘isolationism’ like a dirty word and something to be avoided—ha, merely more jew-speak. i, for one, favor about a hundred years straight of isolationism. with these non-stop wars and our trillions-dollar national debt we found out what the opposite of isolationism is…. and it totally blows!

TRUMP / 2016

“America First….For A Change!”


HEADLINE: ” ‘White racism’ leading cause of black unrest”

We cannot live with these ‘people.’ This case, and a thousand other such cases, prove this conclusively. They rape and murder and loot and thug and they are never guilty. Nope, it’s always white racism. When we whites try to move away from them, yep, here they come again following us wherever we go, doing their drug deals, seeking sex with white women, living lives like dirty primates. When Trump builds that wall with Mexico, I hope he allows us to rebuild the old walls with the blacks. Those walls for the most part kept us safe from black crime and black hate and black ignorance and black envy and black filth and black failure and black decay and black ugliness and black. . . .


All these words by the Jewish press to convince us that Putin and Assad are evil, and the “popular uprising” (aka US/Israel ISIS mercenaries and murdering “moderates”) are good. Sounds much like the Jewish press’ attempt to convince we Americans that Don Trump is bad and the rest of those bozos—Cruz, Hill, Bern, Kasich—are good.

Sorry guys, but if you lying propagandists in the Jewish press now say “bad’ we Americans now think “good.”  Welcome to the new reality.


more anti-trump poison in the anti-trump jewish media.

the good news? the jewish media (and that’s ALL major media) is about as relevant today as smoke signals. clearly, no one pays any attention to the jewish media anymore, to its non-stop hate-trump hit pieces, to its non-stop rants about the so-called jewish holocaust and trials of 95-year-old germans, to its non-stop sob stories about poor, poor ‘migrants’ and how white nations need to flood themselves with the mud races, to what a great nation israel is and how lucky we are to be allowed to fight our non-stop wars for greater israel…..and so on.

thank god the bad old days of the jewish stranglehold on information are over. thank god for Alt Media.


Gutless Euro ‘leaders’……….They escort these primitive rapists cheerfully into Europe, then beat and imprison the white defenders of Europe and call them “extreme right-wingers”, “racists” and “haters.”  God bless all the extreme right-wingers, racists and haters. I hope they kill all invaders, then drag out their so-called Euro leaders and kill them too.


Ho, Hum. Another day, another Holocaust whopper from the MSM…..Even with WWIII hanging by a thread in Ukraine and Syria, Yahoo news categories always seem to be…..



“Evil Iranians”

“Gallant Little Israel”





“Nazi War Criminals”


“Gallant Little Israel”


“Iran Trying to Take Over World”

“Jewish Suffering”

“Poor Innocent Israel”

“Iranian Devils Still Trying To Take Over World”

“Poor Gallant Little Innocent Israel Will Stop Iran From Taking Over World”

“More Holocaust Items”

“Evil Palestinians”


“Neo-Nazi Racist Bigot Anti-Semitic White Gun Nuts”

“More Jewish Suffering”

“Recap of Holocaust Items”










In a free world, with a free press, these would be the categories….







“Holocaust–The Trillion Dollar Scam”

Israel Behind 9/11”

Israel Stages New False Flag in Paris”

“Illegal Aliens Swamping America and Europe”

“Cameron Sits Up and Begs Like A Dog For Israel”

“Israel Steals More Palestinian Land”

“Israel Stages New False Flag Operation”

“Mossad and CIA Stage Kiev Coup”

“Israel, With AIPAC Help, Direct American Foreign Policy For Decades”

“Poll: Netanyahou and Israel #1 Greatest Threat to World Peace”

“Hollywood and Jewish TV Destroy American ‘Culture’ “

“World Drowns in Jewish Porn”

“Holocaust Is A Trillion Dollar Jewish Racket Based on Lies”

“Jewish Power Floods Europe and US with Non-White ‘Migrants’ While Israel Kicks Them Out”

“Nations of World Vote to Build Wall Around Israel Until Jews Learn to Behave Like Humans”


HEADLINE: “Four-Fifths of US Senate wants to boost aid to Israel”

ONLY 4/5th of the US Senate? I’m surprised it was not 5/5ths.  This group of Israel-Firster traitors is the same body of sycophants that gave Netanyahou 30 standing ovations, the same that dutifully sends American troops to fight one Israeli war after another, the same that already “supports” Israel to the tune of $8,000 for every man, woman and child in israel annually.  And the Jewish media whines and wonders why the American people hate politicians.  Because of these loathsome Israel-First creatures, America is nothing more than a colony, a satellite, a milk cow of Israel.


HEADLINE: “Syrian regime kills 16 civilians”

“Regime”? more jewish code words in the jewish media. a ‘regime’ to me is some rogue nation like the US or Israel who attacks other nations like most people eat popcorn, then loots and guts it like the criminal regimes they are. Syria is a legitmate nation of this earth that neither began this war nor wanted it; therefore Syria is a legitimate nation and the US and Israel are criminal ‘regimes.’


HEADLINE: “Speaker Ryan thanked by Israel for taking on Trump” 

of course israel thanked this ryan creature. he is the israel-first neocon tool of the GOP. of course these gangsters thanks ryan for trying to kill off Don Trump. Trump is the only candidate who is not promising israel the moon.

Rant Therapy


Venting good.  Exploding bad.  Let us joice . . . then rejoice!  Let us venti-early and let us venti-late!

The US Coast Guard here in Florida recently returned a raft load of black and tan “freedom seekers” (criminals) to Cuba as the “poor, suffering, wretched refuse” was trying the reach Key West, then next stop, Key Easy Street.  Returned?  Tut, tut.  Mere window dressing.  Pure fol de rol.  The US Government has no more interest in stopping the illegal invasion of America than it does winning the so-called “War on Drugs” (which it has been losing now for upwards of fifty years).  Returning a few boat blacks looks good.  Reads well.  Keeps old Roy and Edna Crotchfield asleep in their rockers; convinces old Roy and Edna’s grown kids that something is being done about illegal immigration; tells them that America still works, still cares, still can.

Funny.  Odd.  If these “migrants” (as the Jewish media is wont to dub such criminals) from Cuba, Haiti, Jamaica, Trinidad, Bahamas, and thirty or more other impoverished black islands with Mexican-class birthrates can make it to the US and land on sand, they are here, dear, free and clear. Under the “wet foot/dry foot” understanding, anyone caught at sea is supposedly (cough . . . clear throat) sent back; any one lucky enough to actually set foot on dry land gets to stay, courtesy of the American tax-payers.  Lucky us!  Nice.  Lovely.  “Our” federal government in action.  There is your immigration law, folks.  Sounds precious much like the “law” that allows any latin vagina that can wade the Rio and who can thereupon squeeze out a frog here and who can thereupon claim that frog as a bona fide Red, White and Green Mexican-Merican, does it not? (yes, I know that technically only the frog is made a US citizen but hey, when was the last time you heard of an anchor baby staying and the criminal anchor baby maker being deported?)

As a resident of Florida I can say this: While most Americans think that the criminal invasion is mostly a Mexican/Central American thing, they fail to see what is going on in Florida.  From my observations, what this illegal black invasion by sea may lack in numbers it more than makes up for in criminality.  Judging by what I see locally, judging by what I hear locally, judging by what I sense locally, these people have zero, repeat, ZERO, zip, zest and zing for “honest” labor.  From what I see, hear, sense, the moment these “migrants” get here it is straight to social services for them to get some of that free shit they have heard so much about, enough shit, at least, until they can get both feet firmly planted into the drug and sex trades, which is where many/most/perhaps all gravitate.

Speaking of drugs, and the so-called “war” against: See any correlation?

Americans, most of you—those of you, that is, who are not snoring like Roy and Edna—most of you already sense this but for what it is worth here ‘tis: “Your” government is your worst enemy!  With democratic governments like this, who needs communist dictatorships?


Industrious Thieves—Over at North Port, the “Drug-Addiction, Spousal Abuse, Sexual Perversion, Petty Theft, Murder One, and Walmart Freak Show Capital of Charlotte County,” someone stole a fire hydrant last night. Now, I know that most of you probably have multiple opportunities each day to lift and move fire hydrants, but for those of you who don’t, let me state that these short metal things weigh a surprising three-hundred pounds.  How much is three hundred pounds?  Well, next trip to Walmart, check out one of those ubiquitous scooter blobs backing up, beeping and generally blocking the aisles in the “snacks and diet-pop” section of the grocery store.  Don’t bother with the really enormous blobs since they are off the charts huge and probably outweigh most Sherman tanks; no, just stick with the “smaller” blobs.  Imagine yourself trying to lift that load—that’s how much a fire hydrant weighs.

Although cops themselves are in no big rush to run into this thieving hydrant gorilla, they do have their tazers set for TTV (Triple Terminal Voltage), just in case.  They also warn the public to be on the lookout for the powerful perp.  He is described as “one humongous muscle-bound steroid freak with huge, hard hands that can bend railroad spikes like hair pins and that can rip off a car door with a single jerk.”

Aside: The going rate for three hundred pounds of scrap metal is $1,200.  Not too shabby for an hour’s worth of crime.  No wonder nocturnal joggers are pitching head-first into holes previously covered by manhole lids and no wonder fire trucks are reaching raging infernos only to find no hydrant and no water. 

Thought:  Just as there would be peace in the Middle East if Israel worked half as hard for peace in the Middle East as it does for war in the Middle East, so too if these thieves worked just half as hard at an honest job as they do at a dishonest job, they could 1) avoid all those embarrassing cameo appearances on “Cops,” they could 2) escape a dozen or more butt tazings per year, and they could 3) dodge those beastly conjugal visits from 300-pound scooter blobs that they end up marrying while in jail because those are the only things that will have someone doing 40 years-to-life behind state walls.


Lady of the Day—Seems some Sarasota seniors are having problems with sex in public.  I have mentioned in past blogs the kinky hairballs and dirty exhibitionists in this area, the lusty log-floggers, the creepo chicken-chokers, and the sleazy squid-squeezers, as well.  I have also noted the homeless and/or drug-crazed couples screwing on neighbors’ lawns, on public beaches, on park picnic tables, and under gazebos and boardwalks.  A while back, a Joan and her John were doin’ a trick in a truck—broad daylight, downtown, busy parking lot, no tinted windows, just a doin’ like dogs do.

Twenty-nine-year-old Whisper Morton—say what?—29-year-old Whisper Morton was spotted by Lust Cops giving a blow job to 54-year-old Wayne Withers.  Appropriately, the oral act was being performed in the Ringling Circus Museum parking lot.

When Officer Clancey and Officer Muldoon walked up to the truck, Officer Clancey observed, “And just what might ye be a doin’ down there now, and this one here with his pants down and you there with him in yer mouth?  And don’t deny it, we saw ya.  What, woman, what now can ye be a sayin’ for yerself?”

Whisper quickly popped Wayne out of her mouth and whispered nervously that . . . that . . . that they “wuz just a husband and wife wildly overcome with passion.”

“Ha!  And listen to her now!” said Muldoon in reply. “Even were this the case, and even if you knew the name of this poor dodger here with his pants down to his knees—which I’m a bettin’ my bonnet you don’t—it’s still against the law to do such sexual shenanigans in public, married or not, where anyone walking by, or biking by, or skate-boarding by, or a baby in a buggy, can take in the free circus act you two are puttin’ on.  And so now, out with the both of ya.  It’s off to Lust Lock-Up for you two love birds.”

Never a dull—or normal—moment down here among the swamp savages and stump grubbers.   Never dull, never normal.

Mad Dog Mad

2845488-34343-white-and-brown-chihuahua-on-the-black-background34d6What passes for “Spring” here in South Florida would, any place else, be considered the depths of summer.   

Thus, with the furnace of Florida stoked and the “Dog Days” already here with a vengeance it is only to be expected that the over-heated nut jobs, the gibbering idiots, the machete maniacs, the foam-flecked road rage-aholics, and the clinically mad meatball mental cases are coming out in droves. How mad are they?  Mad Dog Mad, that’s how mad.


Local loser and mental patient, Kevin Joesph Koscielniak (with a name like that, what else could he be?) broke into a garage recently where he formerly worked. Other than killing a dog which lived inside, there seems no other motive. Koscinelizcic took the canine from his cage, grabbed a tire iron, then beat the helpless animal’s brains out.  It was all caught on camera.  

Kocsieloviczh was nabbed a few days ago, mugged and jugged on some minor crap.  No doubt Kocesspoolivizc is out today stalking streets, hearing voices, answering voices, eating peach preserves and sardine sandwiches, flapping about as free as a rabid fruit bat; and why not?  Judges turn loose rapists, child molesters and violent thugs under the maxim “twenty-strikes-and-still-not-out,” so why not set free some poor screws-loose scrotum whose only crime was beating to death a mere dog? 

Call me a silly romantic, call me a hopeless dreamer, call me a sickeningly sadistic satanist, call me what you will, but personally I would be happy to hear that Kococrazysobzky had been taken out back and beaten to death with a tire iron, then, I would be equally happy to hear that his carcass had been dumped into a canal where the gators could eat him up and crap him out during tomorrow morning’s BM.  And yes, the murderer’s mug shot looks just as bat shit crazy as one might imagine.   


Heads, You Gonna Lose—Another local loony-toon, one Greg Cotton Boyd of Punta Gorda, had finally had it with the heat and stress and the Celtics losing in four during the NBA playoffs and . . . and local teens who supposedly tore up the street out front in their cars and called him names.

I’ll blow off your mother-fuckin’ heads!” yelled the temples-throbbing paranoiac as the kids supposedly sped by.

Finally, when the teens raced by again, Mad Dog Boyd reached for his trusty sub-machine gun.  Since he could not locate the gat, he grabbed a machete instead, then tracked down the kids at the local high school.

I’ll cut off your mother fuckin’ heads!” the wild-eyed nut threatened the trembling, terrified, and by now totally traumatized and pissin’-their-pants teens. 

Blow off?  Cut off?  Chop off? Hack off?  Burn off?  Dissolve off?  Pinch off?  Chew off?. . . Had this gone on much longer no telling how many more ways Greg was going to detach the teens’ mother-fuckin’ heads from their mother-fuckin’ bodies.  But alas, all good things must come to an end.   

After cops arrived at the school they conferred for some time among themselves before it was agreed that Boyd needed a few minutes of remedial tazing, just to settle him down a bit.  And, after that amusing electric chicken-dance on the asphalt in which half the school rushed out to see, Greg did indeed become “much more compliant” (which is to say, that after his electric chicken-dance on the asphalt in which half the school rushed out to see, Greg became much more nearly dead). Boyd was thereupon escorted w/o further incident to an air conditioned 6 by 9 where his murderous mania might chill out somewhat.


Up at Tampa a few ago, a dude and his squeeze were out blazing through time and space on their crotch rocket.  Flashing across the Tampa Bay Causeway under the motto of “Speed Thrills,” the 41-year-old motorcyclist didn’t see the slow scooter up ahead until waaaay too late.  The scooter man died then and there, forever 54.  The rocket man died pretty damn quick too. It was his birthday.  The female passenger lives yet, but barely, and so, the child she and the rocket man made, a three-year-old son, may soon be an orphan.

Speed Thrills. . . .  Wonder how popular that cute slogan is among those who hosed the blood and guts from the road. 


Meanwhile, Back at Punta Gorda—Seems there is never not nothing normal down here among the swamp savages. Over at Punta, at the local nose-to-hole hump-and-grind outdoor theater aka the doggie bark park, 57-year-old Joe Johns got all bent out of shape one steamy eve because some chap in a wheel chair could not, or would not, control his pooch. Seems the canine in question persisted in “jumping up” on JJ (that’s sissy-speak for “leg-fucking Joe’s leg”).  A normal person would have simply shook the dog loose and forgotten the incident in five minutes.  But hey, if Joe Johns was a normal, rational, mentally sound citizen I wouldn’t be blogging about him, now would I?

And so, mentally disturbed Joe—burning with indignity—and burning from the tears of laughter pouring from those who were watching the dog grind on his leg—slipped from the dog’s amorous embrace, walked over to the dog’s owner, then gave him a right sound rap on the beak.  Since that not only stopped the laughter but also felt pretty good too, Joe smote the man again.  And again.  By now, Joe was really warming to the idea of smiting someone who couldn’t smite back and so our boy then knocked the cripple from his wheel chair and really got down with the curb stomp.  Already helplessly confined to the chair, when the victim hit the turf he was as defenseless as an earth worm.  JJ continued to beat, kick and punch the leg-humping dog’s owner.  When the leg-humping dog’s owner’s girl friend’s mother stepped in, she too got a sound beating.

Meanwhile, the cops—on chariots pulled by only the swiftest of snails—eventually showed up.  Although JJ insisted that he was the victim, it was pretty hard to shake all that evidence—wheel chair turned over, cripple cringing on ground beaten black, blue and bloody and curled in fetal position, old woman knocked unconscious, cripple’s dog whimpering in sorrow and sadness for his fallen master while lasciviously leg-humping cop’s leg—and so, in spite of his pleas of innocence, the bark park bully was cuffed and carted away.

No doubt Joe Johns is now out on bond, presumably looking for more paraplegics and old ladies to beat on.

Who could make this shit up?

The Human Condition

tattoo_freaksSome super scientific thoughts on fame, infamy, finity, and infinity.

Sad fact is: The more there are of us the less significant we become.  And, the more insignificant we become the more desperately we strive for significance.

Take, for example, the modern mania for tattoos and body piercings. Are not these self-mutilations merely a manifestation of one’s desperate desire for relevance?  Is not skin discoloration and rivets in the nose a wild, maniacal scream in the night, as per “Look at me!  I am different!  I am cool!  I am sexy!  I count!  I do count, don’t I?  I don’t count?  You’re kidding me?  Please tell me I count!  Please tell me!  Please!  Help!”  Alas, when everyone does it, as they are doing now and as they always do, silly fads such as these become mere herd ritual, stale, staid, passé, boring, zzzzzzzzzz.  And when that happens, the more insecure and desperate among us look for other, even more outrageous and debasing, fads to run to.

Long hair, beads and sandals were the shock and awe scream of the Sixties generation announcing to the world that they were different.  But the clock was ticking and from the moment an idea is uttered it is never young again.  Soon, everyone was sporting long hair, beads and sandals until virtually everybody looked like everybody, again.  No sight was ever more ludicrous-looking than that of thousands of “rebelling” hippies all marching in lock step carrying signs and all looking just like the other hippies. . . .  Well, maybe no sight was more ludicrous-looking, that is, unless it was that of so-called outlaw biker gangs sporting standardized “colors” as predictable as any military uniform or any three-piece Wall Street business suit ever was.  So much for individuality, uniqueness or significance from those quarters. These large-scale attempts at relevance were just new forms of herd behavior.  When given the chance, virtually all humans opt for the safety of numbers and remain unthinking, unquestioning, unremarkable members of the mass.   When it’s freedom or protection on the line, most humans will choose protection every time even while they are shouting for “Freedom!”

After “flower power,” then came into vogue new attempts to shock such as spiked red hair, long purple hair, black lip stick, green lipstick, male earrings, female nose rings.  In their heart of hearts, no one wants the hassle of dying their hair continually green or pink or seeking new places to perforate their skin.  But in our mad quest to be relevant, money, time and pain are small obstacles in our path.

Ever seen full-body tattoos in which virtually every inch of a person is covered in ink?  Of course you have.  Obviously, full-body tats are not just a repellent waste of good ink and bad skin, they are a scream to the world, “Hey, Look at Me!  I am unique.  I’m different.  I am sexy!   I matter!  Love me!  Follow me!  Admire me!  Honor me!  Exalt me!  Worship me!  Deify me!  BOW DOWN YOU USELESS TURD AND DIE FOR ME!”

For shy followers, a simple tat on the breast or leg is a way of saying, “Hey, I’m up-to-snuff.  See my tat?  I’m cool too!  I’m a rebel.  I’m different.  I’m someone!”  Alas, when everyone is “someone,” no one is anyone.

Honestly, 99% of us are about as noteworthy as an ant on an ant-hill, tattoos or no tattoos. We shuffle through life, running from the light, going along to get along, fearing to risk, fearing to fail, fearing to fall out of step or fall from fashion. And we do this with all the mind-numbing anonymity of those professional street-crossers in Andy Griffith re-runs. We read history, we write history, but we don’t make history. For whatever reasons—guts, brains, talent—almost all of us lack what it takes to be remembered even 15 minutes after we are dead. We are intrigued, fascinated, and awed by those who take the risks and make the history. We live our lives vicariously through them.

My recommendation to anyone who totally lacks the brains, drive or luck to do mighty, memorable deeds and who wants to be remembered for maybe a month or more after their execution by lethal injection: Go postal!  Just do it!  Kill a noteworthy person, or massacre a bunch of unnoteworthy persons.  That should make you unique, different and remembered for at least as long as your trial lasts.  Unfortunately for you, your fifteen minutes of infamy will not be of much solace after you are put down.  You will be excoriated for the first ten minutes and in another five minutes you will be all but forgotten and as relevant as a hula hoop.

Or become a serial killer.  No, not just the run-of-the-mill serial killer who kills a hundred prostitutes for kicks or a serial killer who chops up and eats 50 young gay guys.  Boring!   No one will remember a follow-the-leader serial killer like that.  Be innovative . . . be daring . . . be bold! Start killing tele-evangelists.  Since all these sobbing suits and slick hair-dos are supposedly in such a rush to reach heaven and meet their maker, might as well speed up the process.  That should keep your name bouncing around for a few years after your execution.  Or how about following them back to their addresses and putting down those revolting cretins who run naked in front of crowds at sporting events in an attempt to garner a little relevance?  Well, you can help these pervs along too and make them relevant one final time by making them one of your 30 or 40 victims.   Time is short. The list is long.  I’m sure you can come up with your own new and innovative way to kill serially if you just put your diseased and disturbed mind to it.  Good luck.

The Savages Below


Though justice is a constant, the forms of punishment are innumerable. Case in point: While living in Greece, waiting months for a manuscript to arrive from the U.S., I spent several days watching ants at work. Curious little communists. They came spilling out of a crack on our veranda about dawn, set for a day of looting and plundering. Although their “run” was along a wall, scouts would fan out over the marble floor, seeking anything edible, animal or vegetable, living or dead. And after one of my many fly sorties during the day, the spoils were never wanting.

Probably only one fly in ten escaped my swatter after I drew down on it. And of those who were hit, maybe one in twenty tumbled to the deck just wounded. Better for them to have been slain outright or never spawned in the first place for the odds were slim indeed down below. Ants were waiting and there is no pity in the heart of an ant.

When an ant scout bumps into a wounded fly, he does one of two things: 1) He accelerates, runs in a crazy jigsaw pattern and leaves, or 2) he moves to the attack. Actually, this attack is nothing more than a suicide attempt to chomp onto the prey’s leg, hang on tight, then hope for reinforcements. The wounded fly, meanwhile, seems terrorized by the sudden assault. A violent shudder jolts its body. If the wings are still in order, it buzzes furiously. If the legs work, the fly runs, limps or crawls. Should the victim escape this first lunge, the tiny ant runs in a feverish, blind pattern trying to relocate the leg. Usually he does.

At first, it was amusing to watch the lopsided affair for the size ratio of the fly to the ant was about ten to one. And the little brutes don’t seem to be aware of the disparity, but attack with the mindless determination of a terrier to a bull. If the ant latches on, sometimes the fly will run off with his assailant bouncing and banging at leg’s end. Often, a startled fly can fling an ant three or four inches away with a blur of leg flicks. But usually the little ant hangs on like a vise, though he takes one terrible pounding in the process.

At length, maybe in a minute, maybe in an hour, a second scout stumbles upon the scene. At this point the fly really becomes panic-stricken. He goes through the same efforts as before but he is tiring and the odds of escape diminish. Latching on to an opposite leg or even the head, the second aids the first and together the little hyenas begin jerking and tugging the giant beast to earth. It seems to go quicker from here on out for invariably, as if guided by blood scent, a third comrade enters the fray. Then comes a fourth and fifth. After the sixth ant, the fly is as good as got. There never seems to be more than ten ants to a fly; as though they instinctively know that any more than this would just get in the way. Although the struggling continues mightily, and occasionally, in a burst of fear and desperation, the fly gallops away with three or four ants dangling from his limbs, the issue is settled.

Finally, as the trembling fly is slowly but surely held down, a “mechanic” makes his appearance. This ant is normal in body size, but its head is a rusty color and much larger than the others. He also has a tremendous set of jaws. Patiently, and with cool deliberation, the mechanic goes to work, first on one side, then the other, casually working under, over and around the holders, trying to locate the choice cutting zones. In fifteen or twenty minutes he has dismembered the prey until only a black trunk with stubs remain. At this point, the ants begin lugging their prize back to the cave.

Staring down the length of an ant caravan from floor level looks like of a tiny Egyptian procession, for waving a fraction above the surface is a piece of wing, a leg, a wing, a foreleg, and so on. Occasionally, an ant carried a bit of body or eye that was accidentally whacked off. Following the cavalcade comes four or five bearers dragging the living corpse. Killing the fly outright never seemed to be in the program. Just immobilization. My theory is that the little fiends intentionally keep the fly alive so that the flesh doesn’t rot or harden on the journey home. And thus, back at the ranch, the murderous horde can dine on fresh game at their leisure.

Of course, by now the exhausted fly is insane with pain and fear––shudders, spasms, leg stubs twitching in frantic, impotent bursts. It doesn’t take much imagination or a microscope to see the hundreds of rolling white eyes of the victim; nor does it take a tiny microphone to pick up the agonizing screams for mercy and a quick death. But the pitiless ants could care less. Such a hideous end—eaten alive one mouthful at a time!

Ants are really like tiny wolves, bringing down anything they set their collective mind to. Even wolves have feelings, however, and are careful lest pain and injury should occur. Ants seem afraid of nothing and never back off. I’m also sure that could we see their faces, we’d never see an ant pant. Like robots-–-fearless, tireless and utterly, utterly ruthless.

Postscript: Since Greece seems to be the matrix from which all the flies of the world are spawned, then sent flying out into the world to plague every living thing that walks, creeps, and crawls over the face of the earth, I found this graffiti fitting inside a toilet stall at the fly-infested Athens airport: “Ten trillion flies can’t be wrong: EAT SHIT!”

Low Places on the High Plains


A few years ago, one torrid summer’s eve, I was in North Platte, Nebraska. North Platte was the home of perhaps the most famous American of all time, William “Buffalo Bill” Cody. Searching for a water hole to cool my hot heels, I first slipped into a saloon called The Depot. Judging by the traffic, it was a popular place. Very quickly, however, I realized that The Depot was not for me. The huge amplifier directly overhead was blaring down some modern noise and the upscale pretension and plastic menu turned me off completely. I had spied another place coming into town and so I saddled and scooted.

From the outside, the Flat Rock Bar looks like one of those dirty, dingy, dismal dives that a “respectable” person might wish to avoid. And in truth, should such a featherless biped take a bet and venture in, their stay would probably be brief. Good. No upscale pretension here. Just a bar up front, a juke box in back, and a pool table smack in the middle. There are no waitresses with plastic smiles and recorded greetings in their heads to seat you; there are no yard-long laminated menus with fizzy names for plain old hamburgers to choose from. No, at the Flat Rock just cold beer and whiskey straight. Entertainment is strictly voluntary. It was a Poor Man’s Country Club; a place where the nuts and bolts of North Platte come together a dozen times or more a week to unwind and raise pure hector. It’s also a place where if one is not careful what one says one might end up looking like one of the clientele whose front teeth were missing.

But if one minds one’s manners, he’ll come out alright. I know the folks. The slim and serious fellow at the pool table, the one in the cowboy hat who is chalking slowly and studying each shot as if the entire place was waiting breathlessly-–no one was watching-–this fellow might try to cheat you at a game of eight-ball, but he’d never screw you in a business deal. He might try to steal your wife from you, but he’ll make his move right up front, and not through a back door. He is sometimes loud and profane in a drinking establishment like this but face to face with a stranger he is almost painfully civil and polite. Without a second thought he’d stop his pickup on a dead dark road any rainy night of the week and give you a lift after you’ve ran out of gas. I know the folks here. I was at ease . . . and then some.

Tonight, a Friday night, the rowdy patrons were in high galore. The racket ebbed and flowed but mostly flowed. The snatches of conversations I overheard were the usual: work (too much of it), alimony (not enough of it—“the sonofabitch is late again”) and the weekend rodeo. A short, fat Indian woman on her way to the restroom limped by my table on a crutch.

“I thought you was Jesse Ventura,” she laughed as she patted me softly on the shoulder.

“I wish I was,” said I with a smile.

A strong wind was blowing through the front door carrying the volumes of cigarette smoke out the back door. The juke box was loud, but not noisy, and every word Johnny Horton sang about “Big Sam’s” gold and a “gator’s bee-hind” could be clearly understood. The friendly old bartender made it over to my table when he could and I made it over to the bar when he couldn’t. After three or four such mutual visits, I decided that it was time to pack it up, satisfied that the Corona was as good or better here as at the fancy place.

Now starved, I drove out to Interstate 80 and found something called “Whiskey River,”  or maybe it was “Whiskey Creek,” I forget.  Like the first stop that night, this last stop was upscale, plastic, insipid. The only memory I have of the place is how far away I had to park, even though there were seemingly dozens of empty “handicapped” spaces right in front. The hobbled Indian lady didn’t seem to have any trouble getting in and out of the Flat Rock, even though parking there was strictly catch-as-catch-can.

When in North Platte next, believe I will slip on down to the Flat Rock oasis. Like Garth, give me friends in low places any day to the plastic people in high places. This segues into . . .

Comfort Zones

When I lived in Boston there was an M.I.T. (Massachusetts Institute of Technology) professor whose three-month summer vacations were spent bumming and slumming the mean streets and alleys of downtown Beantown, including the sordid “Combat Zone” (a sleazy porno-steamo-kinko neon section of sneaks and cheats, tricks and treats). Brilliant as he undoubtedly was, and accustomed as he must have been to the society of high places, this chap’s comfort zone was in low places. In this latter slot this man could truly be at ease . . . and be himself. No more pretense. No more stress and strain. No more smiling when he didn’t mean it. No more going along to get along. Hate to say it, but sounds a bit like me, though not to that degree, as per my piece above on the Flat Rock. The professor and me are not alone.

Cody, Wild Bill Hickok and the whole wild west wrecking crew went on periodic R&R’s to the seedier sides of Kansas City, Omaha, Dodge, Hays, Leavenworth, North Topeka, and other “sporting” resorts safely removed from the war zone, yet they always—always—returned to the wilderness when the time came. When Wild Bill was lured east by Cody to “perform” before the foot lamps of Schenectady, Poughkeepsie, Rochester, West Chester, East Chester, Horse Chester, and other such crazy places, it wasn’t long before this miserable man, this plainsman out of his element, returned to his wild west comfort zone. And even Cody, hustling huckster that he became, was not happy internally with his new found acclaim in the big cities. With every chance that came, Buffalo Bill returned again and again to the wilderness. . . . he came back to his comfort zone where he could inwardly be at peace.

I think all of us have a spiritual “oasis” . . . a comfort zone. Some of us may not want to admit it. But we all know it when we reach it . . . and we are at peace.

Sell Your Helmet Stock


Today, more than ever, I noticed on the bike trail the growing mania for helmets. Big people, little people, short people, tall people, old people, young people, male and female, straight and gay, fat and spare, all God’s chillen’ it seems, must now have protection for their coconut.

As a kid growing up in a small town, you might say I came from a biker subculture. All us kids took a spill now and then on asphalt or gravel, but no one ever came close to busting their head that I am aware of––and we are talking some serious biking hours here. Plus, as kids, we always rode hell-bent-for-leather (whatever that means). In a pinch, the first thing a person will do is try to save their noggin. It’s instinct. Should any force be strong enough to penetrate the protective arms and hard hands draped around a head-–-say a car, bus, train, or space shuttle–-then a helmet would be of absolutely no use in any case. Actually, some bikers are so snail-like on the trails that a helmet is totally unnecessary. I’ve seen youngsters, oldsters and fatsters creeping so slowly along that joggers, and even someone walking at a brisk clip, could probably pass them. The only way these slow-bots could receive blunt force trauma to the pate would be if they fell off their bikes and literally beat their heads against a rock.

And of all the rich sights this earth has to offer, few compare to that of an old fat person wobbling along unsteadily on a bike wearing a five-sizes-too-small helmet similar to image #5 above.   If one of these clumsy land whales should take a spill just about the only thing that won’t get damaged will be that tiny and ridiculous thing on the victim’s head.

Speaking of biking without helmets. . . . Oscar-winner, Gene Hackman, was riding his bike down in the Florida Keys a while back when a pickup truck plowed into him from the rear.  “Hackman was riding without a helmet,” sniffed the silly writer of the piece (because that’s what every other silly news writer without a brain writes).  What this young reporter failed to mention was, “Yep, Hackman was not wearing a helmet . . .  and it’s a damned good thing the 81-year-old actor was NOT since a blast from the past like that, and the additional weight of a helmet, could well have snapped his neck from whiplash.”  As is, this tough old bird—made famous by the hit movie, Bonnie & Clyde—was in and out of the hospital that day and was riding his bike again in no time . . .  sans helmet.

A Final Note on HelmetsIt has been noted by way more than your blogger that most men who wear helmets seem to be very slim and smallish and have fastidious feminine traits.  On the other hand, I have noticed that those who do not wear helmets seem to be large men with muscles, shaved heads and seem to be at home making with the macho.  Given that humans are far more sheep-like, lemming-like and goose-like than the sheep, lemmings and geese they mock, look for a radical swing downward in the number of helmets protecting the coconuts of sissy cyclists over the next few years.  Here in Florida that trend has already started.  My advice: Sell your helmet shares . . . Now!

Another Final Note on Helmets—Think about this my dear blogologists: From time immemorial, soldiers in combat have worn metal helmets to protect those personal computers we now call brains.  The Greeks and Spartans, the Romans, the Vikings, the Crusaders, the armies of the Middle Ages, the Spanish Conquistadors, Japanese Samurai, German Hessians and British Lancers, the soldiers of World War One and Two, and the troops of the present perpetual American wars fought to make the world safe for Israel.  With maybe the exception of American Indians on the warpath, in every age of combat, it seems, troops wore helmets . . . EXCEPT during the American Civil War.  What were they thinking?  Both sides during that mess either wore those little cloth kepis (below, left) which looked very natty when tilted on the head, or French fezs (below, right) with those cute tassels, or just simple brimmed hats to keep the sun out.  Of course, some troops during the American Civil War also wore red shirts.  I suppose they did this so that it would be even easier for the enemy to spot them, site them and shoot them.  Truly, this must have been the Age of Macho . . . Macho Madness.  With only cloth to protect the head, these troops might just as well have worn paper hats.


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Simon Sez: “Drop Dead!”

Image-321A handsome young baseball coach who is killed by a line drive in Arkansas. Two young workers fall a thousand feet to their deaths from the tower in Kansas. An elevator man in Iowa slips and literally drowns in a mountain of soy beans.  An old woman in Virginia is attacked and eaten by pit bulls. A Brazilian who is swallowed whole by an anaconda . . . an old man on a morning walk attacked and killed by an otter. . . .

No one really wants to die, but no one wants to die in pointless ways like the people above. There are good ways to die and there are bad ways to die. There is something unworthy, or unjust, or unfair, or just unnormal about a grown man diving to his death to simply catch a foul ball. Or how about the relatives of that man killed by the otter here in Florida?  What do they talk about at that funeral? Hmmm?  No one wants their obituary to read: “Elmer Fudd, 56, died at his home yesterday after choking on a chicken bone.” These sort of lousy deaths negate an entire lifetime simply because an odd or ridiculous demise sticks; it is the last, lingering thing we remember of the victim. No matter how many Nobel Prizes were won, no matter how many cancers were cured, the grand culmination of a valuable, productive life is: “Fred? Oh, yeah, he had his head chopped off by a helicopter blade.” That will be the last mortal act of the deceased and the first thing remembered about a person: “Marvin?  Ain’t he the one who tripped and drowned in an open septic tank?”

The way I definitely don’t want to go? “Poor Mike . . . he died of rectal cancer.” Or “Poor Mike . . . a piece of space junk conked him on the cocoanut stiffer than a mitten!” Or “Poor Mike, ha, ha, ha. . . . And to think, he was a vegetarian, and to be killed like he was . . . run over and smashed flat as a possum by a meat delivery truck as he crossed an Arby’s parking lot!”  No, if we must go down then let us go “in our sleep,” or just via a simple heart attack, or please, just with normal lung or brain cancer. Better still, let a man go down doing something grand, something heroic: Like dying while saving a bus full of crippled kids as the runaway vehicle is about to careen over a cliff, or clocking out while rescuing caged kittens and puppies at a burning pet store, or buying the farm in a gunfight after killing all three muggers attempting to rob and rape a woman. Now those are deaths I can live . . . rather, those are deaths I can die with.

 My dream death: To just drop down stone dead while I am walking along the banks of a river by myself. If I miss the stream and fail to fall in and am not flushed out to sea , that’s okay too, just as long as my body is never found. I will fertilize the tree I fall near, or provide food for some scavenging animals, will be no fuss or bother to anyone, and I will save my family about 10K in funeral expenses.


Our local economy blows.  That’s pretty clear.  No matter how much they dress up the gorilla with fluffy, frilly news about “recovery,” it’s still a gorilla.  The only growth industries that I see locally seems to be drugs, death and, of course, senior crime, both giving and receiving.  Not a hour passes in Florida without some greedy old loon being swindled from their life savings after being promised millions by some nice young man in Nigeria.  

Now, with so many wild and desperate drug addicts running loose like pit bulls, there is also a noticeable jump in strong-arm robberies.  Since seniors are weak, slow, and stupid, they have become the perfect targets for young cracker and nigger thugs. 

Up at Ellenton the other morning, an 85-year-old man, let’s call him Roy Ringworm, was out getting his dead-tree media off the driveway at either the Golden Years Mobile Home Estates or the Palm Breeze Mobile Gardens, I forget which.  Up walks a poor, disadvantaged city yuff in a hoodie.  He marches old Ring right back into the trailer, steals his billfold and Perry Como cassette collection, slaps him around a bit for kicks, then leaves without any risk to one inch of his worthless carcass.

A few days later, in the same area, a old woman was walking around at Sunset Bay Mobile Acres at midnight when a cyclist wearing a black hoodie knocked her down and stole her purse.

Walking around at midnight?  Purse?  Whatever. . . .

Thought:  Mobile Gardens? Mobile Estates?  Mobile Acres? . . . there’s that gorilla again.  No matter how fancy you dress a gorilla, it’s still a gorilla.  Although there is no comparison between the rather nice, palmy trailer parks down here and the crappy, crummy meth holes up north, seems crime, like F-5 tornadoes, are drawn to trailer courts no matter where they are or what they are called.