The True Story Of Rip Van Whitey

[Warph]

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By Woden, God of Saxons,
From whence comes Wensday, that is Wodensday,
Truth is a thing that ever I will keep
Unto thylke day in which I creep into
My sepulchre. - Eric Cartman

Whoever has made a voyage up the Hudson must remember the Catskill mountains. At the foot of these fairy mountains, the voyager may have described the light smoke curling up from a village. It is a little village of great antiquity, having been founded by Dutch colonists. In that same village, there lived many years a simple good-natured fellow of the name of Rip Van Whitey.

He was a descendant of the Van Whities who figured so gallantly in the chivalrous days of the pre-modern era. He inherited, however, but little of the martial character of his ancestors. I have observed that he was a simple good-natured man; he was, moreover, a kind neighbor, and an obedient hen-pecked husband.

Indeed, to the latter circumstance might be owing that meekness of spirit which gained him such universal hatred and envy of the execrable great brown hordes; for those men are most apt to be weak, obsequious and conciliating abroad, who are under the discipline of shrews at home. Their tempers, doubtless, are rendered pliant and malleable in the fiery furnace of domestic tribulation. A termagant wife may, therefore, in some respects, be considered the root of all evil.

The white children of the village would shout with joy whenever he approached. He assisted at their sports, made their playthings, taught them to fly kites and shoot marbles, and told them long stories of ghosts, witches, and Indians Native Americans Original Peoples. Whenever he went dodging about the village, he was surrounded by a troop of them; and not a dog would bark at him throughout the neighborhood.

The black children of the village, however, sensing weakness in good old Rip, would never hesitate to clean his clock as part of their primitive and savage "knockout game". Rip would seldom be able to recall the event, having smashed his frail head upon the concrete, but he refused to believe the accounts of witnesses that it was the poor wittle bwack children—angelic, ever-innocent, forever oppressed—who would do such a thing. Rather, he listened to the talking heads of the Ministry of Truth and academics in the towers of Higher Indoctrination who insisted he tripped over his own white privilege; and that, even if it were poor wittle bwack kids cold-cocking him for no reason whatsoever, he deserved it because racism. And slavery.

The great error in Rip's composition was an insuperable aversion to all kinds of self-defense. It could not be from the want of courage. He would never hesitate to flip the bird from the confines of his minivan to someone he deemed too aggressive a driver (unless that driver was black, of course); he would never hesitate to bravely denounce the racism and nativism of his fellow whites when they objected to their civilization being submerged under the Great Brown Goo. In a word Rip was ready to come to anyone's defense but his own—and to any race's defense but his own. But as to doing racial duty, and keeping his society in order, he found it impossible.

One fine day, whistling, he walked through the door of his ramshackle house and found himself immediately subject to a squealing tirade from his enraged wife.

The loving wife.

"WHYDOYOUALWAYSSLAMTHEDOORANDLEAVETHETOILETSEATUPANDNEVERTALKTOMEANDALWAYSFEELLIKEYOU'RE
IGNORINGMEANDNEVERREPLACETHEPAPERTOWELSANDDON'TEARNENOUGHMONEYANDWENEVERGOOUTANYMOREAND—"

With that, all of the long-stemmed wine glasses in the china cabinet shattered from the pitch of her voice alone. There was a welcome moment of relief from the verbal fusillade as they both stared incredulously at the site.

But just as quickly as the moment of silence came, it went.

"SEEWHATYOUMADEMEDOYOULAZYIGNORANTHATEFILLEDBIGOTEDRACISTSEXISTHOMOPHOBICANTISEMITICNEONAZI
ISLAMOPHOBICXENOPHOBICNATIVISTTEABAGGINGREDNECKI'LLTAKETHEHOUSEANDTHEKIDSANDLEAVEYOUHOMELESS
ANDCHILDLESSANDSCREWWITHYOURHEADUNTILYOUKILLYOURWORTHLESSSELFTHESEBOOTSWEREMADEFORWALKING
IAMWOMANHEARMEROAR..."

At this point, he decided to go for a walk.

To be continued...

[Warph]

Rip Van Whitey

Poor Rip was at last reduced almost to despair; and his only alternative, to escape from the danger of the "vibrant", Federally-imposed "diversity" of his once-charming town, and the clamor of his feminazi wife, was to take a gun knife slingshot in hand and stroll away into the woods.

In a long ramble of the kind on a fine autumnal day, Rip had unconsciously scrambled to one of the highest parts of the Catskill mountains. He was after his sole solace of porn hunting, and the still solitudes had echoed and re-echoed with his cussing as he tried to find cell service with which to pull up hornyhousewiveswholovebbc.com. Panting and fatigued, he threw himself, late in the afternoon, on a grassy knoll, covered with mountain herbage, that crowned the brow of a precipice. From an opening between the trees he could overlook all the lower country for many a mile of decaying suburban sprawl. He saw at a distance the polluted Hudson, far, far, below him, moving on its silent but polychlorinated biphenyl-poisoned course, with the rainbow reflection of oil slicks, or the sail of a lagging bark, here and there sleeping on its glassy bosom, and at last losing itself in the smog-enveloped highlands.

On the other side he looked down into a deep mountain glen, wild, lonely, and shagged, the bottom filled with fragments from the impending cliffs, and scarcely lighted by the reflected rays of the setting sun. For some time Rip lay musing on this scene; evening was gradually advancing; the mountains began to throw their long blue shadows over the valleys; he saw that it would be dark long before he could reach the village, and he heaved a heavy sigh when he thought of encountering the terrors of Diversity at Dark—and, should he survive that, the bottomless vitriol of Dame Van Whitey.

As he was about to descend, he heard a voice from a distance, hallooing, "Rip Van Whitey! Rip Van Whitey!" He looked around, but could see nothing but a buzzard circling overhead. He thought his fancy must have deceived him, and turned again to descend, when he heard the same cry ring through the still evening air: "Rip Van Whitey! Rip Van Whitey!"

Rip felt a vague apprehension stealing over him; he looked anxiously in the same direction, and perceived a strange figure slowly toiling up the rocks, and bending under the weight of something he carried on his back. He was surprised to see any human being in this lonely and unfrequented place, but supposing it to be some one of the neighborhood in need of his assistance, he hastened down to yield it.

To be continued...