September 18, 2007


(continued from 9/11)

I look to see who’s staring at me. It’s more like “what” is staring at me. A particularly ugly “what”. He looked straight out of one of the old charts used to show the “Evolution of Man”. I guess I could call him groid-o-pithicus. He was about 5’10”, and dressed in a filthy blue warm-up suit, similar to what you might see track and field athletes wear, except theirs are clean. His hair looked liked it had been styled with a knife and fork. He didn’t have any whites to his eyes, they were yellow. Criss-crossed with angry red veins. He stared and then blinked as if he were suddenly coming on line. “A hungry man’s got ta eat. You have a spare dollah so’s ah can git somdin’?” Then he gave me a weird grin, kind of like the way a chimp would look at you if it had hidden the last banana, knowing you’d never find it.

“Look at how expensive the food is here. You think I have anything left after that?”

He’s been knocked off kilter. He’s used to “no”. He’s used to people giving him change or a buck just to make him go away. He's not used to being asked a question. He’s not sure if he should strain his brain to figure out some kind of answer, if he understood me in the first place. He looked as if all he might understand are chirps and whistles.

Back when White people ran the country, this kind of incident was rare. Sure, there were bums around. But you didn’t have black beggars coming at you from all sides like the savages on the attack in “Black Hawk Down”. Things have deteriorated so much the last few decades that it has turned into open season on “civilians” as far as the “homeless” are concerned. “Homeless” is another term I despise. Homeless? Bums. That’s what they are. Filthy, lazy bums.

The African Nomad looks at me and then my food. “Ahm really hungry.”

“So am I.” I take a big bite of Broccoli Beef. He can’t process the inference. His eyes click then he pirouettes (!) and starts dancing through the ever-thickening crowd. He lets out a Michael Jackson style “Oh-hoooo!” Half the crowd stops what they’re doing to see WTF is going on. The other half doesn’t even blink. They must eat here all the time. Or they’re scared shitless and don’t want to look. Because that means they might have to get involved or they might see something “bad”. The track star goes to a table filled with a bunch of lawyer types. Four of the five can barely look the savage in the eye. Sometimes I think I have less trouble because I look these animals right in the eye. I know they say that’s a challenge to an animal but I think they’re so used to browbeaten, brainwashed Whites avoiding eye contact that my White Devil Blue Eyes looking right at them are disturbing. At least that’s what I tell people.

One of the five sissy lawyers hands the beast some change. All that does is encourage these creatures. Why do people give them money? Why? The down on his luck Olympian gives the idiot lawyer a nod and continues to wander through the area, stopping at table after table. Where’s the security staff? I look around. Ah, I see a “mall cop”. Finally. He’s on the far side of the food court, outside. He’s “hispanic” of course. Hitting on a table full of big-assed hispanic women. He’s oblivious to everything else going on. All of them are giggling. Something about they way they’re going on reminds of junior high school. These people never fully mature, mentally.

“Hispanic”. Another nonsense term. Where are these people from? Is there a country named “HISPANIA”? I’ll keep an eye on the security officer to see if he bothers to move around the area and actually check on things. I suspect the only thing he checks on is trim. At least during business hours. Once the mall is closed, he might check to see if the stores are locked. If not, he’ll slip in, grab whatever swag he can carry, and then lock up. I say this because it’s become a huge problem here in LA - hispanic “security” looting and stealing from businesses they are supposed to be guarding. Happened where I work.

I go on eating and watching. The place is bursting at the seams. What a goldmine. It might be a goldmine for the local hospitals too, considering what’s preparing the food at most of the stands. One of the people working the counter of the Carl’s Jr. is a latino guy in his early 20’s who looks and acts so gay he's practically dripping with AIDS. Yeah, I want him putting my order together. He might not transmit the Anally Injected Death Serum by handling food, but he can pass around a good case of hepatitis to everyone willing and not so willing. Oh, excuse me. You haven’t been taught that fags are normal, have you? They’re not. The nicest thing I can say is that being a homo is an aberration.

Did you know that the majority of child molesters are fags? Of course not. The news media has set things up to make people believe that the majority of pedophiles are straight White Males. No. Not true. Look it up. Do your research. At one point the media was going to post a study showing that queers were more likely to be pedophiles but the faggots got wind of it and roared into action. Can you imagine what Whites, as in straight White Males, could get done if they were as organized as fags, H1B lobbyists, jews or even the Armenians who twisted the ADL’s crooked arms behind their backs and forced them to recognize the “Armenian Holocaust”? Of course, forces are at work that nip organized White groups in the bud, but that can’t go on forever. As conditions worsen less and less White People will give a damn about being called “racist”, “intolerant”, “anti-Semitic” or the other names in the long list of anti-White canards.

The gaggle of loud jewish guys sits down a few feet from me. One guy is jabbering away, obviously proud of how crafty he thinks he is. I'll change a name that was mentioned, just in case, “…in chambers I told the judge that while my client did drive the car and was the lookout, he did NOT enter the house …hence his culpability could be argued. The plea adjustment was reasonable. Williams went white, he knew there was no other way to go. Even the bailiff was pissed off.” All of them started guffawing like 14 year-old dorks. I took it that “Williams” was probably the DA. This guy’s client was probably some melanin-loaded animal who’s responsible for 11 unsolved murders beyond whatever this prick is defending him for. I can only hope that one day he gets inside this guy’s house and slits his throat as a “thank you”.

I figure I’d better stop rubbernecking or my food will get cold so I try to concentrate on shoveling down my meal. That lasts for a minute. I have a front row seat to view America’s final disturbing days so I’d better pay attention.

There’s three overweight - as usual - hispanic women at a table to my left. They’re talking about their diets and how much weight they’ve lost. Two of them are eating gigantic burritos covered with sour cream, guacamole and cheese. Big piles of refried beans next to the burritos. Diets? Must be an off day. The third girl is digging into a Tupperware container filled with tuna, “…just like the diet says.” But she’s ordered up a couple of greasy tacos to go with it. She “…had to have them.” Considering her girth, I know what gave her the order. They go on jabbering and I pick up that they work in the DA’s office. Doing what, I don’t know. They’re talking trash about this lawyer and that lawyer, their speech riddled with both standard street slang and “mexican” slang. They speak like ignorant inner-city 13 year olds. They’re in their late 20’s. These women work in the DA’s office? God. Handling potentially important documents maybe? We’re in worse trouble than I thought.

To the right, at a table directly next to mine, three more fine, foxy, 200 + lb latina beauties are snorting down massive piles of food they picked up from the Carl’s Jr. Carl’s seems to do the best business at the food court. I listen in and pick up that they work for some law firm. Their speech is just as ignorant as that coming from the DA's staffers. Yes, private practice has been infected just like everything else. I have little doubt that there are competent people backing up this bunch at the law firm, and the same goes for the DA’s office. But they weren’t on hand today. Then again, maybe I’m wrong. Anyone out there who works for the DA’s office in any big city or any law firms, chime in with some insight(s) if you have a chance.

I’m finishing up my lunch when all of a sudden a voice like Moms Mabley on Human Growth Hormone rings out from the left behind me. “Scuse me bruthah. Woot you be able to loan me a solid dollah so’s I kin git som’n eat?” I turn and see what appears to be a bushman who attacked a homeless guy and stole his clothes. This guy’s eyes are more bloodshot than the guy who hit me up for change just a few minutes earlier. I wave him off and turn back around. I hope that’s enough. I wait a few seconds and then take a look to see if he’s moved on. He’s still standing there, but he’s not looking at me. He’s turned to face the three fatsos from the private law firm. He’s pouting! Because the cruel White Man was so dismissive of his plea for help he’s looking to these three oppressed women to help him out. They are doing their best to ignore him. He keeps staring. Out of the corner of my eye I notice the latino security guy I’d seen earlier making a beeline toward this bum. The only reason he noticed is because the guy is hassling three potential “dates”. The biggest woman finally says something, “We don’t got nutting.” The other two shake their heads.

“C’mon, lesgo!” It’s the security guard.

“Ahm jes hongray!” The bushman stands there, staring at the guard. For a second I’m hopeful I’ll get to see these two go at it, but the bushman turns and heads off to the exterior seating area. The blacks realize on some level that unlike Whites who have been brainwashed to hesitate, to be scared of blacks, latinos will hit them over the head with a chair. Of course, latinos won’t be held up before the press and public as racist haters if they give some black bastard a well-deserved kick in the nuts.

The bushman makes his exit. Does the mall cop follow him and make sure he leaves the premises? Of course not. He has to talk to the three damsels he’s rescued. He puts one hand on his hip, hooking his thumb through a belt loop to enhance his latino manliness. “Alla time chasing these guys outa here.” He’s going to speak with them in English, or at least Spanglish. I’m hoping for some comedy now as he attempts to engage them in primitive mating dialogue. Then his radio goes off! “Hijole!” He’s pissed. He grabs it and keys the mic “Go ahead.” Whoever is on the other line answers in very garbled Spanish. “I’ll be back,” he tells the women and he’s out the door and heading up the stairs toward street level. Darn. They look at each other and giggle like highly impressed jr high girls. Paralegals, eh?

I get up and walk away and there’s a scramble for my table.

The walk back to the Criminal Court building is uneventful; no Panhandlers of the Kalahari approach me. I have to go back through the security and it’s the same routine. The black “officer” who was amusing himself by making Whitey jump through hoops earlier this morning is still there. One more time I try to act like this guy’s giving me a shoeshine as he runs the wand over me. I can see it’s pissing him off but there really isn’t anything he can do. The deputies, the real cops, are riding the security staff, making sure people get through quickly this time. They must have been expecting a big post lunch rush.

* * *

I’m going through my notes when the voice of the fruity fat latino in charge blares out over the PA, “We har going to cahl out thome names. When jor name is called, say ‘here’ and come to de front of de room.” He gives a few more instructions and then starts calling people. I assume I’m not going to be called when he seems to winding down and then there it is, my name in Spanglish, further mangled by the forced accent and homosexual lisp. All of a sudden there’s a halt in the action because the fruitcake misread some paperwork. He converses with the other representatives of the mexican government and then he’s ready to give us a few more notes on where we’re going and what we’re doing. Not one damn thing has gone smooth today. Everything is messed up or skewed because we have second-rate people pushing the buttons. Doesn’t seem like much trouble to some of you? Then you haven’t been living in the middle of multi-cult madness. Nothing works quite the way it should. Nothing. Keep in mind the different peoples now being put in charge of many things, the peoples becoming the majorities around the country, are all from groups so primitive they never even invented the wheel. They are lost handling things they themselves would never in a 100,000 years have been able to develop. That’s why our rulers want them.

We get our instructions and about 25 of us trudge through the building like POW’s. We go to another floor, enter the designated courtroom and are told to have a seat in the gallery. I look at the other potential jurors. I’m easily the worst dressed. I hope it will get me kicked out quick. I realize a judge could just boot me and order me to come back in a few weeks dressed the way we were told to, but I doubt that will happen.

The judge is already seated at the bench. He’s black. That figures. I get called in here, and the judge is black. Karma. The bailiff is black. Two for two. Yes, some of you out there will say I’m jumping the gun. You'll say that both of these representatives of the court system could be competent, could have worked their way to their present positions the old fashioned way, on merit. Yeah they could have, but I don’t think so. Not these days. I live in the real world and take my cues from the reality around me, not from “Law & Order, Special Victims Unit” or whatever other crap is on the One Eyed Bolshevik in the living room. At least it’s nice and cool in the courtroom. I like it a bit chilly. The courtroom is probably kept on the cool side as a tool to help keep people from falling asleep.

Judge Bo Jangles smiles at us, his captives, and then starts give a speech. His tone is mellow, his words measured as if he were lecturing a group of 6th graders. In other words, he’s looking down on us. I realized then that I should call him “Judge Pompous Johnson” instead of “Bo Jangles”. He goes on about how he understands some of us don’t want to be there and how he’s taking it upon himself to make it as painless as possible, yakity yak. Then he starts to go into his background as if anyone here wants to listen to his personal history. Most of the jurors want to get out of here as quickly as possible. Can’t do that if we have to sit through the story of Judge Pompous Johnson’s March to Victory in The Land of the Man. Despite the cool air I find myself sinking, getting close to nodding off.

Once he’s done with his personal version of The Odyssey he gets down to business. He tells us what the case is about and now I know I have no desire to sit on this jury. Because no matter what, the perp won’t get the punishment he deserves. What was the case about? Pedophile. The guy’s a Chester. He had been caught molesting the 6-year-old daughter of a family friend. Quite common amongst a particular group. C’mon guess the race of the perp.

Times up. He’s latino. Their levels of pedophile activity and incest are astronomical, ask any cop. The media doesn’t mention it, but ask honest cops and they’ll tell you that it seems as if 80% of mexican men are born kiddy rapists. The judge finishes up and instructs the clerk of the court - I guess that’s what she was - to call names. She’s hispanic, amazingly enough. I guess Judge Pompous wanted some strange. When your name is called, you announce “here” (again) and go take a seat in the jury box. .“The People’s Court” on TV had “Rusty the Bailiff. “The Pipple’s Court” has “Rastus” the bailiff. He’s theatrical all the way, you can see he’s as pompous as the judge. Overblown stern expression, puffing out his chest and taking a quick glance at each juror who answers “here”. His expression makes it look like he’s irritated at the stupidity of the jurors as they get up and go to the box. Well, not all of them, as you’ll see. I thought I’d be way down the list because that’s where I was when they called us to this courtroom but my name rings out, I’m number 7. Go team. I get up, and decide to give something a test. I nod at Rastus as I head toward the jury box but he just gives me a quick, sullen look as “roll call” goes on. A black female is number 10, Rastus gives her a big, rib-eating grin when she gets up and goes to the jury box. A white woman is called and Rastus gives her a look that is close to that of purse snatcher sizing up a victim. The last person called is a frumpy latin woman. Rastus barely gives her a look as she rolls to the box.

I glance at the prospective jurors sitting there with me. Four are White, one asian, two blacks, five latinos. Too many Whites I reckon. Then I tell myself, again, it’s done by the number of eligible potential jurors. Don’t get me wrong. The black and brown populations are well represented here at the courthouse. It’s just that most of them aren’t receiving jury instructions. The sternest instruction they receive in court is usually “…will the defendant please rise.” You can bet this is one of several areas where the Lords of PC are working overtime, trying to even things out in the justice system, along with their constant massaging of statistics. Huh? Statistics? Yeah, stats. You know, the numbers that are juggled to make it appear as if blacks and browns are punished more harshly than Whites, but when you look at the real, raw numbers and facts you see that they are treated far more leniently than Whites nationwide. It’s probably even worse than the raw numbers show because in LA, NY, Chi etc where the juries are “majority minority” they aren’t convicting their own. If you’re a White guy and you have some crazed killer in front of you in court, you want him to hang no matter what his race is. If you’re normal that is. If you’re a brainwashed, effeminate PC gelding of a White Man, you believe all the PC lies, and you don’t believe in Capital punishment etc so you are totally useless. Useless to Whites. Not to the system working against us. But we won’t go into that right now. If you are black or hispanic and one of your homeys is up there, hangdog before The Man, you have to set that homey free! Especially if the victims are White. Then your racial brother deserves a big festival thrown by the whole tribe. If they could, they’d probably toss a couple of Whites in a big pot as part of the feast.

Who else is in court? Can’t forget about the DA, can I? He’s black. Unreal. Is Mugabe running the court system in this town? The prosecutor is a tall guy, in his late 20’s. I guess he’s in a good spot to be able to move on to a big firm a few years down the line. He probably isn’t worth more than PC Publicity. They can put him up front when a big trial is going on, etc. He can recite rhymes in court like Johnny Cochran. Rhymes that don’t mean much but they bedazzle the colored folk. Yeah, he’s on the fast track with his hue. Some might say I’m being too harsh. I don’t think so. I heard him speak. I’d run circles around him and I’m not a lawyer. The defense lawyer? Public Defender’s office via Central Casting. A jewish guy who no doubt is a true believer. As in believing America should be destroyed and non-white criminals should be let loose, allowed to roam free range across North America attacking Whites. Not that he “sees” it that way. He’s probably deceiving himself into thinking he’s doing the right thing, his hatred of what America stood for, the people who built it, buried under so many rationalized “excuses” and false tales of persecution that he’s running on auto-pilot. I catch him staring at me at one point. I guess I look like the White Devil personified. Blond, blue eyes, big. I now know how I’m going to get out of this. I just need to be able to keep a straight face.

They go down the line asking us to state our full names, what we do for a living, etc. Four of the latinos are called before me. ALL of them have city or county jobs, which surprises even me. One woman works in a civilian capacity for a police dept. that’s in one of the latino infested smaller cities that surround L.A., in this case Huntington Park. She’s asked if working for a police dept. will automatically prejudice her against the defendant. “No.” Of course not, he’s a fellow latino.

They talk to the next latino. He’s a mechanic for another of the trashy latino cities on the outskirts of L.A. He probably turns all the city vehicles into lowriders. He’s dressed neat enough, but the kicker is his short sleeve shirt which is cut just right to reveal myriad tattoos running up and down his arms. Si mon! The next two latinos work for the county (Los Angeles County, of course). They’re asked if working for L.A. will make them any less “open-minded”. What the Hell does that mean? This Public Defender is an amateur. Probably got the job through cronyism. He’ll be off to private practice soon enough. Laughing it up while gouging the taxpayers for millions. The judge chimes in with his own questions which basically mirror or “clarify” the questions the lawyers are asking. Clarence Darrow’s spinning in his grave at the show being put on by the clowns on both sides of the bench. All four latinos feed at the public trough. Christ. May as well toss them welfare checks. Darn. Almost forgot. A huge percentage of these folks work AND collect social services of varying kinds. NO ONE checks on non-whites these days. Yeah, there’s the token case once in a while, just to fake Whitey out and make the more gullible think someone is actually trying to stop the “abuse of the system”. Once again all I can do is think of the White People who were displaced by these second-raters. The hispanic woman who works for the police dept is excused. She shrugs and marches off.

They get to one of the black jurors. He works for …well, take a guess! Yes, another civil servant who no doubt displaced some White Guy. He’s a driver, a bus driver for the MTA. The Metropolitan Transit Authority, although in L.A. it really stands for the “Mexican Transport Authority” because that’s what’s stuffed inside most of the buses. He seems to be in good spirits because the judge is black, the DA is black, the defendant isn’t black… Is he able to keep an open mind and consider all of the evidence? “Yeah, man. Evah thang must be considered. S’only fair.” I’d check this guy’s coffee cup if I were riding in a bus he was driving. The DA and the defense lawyer both go to the bench. They speak with the judge. I’m imagining them speaking about me, not even wanting to ask me questions. Just get Whitey out of here. The DA wants a “dark” jury because he’s dark, and the defender just wants me out because I’m White. That's what I'm picturing. The two latin women who work for the County are given the boot.

Then they get to me. I tell them my full name, my background and what I do for a living, which draws quite a look from the defense lawyer. (I actually have a technical background although most people would never guess it from the way I operate this blog) The judge smiles at me and asks me if I understood the rules regarding appropriate courtroom attire. This draws some chuckles from the box and gallery. I smile back, “What instructions?”

He starts to lose his grin. “The instructions you were given when you called in. You did call in, you heard the recording, correct?”

Now I have to start slinging the b.s. “Oh. Yeah, but my pen ran out of ink while I was on the phone, and I was digging around like mad looking for another one. I must have missed it. I didn’t think there was any ‘rule’ for the first day, I didn’t think that what I wore made any difference.”

“First day? What do you mean by ‘first day’?”

“Selection. I didn’t think I’d be working as a juror today. I figured that if I was assigned to a case then I’d have to dress neat. But not for the prelims.”

People are chuckling. Prelims? Like a sporting event? I’m doing OK playing semi-dumb. The judge rubs his face. He looks as if he’s getting ready to lecture me. I’m right. He does. He goes on for ten grinding, boring minutes about why we should show respect for the court, for the system. I’m thinking piss on a system that lets gang bangers convicted of murder serve an average of 7 years in this state. 7 years! You serve more for robbing a bank. The people in charge don’t like it if you mess with their money. But kill someone, especially a white person and you serve an average of 7 years. That means you could serve LESS than 7 for offing someone. He whines on and on, I’m nodding my head, putting on a look that shows I’m considering the weight and logic behind each of his words. Actually I’m barely listening and just hoping he’ll kick me out with this lecture and an admonishment to not do it again. Which I won’t follow. He tells me that next time I should make sure I have a pen that writes before I get on the phone.

The DA asks me if I’ve had any experience with a case like the one they’re going to try. “You mean like being accused of being a molester? No.” Some people chuckle, but I’m stoned faced so the lawyers and judge can’t tell or at least be sure I’m screwing around. I really am good, very good, at keeping a straight face. I should learn to play poker. Then I drop my bomb, and my fairy-tale is either going to get me out of here or get me in a bit of trouble. Either way, I won’t be serving on this jury. “I was attacked in Griffith Park by a guy like this when I was a kid. He tried to drag me into some bushes but people heard me yelling while I was fighting with him and they were able to break it up and hold him for the police. It was pretty scary” The judge jumps in right away, letting me know that I can’t say “a guy like this” because the defendant hasn’t been convicted, that’s what the trial is for. Of course, I said a guy like this as a “two-fer”, molester and mexican. I figured that’s how the defender would take it. The judge goes off on another lecture and I can feel how pissed off everyone is because I am definitely slowing things down. Hey, I’m just looking out for number one while I’m in the Belly of the Beast. The judge goes on a ten minute spiel about how the system decides a man is innocent or guilty after a fair hearing of all the evidence etc etc etc. This guy loves to hear himself speak.

I’m waiting to be tossed but they go on to the next juror. She’s White and I have to admit, loony. She’s dressed like a 60’s hippie even though she’s in her late 20’s. She’s a hair stylist “…but also a palm reader, a psychic.” If she’s psychic, why didn’t she see this coming and figure out a way to get out of jury duty? They ask her the same questions and a few more about her background. While she sounds spaced out, she gives all the correct PC answers. Then the defender asks for her and I to be removed. Yes! I'm almost happy enough to do a negro end-zone dance a la the NFL. The judge thanks both of us for our time, gives the psychic a smile while giving me a nod and a rueful smirk. He probably wanted to screw with me but didn’t figure it was worth it. There will be plenty more chances to screw with “The Man” down the line.

Anti-climactic? Not for me. I’ve served on a few trials. One of them was a case where some mexican perv raped a 9 year old girl. Déjà vu. That was about 10 years ago, the very first time I served jury duty. Maybe I’ll write about that one just to illustrate how freaking dumb some of the people on juries are, how brainwashed they are. But that’s down the line. For now, I think I’ll end this one here. Time to move on to some other subjects. Like the drive from downtown L.A., through the mexican infested center city area and on home…

Thanks for all the comments on the previous entry. A couple of those left today in Part II were very negative, but they did give me some ideas for new posts. So thanks for threatening me and hating my blog. If you made it this far, thanks for reading.