Feb. 16, 2012 - Radio Free Nortwest - H.A. Covington
01:10:16
20120216_rfn
|
Time
Text
Oh, then tell me, Sean O 'Farrell, tell me why you hurry so.
Hush, a woogel, hush and listen, and his cheeks were all aglow.
I bear orders from the captain, get you ready quick and soon, for the pikes must be together by the rising of the moon.
By the rising of the moon, by the rising of the moon.
For the pikes must be together by the rising of the moon.
Oh, then tell me, Sean O 'Farrell, where the gathering is to be?
In the old spot by the river, rifle known to you and me.
One word roar for signal, token, whistle, up, and arching tune
For your bike upon your shoulder By the rising of the moon By the rising of the moon By the rising of the moon With your bike upon your shoulder By the rising of the moon Out from many a mud wall cabin eyes Were watching through the night Many a manly chest was throbbing For the blessed warning light For it's passed along the valleys Like the man she's lonely crew And a thousand
blades were flashing At the rising of the moon At the rising of the moon At the rising of the moon And a thousand blades were flashing At the rising of the moon Greetings from the Northwest Homeland, comrades.
It's February the 16th, 2012.
I'm Harold Covington, and this is Radio Free Northwest.
Right, we'll start off this week by answering some emails, which we haven't done in a while.
This one is from Jesse in Mississippi.
Dear HAC, I quote from Article 5 of the Northwest Constitution.
All residents and citizens of the Republic shall have the right to adequate food, shelter, clothing, and a safe and stable home for children.
Article 6. How is this different from Occupy Wall Street's demands?
Also, can you explain the opposition ministers?
Thank you, Son Jesse.
Okay, let me try to run this down for you folks as briefly and as succinctly as possible so we don't end up taking this whole section up and maybe the whole podcast completely with only this one email.
Because this is a very complex subject, especially since Americans have been conditioned from birth to view politics primarily in terms of economic self-interest, i.e.
how can I best profit from a given situation and who's going to give me how much boodle from the public treasury?
No kidding.
Most Americans have no idea that politics is about anybody other than them, or concerns anything except who gets the boodle.
In the 18th century, there was a Scots philosopher.
I want to say his name was Robeson, although this quote is sometimes also attributed to Alexis de Tocqueville.
Anyway, he said that democracy always fails at the point where men realize that they can use it to vote themselves money from the public funds.
And that's American politics in a nutshell.
First off, Jesse, those things like food and shelter, especially for white children, and gainful and worthwhile employment are things that I genuinely believe that white people living in a white ethno-state do indeed have a right to.
However, they do not necessarily have a right for the state to give them these things at the taxpayer's expense.
Now, do you understand the difference in what I'm saying here?
A large part of the purpose of the white ethnostates government will be to ensure that there is a sufficiently functional economy so that there are jobs available and everybody has a home.
This cannot be left completely up to capitalism, as we can see for ourselves every time we go out and we see homeless white beggars on the street.
Nor can it be left up to the government.
There's plenty of government housing all over this country, but it's given only to blacks or illegal aliens or sodominic couples or other democrat constituents.
The government of the Northwest Republic will be able to ensure that all of its white citizens and residents receive their right of adequate food, shelter, and employment, not so much by giving these things away as handouts, but by making sure that we have a proper free enterprise economic system functioning in the Republic.
Note that I said free enterprise, not capitalist, and trying to explain the difference between those systems in detail is another thing that would keep me here until midnight tonight if I attempted it.
But basically, I consider that free enterprise has morphed into capitalism when labor becomes a commodity in the Marxist sense, and when money has become a political power that rivals or supplements the power of the state, or in some cases has taken over the state.
Now, there will be times when the state does have to intervene directly.
This is because it's in the nature of free market economies to bob up and down, and every 30 years or so, there are big dips and recessions and whatnot.
These are called Kondratiev waves, by the way, although I think eliminating the stock market in the republic will prevent a lot of that kind of thing.
But when that happens, the state steps in not with welfare or unemployment benefits, but in the form of the labor service that gives the unemployed Jobs, doing all the 101 things that have to be done in any society just to keep things running.
As to how these sections of the Constitution differ from Occupy Wall Street, Jesse, anytime anyone says anything at all, political or racial, you need to look not just at what is being said, but who is saying it and why.
Occupy Wall Street is essentially Obama's re-election campaign, and they have virtually no genuine unemployed or blue-collar white people involved.
It's mostly spoiled brats, the children of hippy-dippy 60s retreads, who want to try and relive their parents' wild, radical glory days of their youth.
In fact, I think a lot of lefty-lib parents actually encourage their kids to do this crap.
You know, when you compare their numbers to the anti-Vietnam War moratorium demonstrations in Woodstock that I remember...
There just aren't that many of them at all.
I haven't heard of any Occupy Wall Street activities that number more than about maybe 10,000 people max.
Which is your usual left-wing rant-a-mob.
Their parents back in the 60s used to bring out three and four hundred thousand people at a time.
Occupy Wall Street consists of either outright democratic political operatives or else spoiled brats and stoners with nothing else better to do who want the government to pay for or forgive their student loans, which in a way is understandable since those loans are outrageous.
And many of these kids were bamboozled into accepting them without fully understanding the consequences of a lifetime of debt.
But still, that's hardly the most noble of causes.
The Northwest Constitution, on the other hand, is a document by and for real white people.
That makes all the difference.
And yes, sometimes things are bad and stupid when they do them, and good when we do them.
Why?
Because we're better than they are.
And that's the name of that tune.
Now, as far as the opposition ministers, I'm glad you asked that question.
Very few people have even noticed that part of the Constitution.
You might say that that's our version of the two-party system.
Under the Constitution, Parliament, the National Convention, the Duma, whatever they decide they want to call it, will consist of two-thirds government members and one-third opposition members.
The role of the opposition will be to do just that, to oppose whatever the government does.
They're kind of devil's advocates whenever the government wants to bring in a law regarding the budget or whatever.
The opposition will stand up and say, hey, wait a minute, what about this, what about that?
Hey, that's not going to work.
Blah blah blah blah.
Anyway, the object being that we don't have a legislature that is just a handful of sycophants doing whatever the party and the president want it to do.
The object of the opposition is to subject everything that the government does to critical commentary and scrutiny.
One of the most important aspects in the Constitution of the opposition's role is what's called question time.
I don't know if any of you have ever seen question time on C-SPAN or anything like that in the British Parliament, but the government and the ministers of the Northwest Republic are required under the Constitution to make themselves available on a regular basis to be publicly questioned by the opposition members about what they're doing, why they're doing it, how they're doing it, and hey, what's the matter with you, that stupid blah blah blah.
It is vital that the party and the Northwest American Republic not become a corrupt oligarchy of time servers and bureaucrats and politicians like we've got today.
There is a role for criticism and for loyal opposition to whatever the government does.
Basically, the opposition members are kind of like tribunes of the people.
They will help keep the party and the government honest.
They also have parliamentary immunity so that if they say things the government doesn't like, they can't be dragged away and thrown in jail like we're some kind of banana republic.
Again, this is an area that could stand almost infinite exposition, but I just don't have the time now.
But do you get the general idea, Jesse?
Okay, this next email comes from Andrew in Concrete, Washington.
Dear Harold, I'm wondering why you don't simply write an autobiography, then publish it.
You could make a lot of money doing that for both your own sustenance and for the movement.
I'm sure it would sell quite well.
The losers from that 90s show who are all obsessed with you and people in general would probably like to read such a book.
Besides, the Republic is going to need an epic saga for the old man, so all little kiddies can read it in school in the year 2050.
Kind of like how Hitler's Mein Kampf was required reading for school children in the Third Reich.
Signed, Andrew.
Okay, I've been asked that question before, and my present answer is no.
I will not be writing a memoir or autobiography.
There is no point in anyone writing a memoir or an autobiography if they're not going to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.
And I will admit to you folks right up front that I have no intention of ever doing such a thing for the following reasons.
First off, there are still people around, even 20 and 30 years later, who could be hurt by some of the things I would have to tell if I told all.
And I mean hurt bad.
Prison and job loss and economic destruction, loss of pension, that kind of thing.
This refers mostly to people in positions of some power and authority who helped me in various ways out of conscience and at some risk to themselves.
I won't repay them by writing them out in some memoir.
Secondly, there are things in my past that, for various reasons, I just have no intention of discussing at all, ever, at least not discussing in public.
This includes my marriages and my ex-wives, my children, assorted relationships with women, and large segments of my childhood.
These things are nobody's business, and in any case, they are of no legitimate interest to anybody not directly concerned.
I have never been under any illusion that the whole world is just waiting in fascination with bated breath to hear every detail of my life's story.
That's definitely way off my acceptable narcissism scale.
I think a lot of people who write autobiographies shouldn't have done so, because they were based on the arrogant and incorrect assumption that other people give a damn about anything other than whatever small contribution that person made to art or science or politics or literature.
The song people, not the singer.
Finally, I won't write an autobiography or memoir right now because it wouldn't be complete.
I'm not done yet, not by a long shot.
That may change in the future.
But right now, don't worry, Willard, you're safe.
Now, I got another email this week from an individual whom I won't name because his behavior is, shall we say, less than impressive.
But one of the things he was ranting and raving about was, Harold, your group is riddled with informants.
They're all around you.
You don't make a move without the FBI knowing about it.
They're under your bed and in your closet and hiding in the sugar bowl.
Yeah!
Well, alright, let's assume for the moment that this paranoid assumption is correct, and I do have a spy or two who has wormed his way into my inner circle and is watching me for the Bureau.
My answer to that is, so, what are they going to find out about me that can't be learned simply by listening to a few episodes of Radio Free Northwest?
There's no mystery here.
Anyone who wants to know who I am or what I think need only read a couple of the Northwest novels or listen to a few of these podcasts.
Yes, it's true that if there is such an infiltrator around, they could plant evidence on me in some way and help the FBI fabricate a legal case against me, like they fabricated the case against Edgar Steele.
But if that decision is ever made in the bowels of power, then they're going to do what they're going to do, and there's not one damn thing I can do to prevent them, so why worry about it?
Life for white dissidents in this country is very similar to the way it was in the old Soviet Union under Stalin.
Everyone pretty much knew who was on the list and that someday the knock on the door would come.
It was only a question of when.
As it turned out, Stalin did, in fact, spare a few people like Boris Pasternak, apparently on pure whim.
Who knows?
Maybe I'll be spared for a while on the whim of some FBI agent or U.S. attorney who finds my podcasts entertaining.
Or maybe not.
In any event, there's nothing I can do about it one way or the other.
I have lived this way in one form or another for almost four decades, and I can honestly say that the one thing that has never occurred to me is to knuckle under and be quiet.
At some point, that will most likely catch up to me when I finally become a sufficient irritant to an increasingly paranoid federal government that they have to lash out and try to silence me by force.
When that happens, spies or no spies, they're just going to do it.
I don't actually break the law, so they'll have to make something up, but that's never stopped them before.
Ask Randy Weaver and Louis Beam and Edgar Steele.
The Northwest Imperative is not a man, and it's not an organization.
It is an idea, and the FBI cannot infiltrate an idea.
The Northwest American Republic is not one man or any group of people.
It is the dream of an entire people.
And no political gangster in a black robe can bang his gavel and send a dream to prison.
We have ideas and dreams and hope.
They have none.
We've already beaten them.
It'll just take some time for it all to play out.
The song, people.
Always remember, it's the song, not the singer.
A lot of classical musicians have based everything from full symphonies on down to piano sonatas and chamber music on Aryan folk tales and songs and melodies of various kinds.
This is classical pianist Philip Arberg, tinkling the ivories with an old Cajun folk song called Madame Sustaine.
Hi guys, this is Axis Sally, and I'd like to expand a little on something I mentioned a few podcasts ago.
I spoke about trying to get some of that free beef from Les Schwab Tires, the premier Northwest tire company that used to give customers a box of beef to people who bought new tires.
It cost a lot to feed me, so I was really looking forward to a giant box of animal protein.
And of course, their shady operation was shut down for the same reason those dumb cops are figuratively kicking over kids' lemonade stands.
Long before I ever met Harold, I read something in the Northwest Observer where he was responding to someone who asked if, in the Northwest American Republic, we would have those cameras that take pictures of you at traffic lights.
I'm sure you can guess what the answer was, but Harold went a step further and said that not only that, he didn't really see a need for driver's licenses.
Either you can drive or you can't.
And I think the same can apply to food handlers' cards and kitchen licenses.
Either you can cook or you can't.
I think the fact that I have raised children who did not suffer any foodborne illnesses after I cooked for them should attest to my ability not to kill people with food and is more meaningful than passing a written test about meat temperatures.
Likewise with driver's licenses.
I am sure that almost everyone who is pulled over for being a jackass on the road has a driver's license, so obtaining one does not mean that you have learned not to be an idiot.
I attended the Scandinavian Festival in Portland, Oregon a few years ago with some comrades of mine.
I think they have this every December, and it's probably the only time that white people are allowed to celebrate their culture.
They have all kinds of Nordic crafts, songs, and food.
Really awesome food.
The signs everywhere that said, caution, food items may be prepared in unlicensed kitchens, did not deter me.
When I was searching for private schools for my children, I came across an incident at one of the schools where a teacher was fired after she was caught tying up some of the children for punishment.
Many people in the community speculated that the problem must have been that the teacher only had a two-year degree and not a four-year degree.
I think maybe the problem was that she was a child abuser and I really doubt anyone would want to leave a child with her if she would just go and get a bachelor's degree.
Her actions mean more than the number of hours spent in a classroom.
Endless licensing and certification requirements do little more than generate large amounts of paperwork and keep useless people employed.
At one gym I go to, you have to sign the towels in and out.
You request either one or two towels at the counter, then print and sign your name and the time you check the towels out, and then the time you turn them in.
The sign-out sheet is kept on a clipboard, and then when that clipboard is full, the sheets are saved in a file cabinet.
For some reason, there exists a large drawer full of the names of people who need towels.
Someone is responsible for generating and archiving these lists.
For what purpose?
Why would anyone wonder how many towels were checked out on a particular day several months ago?
Plus, these are really crappy towels that no one would want to steal anyway.
And what happens when the file cabinet is full?
Does the drawer full of paper get sent to some corporate office to be further archived?
Who is responsible for seeing this gets done?
Some older listeners may remember a time when having a high school diploma meant something.
Now, in addition to the diploma, many schools are highly recommending that all students get either a Certificate of Initial Mastery or a Certificate of Advanced Mastery, which are basically like a high school diploma, but somehow better.
And the advanced one is a little better than the initial one.
What is the purpose of all this?
Why do we need a certificate that says we were super extra good at high school when many people with bachelor's degrees are struggling to find full-time work?
I think all occupations should be useful ones, things that produce goods that people need or services that are sought after.
Who in a society benefits when someone is busy keeping a record of borrowed towels?
When you come to the Northwest and we ask you what skills you have that will make our new nation, please say that you build stuff or fix stuff or take care of people or cut hair, not that you maintain useless data.
Of course, I know much of this is about tracking people, which is easy to do with driver's licenses and vehicle registration tags.
But a lot of it is about having a large cache of paperwork to present to an attorney if needed.
For example, when applying for a professional license, I was required to submit a list of all past residential addresses and places of employment for the last ten years.
Obviously, the licensing board is not going to attempt to verify any of this.
They told me, in their words, it's so if there is an incident we can use this large amount of written information as evidence that we have done everything we possibly could on our end to research the applicants.
So they just admitted their application packet consists of useless material that they obviously don't even read, yet they are paying someone to decide what information should be in the packets and type them up and revise and review them and collect the data and maintain a record of people who have applied for the license.
So maybe if I get busted at work for bringing homemade treats that I cooked in my unlicensed kitchen, the state board will go through my file and then might find out that I made up some of the phone numbers of my past supervisors since I forgot them since it was ten years ago.
But at least you'll never find where I hid all the towels.
I'll see you next time.
Let's see what we have here.
Stole tons of ice to sell as designer cubes.
Glacier thief arrested in Chile.
Okay, the guy stole a glacier to sell designer ice cubes.
Okay.
How do you steal a glacier?
Well, let's see.
Well, he stole five tons of ice from a glacier in Patagonia to sell as designer ice cubes for cocktails.
Okay.
Why didn't I think of that?
How would this have worked?
Would the guy have put five tons of ice on the back of a truck and gone around to all the bars and said, hey man, I got some genuine Patagonian ice cubes for your cocktails, man?
Maybe on eBay or something?
I don't know.
Craigslist?
Let's take a look.
This probably isn't racial.
Well, the guy apparently was a stupid beaner, but okay.
A chunk of the 5,002 kilograms of ice believed stolen from the Georgemont Glacier, which was discovered by police in a refrigerated truck.
That must have been a big truck to have five tons of ice in it.
Now they're going to be stopping all of us on the highway, you know, making sure we're not all smuggling ice.
Okay.
Climate change skeptics have acquired a new explanation for why glaciers are retreating.
It's not global warming.
It's theft.
Police in Chile have arrested a man on suspicion of stealing five tons of ice from the Georgemont Glacier in the Patagonia region to sell as designer ice cubes in bars and restaurants.
Local media reported that last Friday police intercepted a refrigerated truck with an estimated 3,900 pounds worth of illicit ice allegedly bound for whiskeys, rums, and cocktails in the capital of Santiago.
Okay, I guess in Chile that's the chic thing now.
You have glacier ice in your cocktail.
Okay, don't give the guy's name.
Scientists say that George Mott, part of the Bernardo O 'Higgins National Park, is retreating by half a mile a year, making it one of the world's fastest shrinking glaciers.
Could well be that the ice thieves are chipping it away.
Environmentalists have cited it as evidence that man-made climate change is warming the planet.
Okay, thing is, you know, we really don't need glaciers anyway.
Yeah, we might have to worry about volcanoes here, but we don't have to worry about big sheets of ice plopping down on our homes, especially not with this guy stealing them.
Actually, there was another article a couple of days ago on Drudge here where we're looking now.
A number of scientists now agree that we're actually headed for another little ice age, as they call it, because with all the hoopla about global warming and Al Gore sitting up there droning on and on with his Nobel Prize and all this BS, the fact is that the median temperatures of the Earth have actually been dropping since they hit a high in 1998.
Okay, up until about 98, yes, there was a warming trend, but this is like a 30 or 40 year natural climate swing, and our recorded records don't go back until about maybe the early part of the 19th century, but apparently this is a totally normal pendulum type effect.
It warms up for about 40 years, and it cools down for about 40 years, and it warms up again, so forth and so on.
So right now we actually may be headed into another little ice age, according to some of the scientists.
But basically that whole global warming thing is an excuse to impose socialist world government, frankly.
So they didn't catch this guy until the ice was already in his truck.
Nobody saw him with his little pickaxe or whatever chipping away at five tons of ice.
I'm looking at the article here.
It doesn't even say how they knew it was glacier ice.
Okay, assuming that you did steal five tons of ice to sell as designer ice cubes, how are your customers going to know that they're getting glacier ice in their cocktails?
Now, what exactly is the difference?
Does it have like a little stamp on it or something saying product of a glacier?
The story doesn't make sense, but then so much in this world today doesn't make sense.
Okay, as you folks can tell, we're just going down looking.
There's news stories here.
Police shoot and kill autistic boy armed with butter knife.
If you look at Israel vice-prized minister, military strike hit all of Iran's nuclear facilities.
That might be the beginning of what you just mentioned.
I don't know why the hell they keep rattling their saber.
They're going to do it.
You'd think that they would want to surprise the Persians, but instead...
Every three weeks or so, some Israeli gets up and says, we're going to do it.
We're going to bomb Iran.
We're going to do it.
We're going to do it, I tell you.
Don't try to stop us.
We're going to do it.
I think they're maybe trying to put some kind of pressure on the U.S. to buy them off.
Something you'd think.
I mean, if they really were going to attack a country that size, you'd think they would at least want to try something of the element of surprise.
Or we go again right here.
Israel could strike this spring.
What is the point in telegraphing your moves like this if you're really going to do it?
Now, if I were the Iranians, I wouldn't take any of this seriously.
Did we ever watch that movie Tora, Tora, Tora?
Okay, right.
I mean, when the Japanese were going to attack Pearl Harbor, they did everything they could to keep it secret.
I know what's going on here.
They're distracting us so they can go steal another glacier.
Or their body parts industry.
There's something about Google and Jews, I think.
I don't know.
I try to find it.
I was hoping you'd read it first.
Anyway, Sally found this on the web the other day.
It's from Google.
It says, an explanation of our search results.
If you recently used Google to search for the word Jew, you may have seen results that were very disturbing.
We assure you that the views expressed by the sites in your results are not in any way endorsed by Google.
We'd like to explain why you're seeing these results when you conduct this search.
A site's ranking in Google search results relies heavily on computer algorithms using thousands of factors, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah.
Okay, basically, what they're trying to do is they're trying to explain away why when someone Googles Jew on the search engine, a lot of anti-Jewish stuff comes up.
And the reason is very simple.
There's a lot of anti-Jewish stuff out there on the internet because Jews are scum.
And you just know some kikes started crying about this.
You know, probably somebody from the ADL threatened to, I don't know, do something bad to Google if they didn't stop defaming the Jews.
I think a couple of years ago they had a problem with that.
When you Google Jew, the first thing that came up was a site called Jew Watch.
I don't know if you ever saw that, but it's actually pretty good.
It has a lot of Jews in the news.
It has a lot of historical comment by famous figures from the past, philosophers and kings and writers and other famous people about the Jews.
It's actually a pretty good site.
And I think, boiling it all down, what you tend to get when you Google a term or a word or a set of words is the sites that come up first are the ones that get the most traffic.
So apparently, at one stage, Jew Watch was getting a hell of a lot of traffic because it was the first one to come up.
Just like it used to be that when someone googled Harold A. Covington, the first thing that came up was an article by a preacher from Kentucky named John Harrell saying that I was the Antichrist.
At the bottom it says, P.S. You may be interested in some additional information the Anti-Defamation League has posted about this issue.
I'm very interested.
Yeah, let's go to the ADL site.
I'm sure there's something.
Okay.
Google search ranking of hate sites not intentional.
ADL praises Google for responding to concerns about rankings of hate sites.
Oh, okay.
This is actually that thing I mentioned when Jewwatch was coming up.
An email campaign suggests that Google intentionally lists a hate site as the first item that comes up when searching under Jew or Jews.
Blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah.
No, no.
The Google is not anti-Semitic.
No.
Okay.
Other internet rumors.
Let's see what kind of internet rumors the ADL is debunking here.
Responding to cyber hate.
Oh, look at the keyboard.
I want one like that.
I wish you guys could see this.
They've got like a computer keyboard with swastikas and iron crosses and runes and skull and crossbones, all kinds of good stuff.
Okay.
ADL leader issues clarion call to internet and social networking sites to show leadership in combating online hate.
Blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah.
ADL welcomes Facebook decision to remove anti-Israel third Intifada group.
Of course, we can't have anybody with a different viewpoint that doesn't support Israel expressing their ideas now, can we?
Well, okay, I'm probably going to drop myself in it here, but let me put it this way.
You can't keep anybody off the internet who wants to be there.
In the 15 years since I've been on the net, I have had my ISP cancelled repeatedly.
I have had my websites taken down, hacked, and blocked.
I've had all kinds of Yahoo groups that I started canceled.
At one stage, I really love to use Yahoo groups.
I still like Yahoo groups, except nobody uses them anymore.
And I've had my Facebook and other social networking accounts canceled.
And it doesn't take long to get back onto these things, to set up another group, set up another Facebook account.
The fact is, look, we're going to use the Internet.
There is nothing that the ADL or anybody else can do about it.
Because that's one thing about the internet, and it still is like that despite the efforts of governments and outfits like the ADL to stifle it.
One thing about the internet is it is still pretty much free for all.
And if you want to be there, you're going to be there.
We want to be there.
Therefore, we are going to be there from now on.
We're ungroundable.
Uncancellable.
Let me get kind of deep here.
What these people, like the Anti-Defamation League, are trying to do is they're trying to silence the truth.
And if these guys were really as smart as they claimed to be, they would know history enough to understand that that's impossible.
You cannot silence the truth by force.
Which, in essence, is what the ADL is trying to do, and in some countries in Europe, they take it further and they try to silence people like Holocaust revisionists and white nationalists and anyone who opposes the agenda with real force, with prison, with violence, and they haven't succeeded there either.
We cannot be silenced.
We can't be stopped from spreading our message.
And we are eventually going to win because we have the truth on our side and people like the ADL do not.
And I'm raving here again, but you get the idea.
Okay.
I think we can get rid of that.
I think we can get rid of that.
I have the same problem with these articles I do.
There's actually fewer and fewer text articles on the net.
It's all goddamn videos.
Yeah.
And the ones that are text are very short.
Yeah.
I mean, we've gotten so illiterate we can't even read on the damn internet anymore, apparently.
We've just got to see them pretty pictures.
Okay, we're now going to the newnation.org site.
Now, for those of you who are unfamiliar with this site, newnation.org is probably the best resource on the internet if you're into black and brown and homo crime.
That basically is all it is.
It's one big, huge site of news articles with all of the atrocities that are being committed against white people by all the scum we've got in the country.
I've mentioned in the past that we've got these sad old men who used to like to send newspaper clippings to each other in the mail telling each other how bad it is.
Well, this is an internet version of that.
And I'm not knocking the site, by the way.
If you do need a resource for black crime, or you ever want to just get yourself livid mad by seeing what's really happening in the country, this is a good place to go because it gathers together all these news reports.
About crimes against white people, vicious, racially motivated hate crimes against our racial brothers and sisters that you will never see anywhere else because they're never collated.
These articles will appear in the local newspaper or on a local website and they'll be gone the next day.
Okay, let's see.
Black charged with raping 16-year-old girl he met on Facebook.
Okay.
Nigerian migrant doctor charged with rape.
That's another thing.
You notice it's almost impossible to find an American doctor anymore.
Interracial dating leads to death of another blonde woman by dark boyfriend.
I don't see it.
It just goes on.
Naked Afro-American stabbed his white girlfriend and her mother One thing I will make a comment about, I've noticed this whenever you see the documentaries on television regarding gangs.
Anything like that.
One thing that I've distinctly noticed, and think about this, folks, I mean, how many white nationalist groups of any kind do you see dating outside their race?
If you look into all these brown power, black power, anything like that, you always hear at some point in the documentary, some girlfriend he stabbed to death, something like that, they'll show a picture of her, and it's always some white girl.
They're so proud of who they are, and they want to maintain their identity and all this stuff.
Well, why are they dating outside their race?
Why are they pursuing white women?
That should really be telling you something there.
It's a complete contradiction.
Well, for one thing, nigger women are ugly, look like monkeys, but for black males especially, a white woman is a status symbol.
Well, it is, but by pursuing that, it's an admission that we have what they want.
It affirms that further.
Yeah, the trouble is, I don't think they're admitting anything that anybody doesn't already know.
We keep thinking in terms of making moral points or debating points about this problem.
What we need to start thinking in terms of is fixing the problem.
We know what the problem is.
Most white people in this country have to live with it every day.
It's time to stop arguing and trying to make moral points about it, and it's time to start doing something about it.
Okay, let's see what else we got here.
South Star Fleet Simeon arrested for drunken driving.
Okay.
Star Trek, Deep Space Nine actor Avery Brooks arrested for drunk driving.
For drinking.
Daily Mail in Britain, by the way, is a great source for things like American scandal and American...
You can't read certain American articles in the American news media.
It's simply not reported.
A lot of racial stuff, like that guy in Minnesota who was suspended for racism or basically calling his little nigger kids fat and ugly, which they were.
I didn't know the Enterprise ever had a nigger captain.
Not that I've ever followed that crap after the original series.
Brooks was the African-American captain.
I guess that's first.
Brooks was the first African-American captain to lead a Star Trek series when he landed the role in 1993.
Boldly go where no nigga ever gone before, motherfucker.
Space.
Damn, a lot of space out there.
I got nothing but space.
Got space between my ears, motherfucker.
South Starfleet Simeon.
Two nigger demon kids are in jail for punching pregnant women in stomach while muggling.
Well, that's okay.
Some of the headlines are better than the stories.
Four Maryland mudskins arrested in death of youth whose carcass collapses near Nordstrom's.
15 to 20 Hartford area women claim Afrikoon doctor raped them in exam room.
Dreaded Groyd charged in drug killing.
U.S. Coon charged over Cunha Bomb Plot.
Dark Demon charged with Violet Waggery on 91-year-old geezer.
No lesbians allowed in St. Joe's contest.
Okay.
Backlash.
Okay.
Backlash slams anti-racism campaign.
Far-right takes Muslim hatred to Denmark.
I was talking about that on last week's Radio Free Northwest.
A lot of our European...
English Defense League.
That's that outfit that's run by Jews.
Hey, look at this one.
Okay.
Dancing on the Graves of Auschwitz.
Okay.
Protesters in Austria, marking Holocaust Remembrance Day, have condemned organizers of a ball, which is expected to be attended by...
Well, since you're on that particular subject, you mentioned earlier today, if you see in a lot of films, there's this push in a lot of mainstream films and television shows to put faggotry randomly into places where it has no bearing on the plot.
Or no relevance to the story.
The two examples that come to my mind right now is the scene in Boondock Saints that you mentioned, and also in the remake of the Stephen King film, Salem's Lot, not the original film, the one that was eventually a remake.
They have that stuff added in.
For those of you who haven't seen it...
Boondock Saint is actually a good shoot-em-up movie if you like.
A lot of gunplay and that sort of stuff.
But the FBI agent is played by Willem Dafoe.
And he's supposed to be in charge of capturing these two Irish hoodlums that are going around killing the other hoodlums.
And so you've got a gay FBI agent.
And they show this guy in bed with another man.
And, you know, this is just totally pointless.
There is no reason at all for that to be anywhere in this movie.
But they just stick it in.
And the same thing with the latest version of Stephen King's Salem's Lot.
In that case, the schoolteacher that invites the vampire home.
In the original movie with David Soule, it was just an old schoolteacher type, but in the new version of the movie, it's a nigger, Andre Brar, and he's a homo, and he's inviting the young vampire home in the hopes of performing some kind of perversion with him, and yeah, he finds out that the guy sucks, but not in the way he wants.
This is Jerry Garcia of the Grateful Dead, when he wanted to make music instead of making money.
I thought it was my fault.
No, I think it's my fault.
Okay.
*Musik *
There were two sisters came walking down the street Oh, the wind didn't rain The one behind pushed the other one in, crying over the dreadful wind and rain.
Donnie gave the youngest a gay gold ring, oh, the wind and rain.
Didn't give the oldest one anything, crying over the dreadful wind and rain.
They pushed her into the river to drown, oh, the wind and rain.
Watched her as she floated down, crying o'er the dreadful wind and rain guitar
solo She floated till she came to a miller's
pond, o'er the wind and rain My old father asked him to swan, crying o'er the dreadful wind and rain My fellow pushed her out with the fish in her, o'er the wind and rain To that fair maid from the brook, crying o'er the dreadful wind and rain guitar solo
And a fiddling fool come passing by, crying o'er the dreadful wind and rain.
Out of the woods came a fiddler fair, o'er the wind and rain.
Took thirty strands of her long yellow hair, crying o'er the dreadful wind and rain.
And he made a fiddle bow of her long yellow hair, o'er the wind and rain.
He made a fiddle bow of her long yellow hair, crying o'er the dreadful wind and rain.
He made fiddle pegs of her long finger bones, o'er the wind and rain.
He made fiddle pegs of her long finger bones, crying o'er the dreadful wind and rain.
And he made a fiddle of her breastbone, o'er the wind and rain.
And he made a fiddle of her breastbone, o'er the wind and rain.
And the sound could melt the heart of a stone, crying o'er the dreadful wind and rain.
And the sound could melt the heart of a stone, crying o'er the dreadful wind and rain.
rain Thank you.
guitar solo
guitar solo That's all there is to that, Ted.
Okay, we have an email from Comrade Sidney in Louisiana, which I'll read and respond to later on in the program, but for now I'm going to play a rather lengthy audio file he sent me, one which requires some explanation.
Over the years, many people have asked me to produce or make available audiobooks or recordings of my novels, preferably with me reading them.
I haven't done so for a variety of reasons, mostly because I haven't had the time to embark on a major project like that, but also because it's just a wee bit too narcissistic for my taste.
I, honest to God, don't want to turn into some kind of movement guru or prophet where it's all about me.
The Northwest novels are very much a case of the song, not the singer.
This isn't about me.
It's about the Northwest idea, and reading my own works as a kind of performance art doesn't pass my personal sniff test for egotism.
My general guideline there is that if I think any other movement personality would be an asshole if he did something, I will probably look like an asshole if I do it.
Another reason I don't read my books out loud is that I don't write to be spoken.
I write to be read.
Some authors' writing style lends itself to being read aloud and spoken or declaimed, like Oscar Wilde or James Thurber or Louisa May Alcott.
My style does not.
It is meant to be read by literate individuals who know what all them big words mean, which fewer and fewer white people do.
A childhood and youth spent playing Nintendo does not expand one's vocabulary.
Some people frankly tell me that they want recorded versions of my novels because they're either too stupid to sit down and read a large block of text for content, minus all kinds of pretty pictures, or they don't have the time in their busy American suburban lifestyles to actually sit down and read a book.
And they want to play my work on their car CD players while driving back and forth to their shit jobs.
I don't like this trend.
I don't like to see white people substituting electronic screens or electronic anything for actual written words, and I don't want to contribute to it, at least no more than I do every week on this show.
Spoken words, personally or electronic, make someone feel.
The written word makes someone think, and I want you to think, not feel.
However, like it or not, I keep getting these requests for audiobooks or CDs of my novels.
I tell people that if that's what they want, then by all means make your own.
A few people have tried, but like most white nationalists who are capable of being intensely enthusiastic about anything for 15 minutes until they realize that it's hard, they quickly lost interest.
One young man has not, however, and that's this kid from Louisiana, Sydney.
This is the first offering of this kind that I have considered good enough to be played on Radio Free Northwest.
See what you think.
The Foggy Dew The rebels were all dead by six-thirty in the morning.
The summer sun had just risen in the east over the distant, snow-capped mountains of Washington.
Pockets of mist nestled in the low ground, and the beaded droplets of moisture still clung to the blades of grass and the green leaves on the nearby forest floor.
The long, sloping hillside glistened with dazzling pinpoints of reflected light from the dewdrops.
The echoes of machine-gun fire and RPG explosions died away, leaving only the hanging reek of cordite and metallic smell of hot brass from the thousands of ejected cartridge casings.
Black smoke rose into the still morning air from the burning vehicle hulks on the road, and when a soft breeze sprang up it carried the sizzling stench of burning rubber and charred flesh into the American firing positions.
There was a long silence.
And then the birds started to sing again.
The commanding officer of the ambush scanned the kill zone with his field glasses.
Major Woodrow Coleman of the Federal Anti-Terrorist Police Organization was a very black man with thick lips and a bristly, dirty-looking beard of short, curly whiskers.
He was immediately pleased with what he saw in his binoculars.
He knew now that he had been right not to call in air support.
The sight of a single helicopter, even high up, would have caused the enemy to abandon their vehicles, break up and head for the timber, where long experience had taught the Americans it was most unwise to pursue them.
This way the surprise had been total.
The guerrillas in the two vans had been roasted alive when the vehicles exploded from the rocket-propelled grenades and mines, but the ones in the open truck had managed to roll out with amazing speed and discipline.
The only retreat for the rebels from the road and the spitting Federal gun-muzzles had been up the rocky slope pre-laid with radio-detonated Claymore mines, and their only cover had been a few scraggly pines.
Falling into squads, they had moved swiftly up the hillside with their own weapons blazing, right into the strings of anti-personnel mines that cut them down.
Caught off guard even as they had been, Jerry Rebb had made a fight of it, From the radio chatter in his earphone, the CO knew that some of his own men were down.
Even under the sheets of automatic weapon fire and the shredding shrapnel, the partisans had proven to be cool heads and crack shots.
It's those damn Teflon-tipped bullets again, Major, squawked his chief medic in his ear.
They go through Kevlar like a hot knife through butter.
Where the hell do they keep getting those damn Teflon slugs?
Coleman didn't answer.
Right now, he didn't care.
Such was his savage joy at the cartage.
At a lifetime of burning hatred at last fulfilled and slaked, his cup of revenge against the hated white man running over.
It looked like the ambush had gotten them all.
He could see dozens of the rebels who were down now, not moving, littering the hillside with crimson lumps of meat, twists of dirty laundry splattered in the dirt.
Alpha and Bravo teams, move in!
Approach with caution, he said, into his radio mic dangling before his lips.
Stay spaced, don't lump together, stay alert!
Do not assume all of them are dead or disabled.
Make sure.
Blast anything that moves up there.
Check out the kill zone and terminate any remaining wounded.
But from where I'd sit, I'd say that's a wrap, boys and girls.
We finally nailed these racist motherfuckers, and it's about fucking time.
So let's all have ourselves a good look at what dead members of the master race look like, what do you say?
Over a hundred and fifty fat poes rose silently from their positions.
Heavy lumbering shapes and camouflage weighed down by Kevlar and Bakelite body armor, outlandish weapons bristling with odd scopes and plastic attachments, and their equipment creaked and rattled.
They shambled up the hill in a waddling gait, hunched low to the ground, clanking and rattling like medieval knights, guns at the ready and nervous fingers on triggers.
There was no motion on the hillside.
One by one they surrounded and prodded at the bodies of the rebels.
Some of the corpses were big men in denim jeans and work shirts crossed with ammo belts, their jutting beards and glassy eyes thrusting into the sky, final snarls on their dead lips.
Some were ordinary-looking guys with blood-soaked baseball caps and bespeaking a head wound from a sniper or one of the fragmentation mines that had been hidden in the trees and rocks of the slope blown when the rebels began their fighting retreat uphill.
A few were women.
Their hair blown from under their caps and now soggy with their own blood.
The Jerry's weapons were motley.
There were some Uzis and Heckler submachine guns.
There were a good many M-16s captured from the Federal forces, as well as hunting rifles and even a few Kalashnikovs possibly smuggled home from Afghanistan or Iraq or Saudi Arabia by the rebels who were veterans of the U.S. military.
There were homemade grenade launchers adapted from single-barrel shotguns.
and stick grenades turned out in some secret workshop in Spokane or Tacoma.
The fact-posts scuttled up to each body in turn, hesitantly, almost superstitiously, still afraid, unable to believe that this time they had won.
Time and again over the past 14 months, the NVA had killed hundreds of their comrades.
On more than one occasion, this very crew had reduced them to a shameful...
They had pumped over twenty thousand rounds and dozens of rockets into the hillside, not to mention the mines they'd planted.
The body of every dead rebel was shredded and mangled.
Finally, The lumbering behemoths in the creaking body armor found the two corpses they wanted most to see dead.
The man was powerfully built, with red hair and a heavy-flowing mustache.
His eyes and facial features had been obliterated, only the mustache rising slightly above a mess of goo.
He must have caught a.50 caliber right to the face, muttered one of the Federal troopers.
The big man's slouch hat had been knocked up twenty feet away where it lay on the ground.
One of the police ripped open his shirt and jerked it off his bleeding body, exposing his arms.
Viking female tattoo on right bicep, Confederate flag and horseman on left forearm, radioed another of the men.
This is Murdoch.
We got the bastard, sir.
Out fucking standing, growled the Major, lumbering up beside them, unable to wait any longer to see it all for himself up close.
And what about that skank blondie hoe of his?
Her too.
The girl in camouflage fatigues lay on her side, her corn silk hair trailing over her extended right arm.
Her eyes were closed, and she looked almost like she was sleeping.
The tip of her dead fingers just touched the grip of her AK-47.
The feds had to bend down and look closely to see where the back of her head had been blown away.
That's Melanie Young, said one of the officers, a young white man who took off his helmet to reveal a military buzz cut.
I recognize her from the file photos.
The black major laughed aloud in pure joy and viciously kicked the dead girl's body once, twice, three times.
Is that really necessary, sir?
demanded the young white officer.
Got a problem with a brother-dissin' white woman, Mac?
Maybe you want I should tap-dance to shuffle a bit on the poor dead Missy.
You want a little session with internal affairs down at the Homeland Security lock-up in Bremerton, Mr. McBride?
snarled the major.
No, sir, replied McBride, woodenly.
Then shut your mouth.
I want to kick this bitch in her dead racist ass.
I kicked a bitch.
I want to check out her titties.
I do that too.
Got it?
Coleman suited his actions to his words, leaning down and slapping her face, ripping open her camo shirt to expose and leer at her blood-dripping breasts.
I got it, sir, McBride looked away over the small valley that was now lighting up as the sun rose higher in the sky.
He got it all right.
The fog and dew were burning away in the sunlight.
And so were the last of his doubts.
McBride knew this was it.
He'd put up with everything else.
He'd put up with the torture in the interrogation centers, the mass deportations of whole communities, bulldozing of family homes, the past laws, the closures and the checkpoints.
He had put up with the suspension of habeas corpus, secret military tribunals, the brutalization of people he considered to be fellow Americans.
He'd looked the other way.
Pretended it was necessary to save lives.
Told himself that the people he helped victimize were terrorists or terrorist sympathizers of racists and Nazis.
Less than human.
He told himself time and time again that the racial bond between himself and the people that he daily victimized and beat down did not matter, did not even exist.
Even as his own heart told him it was a lie.
That they were of his own blood.
But this was it.
Coleman's kicking and violating the dead girl's shattered body was the straw that broke the camel's back.
She had been young, she had been beautiful, and she had been a passionate and dangerous enemy.
McBride was perfectly well aware that she would have killed him without a moment's hesitation had she ever gotten the chance.
But now that he saw her dead, he could not bring himself to feel hatred or triumph.
She had been life, and he knew in his heart...
That his was the darkness.
The desecration of her proud spirit in her mortal remains was more than he could bear.
Bride looked up and saw one of the bullet-shattered trees.
On its branches perched a large, black-feathered form.
The bird stared down at him, and McBride seemed to sense accusation in the obsidian eyes.
He recalled from one of his maps that this stretch of hillside belonged to a property called Raven Hill Ranch.
Where no doubt some early settler had raised dairy or beef cattle.
Somewhere he had read that ravens were long-lived birds.
McBride irrelevantly wondered how old the bird was.
What it had seen in its time, be that as it may, he himself had seen and done enough.
The Federals loaded up the bodies of their fallen enemies onto cargo helicopters that roared over the broken horizon on radioed command, then boarded the transport choppers.
They were flown back to their temporary base camp in the empty town of Leland.
By order of the United States Attorney General and the Secretary of Homeland Security, the town's several hundred residents had been deported to a relocation center in the Nevada desert several months before on suspicion of terrorist sympathies.
That suspicion arose from the fact that no one in the town seemed able or willing to inform Fat Po intelligence officers of the whereabouts of the same group of rebels they had just annihilated that morning.
At midnight, while most of his fellow officers were getting uproariously drunk in the mess hall on kegs of beer and bottles of champagne flown in for the occasion, while Major Coleman was performing an impromptu karaoke rap song about the morning's events, McBride slipped out of the camp.
He was wearing civilian clothes, denim jeans, and a plaid shirt and a windbreaker.
He headed into the woods carrying his survival gear, his rifle, and as much ammunition as he had been able to hide away.
About four hundred yards out, he slid down an embankment and stealthily crossed a small stream under the starlight.
It was a new moon, and the forest was cool and quiet.
Just as he clambered up the opposite bank, he heard to his left the sound of a round being jacked into the chamber of an M-16, and a quiet but deadly command.
Freeze!
Right there!
A flashlight quickly flared from the two-man sentry post.
Damn!
thought McBride bitterly.
I thought they were a clicker too south.
Well, it's what I get for teaching them to vary their position on watch.
Train them too damn well for my own good, I guess.
Shoemaker?
Potoski?
Is that you?
He demanded of the men in the darkness.
Hey, lieutenant, said one of the sentries as they moved forward.
What are you doing out here?
Checking up on us?
Thought you'd be in there with the rest of them celebrating.
I don't feel very celebratory tonight, he replied.
Besides...
In case you guys missed it, things didn't go all our way today.
We lost eight guys ourselves.
Besides that, Jerry Reb snuck into Port Orchard this morning while we were otherwise occupied and leveled the Kitsap County Special Criminal Court with a truck bomb.
We didn't get them all.
Not by a long sight.
We ain't ever gonna get them all.
McBride knew these men and he was sure he could talk his way out of the situation.
But all of a sudden he no longer wanted to.
He had been living with flies too long.
I'm leaving, he told them bluntly.
Huh?
Leaving for good?
You mean you're going AWOL?
replied Petoskey in surprise.
Is this one of them informal resignations Homeland Security keeps sending us the nasty threatening memos about, sir?
chuckled Shoemaker.
No.
I'm not just cutting out like those other guys.
I was going to resign, true, but that's not enough anymore.
Not after this morning.
I'm headed west into the Olympic.
From the latest intel posts, I think I have a good idea where I can find the man I want to meet, Corby Morgan.
He'll be stepping up to fill the gap now that we've taken out Murdoch.
There was dead silence from the other two men for a long pause.
I've had enough, boys.
I'm joining the rebels.
Others have done it.
If I can get close enough to talk to someone without getting my ass shot to hell, and if I can convince them I'm for real and I want to make it up to these people, to this new country they want to make, and I'm throwing it in with them.
Yeah?
And if Jerry Reb thinks you're a spy, he'll put a bullet in your head, Shoemaker reminded him in a skeptical voice.
If that's the way it plays out, so be it.
Can you honestly say I wouldn't deserve it?
You know what we've been doing out here for the past year, said McBride bleakly.
You have eyes and ears.
We're worse than they ever were.
It's evil, what we're doing to these people.
America's become an evil place.
I'm not going to do evil anymore.
There was an even longer silence.
Well, prodded McBride, you guys want to play this by the book?
Now's the time to start shooting.
His hands and arms tensed, ready to snap up the barrel of his rifle and fire.
I reckon we'll be coming with you, said Schumacher's voice in the dark forest.
This is Sinead O'Connor.
Eyes down the glen one Easter morn
To a city fair, oh die.
There are blinds of marching men In squadrons pass me by.
No pipe did hum, no battle drum Did sound its loud tattoo.
But the angelus bells o'er the liffy swells Rang out in the fair.
foggy Jew Ride proudly high in Dublin town on day at the flag of war T'was better to die in the Irish sky than at sublows at El
Bar And from the plains of loyal mead strong men came whining through While Britannians hung with their long-range guns
Sailing through the foggy teal The grave is still and the wrecked wind down Lang mornfully and clear For those who died at
Eastertide In the springing of the year While the world did gaze with deep amaze At those fearless men But few who bore the fight That freedom's light Mine shine through the foggy teal And
the fire is still and the wrecked wind down And the fire is still and the wrecked wind down And the fire is still and the wrecked wind down And the fire is still and the wrecked wind down And the fire is still and the wrecked wind down And the fire is still and the wrecked wind down And the fire is still and
the wrecked wind down And the fire is still and the wrecked wind down And the fire is still and the wrecked wind down And the fire is still and the wrecked wind down And the fire is still and the wrecked wind down And the fire is still and the wrecked wind down And the fire is still and the wrecked wind down And the fire is still and the wrecked wind down And the fire is still and the wrecked wind down And the fire is still and the wrecked wind down And the fire is still and the wrecked wind down And the fire is still and the wrecked wind down And the fire is still and the wrecked wind down And
the fire is still and the wrecked wind down And the fire is still and the wrecked wind down And the fire is still and the wrecked wind down But to and
fro in my dreams I go And I kneel and pray for you For slavery fled Oh glorious
dead When you fell in the foggy dew you Thank you.
Thank you.
Okay, folks, I hate to rush off, but I'm running really long this week, and if these podcasts run any longer than 80 minutes, then I won't be able to record them on a single CD, and so that means I'm going to have to wind this one up.
I did not forget the email from Comrade Sidney in Louisiana, and we'll definitely get to that next week, but I'm afraid that that's it for this week's edition of Radio Free Northwest.
This program is brought to you by the Northwest Front.
Post Office Box 4856, Seattle, Washington 98194.
Or you can go to the party's website at www.northwestfront.org.
This is Harold Covington, and I'll see you next week.