September 11, 2007


(continued from 9/2/07)

The instructions are more of a lecture that explains to one and all why we have been called to perform our civic duty. The lecture also makes it clear that there will be no easy escape from jury duty. The instructions would have been a bit easier to handle if they hadn’t been delivered with the fake accent. They also would have been easier to handle without the poor attempts at humor. Humor combined with fake accents. Oh Hell, I need to say the truth. It would have been better if the instructions hadn't been given by a cadre of mexicans. Mexicans that resembled a small herd of Water Buffalo. The shorter fat guy informed those that hadn’t been to court before that it “…eezent like TV! It won’ be like the Pipple’s Court.” This garnered a fair number of laughs from the Whites in the captive audience. How many of the laughs were genuine? Not very many. White people are so concerned with looking good or cool to minority folks, so busy trying to get along, they’ll make asses of themselves to show they are down with black and brown. The guy giving us instructions was just plain aggravating. He wasn't funny either. Not intentionally so. Besides his affected mexican accent, he had a distinctly feminine lilt to his voice and tilt in his gait. Being a flaming fag no doubt makes him indispensable as a county employee. Hispanic homo. A two-fer!

While the instructions continue I’m once again struck by how second-rate so many things are in California, now that we are forced to endure black and hispanic “authority”. How Whites have to go on and pretend that things are still efficient. That these people care as much about their work as we do. That they can all do as good a job as Whites. Sure. Take a look around. Reality is kicking all of us in the crotch every day. All day.

I kept taking notes and doodling while the Affirmative Action Hiree droned on. “We must also eenform you dat you can be ordered to go to ay-nuh-der court houthe.” Groans all around. In LA, you can be told to serve jury duty anywhere in the County. Officials claim they try to keep people close to home, but that day I spoke with one White Guy who lived in Lancaster yet was here downtown with the rest of us.

(Lancaster is a Hellish drive to or from downtown LA during the rush hours. It’s a high desert suburb, a place where a large number of Whites made a dash for it years ago to get away from the rising tide of black and brown sludge in LA proper. The govt has now filled parts of Palmdale/Lancaster with blacks and hispanics to make sure that White youngsters growing up in the area aren’t short-changed by missing out on diversity. Now besides shooting at each other, the packs of blacks and browns are busy attacking lone White kids on the streets. Anyone reading this from the Palmdale/Lancaster area, please feel free to send us your stories!)

Going from Lancaster to downtown LA isn’t quite as bad as being a White person from any part of the county and being sent to… Compton. This happens a lot. Compton is thought of as a black city, made famous by countless “songs” from rappers over the last 20 years. Compton these days is mostly latino, the US government having flooded the city with their new slave class, while moving the blacks into outlying areas - like Lancaster - to begin a new round of destruction on White neighborhoods. Compton was all White in the mid 60’s, all black by the early 70’s and majority latino by ‘02 or so. The pool of “eligible” jurors in the city and surrounding areas is small, heh, so a lot of people from “far away” get summoned to do the drive to Compton for jury duty. Last year several White people were beat up on the way back to their cars after jury duty. They didn’t want to put up with the hassle of parking in the Civic Center lots. So they parked on the residential streets next to Courts, etc. That's when they discovered there's still a sizable black population in Compton. “I didn’t think anything would happen during the day!” That's what one of the beating victims said. I have to say I doubt if any black or latino jurors would be so naive. If you get a summons and it says report to Compton, do anything you can to avoid it.

The instructions finally wind down. After 20 minutes of passionless speech overlayed with affected accents from our Masters I was ready for murder or at least a break. We were told to turn in our paperwork, pick up our badge holders and then take a seat. I looked around to see what people were doing. One middle aged White woman two seats away from me had a portable DVD player in her lap. Headphones happily jutting from her ears while she watched some Soap Opera. Ok, at least she’s smart enough to have brought something to occupy herself. I looked at more people. Specifically the White people. About 1/2 of the white people had brought something to read or something else to occupy their minds. The Asians were similar in percentage of those who had brought something to read or watch to pass the time. Only a couple of the hispanics had brought anything. A few were obviously hitting on each other, their instinct for a quick bump and run always going. The ones who weren’t looking for action, at least openly, sat. Staring. A few were watching the TV’s but most sat and looked around. Almost like they were casing the place. Three black males sat in different areas of the large room, watching everyone. Probably hoping to see someone leave a wallet or purse behind when they got up to go to the restroom or whatever. The other six blacks were huddled in a small side room watching a TV while mumbling amongst themselves.

I’m busy writing away when the intercom crackled and squeaked. One of the latinos in charge informed us that we could take a break just like regular city workers. A one hour break. At nine o’clock in the morning! I guess we were being treated like real city employees. This would give me a chance to wander around the building and look at the “line-up” for each of the different courtrooms, if you know what I mean. Just to make sure things were as diverse as they should be in the shining Capital of Multiculturalism.

I manage to avoid the stampede and stroll into the main hallway. Most of the jurors are headed straight toward a small snack shop. The snack shop is located right next to the restrooms. What does that tell you? I take a look inside the little store, all of the prospective black jurors are there. Already. The three fattest latino jurors are in there also. They appear to be protectively clutching the cinnamon rolls and breakfast burritos the same way the cavemen protected a dinosaur sparerib in the old movie “1 Million B.C.” How these two-legged sacks of lard were able to get there so quickly is beyond me. Maybe there’s some type of secret communications network. Similar to the ones non-whites apparently operate on the streets, letting each other know where all the freebies are coming from without alerting Whitey.

I meander down the hall and go to a door that has a sign above it that reads “Division 30”. I take a look at a look at a six or seven page list attached to the door. It’s a list of people who have “activity” pending that day. 80% of the names are ‘spanic. Bermudez. Gutierrez. Melendez. Martinez. Perdomo. Reynoso. Vasquez. Cebada. Cedillo. Medina. Nunez. Castillo. I started to believe that if I had torn a page from the White Pages from certain Southern California neighborhoods and dropped them into the Division 30 paperwork it wouldn’t have made a difference. All the same people would have been listed anyway. Not all of the names were latino. Some were identifiably American. As in “African-American”. Lavertes Washington. Rayfield Dinkins. Thamarcus Cliffs. Traventus Williams. Theotis Lamaar Peete. LeRoi Meekans. Dupree Rimms. It read like the typical felon packed NFL line-up you can see every Sunday on TV. There were a few names in there that could have been White Guys, but I’d bet most of them were black also. All of these oppressed people were no doubt railroaded into having to go to face "the man’s" racist “justice system”. I wandered to a couple of other floors in the building and was treated to the same thing.

Outside one courtroom a couple of seedy looking Armenian guys were collaring every black and latino who walked in or out. They were peddling a bail bonds company. I hope the pair were busy looting as many of these parasites as possible before hightailing back to Armenia.

The hallways were loaded with "fambly" members of the poor crooks who just couldn’t get a break. Depending on what part of the courtroom hallways you were in, it either felt like a war torn alley in Mogadishu or a smelly, fly filled alley in San Salvador. Incredible. The courts would be out of business without these people here. No wonder they’re so busy fighting for their rights instead of ours. Keep the work coming!

Before I knew it, breaktime was over! Time to go back to the holding pen to see if I'd be among those “lucky” enough to be called for a jury. Half of the crowd looked ready to pass out. I’m not tired or bored. I’m too busy laughing to myself over the courtroom line-ups that read like a Guadalajara phone book to be tired. Then the intercom crackled. “We weel be call-hing hout namez! Eef ju hear jour name, say ‘here’ and come to de front of de room.” Considering this guy’s accent, I almost want him to call out my name, just so I can hear it mangled in Spanglish. My name is not called.

I decide to take a break from writing notes, trying to come up with ideas for the blog. I go into the hallway and take a seat on one of the long benches that line both sides of the hallway. I had brought a novel with me. I cracked it open and at that very second a Chinese guy with an almost impenetrable accent sits down next to me and strikes up a conversation. Normally I’d have been irritated but today I’m hoping this guy can be a source of material if not the outright subject of a blog entry. Of all the people…

He’s in his late 30’s / early 40’s and dressed like the stereotypical “white trash” guy the media shoves in our faces all day long on the tube! He’s wearing a “Trak Auto” baseball cap, an old-style Rat Fink t-shirt and Dickie’s work jeans with boots. I immediately surmised this guy was not one of the millions of “study 6 hrs a day after school” Asians the government is flooding the former US with.“You bring-a book to keep from geh-ing bowad?” It took a fraction of a second for me to realize his final word was “bored”. Normally I would have told him I’d brought the book to keep people from sitting down next to me and starting conversations, but like I said, I was looking for material. He went on. “Jury duty no good. I like this country but jury system messed up, you know?”

I know lots of things but I just nod at him.

“I no make-a money while here. No pay. How ‘bout you?”

I nod “no” and can see this guy is wound up, looking to talk to anyone. At the same time, he’s looking at my face, then the book I’m reading, then the notebook. He’s curious but can’t bring himself to ask about the book or notebook. Is round-eye studying? Something must be wrong!

“But I still like it here in America. I go to Trade Tech when I get here. You know Trade Tech?” he asks me.

Trade Tech. Everyone in town “knows Trade Tech”. It’s a large trade school in downtown LA that’s across the street from the bldg that houses Traffic Court. It’s just a couple of miles from where he and I were sitting at that moment. Even in today’s dark times, the school still manages to keep going, teaching a variety of trades to students looking to go that route in life. The only problem I can see with Trade Tech is that it went the way of every other damn school in the US, favoring non-Whites over Whites when it comes to admissions. Courtesy of government enticements and official orders straight out of DC. On the other hand, it’s also true that American culture has been purposely twisted so that a huge percentage of Americans look down on people who work in certain trades. These nouveau snobs look at most trades as being dirty or only worthy of being “performed” by some type of lower caste human. These people picked up their snobby attitude from the friendly white-hating folks behind the media who detest manual labor and in fact hate almost all real work that doesn’t involve manipulating people out of their money through some type of deception. So they make light of honest labor even though everything in the country would fall apart without tradesmen doing their thing. The fact is some of these trades pay better than a lot of boring jobs that involve sitting at a desk and shuffling paper. At least they used to pay well until the floodgates were opened and guys like Kwai Chang Caine sitting next to me started taking all of the jobs.

“I learn auto mechanichhhs at Trade Tech. I fix da car. Fix it good.”

I want to ask him if he can “…drive the car,” but I refrain.

He asks me what I do. Apparently my profession doesn’t match the way I look. But I am "dressed to impress" as pointed out in Part 1. The tank top is really throwing people off. I’m intentionally dressed like a bum in the hopes that I will get kicked off a jury if called. This never should have been in the US auto-mechanic is a bit dressed down also. I doubt he dressed down on purpose. “Always work to do when you fix da cars. I gled to be here an’ working. That’s why I here, to work. Of course da people come here for da freedom but dere is lots of work!”

Lots of work depending on who and what you are. As long as you’re not White, the skids are greased and into the US you go to hasten the theft of land, jobs and money from the people who built America; Whites. Oh, is that a shocking statement? You were taught in school that black slaves, chinese coolies and “latino” fieldworkers built the US? If so, you need to be properly educated in terms of historical facts, not in lies created to destroy White self esteem while increasing the self esteem and feelings of self importance and superiority of non-Whites.

“You like’a jury duty?” I smirk and shake my head “no”. He’s not the most perceptive person I’ve met.

He keeps going, “I want to get out of here and go back to work.”

Don’t we all?

I'm thinking about the insanity of it all. A White scientist from Europe has little chance of getting into the US as an immigrant, because BY LAW 90% of immigrants to the US must be non-White. I'm talking legal immigrants. That's been the law of the land in the US since 1965. I'm sitting here with relatives who can't move to the US, some of them highly skilled scientists and technical people while next to me sits a guy from China who came here with no skills, who learned to be a mechanic at Trade Tech. Probably on our dime. Displacing a White American in the process. Every non-White who comes in is displacing a White. Displacing a relative of yours. Displacing YOU.

Just then another Chinese guy walks up. He’s overweight and looks like he can’t wait to sit down, which he does, right next to Kwai Chang. “Waste of a day,” the new arrival states. Kwai Chang nods, then says something in Chinese. The other guy sits up straight, thrilled to meet another Chinese speaker. Both of them start jabbering a mile a minute in Chinese. It sounded like a cockfight they were going at it so fast and loud. I got up, they looked at me like they had done something wrong! They sure had, but I don’t think their idea matched what I was thinking, ha! I pointed toward the restroom and made my exit.

I should have known better. Since I had been sitting on one of the benches in the hallway, I got up and went straight to the nearest restroom. It was one of the restrooms used by the “general public”. In other words, the restroom used by all the “pipples” who show up to see their homeys and cuz’s take a stand against the man in court. It wasn’t the worst restroom I’d seen in terms of degradation, but if the custodians didn’t get there soon it would shortly start tipping toward conditions seen in the Superdome post Katrina. No paper towels in the dispensers. I exited and went down the hallway back into the holding area for jurors and went to that restroom. Despite the high minority count, it was fairly clean and was stocked with paper towels.

A couple of minutes later, I was back in the holding room adding notes to my journal. The intercom crackled again. We were informed that “…ju can go to lunsh. Be back by one-turty.” It was 11:45 am. We really were being treated like city workers. I marched with the other jurors into the hallway and then went for the stairs. Two other people had the same idea as me. Everyone else went to the too-small elevators to wait and then fight their way on board for a short but very cramped ride.
Lunch? It was time to go to the L.A. Mall! Another educational experience. This little field trip really drove home the fact that the majority of city workers in LA are not White. Lots of hispanics. Fat hispanics. They must be the ethnic group with the highest percentage of lard lads and lasses in the US.

The L.A. Mall was a sight to see. It’s below street level and has a food court filled with fast food joints, a sandwich shop and a place serving Asian food. The food establishments were stacked with hispanic workers behind the counters. This set off the alarm bells in my head. I’ve explained before the aversion most hispanic workers have towards washing their hands. I’m wondering whether or not to seek out something that’s totally deep fried as it might be my best bet. Then I spy the Asian “restaurant”. At least the employees are all out in the open where I can see how they handle things. They’re also all Asians so maybe, just maybe, they’ll at least make an effort to wash their hands just because Whitey is watching.

I get my food and fight through the massive crowd for an indoor seat. Most of the seating at the mall is open air. No good. There’s homeless idiots wandering around the open-air dining area hassling everyone. I’m congratulating myself on avoiding them when all of a sudden to my right I hear someone talking to me. “Scuse me mistah! Would you be willing to help a young man who requires some cash in order to gets some lunch?” The ‘bro asking me for change is a sight. He’s at least 45 but presenting himself to me as a “young man.” He’s completely bald on top of his head, but has weird black curly cue hair snaking around each side of his head and sticking out in a fashion that makes him look like a black version of “Bozo the Clown”. He grins at me. I hate panhandlers. Never, ever give them change or respect.

“Go bug someone else.”

That stops him in his tracks. He blinks. He looks pissed but then nods his head and starts walking away. Then he slows down, turning back to look at me. Great. I’m going to have to fight Chicken George before I can finish my broccoli beef. I act like I’m furious, slowly getting up. Maybe I can bluff him. Like I’ve said before, I’m lucky I’m a fairly big guy. He turns away, nods to himself again and keeps walking. I start to sit back down, he looks back again, starts mouthing “motherfucker” and he turns away, disappearing into the mass of noon time lunch goers starting to flood the mall. Ok. I figure that bit of trouble is over for the day. I start to eat. And I start to carefully observe all the people entering the food court for their noon lunch break.

There’s a lot of middle aged White guys strolling in. They’re wearing suits. What are they doing here? They work in LA? I listen to them. They’re lawyers. Then a bunch of jewish looking guys in suits come in. They’re talking their asses off, loudly. They’re lawyers. All of a sudden I’m aware of someone standing to my left. Staring at me.

Long, isn’t it? That’s why there’s going to be a Part III, where I can get into the adventures of jury selection in Multicultural LA. If you made it this far, thanks for reading. If you’re in LA or any other area infected by multiculturalism, be careful out there. White people are targets, and our own governments have declared Open Season on us. Don’t forget it!