The West is Not Dead


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Dying, yes. But, it’s a reversible death at this point – though maybe not in Amerika. Still, PCR hits another homer:

A world based on lies is a false world, and that is what the Western World is today. It is a LIE.

In the articles below Lance Welton describes how the female takeover of academia is destroying rational thought and substituting emotive responses in its place. Stephen Adams describes how Lynsey McCarthy Calvert was hounded out of her job as spokesperson for Doula UK, the national organization of birth coaches, for saying on Facebook that only women can have babies. The organization concluded that her obviously true statement breached the organization’s equality and diversity guidelines. Delta airlines in its in-flight films elevated the preferences of the small minority of lesbian/homosexuals above that of the straight population and shows same-sex love scenes. The lesbian/homosexuals were offended by their absence. The straights offended by the scenes don’t matter. In Oklahoma City the police are investigating “It’s okay to be white” posters as a hate crime. Who can imagine “It’s okay to be black” posters being investigated as a hate crime? In Sweden truthfully attributing the 1,472% increase in rape to the immigrant-invaders gets a person investigated for a hate crime.

In the Western World a handful of perverts are able to dominate the vast masses of the Western population, because only “victim groups” can specify who the guilty parties are. The guilty parties are the social and intellectual mores of people who made Western Civilization great despite its many crimes.

This suffices as an obituary of the Western World.

Remember, it’s not the wimps and freaks that are our enemies. They’re just what they are and no more. The problem is our fat, lazy, moronic “allies” who are content to doze on the sofa until the end. Wake up!

Why is “raise taxes” always the go-to?


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Another Boomer reads from the worn, old script.

Dalio, who founded the hedge fund in 1975, told CNBC from the Greenwich Economic Forum that the national debt, pension liabilities and health-care liabilities will ultimately have to result in higher taxes since defaulting isn’t an option.

“We’re dealing with almost a currency issue, longer term, in terms of what is the value of currency when those liabilities – not only the debt liabilities, but the pension liabilities and the health-care liabilities, which are like debt. They are promises that have to be paid – they will either be paid by higher taxes or they’ll be not paid and defaulted on,” he said.

“I don’t think they will be defaulted on,” he added. “I think by and large they’re going to be paid, but if they raise taxes too much, then it changes the nature of that economics.”

Category error. It’s not “almost a currency issue.” It’s not economics. It’s sorcery. Including everything that could be a liability, there isn’t enough wealth left to tax. Default is a given. The choice is to do it peaceably and gracefully or to suffer collapse and war. And, war is the default condition.

Let’s Save the Planet


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The communists global warmongers climate scientists know what is best! And that is fewer humans.

Now, four decades later, a larger group of scientists is sounding another, much more urgent alarm. More than 11,000 experts from around the world are calling for a critical addition to the main strategy of dumping fossil fuels for renewable energy: there needs to be far fewer humans on the planet.

“We declare, with more than 11,000 scientist signatories from around the world, clearly and unequivocally that planet Earth is facing a climate emergency,” the scientists wrote in a stark warning published Tuesday in the journal BioScience.

While warnings about the consequences of unchecked climate change have become so commonplace as to inure the average news consumer, this latest communique is exceptionally significant given the data that accompanies it.

When absorbed in sequence, the charts lay out a devastating trend for planetary health. From meat consumption, greenhouse gas emissions and ice loss to sea-level rise and extreme weather events, they lay out a grim portrait of 40 years of squandered opportunities.

The scientists make specific calls for policymakers to quickly implement systemic change to energy, food, and economic policies. But they go one step further, into the politically fraught territory of population control. It “must be stabilized—and, ideally, gradually reduced—within a framework that ensures social integrity,” they write.

Hey, great! I know of 11,000 people we could start with.

The “Darker Aspects” of Financial Sorcery


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As if there’s any other kind. A good look at them and at what’s coming: The End of Money.

Money vs Real Wealth

I happen to know a good deal about our current system of money; how it is created, how it functions, its benefits and its darker aspects. I find it critical to remember that it isn’t actually “real”. Rather, it is a concept. Specifically, it’s a social contract. An agreement. Albeit one enforced at the end of a gun – or, as seen here, an eviction sheriff enforcing the local tax codes:

So while money isn’t “real” in itself, we value it because it is a claim on real things.

Having a lot of it currently entitles you to a great deal of privileges and power, which are a direct outcome of the spending of that money.

Money can be converted into houses. And cars. And massages. Also groceries, electricity, cell phone services and prescription drugs. These and ten billion other things are what money allows you to buy — the things you actually need or want.

So money is the means, but it is not the real wealth. ‘Real wealth’ is the things that money enables you to acquire.

Read on. There’s a reason I frequently rant about this stuff. Look at those charts. Prepare.

White Toxicity in the Air: Algebra is Racist


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Get your kids ut of the failed government schools! The Daily Caller has an excellent omnibus article on the rot:

Local school systems across the country are proposing radical changes in the name of reducing demographic-based achievement gaps.

Parents who support Democrats at the federal level have recoiled at what they view as identity politics gone too far.

School systems in Washington state, Maryland, New York, Minnesota and Virginia are among those where radical agendas have become a flash point in schools, with parents fearing their children’s educations will suffer.

None of this is new or surprising unless you’re a boomer just awakened from your g-g-generational slumber. But, it’s a good running review. Read all about the “nonbinaries,” the white toxicity in the air, and those fairly radical atheists. Remember that all of these educrats and vultures, who run the schools, are themselves either mentally retarded, mentally ill, or purely evil.

A Weekly Preview


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This week’s TPC column will consist of yet another series of education stats and comments, somewhat related to today’s feature here – coming along shortly.

Also, I’m slowly working my way through the Kindle version of The Substitute as well as writing a prequel novella. Those you won’t want to miss. The work would go faster but for my stuffy nose and headache.

A Fine Novel


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I’ve now seen a physical copy of The Substitute, and folks, it looks damned good!


Soon, I’m going to make a new video on the subject. I’ve now heard from several early readers that the thing really works, that it grabs the attention and doesn’t let go. That’s great to hear as the author. It’s a book with many levels and angles, a deep and important matter wrapped in a decent story with great characters. I was aware, pre-publication, that there was already a novel by the same name, featuring a substitute teacher. But, that work (which I suppose is a very good book too) is more of a girl’s romance fantasy(?) No relation beyond the title. And then, this week, someone made me aware of a smart boy on Farcebook who noted that there was a movie in the 90s by the same name. Again, there’s no relation. To my knowledge, there’s nothing else anywhere like my work. And, if you’re a movie or TV watcher, prone to Facebook philosophy, then I’ll go out on a limb and say that, even if you can read the book, you’ll miss the point. Sorry. Every one of the advance readers working on it now and commenting is at least a Mensa level thinker. That wasn’t the target audience, but it might help for a full appreciation. Anyway, I’ll have more in the video.

Some pictures:



See, Farcebookers, it’s 440 pages with no pictures. The cover, however, looks better in real life than on the digital previews. I’d give it an “A” but I could be biased.

But Who Will Take Our AR-15s?


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Or tax our churches? Beta gives up:

“Our campaign has been about seeing clearly, speaking honestly and acting decisively in the best interests of America,” O’Rourke wrote in a Medium post. “Though it is difficult to accept, it is clear to me now that this campaign does not have the means to move forward successfully. My service to the country will not be as a candidate or as the nominee.”

Maybe it will be as an expat!? He can swim off and find Nemo now.

Will Sorcery Affect the Food Supply?


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At a time when Americans are obviously eating more than ever, the farm industry requires massive subsidization.

The Agriculture Department projects that farm incomes will reach $88 billion in 2019 but nearly 40% of that — $33 billion — will come from trade aid, disaster assistance, the farm bill and insurance indemnities, according to a new report by the American Farm Bureau Federation (AFBF).

Why it matters: Farmers — a critical constituency for President Trump in the 2020 presidential election — are feeling the squeeze from China’s retaliatory tariffs, extreme weather and record-high farm debt that’s driving farm bankruptcies.

By the numbers: In a 12-month period ending in September 2019, Chapter 12 farm or fishery bankruptcies totaled 580 filings, up 24% from a year earlier and the most since 2011, when 676 chapter 12 bankruptcies were filed.

Wisconsin experienced the highest Chapter 12 bankruptcy filings at 48 filings, followed by 37 filings in Georgia, Nebraska and Kansas.

Iowa, Kansas, Maryland, Minnesota, Nebraska, New Hampshire, South Dakota, Wisconsin and West Virginia reported Chapter 12 bankruptcy filings on par with or above 10-year highs

One wonders if the banksters eat too. And this is all during the “boom” times.

Duke Marshula – a TPC Halloween Special


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The TPC Halloween Spook-tacular: “DUKE MARSHULA”

*Brought to you tonight by LIME CHIP! Soda

The Mor-Doh Pa$$, Newtonvania, a minute till midnight…

It was a cold, dark, dreary, and other foreboding adjective-laden night. An electric current haunted the cold, listless air. Young Ellis Harkersaps stared blankly at the dark, imposing figure, seated astride the imposing, dark horse. The neophyte solicitor’s lips quivered and quaked as a voice spoke words – words, cold, dark, and raspy – to disturb the dreary, electrified, miserable, lonely, et cetera evening vapors,

‘My Toyota is fast and my wives are hungry, my friend! You’re late.’

The stagecoach driver removed a gnawed cigar from his mouth, spat, and replied, ‘Geesh, muh Lard. Blimey, but it was a smidgeon to nab dis Angleshman from tha arms a them haggard gypsy Uber womans.’ He spat again and made exaggerated I-talian-esque hand gestures.

Upon receiving a polite, yet dire invitation from the horseman, Ellis Harkersaps departed the coach and stepped into the hollowed-out shell of a rusty Yaris coupe, rigged strangely behind the menacing, opaque horse. The coachman cracked his whip, cursed when the frayed leather ribbon snapped in half, and slowly plodded away. Ellis thought his captor-driver might have, in parting, called after, “Go Dawgs!”

Along a dark, narrow, winding, worn, untidy, ill-kept, and completely unsafe-looking path, the horseman led poor Ellis. Somewhere beyond sight, deep in the darkness under a sky without moon or stars, a cat mewed mournfully. Upon crossing what felt like a crumbling speed bump, the driver announced,

‘At last, my young friend, we are arrived at the magnificent CASTLE MARSHULA!! It is, you must know, available for rent, some weekends, via Air-B-n-B. Local taxes and moderate cleaning fees apply…’

The demented driver pulled the heap away at a crawl. Ellis surveyed the manor and huffed under his breath, ‘Castle?! Looks like a common, condemned and abandoned Rite-Aid…’

‘I heard that.’ A gravelly voice echoed from somewhere.

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Ellis rang the bell. And waited. He rang once again. And waited. Thrice he rang. There was no answer. His fourth attempt was a knock, soft but firm. Finally, a shiver meandering down his back, he began kicking the cheap plywood door and screaming, ‘Goddammit! Let me in! It’s cold out here.’

The door opened. There, in the doorway, just inside the door, on the floor, stood, with a slight slouch, a bearded man in a dark caped-outfit. His terrible appearance almost made Ellis relish the cold out of doors. But, the sinister figure spoke kindly, if roughly,

‘Welcome, young Harkersaps of Porterdon. I am Duke Marshula. Welcome to my squatter’s pa… my little home … sweet home. Enter cheaply and leave a little of the cash you bring.’

Ellis unwisely entered and the Duke escorted him back to where the manager’s office in an old Rite-Aid might have once been located. 

‘Weren’t you the guy just driving that junker? Anyway, I have the figures and forms you requested, Duke.’ Ellis spoke with a shudder of intrepid hesitation and through an imperfect countenance.

‘No, no, my young friend. No and no. I pay my, uh … driver uh, very well! And, for you – first, a little Newtonian hospitality. Perrinfield. PERRINFIELD! YOU IDIOT! Bring refreshments! For our victi… for our guest.’ 

Presently, there appeared a most shabbily dressed, lurching, stumbling figure of a man, bent and untamed to gaze upon. Ellis noted his budget-saving resemblance to the coachman. The troll carried with him a poor attitude and an ax. The toad spoke,

‘Hell. Jus got in… Well, not times like tha pressed net. I’ll quarter him up like a spring goose!’ He laughed a hideous cackle of maniacal insanity, his left eye rolling wildly.

‘Perrinfield, NO! Not yet… The wine?’ The Duke remonstrated, his palm covering his face.

‘Hack him, Perrinfield. Get him drunk, Perrinfield. Pick him up from the bus terminal, Perrinfield. Was I ever born under a bad…’ Perrinfield disappeared into the gloom outside the parlor, muttering and cursing as he went.

The Duke looked up through his gnarled fingers, sighed, and coughed. He was just inquiring as to the rights to, and necessary bribes for, a used hand-cranked printing press, Ellis Harkersaps waiting eagerly with an excuse quickly contrived, when three buxom young women in scandalous attire entered the little manager’s office/formal dining room.

They all three chanted in alarming unison, one voice, bitterly sweet but sweetly bitter: ‘Perrinfield has cracked the crockery! Your guest voted for Obama! But, no attention have you showered upon us. No shower. You, yourself, have never showered! Not even a leaf for a morsel as supper.’

Ellis noticed the spectral women all wore matching tied-up Braves jerseys and Tammy Faye’s makeup. He moved to speak but found that he was rooted to the ground, rooted as if with the roots of a plant. Perhaps a tree. A pine, no less. A stout one. His mouth was parched. It would admit no answer of snarky rebuke. The Duke spoke for him,

‘Young Harkersaps, these are my brides – Besserelda, Kayladith, and Ann’azalea. Three … are my brides. We are old-school LDS… I will accept no bamboozle.’

Ellis swayed as if to swoon. Just then, the ghostly women repeated their demand for a “morsel.” The Duke howled out a laugh that shook the bowed and water-stained tile ceiling. He trailed off into a coughing fit, though he was able – just barely – to lift up an old Tupperware bowl for the inspection of his polyamorous Bravo babes. ‘A taste, my loves.’ He hissed, still hacking malignantly.

I recoiled within the shrouded confines of my own mind. A play of life and death unfolded before my frightened eyes, red with tears of fear and hate. The strumpets made for the Tupperware like school girls to a coin-operated cigarette machine. From out it, laughing as they did so – most disquietingly – they raised up a wrapped bundle of swaddling cloth. I knew then, as I know and remember now, what was held neath those ragged coverings. Their fangs bared, their mascara smearing, the lecherous ladies seized upon the helpless rancid baby cabbage. It emitted the most pitiable squeak as it’s putrid leaves sagged and flapped. Belching! Snorting! The fiendish wives descended on the rotten little vegetable. The taste of my lunch, previously consumed but only that very afternoon, filled my dry gullet – particularly back where the taste buds register tones harsh and bitter. I mean it was damned unpleasant. I thought to scream and run away. Instead, I leaned against the wall and yawned, contemplating my forthcoming resignation from the less-than-lustrous firm of Dewey, Cheatam, and Howe. In an instant, the doomed soup-fodder met its grisly fate. I shedded a single tear as somewhere, far away but yet near enough to not be so far, too far, a produce clerk cried out with the angst of demise. “The cat will have that one. And, so much better the so with,” I thought. The women burped and rolled on the floor. Off-putting enough was that. But the Duke! His eyes! Never has any Member of the Congress witnessed upon the innocent world such boredom! Such rank malaise! Perish the very notion that in that Rite-Aid, within that veritable castle prison, that I should endure such such and such … of this and that.

Luckily, at that very moment of sheer exhaustion of trope and poor taste, Perrinfield reappeared, bearing forth a two-liter bottle of plastic, within which resided some generic soda concoction, likely bought on sale, woefully expired, and now utterly flat. He announced dejectedly,

‘My Lard. Mas’ Mark, er … Angleshman. Wenches… I give you the night’s drink – Lime Chip Soda!’

A round of “oohh’s” and “aahh’s” floated lazily about the place. Ellis Harkersaps angstily fingered his pocket revolver. Most horrifically, a cheesy music began, as if from nowhere, though still heard herewhere, starting low and then rising to a headache-inducing screech. Perrinfield started singing – out of tune – being soon joined by the others, plus a multitude of assorted oddities, previously unseen:


It’s confounding…

Lime is beating…

Sadness makes it roll… 

But, listen, Bitches…

(Nothing is wronger)

My pockets have a hole.

I remember joining the Lime Corps,

Slinking those slouches then.

The wackness would hip me.

(And the Noid would be mauling)



It’s zucchini.

Constipation, flee me.

So you can’t knee free; no, not a squall.

In belabored distention,

With liberalistic dissention,

Well deluded; Tom T. Hall.

With a clip of a rip dip,

You’re into the LIME CHIP!

And nothing brings greater shame.

You’re priced out of cremation.

Like it’s a bargain libation!




Against his better (maybe worse) judgment and to his eternal regret, Ellis Harkersaps began to toe-tap along, his fingers snapping to the alarmingly catchy if completely moronic tune. All was well until, quite suddenly, all parties noticed the label on the green plastic soda bottle. The music died. Hearts stood still. With one voice of terror, pain, confusion, lust, agitation, fear, sorrow, worry, fear, envy, yadda, yadda, and morose, they all cried out:

“IT’S DIET!!!!!!!”

Ellis Harkersaps crashed through the back door – just punched a hole straight through it – his being one of dozens of hasty exits from the dilapidated, abandoned – now, re-abandoned – squatter’s palace of doom. Alas, just when the story was getting “good,” the party ended. Another condemned wreck of a building left standing amidst the ruin of another Eve of the All Hallowed. But, it was not yet the end, entirely…

For, seeking shelter from the ghastly spectacle of Sanheim, there entered into the Duke’s deserted castle-drugstore, the Vispoli family, recently disembarked from Anytown. While the children, Ruthie, Bryson, and Lizzie, plundered the remains of the pharmacy cabinets in search of dat fix, Todd and Claire examined the wreck of the back room, where once, if I forgot to mention this earlier on, there might have been a manager’s office. Might have been. Standing on a dank cabbage leaf, Todd exclaimed to his sleepy bride, ‘A bottle of Diet Lime Chip! Glory be.’ Under his breath, he added, ‘And, an ax…’

[Commence, here, in your head, either “Werewolves of London” by Warren Zevon or “Pet Sematary” by the Ramones – or RHPS’s “Time Warp” – that one’s probably stuck, right?].

***Please note that in the telling of this tale, no literal limes, baby cabbages, cranky English majors, or upon-a-time residents of the SGI Plantation were harmed in any way. A show tune might have conceivable been plagiarized, but that’s about the worst of it. Oh! And, Bram’s gothic – looted that too. But, hey, he’s dead and the copyright’s run so heck with it, eh? That’s the worst. Well, that and the concept, execution, etc.

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