Islam is an ideology. Classical liberalism is an ideology. In the ongoing clash of these ideologies, which will win?
Looking at our progressive Left and its motley crew of pink-armpit-haired lesbian feminists, armchair socialists, obese antifa weenies, and emasculated, mom’s-basement-dwelling Pajama Boys, ‘Puter’d have to bet on the Muslims.
Our progressive Left accommodates and excuses evil. It assumes evil can be reasoned with. It assumes goodwill in the hearts of all men. It assumes mankind is perfectible by governments run by smart, credentialed people who coincidentally just happen to be members of our progressive Left.
“This time we’ll totally get [socialism or communism or anarchism] right!”
No. No, you won’t you shortsighted, ignorant, historically illiterate, religion-hating, navel-gazing jackasses.
You have given up on Western Civilization’s greatness. You have abandoned our foundational ideology for a post-modernist dog’s dinner of meaningless words, grievance culture, and virtue signaling. You pretend all ideologies no matter how hateful and evil are valid and acceptable alternatives to Western Civilization. You will not win an ideological war with po-mo dipshittery, moving YouTube videos, candlelight vigils, and hashtags. You will lose, and you will lose quickly.
You progressives Leftists – you who are most responsible for rejecting the ideology that made your existences possible – will be the ones who will suffer most when the West loses its ideological struggle with Islam.
Enjoy watching our gay friends hucked off buildings for the crime of existing. Enjoy the stonings of rape victims for the crime of adultery. Enjoy being covered head to toe and not leaving the house except under supervision of a male relative. Enjoy being non-humans.
This is where your simpering, cowardly moral equivalency has brought us.
When the day comes and the ideological battle is lost, ‘Puter knows exactly what you’ll say. You’ll say, “Next time, we’ll get it right.”
Nothing is ever your fault. It’s always someone else’s fault, usually troglodytes living in Flyover Country who refuse to go along with your moronic, hare-brained schemes. You are the ideological equivalent of people who Nigerian scam emails. You could douse yourselves in gasoline, set yourselves on fire, run into a gunpowder storage shed, and truly believe your injuries were someone else’s fault.
You are delusional. You are wrong. And you just may cost yourselves everything.
Always right, unless he isn’t, the infallible Ghettoputer F. X. Gormogons claims to be an in-law of the Volgi, although no one really believes this.
’Puter carefully follows economic and financial trends, legal affairs, and serves as the Gormogons’ financial and legal advisor. He successfully defended us against a lawsuit from a liquor distributor worth hundreds of thousands of dollars in unpaid deliveries of bootleg shandies.
The Geep has an IQ so high it is untestable and attempts to measure it have resulted in dangerously unstable results as well as injuries to researchers. Coincidentally, he publishes intelligence tests as a side gig.
His sarcasm is so highly developed it borders on the psychic, and he is often able to insult a person even before meeting them. ’Puter enjoys hunting small game with 000 slugs and punt guns, correcting homilies in real time at Mass, and undermining unions. ’Puter likes to wear a hockey mask and carry an axe into public campgrounds, where he bursts into people’s tents and screams. As you might expect, he has been shot several times but remains completely undeterred.
He assures us that his obsessive fawning over news stories involving women teachers sleeping with young students is not Freudian in any way, although he admits something similar once happened to him. Uniquely, ’Puter is unable to speak, read, or write Russian, but he is able to sing it fluently.
Geep joined the order in the mid-1980s. He arrived at the Castle door with dozens of steamer trunks and an inarticulate hissing creature of astonishingly low intelligence he calls “Sleestak.” Ghettoputer appears to make his wishes known to Sleestak, although no one is sure whether this is the result of complex sign language, expert body posture reading, or simply beating Sleestak with a rubber mallet.
‘Puter suggests the Czar suck it.