Monthly Archives: January 2015

National Socialism Unfolds in the Ukraine

There you have it in a nutshell – the ideology of the new Ukraine regime. As I have said previously, National Socialism can unfold in any society. And as you can see below, National Socialism has come to the Ukraine. This is classical fascism, not only fascism but racist fascism, which de facto means Nazism.

The Ideology of the New Ukraine

Eric Zuesse

The ideology of the new post-coup Ukraine is the ideology of its leaders. Above all, Dmitriy Yarosh, the founder of Right Sector; Andrei Beletsky, the founder of Azov Battalion; and Andriy Parubiy and Oleh Tyahnybok, the co-founders of the “Social Nationalist Party of Ukraine,” the party which, at the CIA’s urging, changed its name in 2004 to “Freedom” or “Svoboda,” in order to sell it better in the West.

All of these leaders are leaders in this new Government, but not at its nominal top, because the U.S. regime doesn’t want the ties of its new Government to Hitler’s Nazi Party to be so obvious to Americans or to Europeans — it would be bad PR, especially because the United States lost so many men fighting against Hitler’s forces and against the fascisms and racisms of Tojo and of Mussolini, all of which (especially Hitler’s views) are basically boiled down here in the statement quoted below (replacing “Ukraine” where Hitler said “German,” because this is a Ukrainian Nazi, not a member of the original Nazi party, which was the National Socialist Party of Germany).

The ideology of this Government was best expressed in 2010 by Andrei Biletsky. The translation provided from the original Ukrainian is mainly via Google chrome auto-translate but is clarified by minor changes from me in order to improve readability. Some terms are not translatable on the Web, so someone who knows the Ukrainian language should improve on the translation that is provided here and is invited to provide such an improved translation either alongside this one or else at a different site. But here is the best that I can come up with:

The Ukrainian text is here:

http://web.archive.org/web/20100216231547/http://rid.org.ua/?p=256

&

http://rid.org.ua/?p=256

Here is the translation:

Ukrainian Social Nationalism

[symbol is presented here of the inverted Nazi Wolfsangel sign]

The main idea of mystical Social Nationalism is its creation, consisting not of piles of separate individuals united mechanistically into something called “Ukrainian” and the presence of Ukrainian passport, but instead a single National biological organism, which will consist of a new people — a physically, intellectually and spiritually more highly developed people. From the mass of individuals will thus come forth the nation, and the faint start of modern man: Superman.

Social Nationalism is based on a number of fundamental principles that clearly distinguish it from other right-wing movements. This triad is: socialism, racism, imperialism.

I. Socialism. We fight to create a harmonious national community. We argue that cutting social rozmezhovanist leads to decay and disintegration of Spirit of the national community, as well as fostering selfishness. We vidmitayemo being rich (provided the wealth acquired by them fair and socially useful work), but rejected the possibility of the poor. Every Ukrainian irrespective of the nature of the work should have a decent social status and material security. “I am ashamed to be poor in a rich country, even more ashamed to be rich in a poor country.”

On the principle of socialism follows our complete negation of democracy and liberalism, which generate rozbytthya Nation isolated on gray power unit and a crowd of famous personalities (ochlocracy). Instead, we put forward the idea of national solidarity, the natural hierarchy and discipline, as the basis of our new society.

Not a “democratic vote” crowd, who can not give councils to their own life, much less to the life of the State, but instead natural selection of the best representatives of the Nation — born-leaders as Ukraine’s leaders. Anyone who believes that this system of government is unacceptable, let him think, and if acceptable modern power system in which the prostitute and the Academy have equal say where degraded addict or gay equally valued in the election of the commander of the armored division. People by nature are born with different abilities and abilities and therefore the greatest happiness of man — when it finds its own place in the national hierarchy and conscientiously fulfills its purpose in life.

II. Racism. All our nationalism is nothing — just a castle in the sand — without reliance on the foundation of blood Races. Traditional (postwar, postounivskomu) nationalism has put the cart before the horse – claim that the nation is linguistic, cultural or territorial and economic phenomenon. We certainly do not exclude the value of spiritual, cultural and linguistic factors, as well as territorial patriotism. But our deep conviction is that all this only derivatives from our race, our racial nature. If Ukrainian spirituality, culture and language are unique, it is only because our racial nature is unique. If Ukraine will become paradise on earth, it is only because our Race turned it so.

Accordingly, treatment of our national body should start with racial purification of the Nation. And then in a healthy body can be regenerated a Race healthy national spirit, and its culture, language and everything else. Apart from the question of purity, we must pay attention to matters of usefulness to Races. Ukrainians — it’s part (and one of the largest and highest quality) of the European White Races. Races that produce a great civilization, the highest human achievement. The historic mission of our Nation, a watershed in this century, is thus to lead the White peoples of the world in the final crusade for their survival. It is to lead the war against Semites and the sub-humans they use.

III. Imperialism. We change the slogans “Independent Ukraine,” “United Ukraine” and “Ukrainians,” by an imperial nation that has a long history. Throughout its existence, the Ukrainians had at least two superpowers – Great Scythia and Kievan Rus. The task of the present generation is to create a Third Empire [a Ukrainian Third Reich] — Great Ukraine. This question, oddly enough, is not so much political as biological. Any living organism in nature seeks to expand, reproduce itself, increase its numbers.

This law is universal and Paramecium caudatum, and for the person and for the Nation-Race. Suspension means extinction in nature — death. The slowdown in population growth leads to biological death of Nations, the suspension of political expansion, and decline of the state. Thousands of times we have heard stenannya pseudo-nationalist oppression of us Poles and Moscow, their curses to the empires.

Social Nationalism is not so, he says – if we are strong, we take what is ours by right and even more, we will build a superpower empire — Great Ukraine, which is the legal successor of the Scythian and Kiev Russian empires. If we are weak, we place among the conquered peoples dying. As things are in nature! The choice is ours!

So, Social Nationalism raises to shield all old Ukrainian Aryan values forgotten in modern society. Only their recovery and implementation by a group of fanatical fighters can we lead to the final victory of European civilization in the world struggle.

This stand is right, and can not be otherwise!

Glory to Ukraine!

Andrei Beletsky

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World War 3 in Ukraine

Incredible video shot in Uglegorsk just after it was taken by the NAF (the militia).

In the first half of the video, things are mostly calm as men mill around in the center of the burning town.

In the second half of the video shot at night with infrared cameras, the NAF comes under heavy fire by GRAD MLRS systems. This is a truly terrifying Russian multiple rocket launcher that is referred to as “hail.” More like hail of death. That is one of the scariest weapons I have ever seen. Puts most ordinary artillery to shame.

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Ukraine War Update January 31, 2015

Ukraine advantages: More men. Air power (not in use). Number of fighters unknown.

Novorussian (NAF) advantages: More equipment. Better equipment. Better morale. 30,000 fighters.

Click to enlarge. Please refer to this map to locate the cities and towns discussed in the post. All locations discussed in the post can be found easily on the map.

Click to enlarge. Please refer to this map to locate the cities and towns discussed in the post. All locations discussed in the post can be found easily on the map.

The fighting recently has centered on an area called the Debaltsevo pocket. 3,000 Novorussian troops are close to surrounding, but have not yet surrounded 8,000 Ukrainian troops who are trapped there. Roadblocks are being set up. Just now, Marinovka was captured by the militia. The Ukies say they will fight to the end in Debaltsevo. They are very heavily dug in, and it will not be easy to take the city. If the militia can close off the Debaltsevo pocket, they can turn it into a cauldron. The militia has an overwhelming superiority in artillery that it is using to great benefit. 90% of Ukie casualties in Debaltsevo are due to artillery.

The Ukies have been trying desperately to resupply the forces in Debaltsevo via Artemovsk. The road is still open and resupply is ongoing, but it is under constant  artillery attack by the NAF. The militia now have some, but not total control over the Debaltsevo-Artemovsk road to the extent that they are able to rain artillery, albeit inaccurately down on it. Just now, there is a report of a Ukie column trying to get to Debaltsevo but is stuck on the road under artillery fire and unable to advance further. However, the road is not yet closed, and Ukie traffic continues to run the gauntlet back and forth from Debaltsevo. The road will probably be cut soon, probably at Logvinovo.

The video above shows a militia mortar team attacking a group of Ukies coming to reinforce the Debaltsevo force.

There are only about 3,000 people left in Debaltsevo, and people are leaving all the time. They will have to run a gauntlet of militia artillery to get out via the road. The latest news is that the Ukies have lost control of northeastern Debaltsevo to the attacking militia. The militia is offering the 8,000 Ukie troops in Debaltsevo the opportunity to surrender. However, the Ukies will probably not take the offer as the politicians running the war have ordered that Debaltsevo, like the airport and Ilovaysk before it, must be held at all costs.

The Debaltsevo garrison is in bad shape. Most Ukie heavy weaponry such as artillery and armored vehicles, were destroyed a few days ago. A lesser but still great number of tanks have also been taken out. The Ukies lack self-propelled heavy artillery which would be necessary for the defense of the city. It is simply a matter of time before the city is overrun and the defenders are either killed or captured. At the moment, the militia is in the northeast Debaltsevo and there is very heavy fighting in southern and eastern parts of the city.

Above is the first actual proof of militia presence in Debaltsevo. It shows militia members driving a captured Ukie BMP vehicle on the outskirts of Debaltsevo.

The militia also recently took Uglegorsk to the west after a very heavy battle. The now control almost all of the city, however, there are still some Ukies in the Uglegorsk suburbs. There is very heavy fighting still in this area with a lot of tanks involved. Both sides have suffered serious losses in this battle and sadly, there have also been many civilian casualties.

The militia took quite a few Ukie prisoners in Uglegorsk. The loss of Uglegorsk was a significant defeat for the Ukies. Today, Donbass Battalion forces moved from Debaltsevo towards Uglegorsk in an attempt to counterattack militia forces there. The militia opened fire on the attackers with MLRS, pinning the group to the ground.

Above, another large militia column in Uglegorsk. Three damaged militia tanks are in the foreground. The militiaman in the video is saying, “We are going to repair these tanks and fight as far as we can go.”

At the same time Uglegorsk was taken, Luganskiy to north end of the pocket near Svetlodarsk was also taken.

There is an extremely heavy battle going on now for the town of Chernuhino with street to street fighting in the center of the city. Just now, the militia stormed all Ukie checkpoints in town. The NAF now controls 80% of the town.

The town of Vergulevka to the northeast of Debaltsevo was finally taken by the militia after several days of battle. Reports that the militia had taken it several days ago were in error. The Ukies are heavily dug in nearby with multiple layers of defense and a lot of armored vehicles and artillery. Both sides took heavy losses in the battle for the town.

The militia just took the entire town of Nikishno which the Ukies had held since August. The militia suffered substantial losses in this battle. A Ukie counterattack was not successful.

The area of the Debaltsevo pocket is where most of the fighting is. There are reports of Ukies abandoning their positions, and there are also a number of defectors. A Ukie unit in this region recently changed sides, went over to the militia and helped the militia take a town. There were reports of artillery fire between the Ukies and the volunteer Nazi battalions.

To the north in Artemovsk where the Ukie field hospitals are located, there is a steady stream of Ukie wounded pouring in from the Debaltsevo pocket. The hospitals are in poor shape, but medics are working very hard. It is an ugly scene.

The Ukies are bombarding the city of Gorlovka with artillery. The fire is terrorist fire aimed at the city itself or civilian structures in the city. There was a 4 hour bombardment last night. All of the population is in shelters. The Ukies are also firing artillery at the city of Enakievo. The Ukies continue to control the city of Svetlodarsk which the militia are trying to capture to seal off the pocket. The militia have the city surrounded on three sides.

There are heavy battles going on in Minorovsky and Mironovka, both held by the militia. Militia-held Krasny Panzak is also under attack and there is fighting in the town.

The Ukies finally succeeded in capturing the city of Troitskoe to the northeast of the Debaltsevo pocket. Fighting was fierce here and the militia suffered heavy losses. A huge battle for the city of Popasnaya has been going on for some time. Neither army controls the city and both have sustained heavy casualties in the battle for the town. The militia is running short on ammunition in this battle.

There are artillery duels in the area of Nizhee, Kyrimskoe and Gorskoe, all controlled by the Ukies. To the south is a no man’s land. A lot of battles with heavy casualties on both sides have taken place over some checkpoints in the area, especially Checkpoint 31. The militia efforts to capture Kyrimskoe, ongoing for a week now, have stalled.

Both armies are pretty battered in this part of the front.

The front line is holding in the area of Schaste – Stanitska – Luhanskaya-Slavyanoserbsk. Artillery duels go back and forth, but the line doesn’t really change. Nevertheless, the Ukies have been taking serious casualties in Schaste for some reason.

To the west of Gorlovka, there is very heavy fighting going on in Maryorsk and Shumni, towns which are controlled by neither army. The militia are trying to bust through to the city of Dzherzinsk. They have reached the eastern outskirts but have been unable to go much further.

South of Gorlovka, the town of Ozeryanovka was taken a few days ago. Artillery maps confiscated from the Ukies showed that the Ukies were deliberately targeting civilian targets such as restaurants, churches and markets in Gorlovka. Krazny Partisan was taken by the militia earlier.

West and north of Donetsk, there is extremely heavy fighting going on in the area around the airport in Peski, Opyinoe and Avkeevka. All three towns are controlled by the Ukies, however, the NAF have taken part of Peski. The militia have been trying to take Peski for some time now with no success. They complain that the Ukies are hiding behind civilian shields. A major militia offensive to capture Avkeevka was repelled by the Ukies with serious losses by the militia. The militia also took heavy losses in Peski. The Ukies are also using human shields in this town.

There is also heavy fighting going on in Spartask, controlled by the militia. Some forward Ukie forces are still in Yasinovataya, where heavy fighting is still ongoing although the city is supposedly controlled by the militia. The militia recently took the railroad station in the center of town. The militia is said to have lost a couple of towns in this area, but I am not sure which ones.

Heavy fighting continues in Marinka. Reports that the militia had taken the town were in error. Neither side controls the city and the situation is stalemated.

East of Donetsk, Ukie artillery rains down on the city of Makeevka, controlled by the militia. There have been huge militia convoys of Russian vehicles moving through Makeevka recently, destination unknown but possibly heading towards the front near the airport.

In Donetsk, the Ukies continue to engage in terror shelling. These are not shells that go astray. The Ukies shoot at the city itself with no targets in mind. There were 10 Ukie reconnaissance squads operating behind enemy lines in Donetsk out of vans, mortaring the city. 8 of them have been rolled up. Locals are cooperating with the militia in locating these saboteurs.

South of Donetsk, the Ukies are hammering the cities of Elenovka, Dokuchaevsk and Telmanovo with artillery. Once again, these are terror shelling aimed at the cities themselves. Ukies have also been trying to break through militia lines at Elenovka and Dokuchaevsk, but they have not been successful, and the Ukies suffered important losses in Elenovka. There are heavy battles going on in Novotroitskoe southwest of Dokuchaevsk which is controlled by the Ukies. These are mostly artillery duels. Just now, there are heavy troop movements south of Dokuchaevsk. A major Ukie operation to capture the city and areas south of it may be coming soon.

From Dokuchaevsk south to Mariupol, nothing is going on at the front line other than reinforcement of positions. After the Ukie artillery attack on Mariupol that caused 125 civilian casualties, there has been no fighting in Mariupol. However, the Ukies feel that the militia is getting ready for a huge push to take the city. Drones are overhead constantly. These are apparently Russian drones and the presence of them now is seen as a harbinger of an impending militia attack.

Both sides are fighting very hard and very well. The Ukie performance in the field is much better than it was last summer. Also they have massively reinforced their positions. The militia are also fighting very well, quite professionally. One wonders if Russian military advisors are helping them.

There are heavy casualties on both sides, especially in the Debaltsevo pocket and near the airport. Both sides are probably suffering equivalent casualties.

The supply train of equipment from Russia is going full blast. There appear to be some Russian soldiers in this mix, but there are no regular Russian fighting units. Some draftees are being pressured to “volunteer” to go to Novorussia, but not all of them want to go. Poroshenko’s claim that there are 9,000 Russian soldiers in the area is in error. The true number may be 3,000. Tanks with Russian flags and a tank with the emblem of Russian military intelligence have been seen in Uglegorsk recently. There are also videos of what Ukies claim are Russian soldiers. How they determined this is not known. The video in question was also shot in Uglegorsk.

There are huge convoys of Russian military vehicles moving about in various locales in Western Russia. Where they are headed is not known.

Above is a large convoy of Russian military vehicles on the move in the Belgorad region of Russia, destination unknown. Ukies and the Western media like to go on and on about how all of the Russian humanitarian convoys are fake and are really military convoys disguised as humanitarian. However, all humanitarian convoys are exactly that. The Russian military convoys are quite blatant and simply drive right across the border with no attempt made to disguise them.

Above, a massive rebel column in Makeevka, possibly going to the front lines near the airport. All or most all of these vehicles have probably arrived from Russia recently. Whether the crews of these vehicles are militia or Russians is not known, but probably most of them are militia.

On the other hand, the Ukies are going to run into some serious ammunition problems soon. The army has been stocked with old USSR stores, which seem to be running out. The current ammo was made in the 1960’s. The current ammo will only last maybe three months before the Ukies start running into a serious ammo shortage. Every working or reparable military vehicle, tank or APC is already at the front and there are no replacements for them.

The Ukie government recently declared a state of emergency in Donetsk and Lugansk. This means the area is under martial law. The government also issued an order to allow officers to shoot Ukie troops who are guilty of insubordination. This implies that many Ukie conscripts do not wish to fight much or at all and are fleeing when attacked.

The Ukies have started draft call-ups in Kramatorsk, a Donetsk city they control, but there have been protests against that as the residents support the militia.

There is massive draft evasion ongoing in Ukraine, as many thousands of men are fleeing, hiding or leaving the country. Putin has announced that Russia is open for any Ukrainian men wishing to dodge the draft.

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Neoconservative Central

Center for Security Policy.

As you can see looking at the authors, the group is a mixture of Jews and non-Jews, but considering Jews are only 2% of the US, the CSP must be 50% Jewish. Nevertheless, there are many non-Jews in the group who share an agenda with the Jews.

CSP was originally a hardline Cold War group that grew out of the Reagan Era’s stepped up war on the USSR. Paul Nitze (gentile), Frank Gaffney (gentile), Richard Perle (Jewish), Paul Wolfowitz (Jewish), and Jeane Kirkpatrick (gentile) were some of the big Reagan era names that continued on in the 1990’s, graduating from Reagan era Cold Warriors to the new War On Terror nonsense of the 2000’s and 2010’s. Later members included Roger Noriega (gentile), Newt Gingrich (gentile), John Bolton (gentile) and Donald Feith (Jewish).

CSP’s current concerns are a fanatical obsession with Iran and extreme anti-Muslim fearmongering, along with a focus on combating extremist Islam which in itself is laudable. Looking at the front page, you can see that the connection with Netanyahu and the Israeli Right is still very strong. One article appears to be actually authored by the Israeli ambassador himself!

As you can see, the big names are a mix of Jews and non-Jews, but they all share a strong alliance with the Israeli Right represented in the flesh now by the very reactionary Netanyahu. I do not think most Americans realize how far right Netanyahu is. He is like an Israeli George W. Bush for lack of a better comparison.

It was from here and a few other organizations that the entire neocon project was launched during the 1990’s. It was from these groups that such seminal documents as Securing the Realm and the founding document of the Project for the New American Century.

Another huge group is called JINSA (Jewish Institute for National Security Affairs).

The entire neocon project of the 2000’s, including the Iraq War itself, was cooked up by just a few of these organizations. I imagine that we can pin down maybe 25 people in Washington and Tel Aviv who were primarily responsible for setting the stage for the Iraq War. And yes, many but not all of them were Jewish.

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False Flag Attacks with Emphasis on the Syrian Chemical Weapons Case and Two Recent Incidents in the Ukraine

Kevin M. writes:

So these “psychopathic” false flaggers -those in charge- are so powerful that they manipulate news stories for there own benefit to influence public opinion? Sorry, that is batshit crazy at the level you are suggesting. Government agencies (at least in the U.S.) do not have that much competence or secrecy, and I doubt they could anywhere in the western world. Even if you are suggesting that governments don’t actually do such things, the group(s) would need their aid and the aid of the media in general. The rabbit hole would run to China. It’s not there.

Perhaps you should look at the idea that people invent conspiracies to explain their world. It’s been going on a long time. Many of them aren’t even compatible but that doesn’t stop adherents from believing strongly. I’m not saying things always go as presented or leaders don’t lie but at least keep your beliefs within the realm of reality. Seriously, why do you think these “false flags” (the type we are talking about) don’t get mainstream support? The public may be dumb and brainwashed but they don’t buy bullshit wholesale.

Your suggestion that Ukraine would do well to kill all the Jews to get peace tells me a lot about your worldview.

I think Kevin misunderstands the nature of a false flag attack.

The M17 Jetliner – A Classic False Flag

A classic false flag attack is when the Ukrainians, probably with US support, deliberately shot down the M17 jetliner and then blamed it on the Russians. Now that is a real false flag. Commit a depraved act, then blame it on the enemy.

The Syrian Sarin Gas Chemical Weapons Attack

Another false flag attack was the fake chemical weapons attack supposedly by Assad’s regime in a suburb of Damascus in which 1,500 people were killed. But there were no chemical weapons shells fired at that suburb by the state on that day. In fact, Assad has never once used chemical weapons on his people during this war.

What happened was with the assistance of Turkey, Al-Nusra somehow released some sort of crude sarin gas that they had onto the neighborhood. Doses were so low as to not even adversely effect health but high enough to give Sarin levels in the blood. The British intelligence proved that the Sarin did not come from Assad’s regime because all of his Sarin has a particular chemical signature and the Syrian Sarin attack lacked that. Instead this was sort of a bathtub type Sarin that you cook up in a garage somewhere. Al-Nusra had previously been caught with a batch of Sarin in Turkey that looked a lot like this stuff – home-brewed Sarin.

We know that Turkey was in on it too. Soon after the attack, the sleazy lying Israelis said that they intercepted a phone call from Syrian Defense Headquarters wanting to know which unit had given the order to fire chemical weapons. They probably just made this up as it is doubtful that this phone call even took place since there was no attack in the first place.

There is a good article by Seymour Hersch that explains the whole fake attack. Anyway, MI5 concluded that Assad didn’t do the Sarin attack but they did not say who did it.

The West Tries to Frame An Innocent Assad

They relayed this information to the US, and Obama got it. Obama was going to go to Congress for authorization for air strikes against Assad (this is why the false flag was done – to gin up support for US involvement in the war), however, when he received the information, he concluded that Assad did not do it so he could not go to Congress for authorization. Of course, Obama never told the American people this. In fact, he continued to browbeat Assad for using chemical weapons even though by now Obama knew Assad did not do it.

So the US was framing and attempting to persecute an innocent party. An agreement was then negotiated to force Syria to get rid of its chemical weapons on the grounds that it used chemical weapons on its people. The Russians helped negotiate this deal. The US and UK were very important in this deal also. They said that if Assad did not give up his chemical weapons, the US was going to bomb his forces. So they persecuted Assad for a chemical weapons attack he did not even do even after they knew he did not do it. Sleazy!

How the “Sarin Victims” Really Died

After the sarin was released, al Nusra apparently murdered hundreds of government supporting civilians that it had detained in that district. The rebels including al Nusra often abduct whole villages of government supporters and then truck them around the country as hostages for months. It is not know what happens to all of them, but at least some of them are killed.

The prisoners were taken to a basement room where gas cylinders were in place, the doors were then locked, and the hostages were gasses with either carbon monoxide or sulfur dioxide. Some of the hostages may have been killed before they were taken down there as same had signs of having their throats slit. Others had been shot, beaten to death or killed with knives. Anyway they were gassed and then oxygen was released from the cylinders so the bodies could be retrieved. The bodies were taken up to the roof of the building and this is where you see all of those photos of the “chemical weapons attack victims” wrapped up in white.

There were no 1,500 rebel supporting civilians killed. No rebel supporting civilians were killed. Instead maybe 600 government supporting civilians were gassed to death and killed in other ways and then presented as pro-rebel civilians.

Western Media Role in the Syrian Sarin Attacks

The media and apparently the whole world bought this lie, although some of us conspiracy folks were calling bullshit on this from the very start.

As far as whether the media knew that the chemical weapons attack was fake, they probably did not. It is not known if they got the new information from the British, but there is a large US CIA/Deep State propaganda campaign out to discredit the new evidence and continue to blame Assad. Probably the media just reports whatever the CIA and the State Department says as absolute fact and don’t even bother to find out if it’s true or not. As the media people all wanted to blame Assad anyway, they are simply inclined to believe that he did the attack and dismiss the excellent evidence absolving him of this crime.

Two Recent False Flags in the Ukraine

The recent false flags in the Ukraine are not really false flags. In both cases, civilians (actually pro-rebel civilians) were accidentally killed by Ukrainian forces, once by accident when they ran into a land mine and the second time also by accident when a shell fell short in Mariupol. Instead of admitting that these civilians were killed by Ukrainian forces by accident, the Ukies simply blamed the rebels for both incidents. In the case of the land mine, they lied and said a rebel shell killed the people. In the Mariupol case, they said the shells were fired by the rebels, not them. So this is a case of blaming the opposition for your own screwups that cause civilian deaths.

Large rallies were held in Kiev commemorating the victims of the landmine attack. The rallies blamed the attack on the Novorussians, who were actually innocent. Here is a stupid BBC article framing the Novorussians for an attack by Ukrainians.

The Western Media’s Role in False Flag Attacks

The media probably knows nothing. Most of the media is part of the Deep State anyway, which the foreign policy elite who are the people who really run this country. The CIA pays off many journalists and supposedly owns a number of media outlets outright. Operation Mockingbird, uncovered in 1972, revealed that many or most of the top US journalists, editors and publishers had been on the CIA payroll for many years. Mockingbird was shut down but supposedly it continues under a new name. Perhaps it is a false flag in the sense of framing and attempting to persecute an innocent party for an act you did yourself.

The US government apparently just repeated the lies of the Ukies and I suppose the rest of the West did too. All of the Western media probably just repeated the lies of their governments, which were probably copied from the Ukies. So in these cases, the liars may not even know that they are lying.

The Media and the Government Are One Entity

The Deep State and the US elite are pretty much the same thing. The US elite are part of the Deep State. So really the US elite/Deep State own all of the major media in the US. The CIA is part of the Deep State. So it is the same folks running the State Department, the CIA, the Pentagon, the US 1%, the top corporations and all of the media. It is the same group of people. So the government doesn’t have to manipulate anyone since the government and press are run by the same folks so in essence are really the same thing.

The media may not lie so much as just repeat government bullshit and lies as fact and not bother to figure out if they are being lied to or not. This is especially easy and the government lies happen to coincide with the ideology of the media.

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The Golden Rule

He who has the gold, makes the rules.

He who has the gold, makes the rules.

Apparently a smart move by Mr. Putin, but can someone please tell me why he is doing this and how it is to his advantage?

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On the Civil War in Syria

Still wondering who to support?

From the Internet:

1. FSA/SNC puppets and bitches of the West, and if they win in Syria, they will turn Syria into another Western proxy state in the Middle East.

2. Jahbat al Nusra (moderate level retarded) or ISIL (high level retarded) who are in essence Khawarij, and if they win will turn Syria into a Taliban failed state shithole.

Take your pick son, an honest Muslim would reject both of these scum, and settle for:

3. Bashar Assad’s regime.

This is crucial.

As you can see, most Syrians seem to regard the FSA as pro-Western sellouts who will reverse Syria’s foreign policy and line up with the US and the rest of the West. Syria is one of the leaders of what is known as The Axis of Resistance in the region, including the Palestinian armed groups, Hezbollah, Syria and Iran. If the FSA takes over, they have sworn to sever all ties to Hezbollah and Iran (as the FSA are Sunnis and the former are Shia). Most Syrians do not want to sever ties with Iran and Hezbollah and are quite happy to be aligned with them.

Not only do the FSA have no support, they often work alongside the Islamists like al Nusra and the Islamic Army, and there are frequent defections of thousands of men at a time over to al Nusra or ISIS. Also most of the weapons going to the FSA seem to find their way to the hands of the Islamists.

The FSA are not exactly seculars. They have been involved in many massacres in Syria, often working alongside al Nusra and other Islamists. They like to chop off heads. There are many photos on the Net of FSA troops holding the severed heads of Syrian Army troops. Although some FSA supporters say that those photos are faked, they may in fact be genuine. The FSA also likes to slaughter villagers in very horrible ways. The Syrian Christians say that the FSA is the enemy of the Syrian Christian people. Originally there were Christians in the FSA, including an entire battalion. Now there are zero.

There was even an Alawite faction in the FSA. All of the Alawites have left and have lined up with the regime. All of the Druze and Ismaili Shia are lining up with Assad. The Kurdish factions are not Assad-friendly, but they are not fighting the regime either. There is a de facto ceasefire between the regime and the Kurds. The regime has withdrawn from Kurdish territory and has effectively ceded these lands to the Kurds at least for now.

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Latest on the M17 False Flag

From the Internet:

Anyone familiar with the USA false flag procedures would acknowledge that what the USA and the sleazy, untrustworthy MSM did in the immediate aftermath of the downing of Flight 17 and see the commotion for what it was – an attempt to frame the separatists and also Russia. The lies went on nonstop for days with no proof offered, like the fraudulent ‘conversation’ allegedly recorded between some Russian general and a separatist leader.

That got outed within a few days, leaving the US spokeswomen hinting at some revelations to come, but for now, “Trust us, would we lie to you?” as a way to make and open and shut case. The preposterous story of the Russians secretly moving a BUK into Donbass, shooting down an airliner and then secretly moving it out is how propaganda works.

If you check the ‘paper of record,’ the New York Times, you’ll see it shut up several weeks after the psyops, and hasn’t uttered a word since about Flight 17, like most MSM outlets. But at first, when they were spinning the Big Lie, they couldn’t shut up about how Russia was the one and Vlad some kind of Hitler reincarnation.

Add in the shelling of the crash site by Kiev to prevent any investigation of the wreckage, and it all points toward a USA-Kiev False Flag to demonize Russia and Vlad. The NWO goons in DC and London want the Crimea badly and will stop at nothing to steal that prime peace of real estate even if it involves shooting down a jetliner.

By the way, has anyone heard the Kiev Tower radio traffic, and can anyone explain why Flight 17 was rerouted that day to fly 100 km further south, putting it right over the danger zone?

I feel sure that only parts of the wreckage that fit the script will be removed, and any analysis will be superficial. It should be obvious to everybody that within days if not hours of MH17 crashing, forensic analysis of the ‘projectiles’ and their propellant lodged in the bodies and wreckage would be available. This would include chemical explosive residue, missile shrapnel, expanding rods, tungsten 30mm cannon shell fragments – all material not found in a Boeing 777 and readily available for retrieval and independent analysis by multiple labs. As I have said before, that this was not done (or done covertly) is indicative of a massive coverup. Speculation is easy, but what are the real reasons?

I agree with almost everything in this post, but I am still wondering if the US was actually in on the shooting down of this jet or if they just helped cover it up afterwards? The fact that we were in on this at all was one of the principle reasons why I have truly lost faith in my country anymore. I suppose I am an America-hater now. Oh well.

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Filed under Eurasia, Europe, Journalism, Regional, Russia, Ukraine, USA, War

“The Lawyer’s Yoni,” by Joey Hirsch

New story by Joey Hirsch. I like this story, even though this is not my sort of sex fantasy. It is a bit long, so be forewarned. Adults only and NSFW.

The Lawyer’s Yoni

I wrote this seven-thousand (!) plus word piece the other night. Maybe it’s a vestige of Catholic school guilt, or something, but I think this will be the last bit of erotica I write. I need to turn whatever meager talents I have back to more productive pursuits.

The only sound in the room was water coursing down the four tiers of the fountain behind Grayson. The lawyer was quite proud of his water feature, and he drew much solace from it on normal days. This, however, wasn’t a normal day. His client was about to commit suicide, he was convinced.

Grayson pushed away from his desk, floating in his leather swivel chair across the smooth carpet of his penthouse office. “Paul, if you go in there, she’ll eat you alive.”

Paul Truman shook his head, slid forward in his own seat, and placed his elbows on top of his divorce lawyer’s desk. “Look. It’s pretty cut and dry. My wife married me while agreeing to the prenup. She knew I had more than five-hundred million in assets to protect when we got hitched.”

The lawyer stood up from his swivel chair, walked to the window, and stared down on the streets of Manhattan. His client’s voice came from behind him while he watched the streets. “Alright, we got drunk on Champagne one night on the Riviera, and I may have promised her that I would waive the prenup, and give her half when we parted ways.”

Truman grinned, stood up out of his chair, and walked over to his lawyer where he stood by the window. He placed a hand on Grayson’s right shoulder and said, “But that was an oral agreement, between us, when we were both drunk.” Truman smiled, reassured by his own words. He wondered why his lawyer wasn’t reassured.

He turned from Grayson, and his prized view of the city. He walked toward the door of the lawyer’s office, said, “I’m going to go see Michelle and her lawyer right now, and tell them that I have no recollection of a promise I made to my wife, and that she has no proof that such a conversation took place.”

Grayson turned from the window, shook his head. Paul Truman continued, undeterred. “I’ll offer a cash settlement of ten-million, tell wifey she can have the chalet.” He stuffed his hands into the pockets of his Armani slacks. “In return, she agrees to the settlement, we don’t go to court, and my good name doesn’t get dragged through the mud.” He smiled, revealing those ionized white teeth that went with that perfect skin, exfoliated in seaweed and mud on a daily basis. Those treatments, Grayson knew, cost more than one of his billable hours.

“What’s the worst that could happen?” Truman asked. He was still smiling, and his lawyer felt pity for him. Grayson walked across the length of his office.

“What’s the worst that could happen?” the lawyer asked. “Rachel Silverman can happen.” He squared himself to his client, so close now that each man could smell the other’s aftershave. “Rachel Silverman will happen to you if you go to her office and try to negotiate in person.”

Paul waved his right hand, laughed, tugged his houndstooth scarf. “Spare me, Martin.” He turned from his lawyer, grabbed the door handle, pausing once more before he went. “I’ve heard all the stories. ‘Rachel Silverman’s a shark. No man’s ever locked horns with her and lived to tell the tale’.” He shook his head.

Grayson remained unamused, followed his client out into the hall, talking to his back as Paul Truman made for the bank of elevators nestled in lobby. “Laugh all you want, Paul. Listen,” Grayson said, jogging after his client.

Now he kept his voice pitched sotto voce, aware that there was business being conducted in the other offices. “Every man who’s gone into her office has given up half, at least. I mean every one.”

Paul ignored his lawyer, hit the “down” button on the elevator and waited. Grayson kept trying. “I don’t know whether it’s blackmail or black magic, but Silverman has some kind of ace in her hole.”

A chime rang out, and an elevator arrived. Paul Truman hopped on, tugged the ends of his designer scarf one last time, and winked. He pressed the “Ground” button and spoke one last time to his lawyer. “Relax, Grayson. She’s got no leverage on me. I never dabbled in insider trading, drugs, or homosexuality, and I never cheated on her.” He whistled once. “Squeaky clean.”

The doors started closing, and his last words carried faintly to his lawyer. “I’ll offer her the chalet, ten million, and not a penny more.”

The elevator deposited Paul Truman on the ground floor, and he walked through the revolving glass doors, out into the bracing cold of midtown Manhattan in winter. Steam rose from the grates, and through the mist he discerned a cab. He held up his gloved hand and hopped in the backseat.

He leaned forward and gave the Pakistani hack the address, a Court Street location in Brooklyn. He sat back and grinned. This was going to be a cinch. The prenup had specified Michelle got the chalet if their marriage was terminated in less than ten years. And, since they had only made it three and a half before she filed, citing “irreconcilable differences,” she would be getting the home (with an estimated worth of 3.5 million, in a buyer’s market), in addition to his generous offer of another ten-million dollars in cash to soften the blow.

Paul Truman wasn’t the only one with pride to salvage, after all, or face to save, and he thought Michelle Brackman would find his offer more than satisfactory. As to all the legends about Rachel Silverman’s undefeated streak, well, if there was anyone who was going to upset her applecart, it would be Paul Truman, he who had revolutionized the world’s back-to-back commodities trading market. He had bested sheiks, dictators, and Mafiosos in business deals. One more lawyer would be a walkover.

The cab halted in front of the Court Street address, and Paul paid the cabbie and got out. He glanced up once at the imposing granite building where his wife and the lawyer were waiting. Pigeons scattered from the eaves as the wind picked up, and a female doorman with a pillbox hat and a power suit greeted him with a crisp little salute.

“Hello, sir.” She beamed, and Paul Truman watched her with guarded suspicion. He rarely encountered female doormen, and never before one so attractive. Her skin had a Gothic pallor to it, accented by her black lipstick, and her dark eyes were obsidian, lips blood red. She grinned as he walked past her, and he thought he detected the slightest sneer on her face.

He recognized the décor of the lobby as minimalist luxury, and the few furnishings looked like Bauhaus relics, Gropius eggs and pedestals. He wasn’t one to easily impress, but even he found it hard to breathe as walked toward the elevator and came to stand beneath what he was sure was a Klimt original. It was a gold leaf painting of a nude woman, her brown hair coiled like a snake in a pile atop her head, her features impassive and eyes downcast.

The letter board said that Rachel Silverman was on the fifth floor. Paul Truman pushed the “up” arrow and waited for the elevator car, muttering under his breath, cursing Grayson and his melodramatic warnings. He would show Grayson, and this hotshot attorney.

He stifled a vicious smile as it rose to his lips. The killer instinct was necessary in business, but it was also important to hide it sometimes, as well. He would try the velvet glove approach first. Then, if that didn’t work, he would brandish the iron fist.

The elevator opened, revealing a car with four mirrored walls and a floor made of imported Vitruvian marble. He stepped inside, and admired his reflection, pausing for one moment to press the “five” button, before returning to the task of basking in his own beauty.

Paul Truman took a deep breath, adjusted the Windsor knot on his tie, loosening it imperceptibly. The doors opened again, and he stepped out of the elevator, into the fifth floor lobby where a secretary sat behind a highly-lacquered escritoire, filing her nails.

The secretary wore a pinstriped wool ensemble, and cat-eyed vintage glasses. A single black chopstick pierced the golden bun at the back of her head, and her stockings were pale white, like a faint layer of snow. She whistled silently, and continued to run the emery board over her sharp nails.

She, like the doorwoman, was beautiful, he noticed. Paul Truman cleared his throat, but she didn’t take the hint. “Hello,” he said. “I’m Paul Truman.” She looked up at him, unimpressed. That peeved him not a little. He was a well-known businessman, garnering inches in the gossip, fashion, and food columns (since he was also a restaurateur with a stake in several Tribeca eateries).

The secretary didn’t speak, but did at least halt her filing long enough to point with one of those long nails, toward an oaken door, to the side of which was a glass pane, on which was stenciled “Rachel Silverman & Associates.”

“Thank you,” Paul said, hissing a little.

But she didn’t detect the acidulousness, or didn’t care, for she merely mouthed “You’re welcome” with her full, pout y lips before returning to her whistling and filing. Paul Truman briefly debated knocking on the door. That seemed like the proper, polite thing to do, but so far he felt he hadn’t been extended so much as the most modest courtesy, and he therefore decided to push the door open abruptly.

The room was empty, except for two women seated at a small conference table as Spartan as the rest of the furnishings in the rest of the building. Across from the two women and the table there was a leather chair, ribbed like the Shiatsu massage seat he kept in his own office, next to the ersatz crabgrass putting hole.

“Mr. Truman, please have a seat.”

It was the lawyer who spoke. Paul Truman walked forward, intent on going through with his offer, intent on winning, and proving that downer Grayson wrong. First time for everything, he thought, and stepped forward. He worked something like a smile onto his face, although the effort pained him. He extended his hand to the lawyer, but Ms. Silverman’s palm was otherwise engaged, still outstretched toward the leather chair where she bade him sit.

Paul withdrew his own hand and sat, looked at the two women. Michelle was as beautiful as ever, he saw. Her aureate blond hair looked to be made of sunlight itself, and the light dusting of freckles on her cheeks and nose gave her a deceptively innocent look. It was a shame things hadn’t worked out, but that was the way she wanted it.

Motion from beneath the table caught his eye, and he looked down to see his wife’s pedicured digits waving from the open ends of her terracotta-colored peep-toed wedges. She caught him looking, and a slight smile formed on her face. He looked up from her feet, shook his head from left to right quickly, as if waking himself from a haze.

It was time to focus, he knew, play hardball. “Mr. Truman,” the lawyer said. “I want to thank you for coming here to speak with us today.”

“My pleasure,” he said, and shifted against the ribbed leather of the chair. He studied Rachel Silverman now for the first time, this supposed dragon lady. She had sultry features, heavily-lidded, drowsy eyes, as if she was just roused from a deep sleep in which the dreams had all been pleasant. Her eyes were dark, luminous, glowing, and her raven hair was equally lustrous. It was a sexually overpowering contradiction, he thought, in the hair and eyes, that they were so dark and yet shined so brightly.

There was a sneering quality to her mouth, something about the set of the lips, and flaring of her nostrils, that suggested strong appetites and no shame in them, and it appeared almost as if she was constantly glaring down toward the floor at a defeated opponent, who she derived no small bit of satisfaction from conquering.

He watched her lightly stroke the notched lapels of her peplum power suit, before she picked up an intricately-veined fountain pen. Best, he thought, to say his piece and go. Something about this office made him uneasy.

“Ms. Silverman, as I have previously said, I do not recall having any conversation with my wife in which I promised to nullify our previous prenuptial agreement.”

Paul Truman leaned forward in the leather seat. “Notwithstanding that, however, I am tendering what I think is a more than equitable offer to all parties involved.” He looked over at his wife, whose smile was no longer a concealed gesture. She was grinning from ear to ear, and the tip of her tongue darted out between her teeth. Michelle bit the pink, wet flesh of her tongue with the strong ivory of her teeth.

He continued, feeling a little faint now, light-headed. “I am willing to give my wife ten-million dollars, in addition to the mountain retreat that was stipulated in-”

“Mr. Truman,” Ms. Silverman said. She leaned forward, and her luminous black hair fell onto the shoulders of her peplum suit.

Paul Truman paused. “Yes?” He thought he had been doing well, and he didn’t like to be interrupted, nor was he accustomed to brooking such impertinence.

The smile on her face was now as wide as that on the face of her client. Rachel Silverman licked her soft, dark lips with her tongue, giving them a natural coat of gloss. Her right eyebrow arched and she leaned forward. “Do you want to know what makes my yoni wet?”

Paul Truman looked over at his wife, his brow furrowed in confusion. “Your…what?” He wasn’t sure he’d heard right.

She pronounced the two syllables slowly, and with such force that there was a pop, as if bubble gum had just exploded in her jaws. “My Yoni…My pussy…My…vagina.” The first word confused him, the second aroused him, and the third startled him. As a man, he’d never been completely comfortable with the word “vagina,” something about the extra syllable it possessed over “penis” acting like an anatomical trump card, vagina beating penis like scissors beating paper.

“I…”

The lawyer spread her legs, so quickly that the rustling of her gray argyle-patterned tights whispered like a ripcord. His eyes were fasted on the stockings, which ran upward from the tops of her espresso-colored leather riding boots, whose buckles jingled once as she spread her legs. She ran her blood-red fingernails, recently manicured, over the satin material of the black garters linking to her thighs.

Rachel Silverman wore no panties, and her pussy was a startling sight, as different from his wife’s as night was from day. Paul Truman found himself transfixed by the flower, and fell from the leather chair, his knees hitting the loop carpet of the office floor with a thud. He heard his wife’s laughter coming from his right, a soft, birdlike clarion that tinkled like ice cubes. Her laughter mocked him, but he couldn’t be angry, couldn’t even look away from the slick, glistening lips of the lawyer’s yoni, which was deep red, as if she had soaked her pussy overnight in expensive claret wine.

He crawled toward it, his wife’s laughter barely reaching his ears where the blood pounded. The voice of the lawyer came to him, however, through the throb of his erection and the stupefying power her pussy exerted on him. It was almost as if the voice was inside of his head, as if it didn’t emanate from her throat, but pulsed in mind-controlling waves from the slick puckered flesh, a single jeweled piercing sparkling from the plump contours of her swollen clit.

“Let me tell you what makes my yoni wet,” Rachel said, her voice coming to him from everywhere and nowhere. “My pussy positively drips when a man honors his obligations to his wife.” His mouth was close to it now, to what she called her yoni, and again, he was struck by how different it was from his own wife’s pussy.

Michelle’s pussy was a thing of beauty, to be sure, but most of its features were in hiding, its character, contours, flesh and responsive nerves concealed inside her body and waiting for his touch to waken it. The lawyer’s yoni was, conversely, a brave and powerful creature, much like the woman herself. His mouth latched onto the dangling, plump lips which protruded from her sweating body. He immediately understood why she was so powerful, why she could not be defied, and why it would be his pleasure to surrender to her.

He licked the thick petals which spilled from her body, open and red curtains unfurling around his mouth, overpowering him like an intoxicating predator whose prey found its death delicious, the poison a delight which paralyzed it with an exhilarant mist, the pungent, natural musk of her body dripping from the clit, and her lips, which were as thick and rubbery in texture as a delicious freshwater clam sprung now from its shell.

“There are two ways we can handle this,” the lawyer said, and her red fingernails gently stroked his ears, grazed his cheeks lightly so that goose bumps appeared on his skin, and he shivered. He removed his mouth from the wet, pink yoni and briefly kissed the moist insides of her thighs, touching the strong, flexed adductor muscles with light pecks. It was a quick ceremony, like a king dubbing a knight, his way to honor and thank her for the pleasure she was granting him.

“You can either fight me, and you will still fall under the spell of my yoni, or…” She took his head in her warm right hand, tickled underneath his chin with her long, manicured nails, and giggled, “You can surrender, accept that no man has the power to resist my goddess yoni, and you will experience ecstasy beyond anything you’ve ever imagined.”

“I surrender,” he said, and his erection grew as if it intended to take flight from his body. He attempted to stroke himself with his right hand through his Armani slacks, and one of his wife’s feet, toes dangling from the wedges, reached out for his crotch. She lightly kicked him there.

“Not yet, you yoni-licking slave.”

“Sorry, goddess,” he stammered to his wife, releasing his hold on his erection, and diving face-first back toward the lawyer’s humid nearest labium. He licked the fleshy edge of the lip, up and down, like a chef savoring traces of a delectable soup on the end of his blade.

“That’s right,” Rachel Silverman said. “Your wife is your goddess, and you’re going to honor her, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” he moaned, grabbed both of the lawyer’s espresso-colored riding boots, pushed their cold leather against the sides of his neck, forcing her muscular, toned thighs tighter around his throat.

The bottoms of his wife’s peep toe wedges fought for space underneath the table, working their way between the leather boots, gracing those parts of his face not planted deep into the sopping pussy, where the clit piercing glistened with the juices leaking from Rachel Silverman’s body. His ex-wife’s toes fluttered in his face, the red polish on the toenails cracked and peeling in places. His wife’s pinky toe wiggled before his eyes when he came up from the lawyer’s yoni for air, and, after Michelle could stop giggling, she said to the lawyer, “I didn’t think he would be this easy. Do they always fall under your spell so fast?”

Paul licked the yoni furiously, pulling his head away from the lawyer’s pussy for a moment, and then diving back toward it, headfirst, as helpless to escape its pull as a filament struggling against a magnet.

“No husband can resist my yoni,” Rachel said. “All men are weak for it. What’s more is they are grateful for the privilege of surrendering to me. Accepting that they are helpless against my power gives them the ultimate pleasure.” She leaned under the table, stuck her tongue into the slight gap between her bone-white teeth. She smiled down at him. “Doesn’t it, my little yoni slave?”

He struggled to say “Yes, goddess,” while the tip of his tongue was firmly placed on the piercing in her clit, and what came out was “Yeth, gaga.” Both women laughed, and he found it impossible to get angry, found his anger automatically converted to pleasure.

Rachel turned to Michelle, speaking to her client above the table while Paul licked her below. “Maybe I should be apologizing to him.”

“For what?” Michelle asked.

“Well, right before this meeting, I went down to the exercise room on the fourth floor, and I spent fifteen minutes on the elliptical.” She giggled, covered the slight, thrilling gap in her white teeth with the red nails of her right hand. “I didn’t have time to take a shower before changing into my business clothes, and now my yoni is all sweaty.”

Paul must have overheard snippets of her conversation, even through the feverish delirium of his licking, for her words increased the speed and force with which he licked, and his ex-wife giggled, lightly tapping the side of his head with her toes peeping from the wedge on her left foot. “Apparently Paul likes the taste of your yoni sweat, because he’s licking even harder now.”

“Okay, Paul,” the lawyer said, leaning down. He saw the glow reflected from the crystal LCD display of a cellphone, the sapphire light spilling over the wool-kissed material of the lawyer’s skirt. “I’m going to call Judge Chambers at home, in a minute. I’m going to tell him you have something to tell him, something you remembered about a promise you made to your wife.” She pushed back from the table, and stood, depriving him of the yoni whose honey he had lapped up gratefully until this moment.

The moisture that had leaked from her body dripped down his mouth, spilled over his glistening chin. He crawled forward, still on his knees, braced himself on the carpet with his elbows, remaining there on all fours. His wife placed both of her legs on his back. He felt the smooth sheen of her ribbed black tights, the vase-like contours of her calves rustling over his back.

“I might as well get some use out of my ex-husband,” Michelle tittered, and Paul remained in place, a footstool for his ex-wife. He looked up at the lawyer, who towered over him, now, a statuesque six-foot one. Her black hair spilled over her drowsy face, heavy-lidded eyes, sensual mouth.

“Goddess?” He panted.

“What?” She crossed one leg over the other where she stood, and the strong muscles of her thighs flexed, making the diamond-shapes of her argyle tights shimmer, and also causing the golden metal buckles of her riding boots to clatter once.

“Your yoni will get wet if I tell the judge to give my wife two-hundred and fifty million dollars?”

She could barely conceal her smile of triumph, as she glanced over at Michelle, who was still relaxing with her stocking-sheathed legs stretched across her husband’s back. Both women finally broke out into loud laughter. Rachel looked back at Paul, the smile still plastered across her face. “Paul, you’re being so compliant, so reasonable. My yoni positively drips for how wonderful you’re behaving toward your ex-wife.”

He attempted to touch his erection with his right hand, and his wife lifted one of the black satin-sheathed calves from his back, raising it just high enough to drop it hard on his spine and punish him. “Not yet!”

“Will…” He panted, took his hand from his cock, and looked up at the lawyer. “Will your yoni get even wetter if…if I give my wife all five-hundred million of my fortune?”

A near-orgasmic groan seized the lawyer, and Rachel ran to Michelle, in order to embrace her client. They shared a deep tongue kiss, wet, pink flesh entwining as the lawyer’s nectarous dark hair spilled and commingled with her client’s blond flowing locks and they licked one-another. Their lips unlocked with a loud suctioning pop, a bead of spit trailing from their mouths as they pulled their beautiful faces apart. Their hands reached for each other, the soft, pink fingers touching and interlocking, manicured nails clicking softly as they made contact.

“I’ve met some men who’ve been fools for my yoni,” Rachel said, grinning, her iced violet lipstick smudged from the recent deep kiss they shared. “But yours is the first to fall so completely under my spell as to give up everything.” She glanced over at Paul, still ensorcelled, spellbound by the taste and scent of her vagina. “I wish all men were so weak, so…easy.”

Michelle stroked the lifelines of her lawyer’s hands, as if she were a palmist delicately reading a fortune there. She glanced back over at her ex-husband, on all fours and waiting for further orders. “Can’t he…hear you?”

“No,” Rachel said, and glanced over at him, smiling. “He is completely under my yoni’s power, deaf to anything I wish him not to hear. And this is women’s business.” She reciprocated the sensuous palm stroking that Michelle began a moment ago, this light grazing of flesh with manicured nails as sensuous as, or more sensuous than the kiss they previously shared. “Our conversation is too complex for the mind of something as simple as a man.” She suddenly unlocked her fingers from the soft, lightly freckled palms of her client.

She came to stand before Paul Truman, so that her leather riding boots bookended him as he looked up, weakened, dazed, his head between her strong, stocking-sheathed thighs.

“You’re doing the right thing, Paul.” She leaned down to him, uncurled her tongue from her mouth and licked the funnel of his ear. “I’m wet down to my ankles at the thought of a man giving his wife everything he has.” She stood back up, finished dialing the judge on her cellphone. “Hello? Judge Chambers? My client’s husband would like a word with you.”

She cackled, letting go of a laugh so deep that she appeared to be possessed for a moment, tilted her head up toward the ceiling. She returned the phone to her ear. “Yes, judge another one.” She leaned down to Paul again, held the phone to his ear. The cellphone practically glued itself to the side of his head, sealed with the spit from where she had licked him, and also with the sticky juices that leaked from her body onto his face as he licked her clit in spasms of slavish delight.

A gruff, stentorian voice came through the phone. “This is Judge Chambers. You say that you-”

“Judge, this is Paul Truman. I just remembered that I promised my wife that she could have all of my money when we got divorced.”

“And you’re sure?”

Briefly, he saw Grayson before his mind’s eye, remembered his earlier promise to close this deal in a way that served his own interests, but when he struggled, fought to change his mind, he saw only the bewitching fuchsia arch over the wet, pierced clit of the yoni, the saturated lips in which he yearned to drown, that voice, the laughter, the condescension that had him spellbound, owned and glad to be a pussy-licking pet who gave up all of his money to his beautiful, blond ex-wife.

“Judge, I am one-hundred percent certain that I promised my wife one-hundred percent of my wealth.”

The sticky phone was pulled from his face a moment later, and he heard Rachel Silverman’s dulcet voice, all honeyed charm for the judge. “Yes, judge. Five-hundred million.” She closed the phone a moment later, walked over to the edge of the table.

Rachel Silverman braced her arms on the wooden surface of the table, leaning her body over it. Paul’s ex-wife walked around behind the lawyer and lifted Rachel’s pinstriped power skirt, so that the crescent moon shape of the lawyer’s ass was visible, the black satin garters tracing upward, stopping just short of a strange Sanskrit tattoo on the point of her vestigial tail, a bit of Devanagari scrollwork curling above her pale derriere.

“Michelle,” Rachel said, “Get your husband to sit up on his knees and bring him over here.”

“Come on, boy.” His ex-wife walked over to Paul, lifted him from all fours, so that he was shimmying on his knees. She led him until he was behind the lawyer, who continued leaning over the lacquered surface of the table, her ass raised high in the air.

Michelle held her ex-husband’s face just inches from the ass and yoni of the as-yet undefeated lawyer. He gazed at the puckering pink starfish shape of her asshole, the ridges pulsing, quivering. Her yoni, covered in a light layer of black commingling hairs, peeked out at him, its contours softened by the doggy style angle, making its form droop outward a bit.

“Now Paul,” Rachel said, “You see that tattoo?” One of her red manicured fingers appeared from the table where a moment before she had been bracing herself on the hardwood, as if preparing to be mounted from the back.

His ex-wife pushed his face closer to inspect the faded India ink design. “Yes goddess.”

Now that she had received a satisfactory answer, Rachel withdrew the red finger from her backside where she had pointed, and continued to brace herself on the table. “Let me tell you a story. I was once a junior partner, not really satisfied with my practice. But then I took a sabbatical to India, and it was there that a tantric goddess taught me how to harness the power of my yoni, and get whatever I wanted from men, to use my power to manipulate their weak minds.” She laughed a gloating, slightly bitter laugh. “It worked, didn’t it?”

“Yes, goddess.”

“Yeah?” She taunted him, wiggled her ass toward his face. His wife pushed the back of his head until his nose was planted in her ass, and his tongue lapped the sacred yoni from the back, savoring the sweat that had worked its way into the bloody, engorged lips earlier in the day as she climbed upward on the elliptical machine with her fatted clit pressed tight against the black spandex of her workout clothes. She squirmed, bucked against him, and his wife shoved his face forward with all of her strength, grunting and laughing as he licked, breathed ass, and tasted pussy.

“Poor Paul,” the lawyer said. “Just another arrogant man who thought he could dictate the terms of a settlement to his wife.” Her sultry laugh came from deep in her hoarse throat, mingling with the pleasured moans elicited by his tongue and nose rubbing, bouncing, and licking her as his hot breath tickled her. “You thought you were just going to come in here and tell me what to do, that you would be the first man to resist my seduction? I’m sure you push women around in your practice, as well.”

Her manicured fingers reached behind her back, found his ears, and jaw, the only portions of his face not submerged in her body, entombed in the ecstatic delights her soft pink contours offered, as they first accepted and then devoured him in ravenous hunger. “Now look at you. Worshiping my yoni, your nose buried in my ass, like a dog. You thought you could insult us, insult your wife’s devotion with a little chalet,” she pronounced the last word with an especial emphasis, giving the two syllables a contemptuous sneer, rubbing her ass harder against his nose as she contemplated the insult that was his initial offer.

She snickered, and as her body convulsed with laughter, her asshole puckered, opening and closing around his nose. “Oh, hey girls!”

His wife pulled Paul’s face out of the lawyer’s ass and pussy, and turned his eyes toward the doorway. He looked over at the impassive secretary with the chopstick in her bun, and the doorwoman with the Gothic pallor and black lipstick.

Michelle allowed her ex-husband this brief reprieve to acknowledge the new guests, both of whom were sneering at him, delightful smiles creeping across their faces. The Gothic doorwoman spoke, her thick black lips pouting. “Yet another man surrenders to the yoni’s power.”

“The way of all flesh,” the secretary observed, her right eyebrow arching ever so slightly, a look of approval washing across her features as she stepped closer to observe this breaking in of another husband-turned-slave.

Michelle, after giving her ex-husband this short reprieve, shoved his head back into its rightful place, the nose diving for the snug pink burrow that latched onto the cartilage of his nose with its warm, tight grip, the yoni waterlogged from incessant pleasure, moisture dripping onto the fleecy black down of the hairs curled on the fatted mound of the goddess’s mons.

His tongue lunged for the glistening clit ring, but the lawyer reached her hand underneath her body, down the front of her power suit, and through her legs. She latched onto the curls of Paul’s hair, saturated with expensive designer product. Rachel gripped the coiffured cockscomb and pulled his hair until his nose came free of her ass, and his face was now nestled deep into the wet, downy blackness of her pubic hair.

“Lick it,” she said.

He obeyed, his tongue making deep, penetrative strokes into the black nest of coiled hair. The sandpapery sound of taste buds commingling with hair made a slight rustle, and the lawyer explained the purpose of her act to Paul’s ex-wife as he licked. “This is so that I will remain on his mind throughout the course of the next day. Tomorrow, every time he picks one of my hairs out of his mouth, he will be reminded of his goddess, and the yoni to which he was willing to give up everything he accumulated throughout the course of his life.”

With that accomplished, she resumed her previous posture, spreadeagled across the desk, and she released her hold on Paul. Michelle took the cue, pushing her husband’s nose back into the lawyer’s ass. His mouth required no guiding and would have lunged back for the lawyer’s yoni even without his ex-wife applying pressure to the back of his head. Rachel Silverman finally looked over to the right, and pointed to the pale doorwoman and the serene secretary.

“All of my girls are being trained to use their yoni power to get what they want from men. Pretty soon, once enough of us are trained, it’ll be over for every man on Earth. We’ll use our power to cloud their minds, until they’re walking around in a haze of sexual submission and servitude. Women are already out-earning men in the workplace. Three women are in medical school or college for every male at this point. Within less than a generation every man will be a domesticated cunnilingus machine, with no function but to serve his female masters.”

She chuckled and his ex-wife pushed Paul’s face deeper, as if she intended to suffocate him. “Now that you don’t have any money, Paul, you’re going to have to make yourself useful somehow.” She turned her head over her left shoulder, made eye-contact with Michelle, who was grinning from ear to ear, her aurous blond hair spilling over her smooth, white freckled face. “I think he’s doing a good job so far!”

“Paul has his law degree,” Michelle said. “Maybe he could work here.” She giggled with the lawyer, and the other two women by the door migrated even closer to watch the slave work on its new master. “I mean, I feel just a teensy, weensy bit bad about taking all of his money. Not too bad, though.”

All four of the women laughed, but the sound was muffled for Paul, whose face was pressed deeper into ass and pussy than he ever thought possible until this moment. Female voices and laughter reached his ears as if he was underwater, and, when one considered how wet the lawyer was, both from his slavish licking and the five-hundred million dollar victory she just achieved, he was certain he was close to drowning.

“Oh, Michelle,” Rachel Silverman said, fighting off the first premonition of an orgasm, as it pulsed through her body in waves. Her open hands moved over the lacquered surface of the wooden table, little waxing and waning circles that grew in size as the unbearable pleasure worked its way through her body and mounted in force and intensity. “We don’t hire male lawyers at our firm. We don’t hire male anything at this firm.”

She looked over at her secretary and doorwoman, winked and licked the space between the gap in her teeth with her tongue. “In this New World Order, where we plan to unleash our yonis upon every unsuspecting male on Earth, a man’s only place is in the home, in the kitchen, cooking, and cleaning while women make all the important decisions and make all of the money.”

She wormed, wriggled, and squirmed against the man who pleasured her with his nose deep in her ass and tongue planted perpetually in her yoni. “Isn’t that right?”

Muffled sounds came from a man who had been worth half a billion dollars less than an hour ago, a man who had closed every business deal to his satisfaction, until he met Rachel Silverman and her divine, unstoppable yoni.

“Now,” she said to Michelle, “I want you to let him touch himself.”

Paul was too deeply engaged in licking and sucking to hear, or even feel. His mind was completely entranced by the yoni, and so Michelle guided his right hand toward his cock, which was swollen and pressed hard up against the fly of his Armani slacks with the force of a dart nestled in a board. She unzipped his pants, and his cock emerged from the humid confines of his boxers and slacks. His penis was large, mushroom-headed, and crawling with veins.

The secretary lightly grazed the circumcised head with her emery board. “This slave does have a nice, big cock.”

“Too bad,” Rachel laughed. “No man may penetrate my yoni.” She addressed Paul with the harsh authority of a disciplinarian. “You may only touch me with your tongue.” She moaned, the speed of her bucking against Paul’s nose and tongue increasing in force and frequency. Now that his cock was free and he had his wife’s permission to pleasure himself, he stroked furiously, beating hard, as small coos of delight, interest, and fascination fell from the lips of the Gothic doorwoman and the formerly blasé secretary, who was aroused enough now to undo the first button of her white blouse.

“Repeat after me,” the lawyer said, to Paul. “‘I may only touch the yoni with my tongue.’”

Paul stroked, moaned, his voice vibrating inside her body, his face hidden between the twin honeydews of her garter-bedecked ass cheeks. He attempted to speak as he licked and worshiped. “I mu uny ta da yoni mi ma ton.”

All of the women laughed. “‘A woman’s place is in the law firm. A man’s place is in the kitchen.’”

“A won pah in in da law form. A ma play in da cotton.”

The secretary leaned closer to Michelle and explained. “This is a process called ‘binding the slave to the yoni’.”

Michelle continued pushing her husband’s face into the lawyer’s ass and yoni. “Binding the slave to the yoni?”

The secretary nodded, and the doorwoman said, “Yes, if you give a man oral sex, obviously he can have an orgasm.” She watched Rachel, who was close to peaking, running her hands in ever-wider concentric circles over the surface of her varnished table, as her new slave tortured her nerves with his nose and tongue.

“And obviously,” the doorwoman said, “She can have an orgasm from what he’s doing with his tongue, and…nose.”

“Right,” the secretary added, putting the finishing touches on a nail and then pointing her emery board at the man as he stroked his cock furiously. “But ‘binding the slave to the yoni’ is a rite by which the male achieves orgasm from licking. It’s part of the sacrament.” She smiled at the gullible weakness that made men so easy to control. “He thinks he’s doing this for his pleasure, but if he comes while licking her, he is bound to her yoni, he is her permanent slave.”

“And he’s almost there!” Rachel Silverman shouted now, bouncing her ass and pussy against his face and nose with the force of an untamable beast, pummeling him into submission, violently demanding pleasure as her divine right as a woman, with no care or concern for what pain or pleasure it caused him as a man, unworthy of anything but to lick, sniff, serve, and surrender to the unstoppable power of her yoni and her harnessing of the goddess power.

“That’s it,” the secretary said, leaning down to Paul and whispering in his ear. “Keep stroking. Come,” she giggled, and her black vintage cat eye glasses fogged slightly from the force of his breath, which was coming in deep gusts. “Come for us.”

“Yes,” the Gothic doorwoman said, leaning down to speak with him, close to his ear, beside the secretary. “Come for us so that you can be our slave.”

“Hey, Paul,” Michelle said, giddy with delight, enjoying having the upper hand on her husband for the first time in years, the first time ever, in fact, since their engagement had begun. He had held all the cards from the word “go,” she being a mere flight attendant and he the tycoon who rescued her, the knight in shining armor who had expected her endless gratitude as his due. That was over now. “I want to thank you for the five-hundred million.”

The light dusting of freckles on Michelle’s face was now luminescent, as a thin coat of sweat formed on her brow and beaded downward. Pushing her husband’s face into her lawyer’s ass and yoni was proving to be quite the workout. “But since we already have all of your money, I need you to come now, so that you can be our slave. Okay?” She snorted once as she laughed, and blew hot air from the side of her mouth in order to push her corn-blonde bangs away from her face. “Make your wife happy and come for her, okay, so that you can be a complete slave under her control. Be a good boy and come for her, okay?”

The lawyer flexed, froze, and then went through spasms, seizures of pleasure, shuddering hard as she twisted, shimmied and writhed against her breathless pet, who remained motionless, an obedient statue, less now even than an animal for the moment in which she needed him to remain an inanimate object against which she could rub herself in any way she saw fit, in order to reach her perfect orgasm.

She knew he was already a total slave at that point, egoless and with nothing to prove, understanding as few men did, that she as a woman knew how to pleasure herself better with his body than he ever could, and that holding still was the best way to acknowledge her superior, vast store of sexual expertise and intelligence. She achieved intense friction against her motionless, dumb pet. She came just a moment before him, roaring like a lioness and pounding the surface of her wooden table so violently that a glass of water trembled to the edge, and fell to the floor where it spilled.

His semen spilled onto the thin carpet of law office, and he shuddered, groaned, trying to form words of thanks but too totally reduced by pleasure to even speak anything more than dumb monosyllables, as a puddle of white droplets cascaded to the ground before him.

“Good boy,” his wife said, massaging his sweaty shoulders as his cock went through spasms and contracted. The lawyer coiled her body forward, snaking across the surface of the desk, removing her ass from his nose and her yoni from his tongue.

The previously impassive secretary grinned from ear to ear, and Michelle turned her ex-husband toward the secretary and the doorwoman, while Rachel Silverman looked on. He gazed numbly at the four women arrayed around him, who were all smiling and baring their teeth in the wake of yet another victory for the wives, and another easily defeated husband. He remembered that he had come here to offer his wife ten million dollars and a chalet, before something had happened. It had all occurred so fast, and he blinked rapidly, looking around at the four women who surrounded him and laughed triumphantly. They said, in unison, “You are now our slave.”

Rachel Silverman stood up from the table, adjusted her skirt. The material of her satin argyle-print stockings whispered snakelike, as she pulled the pinstriped power skirt down over her thighs, where her sticky yoni secretions were now drying against her flawless skin, a garter plastered to her thigh with the secretions brought forth by her slave’s diligent tongue work..

She nodded to her secretary, who was tapping her emery board lightly on the nose of the confused slave. The secretary laughed as she tormented the recently conquered businessman “Give him the keys to my flat,” Rachel said. “And send him home for the day. I have a lot of work to do in the office, and he has a lot to do at home.”

The secretary continued tapping her emery board against the nose of the slave, who was still completely mute, unable to speak, in the wake of the pleasure he had just given his goddesses and experienced himself. After bopping the slave once more on the nose with the emery board, the secretary flashed her teeth and said, “You’re going to make this one your personal slave?”

That pleased the doorwoman, and Paul’s ex-wife, as well. Michelle purred, continued massaging her ex-husband’s shoulders. Rachel Silverman laughed once, and said, “Yes, I’m keeping this one.” She walked over to Paul Truman, the golden buckles on her leather riding boots clicking as she came to stand before him. She leaned down, looked into his dazed eyes, her own eyes aflame with superior, sneering intelligence. “Yes, and if you do a good job cleaning the house, and if you have dinner waiting for me when I get home from work, I’ll make sure to spend some time on the elliptical in the bedroom, get my yoni nice and sweaty for my slave.”

Paul intended to say “Thank you goddess,” but his tongue fell out of his mouth of its own volition, his mind overpowered by the presence of the four beautiful women. He noticed his sense of smell heightened like a dog’s now, so that he could detect the distinct pungency of each of their yonis, the humid spice and musk of natural female odor, and they laughed as he spoke with his tongue flopping outside of his mouth, ready for the next yoni. “Thanka gaga.”

“Good job on this one,” the secretary said, patting Paul on the head. He was still crouched down, and her knees, covered in the snowy-sheer stockings, were level with his eyes. He moved his nose closer to her legs, rubbing his face against her smooth hose, as her voice came to him. “Rachel,” the secretary said, “I think you just broke your previous record.” She giggled. “I think this is the fastest I’ve seen you yoni-train a husband.”

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Filed under Guest Posts, Literature

Bronies

A brony convention, whatever the Hell that is.

A brony convention, whatever the Hell that is.

Bronies are a bizarre new postmodern phenomenon in which a large group of grown men aged 18-35 have become fanatical fans of a cartoon show for little girls called My Little Pony.

Yeah.

They have conventions in which they all dress up as cosplay players representing cartoon characters on the show. I am not sure exactly what they do at these conventions. Maybe it is like the Star Trek Trekkie phenomenon. In fact, bronies seem much like Trekkies in character and personality. These people are best described as “nerds.” There are also quite a few females involved in this scene, and some of the women look pretty cute.

Bronies have been widely derided for much the same reason that Trekkies are except bronies are even worse because this is a subculture of grown men obsessed with a cartoon show for little girls. There have been many attempts to troll bronies by 4chan members, and the show’s bulletin board had to be shut down because of 4chan troll invasions. I do not know why the chans hate bronies so much, perhaps because it is a group of grown men obsessed with a cartoon show for little girls.

Like many cartoons, My Little Pony does operate on several levels as the writers are quite clever. One level is for little girls who obviously cannot get sophisticated in-jokes. The other level is aimed at adults in which there are all sorts of clever allusions to modern life, other TV shows and characters and even movies. I confess to being a Spongebob Squarepants (mostly due to the cool first name he has), and it operates on this level also. But no way would I go to a Spongebob convention dressed as a kitchen sponge or whatever.

We really ought to see this as harmless fun I suppose as these folks are nerds who feel alienated and rejected by society. Many are highly introverted and have problems with socialization. It doesn’t hurt anyone, allows them to socialize and meet other humans and have a good time for once in a society that is probably largely rejecting of them.

A very large percentage of the males in this fanbase (really the whole MLP genre) are obese and I assume that they also tragically have very small penises, which used to make me fear that they would not reproduce much. However, my fears were alleviated, and many little bronies are now being popped out. Nerdy guys are males after all, and they need pussy like all the rest of us. Nerdy girls are sort of sad creatures, but they deserve the pleasures of motherhood.

Below is a post by a brony couple (yes these nerds do get together, marry and even mate and produce offspring – see above) who outrageously named their baby girl Pinkamerica Zecora. Supposedly that is a “pony” name.

Weird screengrab of bronies naming their little girl a really stupid name.

Click to enlarge and read. Weird screengrab of bronies naming their little girl a really stupid name.

I am sorry, but that is just messed up. Don’t give your kid weird names like that. They turned their own daughter into a joke. That seems just wrong.

That kid is probably going to end up an otherkin, a transsexual or a porn star, and I bet she offs herself before age 25. But I hope none of that happens.

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Filed under Culture, Gender Studies, Little or None, Man World, Pop Culture, Sex