It's 8:47 on a Saturday morning. I've taken my pull at the front of a paceline with my heart rate zooming up to 187 BPM, now I'm waiting near the front of the peloton again for another turn in the wind. The group is full of incompetent novices, with the entire line of riders moving like an accordion, when suddenly the rider in front of me slams on brakes. I veer around him on the right, my front tire making that horrible tell-tale squeal one hears right before a crash, and I go down hard on my right side at 23 MPH. "I'm alright," I say in the tone of someone ready to murder another cyclist, and I start fixing my road bike. Bruised and filthy, I get back in the saddle and both my legs seize up in debilitating cramps. The next few miles are a litany of pain, but I finally pedal out of it and get back into the aerobars to chase down the groups I had just passed a few miles before.
It's 9:00 AM and I have 85 miles to go.
It's 11:30 AM on a Monday. I'm dragging a 600lb negress on a Stryker stretcher down a 1/4 mile of hospital hallways with muscles bruised from Saturday's crash, pulling her with the handle in the front in a position that reminds my unconscious of something. Wait, is this how Egyptian slaves hauled blocks of stone to build pyramids? No, that's close, but it's something else... It's how I pull cable off the winch of a skidder and through the brush when I'm about to hook up a choker to a log and drag it out of the woods. Except unlike my patient, the fucking tree will become something useful after it's been loaded onto a truck. I'm being assisted in this horrific dindu hauling operation by two partners, a super-bariatric White male 22-year-old weighing 420 lbs, and a morbidly obese pregnant female that probably weighs in the neighborhood of 300 lbs.
Who are these people?
They're what passes for the average White American. Mostly overweight, with a significant number of them either clinically obese, morbidly obese, or "super-bariatric," they shuffle from work to home while gorging on the concentrated sugar and lard that constitutes the entirety of the American diet. They eat the hearty meals of a logger fueling his body for a day spent running a chainsaw only to sit on their fat asses for 8 hours.
They dress in T-shirts with crude slogans, they wear sweatpants in public, they anesthetize their brains with alcohol, drugs and Netflix in the evening. These are a people with no greater aim in life other than numbing themselves, feasting often, and dying early. They don't aspire to anything, they don't meaningfully become involved in any sort of pursuit or group activity.
These are people unaware of their past and unconcerned with their future; the "middle children" of history living increasingly shorter, more miserable lives in a nation that's transforming itself into a third world banana republic. Modern Whites don't have civic participation, a sense of community, or the pressure of moral expectations from the older generation. After all, their forefathers are all indolent baby-boomers that smoked weed, snorted cocaine, and smashed their hairy genitals together in the "sexual revolution."
Modern Whites, when they aren't dulling their senses or neurotically distracting themselves with social media, primarily find a tattered sense of purpose via consumer capitalism. They're "Ford" or "Chevy" people. Whites aren't allowed to define themselves via their culture and ethnicity, so naked materialism is their only avenue. Religion is mocked, Western culture is excoriated, depravity and failure is celebrated. Why excel in a culture full of slave moralists that gain social status by attacking the successful?
A sort of managerial class dispassionately oversees and maintains the bloody machinery of late-stage neoliberal capitalism while it sunders what little remains of the human spirit. These Vogons don't innovate, create or work in the trenches, they just "run things." The modern White worker doesn't even aspire to be part of this class; mostly, they merely try to stay out of the way, collect a meager paycheck, and go home to their trash-filled hovels to obliterate the memory of another wasted day in a wasted life.
Alcoholism, opiate abuse, and unhealthy eating patterns run rampant for the White working class. The soulless apparatus of government-sponsored cartels, faceless bureaucracies and corporate culture have made numbing poisons, idle amusements, and endless consumer frivolities unbelievably plentiful. America itself resembles something like a giant truck-stop full of gas stations hawking garbage food and cheap alcohol, box stores promising soda and flat-screen TVs at bulk prices, and the ever ubiquitous drug store ready to blunt the ravages of a pointless existence.
Notice what's missing? Architecture, communal gathering places, and anything hinting at a human dimension beyond crass consumerism.
The goal, intentional or accidental, is to plunge even the dumbest plebeian into the deepest waters of existential despair where he simply medicates himself with harmful substances and habits until his untimely demise. All human expression is limited to the consumer choices of the flies in the marketplace, all human relationships are reframed into a narcissistic ego gratification exercise.
Whites have swallowed the poison and given up. They've accepted that they need to bow to managerial Vogons and avoid publicly holding politically incorrect opinions, lest they get terminated. One of the essential stages of brainwashing is to get the subject to betray his own beliefs. Whites have accepted that being morbidly obese and having a shameful body is just how things are now. Lack of social connections, low birth rates, worsening health outcomes--these are fine, for somewhere along the line we fucked up, and now it's time to die. Perhaps this is the last gasp of Christian morality manifested as suicidal guilt, or maybe it's apoptosis on an ethnic and cultural scale.
Either way, if we don't give Whites something to live for, there'll be nothing left.