Book Review: Republican Party Animal (guest post from Karl Ushanka)


Special guest post by Karl Ushanka

Book Review: Republican Party Animal, by David Cole, 2014, 319 pages.

Short Review:

Republican Party Animal is a fantastic and entertaining story about a man whose strengths of work-ethic, principles and objectivity were betrayed by his effectiveness and his piss-poor judgement in women.  Do not be fooled by the title, politics rarely makes an appearance in this book.  It is David Cole telling his very personal, and sometimes terrifying story of emotional and professional ups and downs.  I highly recommend this book.

Long Review – Preface:

I am a retired blogger, so I had to find another site to share this review.  I don’t have any obligation to write a review, which I hope you will see as an added endorsement for this book.

Further, because Holocaust revisionism is a topic within this very personal story, I chose to post this review on the Savage Hippie Podcast blog, which the author is a member.  I am blind and indifferent to the “Jew” issue and to the Nazi side of the second world war.  A solid C student in high school, I memorized only the material I had to to graduate. And the only information on the topic of WWII I needed to know was that six million Jews were killed by the Nazis.  Having read Republican Party Animal, I am more aware that many have strong feelings on the topic of this particular religion and history.  So I’d hate to ask another blogger to publish my review, only to find out they had an ulterior motive for doing so.

Also, part of my appreciation for the Republican Party Animal story is that I found many parallels with my life.  I lived in the Los Angeles area during the same time as this story.  I am sympathetic to the author’s women troubles as I discovered, after moving to LA from the mid-west at age 19, that California women carry more than their share of problems. I too have been blacklisted in my career for objective academic work. I too think my approach to politics is like the author’s – more of a common-sense journey rather than partisan score-keeping.  And last, I’ve experienced what peer-pressure, intimidation and groupthink can do to groups and individuals with similar beliefs and backgrounds.  Cole’s story was a powerful re-play for me, and it is a good warning to others.

David Cole should have had a champion.  Perhaps Dr. Carlos Huerta, an Army veteran, fellow Jew and Holocaust researcher Cole mentions early in the book.  Huerta reminds me of many people I served with in the Army: fair, honest, and not threatened by differing opinions.

Cole set out at a young age to research an important historic event, and he found some information that did not fit the narrative.  He followed that information to compelling evidence, as any honest researcher would do.  He did everything right, but the topic was the Holocaust, and any information that does not fit the narrative is taboo.  Had he had a mentor and a champion to help him appreciate his audience, help him navigate the waters, and defend his work, his story would be much different.

He shelved his research when he received his first death threat.  But that wasn’t enough.  He had to change his identity in order to move onto his second life – that of a GOP mover and shaker in enemy territory – Hollywood California.

It is fascinating how the author moved up through the ranks of the Friends of Abe group of Hollywood conservatives as he did earlier with his Holocaust research.  He did it in Hollywood with old-fashioned hard work, using his organizational and event-managements skills to help mold the group into a nationally recognized GOP oasis in California.  He understood the vision of the Abe leaders, and he worked in that direction.  Remove the politics from this story, and it reads like a simple roadmap for success.

The author was known as a man who “could get things done.”  This is the absolute best compliment for anyone who has ever had to accomplish things through people who had various, and sometimes conflicting, agendas and motivations.

Republican Party Animal offers an honest and candid review of Cole’s decisions.  And not all of them were good.  He had several dysfunctional relationships with women. The last gal mentioned ruined his incredible run in Hollywood.  But that betrayal was just the first of many as it caused a split between the author and hundreds of his Hollywood friends and GOP contacts.

He was betrayed by people who would profess to be loyal.  They were anything but, and that angered this reader.  This mass betrayal, this peer-pressure cliquish petty groupthink among like-minded friends was as disgusting as it was swift.  You’ll read about how, in just hours, the author’s entire network of friends and industry professionals evaporated.

Last, I experienced a Forrest Gump-like feeling from this book.  If you’ve heard Mr. Cole speak in the Savage Hippie Podcast or elsewhere, you’ll know he is a story-teller.  He has plenty of stories and a knack for telling them.  He and I are close in age, and during the period of this book he and I were both in Los Angeles.  His chronological story referenced many local, national and international events that I was familiar with, and I enjoyed the story even more with the shared nostalgia.  And I even picked up on the many movie references.

The author seems to be in limbo now, with a few too many empty bottles to show for it.  He was a winner in the two challenges he faced, and I’d like to think he is just resting for a third run to greatness.

I have added Republican Party Animal to my lengthy book list at my blog.

Karl is retired from blogging at, where he ‘tracked communist activities globally, and communist inspirations nationally’ for over ten years.  He recently published Trade the Ratio, a book about precious metals investing.  He is currently working on his next book – about another betrayal within the Republican Party.

Book Review: Jim Goad’s Gigantic Book of Sex

book of sex


Author: Jim Goad

Publisher: Feral House

Whenever Jim Goad appears on a podcast, the question that always comes up is whether he will ever do a fifth issue of Answer Me!. His answer is always “no”, that the zine was inspired by his life in Los Angeles during the early/mid 90s, was co-written with his deceased wife, Debbie, and without those elements, there can be no Answer Me!. HOWEVER, if Adam Parfrey just wanted to make a cynical cash grab AND if ” bringing back Answer Me!” just implied “putting a bunch of snarky articles that seem to be united by a single theme together in an 8″ X 11″ size book”, then I suppose you could consider Jim Goad’s Gigantic Book of Sex to be Answer Me! #5, the sex issue, just like you could consider Ilsa, the Wicked Warden to be part of the Ilsa series even though it was originally released as Wanda, the Wicked Warden and Greta, the Mad Butcher before the studio that put it out decided that the name “Ilsa” resonated with more people.

As I read Book of Sex, I found out that Jim Goad and I have a few things in common:

  • We’re both circumcised.
  • We both lost our virginity at age 18 (although technically he put his penis inside of a woman at age 12, since he had no jizz to release, nor knew exactly what the point of the action was, he says it didn’t really count).
  • We’ve both been accused of having next to no standards when it comes to the women that we find attractive, which is why…
  • We’re both attracted to Penny Marshal. If you think this is a superficial statement, then I’ll have you know that several months ago, before I had even read Book of Sex, David Cole and Ann Sterzinger harangued me for praising Marshal’s looks on an episode of Savage Hippie. I like girls that look like aliens; what can I say?

But I digress; Jim Goad’s Gigantic Book of Sex was released a decade ago, and I wish I had known about it and him back then, since the rather frank, ugly, and painfully real portrayal of everything involving sex – and I mean, as far as I can tell, there isn’t a single stone that goes unturned with regards to “this most private of human bodily functions” – confirms that my “sexist” and “unenlightened” caveman views were right all along. Or, at very least, someone else agrees with ’em, and this someone else had his book published by a company that liberals, hipsters, and arty people think is cool.

But before I actually talk about Jim Goad’s Gigantic Book of Sex, I’m going to tell you about two of my sexual conquests just to give you young people some perspective on how it was done before dating/sex/seduction/gettin’ girls was ruined by social media, dating sites, Tinder, and feminists who try to emasculate men with their “affirmative consent” bullshit.

My first tale of sexual success is in fact the time I lost my virginity. As stated above, I was 18 years old, and I KNEW that, if I wanted to be broken into the wonderful world of sex, I would need to act fast. Now, you might be wondering, “why the rush? Wouldn’t you be attending college in a couple of months, and won’t there be plenty of girls who are ready to have penises inserted inside them?” This is all true. HOWEVER, with high school nearing its end, with prom quickly approaching, and with an adorable red head named Helena, who resembles Macha Magal from SS Hell Camp giving me glances on a regular basis in the class we were in, I KNEW that the Gods were telling me that NOW was the time to act; that if I had said nothing, she wouldn’t have either, and instead of going to prom all dolled up in this wicked tuxedo as pictured below with Jared–


— I would have stayed home and acted superior to all the “rubes” who went out to prom and had sex, while making it painfully obvious that I really just regretted not doing anything.

Incidentally, Helena and I actually had sex the week BEFORE prom as well as on the initial night. If I had known getting her in bed would have been THAT easy, I’d have asked her out MONTHS earlier! Once I broke the ice by asking if she wanted to go to prom, I then asked her to come see my shitty punk band, the Bloodsucking Freaks, play at a local VFW hall, and then to hang out at her dinky ass, white trash house after the gig, where we fornicated for MY first and her who knows which number time… and it was FUN! Like, it wasn’t bad or weird or awkward or traumatizing or any of those things typically associated with first time sex! The lights were dimmed; her room was decorated with hippie and Wiccan knick-knacks; she had a thin, yet curvy figure, which looked great illuminated by the moonlight and her… lava lamps… We went at it for like twenty minutes to a half hour, trying out various positions while grunting and sweating; and from all of the context clues, we both got off. In fact I KNOW she did because, the one time out of three that she didn’t, she told me so. So that was that. We dated for a whopping two weeks, had sex a total of three times, hung out a couple times at the mall and maybe the arcade, saw the Dead Kennedys with Brand Cruz on vocals at Harpos, where only about twenty people showed up, and broke up because I didn’t call her for a week, which she didn’t appreciate.

And after that, I didn’t have sex for at least a year.

When I finally DID, I was in my second year of college, about 25 lbs. lighter, and had a killer physique, that I accomplished by starving myself, working out and running about seven miles a day for two and a half months. I was also now fully entrenched in my punk rock look, complete with cut-off t-shirts, mohawk, black denim, studded belt, studded wrist band, and either Converse sneakers or engineer boots. Without much effort, I scored a couple of one night stands, but when I saw Melissa, it seemed as though once again the Gods were telling me, “you GOTTA go after this one. It’s now or never, dude!” So, my friends and I were sitting in the cafeteria, and in walks Melissa. In an effort to show them I’m a bad ass, I got up as if I was Clint Eastwood, mustering up courage, but acting like it was no big deal, walked up to her, and came up with the best opener I could think of when talking to a girl who wears slutty, punk rock miniskirts, fishnet stockings, and Doc Martins; “uh, uh, uh… do you listen to punk rock?” She responded with something like, “I listen to lots of stuff.” And then I hemmed and hawed about gigs and my radio show and other pointless, air-filling garbage before I FINALLY said, “so do you want to go out sometime?”

When I came back to the table with slip of paper that had her phone number on it, I felt like I proved I have a brass scrotum. But, as anyone who’s courted a girl knows, that brief moment of victory is fleeting, for unless you’re a master pickup artist, you REALLY don’t know if she actually plans on answering her phone when you call her – this is RIGHT before all of this texting bullshit started – or if she even gave you the correct number.

And let me tell you, courting Melissa took a strong head and an iron will. I could probably sleep with other girls – I mean, I was totally in with one of these chicks already, and then kaboshed it myself – and at one point I even had a contingency plan in the form of another girl named Amber, who I started to set up plans with when I thought I wasn’t getting anywhere with Melissa, but at the end of the day, I REALLY wanted to sleep with Melissa if ONLY to prove that I could do it; and of course because she looked REALLY hot in the one-piece, rock ‘n’ roll nurse outfit, fishnets, and with her face all painted up.

But, hoo boy, was she frustrating; we’d set up a date, and she’d forget and make other plans. She’d invite me to hang out with her, and then her friends would show up. On top of that, she was dating this crazy, tattooed guy with bug eyes named Dave, who she visited on the weekend. Now, you’re probably saying, “well, dude, if she was dating Dave, why did you think she wanted to go out with you?” BECAUSE SHE GAVE ME HER NUMBER!!! AREN’T YOU PAYING ATTENTION??!! WHY WOULD SHE GIVE ME HER NUMBER IF SHE WASN’T INTERESTED IN DATING/FUCKING ME? Oh yeah, because she’s a girl, and girls do that… often. But anyway, it was a real test of my resolve; I’d run into her and say, “hey, so what’s the deal? Do you want to go out with me or what?” And she’d give me a half ass answer, not committing to a solid “yes” or “no.” See, this is back when we were taught to treat women as adults who think rationally; so when what we were taught clashed with reality, it kinda sucked! Was she interested? Was she just a typical attention whore, who loves leading guys on for her amusement? So FINALLY, after an interminable three weeks, after which I decided not to waste any more time with pursuing her, she called me that weekend, told me she’d broken up with Dave, and that she would be around a lot more often. I should add that I missed the first call, and she left a message. I was ABOUT to call her back, but a lady friend of mine said, “don’t call her. She’ll call you.” And right she was!

That Sunday night – hey, it’s college; every night’s a weekend night – after visiting my former friend Tiffany at the porno/sex toy shop that she worked at, Melissa and I went back to my place, watched a movie, and had sex; while I was on my back, Melissa finished me off with a handy, and I jizzed in my own face. Shortly after that, we started dating, and during our ten month relationship, we had sex roughly 250 – 300 times. We also watched the Devo DVD with all their music videos on it on nearly a nightly basis, watched The Filth and the Fury not quite as many times, got drunk a whole lot, and went to a Gwar gig, where she fucked lead singer Dave “Oderus Urungus” Brockie backstage. While typically we were a fun, cute couple, occasionally I would do shit like punish her by denying her sex when she’d mention the guys she had sex with before me or angrily yell at her from time to time for what seemed like no reason at all or some other melodramatic crap you do when you’re 19 and inexperienced and later realize is absolutely ridiculous. She at one point attempted to sleep with another guy named Dave – this one happened to be a buddy of mine – but thankfully his Catholic guilt prevented him from reciprocating her advances; either that or he wasn’t attracted to her. Then we had an acrimonious breakup, which was influenced by her fucking the Gwar guy. But what’s really cool is that a year later, I went out with her “best friend” Becky – female friendships re-align OFTEN, and women have next to no loyalty to each other – who was definitely cuter though less curvy. And in spite her hipster look and love for shitty indie bands like Rilo Kiley, she was quite the “don’t cum in me, but cum on me” slut, the kind that I love so much. Then she dated this guy who played drums in a punk rock band and is an SJW fag before turning lesbian and marrying a woman. Who’s to say she won’t come to her senses and eventually return to dick?

But ANYWAY; you’re ostensibly reading this post to find out if you should read and/or buy Jim Goad’s Gigantic Book of Sex, not to hear about my sex stories, even though they’re marginally related.

Book of Sex is a collection of articles that Goad wrote for the Portland based Exotic magazine, a free rag (no pun intended), that was given away at porno shops and strip clubs,. It also contains articles he wrote for other publications, such as Hustler, Screw, San Francisco Bay-Guardian, Vice, New York Press, The Probe, High Society, and the website Book of Sex is divided into four sections; “fake”, “real”, “personal” and “opinion.” In the intro, Goad humorously points out that some of these sections could overlap and that the choice of category that some of the articles were placed in was pretty arbitrary.

As the “fake” section implies, the articles are all fake, or rather they are satirical in nature, often coming off (no pun intended) like X-rated Mad or Onion articles. Some of these, such as “The Sad, Strange World of Adult Films Made by Children” or “Ex-Slave Sues Dominatrix for Reparations”, conceptually seem too silly and ridiculous to pull off, but actually gave me a chuckle, while the opening article, “Home Breast-Implant Kits”, was as nauseating as a title like that implies (hint: don’t by the cheap knockoff 10 Minute Rack Attack if you don’t want to disfigure your a-cups). The “fake” section also includes an amusing article about made up STDs – my favorite being “ass moss” – another nauseating peace about “genital cosmetic surgery”, guides to cunnilingus and fellatio, an article about the penis sizes of various religious leaders, a “scare piece” about a date rape drug that is smoked rather than ingested, another gross article about “pug porn”, and a pair of phony strip club ads; one advertising Stinky’s, where you pay old women to put their clothes on, and one advertising Sharky’s, where the strippers are victims of shark bites. In general, the “fake” part is my least favorite, even though it had some amusing moments. Going forward, the book only gets better!

In the “real” section, Goad goes into investigative reporter mode, doing exposes on a wide range of topics including necrophilia, men who stick foreign objects up their anuses, gerbling – I’m not going to say what that is; if you’re curious, look it up! – sexual deformities, the male nipple, tips on getting a tighter vagina, queefing, the over-feeding fetish, various fetish groups found online, sexual dysfunctions, strange laws governing sex, homosexuality in the animal kingdom, chemical induced erectile dysfunction, motorized sexual devices, various types of animal penises, paraphilias, nudist colonies, and nuns who sexually abuse children. And yes, dick breaking is one of the sexual dysfunctions that Goad discusses. Just the thought that this could happen still freaks me out. As a result of this neurosis, I NEVER want to have a girl do me cowgirl style. Oh, I’ve done it before, but know that, as much fun as you ladies might be having bopping up and down on top of me, and as much as I do enjoy it in general, since I enjoy sex, I’m literally suffering from anxiety that my dick will fall out, and that you’ll crash land on top of it and break it; so let’s stick with the dog style or missionary, k?

In the “personal” section, Jim Goad surprisingly talks about his personal experiences with sex; one night stands, how his reputation of being a “bad boy” on account of serving a prison sentence got him way more pussy than he ever got before his prison stint, his proclivity to cheating on his girlfriends and carrying on multiple relationships at the same time, lack of sex drive while on meth, questioning whether what comes out of a woman is sexual fluid or urine, his erogenous zones, his proclivity to fucking other men’s girlfriends or “bird doggin'”, his experience trying out Viagra, his experience trying out cheap aphrodisiacs you buy at gas stations, his search for his own prostate a.k.a. the “male g-spot”, his teenage celebrity crushes – including the aforementioned Penny Marshal – his praising of older women’s sexual experience, his fetish for women with missing teeth (?!), his love for completely unshaven bush (?!), ejaculating blood (ugh!!), taking pictures of his dick and sending them to women, how shy he is the first time he’s with a woman (now, THAT seems odd for a guy like him, doesn’t it?), his virginity loss story, and the challenge of masturbating while in prison. There’s really not a lot to say about this section other than it’s fun to read. Though, there were a couple of article that seemed like duds, like how he gets horny when the weather is warm (I mean, who DOESN’T?), but otherwise the book moves smoothly into the final section…

… call “opinion.” Goad tells you what he thinks about prostitution, vaginal stink, The Vagina Monologues, the lesbian trend – like my ex Becky (See? My stories DO relate!) – obscene phone calls, hand jobs, tits (I DON’T get why he thinks tits are for little boys. I LOVE big, fat tits with the round areola and perky nipple. I prefer ass, but big, fat, yet not saggy DD’s still cause my dick to fill with blood), the Catholic schoolgirl fetish (something I DO NOT share with Goad, not because I think of it as off-putting, but because I just don’t see what all the hullabaloo is about), cat fights (they’re kinda hot, I guess), Muslim girl fetish, phony hillbilly porn sites made by Silicon Valley dweebs, sluts, the attractiveness of various Republican women, and the Mary Kay Letourneau case (a.k.a. the “hot for teacher” case). The section ends with a bunch of reviews for porno videos. Some of the articles in the “opinion” section seem more suited to be in the “real” section, such as the article about bestiality; while the article about spanking, which is in the “personal” section, seems like it should be in the “opinion” section.

The “opinion” section also includes all thirteen installations of the monthly column that Goad wrote for Exotic magazine, where he makes it VERY clear that, in spite working for a sex rag, he is not a consumer of the so called “sex industry.” He also voices his disdain for the hypocrisy and dishonesty that surrounds the Portland sex industry. In fact, I was surprised to learn that The People’s Republic of Portland, OR even HAS such a thriving sex industry. HOW IS THAT POSSIBLE?! Wouldn’t feminists find strip clubs and jack shacks to be inherently sexist? Apparently not if you put a “sex positive” spin on it, acting as though strippers and sex workers aren’t drugged out waste cases, but are positive and uplifting role models for society.

Goad concludes his book with an article called “Biting the Whore That Fed Me: My Self-Imposed Exile from Pornland”, whose title should be self-explanatory. And I think it’s interesting to note how, in a couple years, Goad would get a job at Takimag and become one of its most beloved writers, where hilarious passages such as this one from “Muslim Girls TURN ME ON!”…

However the winds blow, the war on terrorism will be a good thing for the American male. If we win the war, we get their women. If we lose the war, we get to treat our women like they treat their women. Who’s to complain?

…aren’t wasted on overweight men who compulsively jerk off, but are read by profound and intellectual political thinkers such as myself!

Stylistically, Book of Sex is very colorful and filled with illustrations – many of them of course are dirty and X-rated per the book’s central theme, and I wouldn’t suggest leaving this one lying around in case the kids might find it – on nearly every page, and there are many fine passages that will make you laugh out loud, keep you entertained, and probably make you cringe. There are also a couple of dud articles, some whose topics I just didn’t find particularly interesting, but those are far and few in between. Although one article made me ponder of how kooky a jokester this God character must really be if he constructed human beings in such a way where the clitoris is at the TOP of the vagina, rather than at the bottom, making it so the penis has little chance of rubbing against it during intercourse; this is why, at times, women actually masturbate WHILE you’re sticking it in them. Ever notice that? That’s why they do it. I’m sure you all feel a lot more enlightened now.

Book Review: NVSQVAM (nowhere)


IronCrossIronCrossIronCrosshalf_ironcrossvery good!

Author: Ann Sterzinger

Publisher: Nine-Banded Books

It took me forever to finish NVSQVAM (nowhere) by Ann Sterzinger.  One of the reasons is because, though she had initially sent me a PDF copy that I was supposed to review on this here blog like three months ago, I don’t own a kindle and, for the life of me, I can’t read books off of a computer screen or printed computer paper.  The second reason is because I was mostly reading it at work since, when I’m at home, I’m typically doing other stuff like drinking, watching movies or going to gigs.

It should also be noted that, while initially I was just going to read the PDF file off printed paper, because Ann had become one of the two co-hosts on the Savage Hippie podcast – the other being David Cole – and, I suppose, my friend, I wanted to do that whole “supportin’ mah friends’ art” thang, and plunked down the cash for her book, which, by the way, has a neat illustration from Billy Spicer on its cover and a fun to touch glossy cover stock.

So, because Ann is no longer just some weird female author who wears a Dr. Who t-shirt and writes a hilarious blog, in which she wrote my favorite article ever, “Islam Isn’t a Race, It’s a Mental Disorder”, but is actually someone I talk to on a regular basis, her book now seems like an extension of her real life personality.  In fact she literally recites whole passages out of it in casual conversation.

But don’t think that, just because she’s a woman and she’s my friend, that I’m going to grade on a curve or sumthin’.  Nope.  In fact I’m going to pick up apart, scrutinize and try to find fault with her book every step of the way just to be a dii.. just to prove that I’m an unbiased reviewer, who judges the art, rather than the artist.

The first thing someone might notice upon cracking open NVSQVAM is that there are a bunch of annoying footnotes on nearly every page.  Personally I prefer endnotes so they don’t slow up the flow of my reading, and typically I trust that the person who wrote the book gives enough context clues on the references, where I wouldn’t even need to read the footnotes or endnotes in the first place.  As it turns out, you’re supposed to read the footnotes, in which Ann takes potshots at such edgy targets as Walmart and the Bush administration.  But, what’s really frustrating about the footnotes is that, in some cases, she bothers to explains references to punk bands like X-Ray Spex and the Rezillos and voluptuous comic woman artist Chris Cooper, while in other cases, she brings up Nitzer Ebb, the industrial group, with no footnote at all, as if it’s common knowledge to the average reader; “she had a Nitzer Ebb sticker.”

The other thing people will notice is that, in spite Ann’s being a woman, the protagonist is a man named Lester.  And it makes me wonder: with a name like that, why not go all the way and call him Chester?

Basically the narrative of NVSQVAM puts the reader in the middle of Lester’s apparently miserable life, which I guess takes place in a hillbilly, bible belt town in Southern Illinois, but, as far as I’m concerned, could just as easily take place in Allendale, MI, where I preceded to drink and fuck away six years of my life at Grand Valley State University.

As for the story, after being booted from a mediocre punk band called the Incognito Mosquitoes, who then changed their name to the even stupider Pigpocket, Lester was forced to marry his girlfriend Evelyn, who conveniently “forgot” to take her birth control pill and delivered their son, Martin, who, for some reason, has an IQ of 160, and, as one might expect, Lester absolutely despises.  I’m not sure why she made him THAT smart.  When I was a little kid, I was pretty perceptive, and probably would have been graded with a higher than average IQ if I had been tested, but I didn’t necessarily need to read at a level MUCH higher than the grade level I was in.  I understand that Lester is supposed to hate his son, but there are a myriad of other reasons to do this other than his ostensibly being smarter than his dad.

I DO however like how Lester talks to his son.  I distinctly remember older people talking to me in a similar fashion.  But, then again, my folks are from Russia, so I learned at an early age that adults aren’t nice, and the world isn’t pretty.

But anyway, Lester decided to go back to school for classics, translating works in Latin, and has to deliver a dissertation on the topic.  Needless to say, by this point in his life, he’s lost all the passion (if he had any) for his chosen field of study and now treads water in a life of mediocrity.

Now, let me be honest here.  While I think the book is hilarious in parts and thoroughly entertaining, especially with Lester’s misanthropic inner dialogue, if I were to really analyze the scenarios presented – meeting Lester’s football obsessed father, meeting Evelyn’s faux snob parents, copious amounts of boozed out nuttiness and some fun, but improbable twists – I REALLY don’t see them as being all that indicative of a life in suburban hell.  Then, once again, my parents ARE Russian, so couching mean-spirited attitudes in the form of “tough love” is something I just take for granted.

I’m also not a Generation X’er who apparently felt like he had to compromise his ideals to live a Middle Class life.  In fact, I don’t even HAVE any ideals!  I just want to drink, watch horror movies, read comic books, go to shows, collect records and have a cute girlfriend/wife/XX person to do it with.  So, to ME, getting wasted all the time and having someone there by your side really isn’t something I consider to be too big of a problem.

HOWEVER, Evelyn committed the grand daddy cardinal sin of dating; she got herself pregnant behind Lester’s back, or so it’s implied.  So, no matter how many times Evelyn might evoke the romance from the old days by doing something cute, at the end of the day, she is still a manipulative cunt.  And whether it’s fair or not that Lester hates the spawn of their loins is completely irrelevant; at the end of the day Evelyn cajoled a man into a life he didn’t necessarily want to be part of, and it can never be rectified…

Or can it?  A person with a traditional sense of Christian or I guess mainstream morality, would most likely see the climax as unfathomably tragic or – spoiler alert – a parent’s worst nightmare.  But, one who believes in good old fashioned revenge, might in fact feel the conclusion to be quite satisfying.  Let’s put it this way; in spite making you think you hate Lester for all of his self-pity during most of the book AND even tricking you into being slightly empathetic to Evelyn, Ann reveal’s that she is on Lester’s side the entire time, giving him the strength to say, “fuck you” at the end.

It’s tough to say if I think she’s really taking on the voice and persona of a man or just telling a really good story from the third person, and I have to question why she presents the “plebes” in the southern Illinois town with such disdain, when she herself allegedly really likes the “stupit” folk who make America’s gears turn, but the one character she ABSOLUTELY nailed (in more ways than one) is Cyndi.

Holy cow, the Cyndi character is spot fucking on.  She’s a typical white trash chick, who replaced smarts and learning anything of value with pure snark.  She doesn’t know a whole lot about the world, but convinces people she’s “cool” by knowing a bunch of obscure old bands.  I LOVE and have dated girls like this.  They care not a wink about politics, know not a lick about what’s going on in the world and don’t care for political correctness either.  They think offensiveness – like her collection of boy band posters with Hitler mustaches – is fun for its own sake, and just go with the flow.  Ann, if you’re reading this, the Melissa girl, who I was with on Halloween, was this chick.  She started bitching about how the air we breath is polluted, to which I responded by explaining that the air we breathe is the cleanest in the world, and that it’s China and India that have the dirtiest air. And she said, “Oh, REALLY?! Wow, well, thanks for telling me!  Now I’m a little more knowledgeable!”  Yep, love ’em!

A lot of the writing has the kind of sass that slips through in a normal conversation, describing fruit from trees as alien brains or describing enormous Dodge Ram pickup trucks as giant kill machines.  But, there is one passage that is written so deliciously vividly to the point of causing nausea in the reader (note: it could be a spoiler):

This time it was much easier.  Like a knife cutting a rare steak… Two cuts across, two cuts the long way.  One more across, one more the long way.  That just left the right hand…

In the words of the Cramps, “I ain’t nothin’ but a gore hound.”

As I was reading NVSQVAM, I noticed that some of these situations could have happened in my own life.  If anything, the book is a reminder of why someone should either wear a condom or jizz in a girl’s face.

Book Review: Who Stole Feminism?


IronCrossIronCrossIronCrosshalf_ironcrossVery good!

Author: Christina Hoff Sommers

Publisher: Simon & Schuster

CH Sommers’ classic, anti-feminist tome is to gender relations what Jared Taylor’s Paved with Good Intentions was to race relations; pointing out what many non-indoctrinated people are thinking, but won’t say aloud for fear of ostracism.  In addition to the fact that gender is a considerably less controversial topic than race, Sommers has a pass to write this kind of book because she’s a woman and calls herself a feminist.  But she’s made the distinction that she is an “equity feminist”, rather than a “gender feminist”, and it is the gender feminists that are the problem.

Let’s be clear; Sommers may call herself a feminist, as one of my good lady friends does, but both of them consider themselves feminists strictly in the 1920, suffragette sense; meaning that they agree with the notion that women can vote, own property and compete in a world that was essentially invented by men.  I don’t call this a feminist, and I don’t see why they would want to either, especially since the hard line feminists that Sommers wonderfully takes down don’t distinguish themselves as “gender feminists”,  but just feminists.  That and one other reason, which I’ll get to later, are why I lop off half an iron cross in my final grading.  The whole, “that’s not a real feminist, this is” argument is an example of the “no true Scotsman fallacy.”

One other thing I want to mention before getting to the nitty gritty is how there is another parallel between Who Stole Feminism? and Jared Taylor’s Paved with Good Intentions.  In the rape chapter, the one where Sommers talks about how rape hysteria, that 1 in 4 women will be raped on a college campus myth, bogus “you were raped if you had one drop of alcohol and then had sex” surveys have caused government agencies to allocate rape prevention funds to college campuses, rather than to the inner cities, where women are far more likely to be raped.  Of course, when Sommers says it’s more likely to happen in the inner city, she neglects to mention who the majority of these rapists are.  Hey, you wouldn’t either if you didn’t want to lose a book deal.

In Who Stole Feminism?, Sommers breaks down chapter by chapter how the radical women’s (womyn’s?) movement, in typical Marxist fashion, sought to subvert academic and government institutions for the sole purpose of putting envious narcissists into power.  The shocking thing about their endeavor is how easy it was to accomplish, how all of these organizations, such as the American Advancement of University Women (AAUW), had to do was release a few sensational reports about how women are starving themselves to death to be thin or how women are overwhelmingly victims of domestic abuse, especially on Superbowl Sunday, or how women’s self esteem drops when they enter high school or how 1 in 4 – actually the count dropped to 1 in 5, and then again to 1 in 7 – women are likely to raped at universities, and well meaning government officials will vote to allocate funds to “battle” these “societal ills.”

The fact that people still believe that there is a gender pay gap disparity shows how well these apparatCHICKS (heh, heh) managed to push their agenda.  For the record, to my leftist friends, the reason women make $0.77 for every man’s dollar is because incomes are tallied for men and women in EVERY profession, ranging from janitor to rocket scientist and then are added up and averaged for both genders.  That means that a 74 year old grandmother, who has nothing to do with her time and decides to get a fast food job, is compared with a male doctor.  Women tend to work less hours, take less stressful and less dangerous jobs and go into less lucrative majors like sociology or English literature.  That’s it.

Unfortunately Sommers neglects to mention how biology might drive some of these choices that women make and even implies that a bit of adjustment might need to be made in the way tenure is done at universities to accommodate women who have children, rather than let the free market do its thang.  This is the other reason I chopped half an iron cross in the final grade of the book, but that’s such small part of the book, that it doesn’t undermine the rest of it.

Sommers goes on to describe how university classrooms have become less about education, and more about indoctrination.  One student complained about how she went to an English writing class, but rather than learning how to write, was bombarded with feminist pedagogy.  She further explains how many feminist activists are trying to eliminate objective truth and knowledge, claiming that objectivity is a “male creation”, and want to substitute it for a subjective, “all inclusive”, gynocentric viewpoint.

The most ridiculous examples of this, which would be laugh out loud funny if it wasn’t actually taken seriously, is Peggy McIntosh’s five phase approach to teaching method.  Phase one, the good one, the one that she hates, the “hierarchical” one, is the “malecentric” one, the one where 2+2 is always going to be 4.  Phase five is the one where 2+2 is whatever a woman wants it to be.  I’m not kidding!

What would a curriculum that offers an inclusive vision of human experience and that attends as carefully to difference and genuine pluralism as to sameness and generalization actually look like?

Pretty damn stupid is how it would look like, and we’re finding out just how stupid every single day.

Sommers name drops some of the most important names in feminism; Naomi Wolf, Betty Friedan, Susan Faludi and a bunch of others who I’m too lazy to research, along with siting the important – and I mean important for the changes they caused, not because they did any particular good – studies, which fundamentally changed much of the educational structure.  Keep in mind this book was first published in 1994, the year that the awesome movie PCU came out, back when people were making fun of this stuff.  Now it’s all but accepted by students, faculty and much of the general populace.

In the introduction, Sommers says that her son persuaded her against making corny jokes, and this is a good thing.  The entire book takes such a straight-forward, dry and academic tone, that it makes the material that much funnier; or at least as funny as it can be before you realize that people take this crap seriously.  In other words, the fact that Sommers maintains a poker face while describing how the “vertical approach” to teaching – and I’m not kidding – 1 + 3 +5 to a young girl who had trouble adding would require her to “think vertically, thereby undermining her self-esteem and causing her to become discouraged.  She [McIntosh] urged the Brookline teachers to find ways to ‘put… [students] off the right-wrong axis, the win-lose axis.'”  Wow.

To answer Sommers question, nobody stole “feminism.”  If you don’t want a completely outdated movement, one which accomplished every single goal it was intended to, to be ruined by annoying harpies who want to fundamentally change how America functions in order to increase their narcissistic supply, maybe it’s best to dissociate with “feminism”, and start going by a different term.  How about “equalitarian” or just not a retard.



Book Review: The Redneck Manifesto


IronCrossIronCrossIronCrosshalf_ironcrossVery good!

Author: Jim Goad

Publisher: Simon & Schuster

I was talking with a buddy of mine who works at a record store about Donald Trump, and while his views are polar opposite to mine, he finds the Donald amusing rather than infuriating, especially when he says that he appeals to the uneducated.  After all, Donald Trump appeals to the lowest common denominator, right?  His language is plain, he appeals to emotions and he taps into the simple-minded, unenlightened common folk who still believe that ‘bortions are wrong, that women should be in the kitchen, that gays are evil Satanic pervs and that whites are downtrodden, in spite having the world handed to them on a silver platter thanks to the labor of non-whites.  However, when I hear words like “uneducated” and “unenlightened”, the first thing that I think is “un-indoctrinated.”

For you see, as far as I’m concerned, those dumb, uncultured, uneducated, unenlightened, backwards thinking, mouth breathing, hillbilly, white trash honkies, who everyone likes to lampoon in the movies and TV, actually ask the best questions.  “Why IS it okay for blacks to call me a honky or a cracker?”  “Why is Al Sharpton allowed to talk about how much he hates whitey on TV, and not lose his career for it?”  “Why is it okay for blacks to have black pride, Asians to have Asian pride, Latinos to have Latino pride and Jews to have Jew pride, but not okay for me to have white pride?”  As Goad put it, “I didn’t even care about having white pride until you told me that I wasn’t allowed to.”  Seriously, try asking any of those questions at a college or among your liberal friends and you’ll be tarred and feathered as a racist, neo-Nazi, KKK leader quicker than you can say “white privilege.”  Get caught on someone’s camera phone mentioning it and say goodbye to your career.  With The Redneck Manifesto,  Jim Goad of Answer Me! zine and current editor of Takimag attempts to set the record straight on the bogus claim of “white skin privilege.”

Jim Goad wrote his near masterpiece way back in 1997, years before there was a thing called the Alternative Right and during the height of the Clinton administration.  Though uneven at times, Manifesto has enough historical facts, cultural analysis and witty one liners crammed into its 255 pages that it should be REQUIRED reading for any college civics course that hasn’t already been turned into a cultural Marxist think tank.

The basic thesis of The Redneck Manifesto is simply that the big disparity in the United States is between classes, rather than races.  The book also addresses that which has widely become manifest in many a college campus; that the cultural puritans are now on the left, rather than the religious right.  Goad dedicates a good chunk of the final portion of the book to trashing white liberals and pointing out inconsistencies in their thinking.  Unfortunately he fails to link old school Marxism to cultural Marxism and, as a result, parts of the book take on a sort of kumbaya, “all of the races are united and angry at the man” message.  I honestly wonder if he simply hadn’t read about cultural Marxism yet or if Manifesto represents a transition in Goad’s political views.  He does briefly bring up how cops kill more white people than black people, how black people kill more white people than white people kill black people and how black people kill more of their own than white people kill black people, but, for some reason, he still felt the need to mention that blacks are equally oppressed as whites by the system.  I found this last part a little tough to take in, especially since he wrote this piece about black reparations.  I mean, you can’t be Howard Zinn and Jared Taylor.

But the majority of Goad’s tome takes on some assumptions about the various honky cultures.  He tells the history of Irish slavery and indentured servitude and how it was often worse than black slavery.  He talks about how many British criminals were sent to the New World as slaves before they were shipped off to Australia.  He discusses the etymology of words like “redneck”, “honky” and “cracker” and how, if you want true parity, you should treat them as if they are racial slurs that are as bad as those directed at any other group.  He delves deeply into the unquestioning religiosity of Southerners, including their faith in faith healers and snake handlers.  And he asks the all important question: “What’s so bad about hatemongers, gun nuts and paranoid, tax-resisting extremists?”  Obviously the name of that chapter is tongue in cheek, but draws attention to the fact that most “experts” on the topic of “extremists” excuse these people with the ad hominem of “they’re crazy”, which is lazy, disingenuous and indicative of how easy it is to pigeonhole and stereotype entire groups of people.  Sound familiar?

Some of the conspiracy cult segments seemed to go off the main topic a bit.  As entertaining as it was reading about his hanging with Elvis/Bigfoot/UFO/Weekly World News enthusiasts, it almost seemed like I was reading a segment out of Apocalypse Culture, rather than a treatise on race relations in the U.S.  That’s not a major complaint though, and I was introduced to the written work of Western Bigfoot Society president, Ray Crowe, so that’s a plus.

If you’re familiar with Goad’s writings, you should know what to expect.  He’s full of acerbic wit and clever turns of phrase that can say more in one sentence than some political pundits say in entire speeches.  And any use of racial slurs is purely to make a point, rather than to exhibit malice, which Goad seems to be completely free of; in fact the man is probably one of the most ideologically pure writers I have ever read.  As I mentioned, his rhetoric occasionally sounds downright “power to the people” style Marxist, which is later contradicted by his disgust for having so much of his tax money taken from him.  I’m still not sure if that’s because he doesn’t like what the government will do with his tax money or if he’s just fighting for free market principles.

And, since the book is somewhat politically ambiguous and more focused on culture, you don’t have to be a right winger to enjoy and appreciate it.  In other words, if you’re a non-PC Sanders supporter, meaning that you want all the “perks” of big government, yet you still think it’s cool to grab a woman’s ass at a bar or to make racist jokes, you can totally get into this book.  And I HIGHLY suggest that you do.

Book Review: Confessions of an Online Hustler


IronCrossIronCrossIronCrosshalf_ironcrossVery good!

Author: Matt Forney

Publisher: self published

Matt Forney claims that he hates blogging and just grinds it out for the next paycheck.  Monster beast God drummer Ginger Baker claims the same thing about playing drums.  Yeah, whatever, if you didn’t like it so much, you wouldn’t have perfected your craft to such an extent.  But, I get his point; you can’t just be a “fun blogger” and expect to get paid.  This is like a second job.  Maybe because I’m a “head in the clouds” kinda guy, the idea of sitting around and writing stuff that could possibly go viral and generate an income seems like lots of FUN, kinda like being in a touring band.

I had never even heard of Matt Forney until a couple of my feminist friends (yes, I still have a couple on my FB friend list even though I’ve hidden their posts from my feed) posted an article he wrote, where he argues against women having self esteem.  On one hand I thought, “what kind of asshole would write an article like that?” and, on the other hand, I giggled that all these feminists were getting so bent out of shape and were providing his site with traffic with all of those clicks.

You see, a younger version of me at least feigned outrage when someone made remarks that I, at the time, at least found kind of offensive, but secretly I giggled at the sheer provocation.

But the bottom line is that, if you had told me I’d be purchasing a book by this guy (or for that matter attempting to go to the Return of Kings meetup), I’d have balked at your claim.  C’mon, I’m anti-feminist, I’m libertarian, but I’m not a supporter of rape and misogyny! Hey, I was a misinformed neophyte!  Even though I claimed I was against thoughtcrime, I too cried “racism!”  Hell, I even called Forney a “twerp” in and old post at my previous blog, The New Paine.  Sorry, Matt.

That’s all in the past.  Since I did the interview with Bernard Chapin merely weeks ago, I felt a new surge of energy to bring the SavageHippie (named after the Melvins song “The Savage Hippy”) out of retirement, a desire to tell it like it is and to forego hiding my views.  This might also have been helped by Christopher Stigliano’s Blog to Comm site, where he has no problem putting his right of center views next to his unending love of old garage and punk records and pop cultural ephemera.

But the real kicker was that, not only could I write about this stuff, but I could make money doing it?!  I felt like some force from beyond was telling me I’d found my calling, or something like that.

Sheesh, if I knew that half the battle was being a good – well, maybe not good, but, at very least, an entertaining, writer  – and the rest was a bunch of technical jargon, making friends with people, constantly posting and re-posting my articles and writing a measly book about my thoughts on the world, maybe I’d have done this YEARS ago.  So, thanks Matt, Confessions of an Online Hustler, along with Gavin McInnes’ How to Piss in Publicmight be two of the most inspiring books I’ve read in a very long time.

So, why did I give it half an iron cross short of a perfect score?

While Forney does a fantastic job of giving the step-by-step, play-by-play of what to do and what not to do, what applications to use and which are completely useless, I think he makes a few too many assumptions of what Luddites such as myself actually know.  A perfect examples of this is when he talks about picking your blog’s “theme.”  I had NO idea what a “theme” was in the way he was using the term.  What’s my blog’s theme?  Underground music, cult-films and right of center politics!

It turns out a “theme” is a just a professional looking site design.  When I figured THAT out, I spent two hours looking for a “theme” where they list the author of the blog.  It turns out my “theme”, which was called “skeptical” (after all, I’m a skeptical dude), both a.) looked like shit and b.) didn’t list my name.  Now my site looks a WHOLE heck of a lot better (well, at least I’d like to think so).

Another example is a “widget.”  What the fuck does a “widget” have to do with website design?  Last time I checked a “widget” is a unit of measure used in economics courses.  It turns out a “widget” is just one of the bells and whistles you add to your site to increase its functionality.  Well, gee, couldn’t they call those “features”?  The same can be said for RSS Feed and SEO; I have no idea what any of that means!  The moment I read about those things, I went onto my wordpress editor and immediately searched through it to add those things.  I STILL don’t know if I did it right!

On the other hand, I very quickly took his advice and added my contact address and an email template.  Sadly, I still haven’t gotten my first death threat.  What is WRONG with people?  I thought I’d have Antifa all OVER my ass for writing this article about Skrewdriver!  On the plus side, I’m pissing people off on twitter for supporting Trump and I think some feminist bitch blocked me, so I’m moving up.

He mentions anonymity and, as far as I gather, I don’t have anything to worry about.  I work a lower level office job, so I doubt any of what I write will get back to my higher ups, or, if it does, I don’t think they’ll give a hoot one way or another.  He also mentions losing friends over your blog and views.  I’m glad he made this point.  Over the last year or so, people have complained that I’ve changed.  I’ve seen friends who I’ve had for years drop off my FB friend list and out of my life.  Some say I’m a real douchebag now.

I can honestly say to a man.  This is BULLSHIT.  The only people who have dropped out of my life are extremely politically correct leftists.  I kid you not.  Former friend Jess, whose fat ass I took to Maryland Deathfest, deleted me out of her life for not being a full fledged Bernie Sanders supporter.  I told her plainly that he doesn’t represent my interests.  She took that as “you’ve become a selfish, capitalistic asshole” and then wrote a lengthy essay on her FB wall about how she had to drop a friend who she knew for years because he isn’t the same person anymore.  I’ve experienced this a number of times, and I think it’s honestly because people on the left, the ones who strongly adhere to those beliefs and refuse to question anything, have a severe mental disorder.  To them, not following the narrative makes you into a narrow minded bigot.  And I’m talking friends who I’ve known for more than a decade, who I’ve had private conversations with merely weeks prior to extricating me from their lives.

I can guarantee that I’m the same loud, lovable, charismatic, punk/metal/noise/freak, buy a drink for the whole group, guy I was years ago.  It’s only the people who judge me by my views who think I’m a bad person now.  So, as Matt Forney wrote, “fuck ’em.”  Actually he said, “if your friends are offended by your writing, they aren’t your real friends.”  It honestly does sting when people literally don’t want to know you because you don’t believe in affirmative action, you think BlackLivesMatters people are nothing but leftist agitators or you plan on voting for Donald Trump.

But, whatever, we’ll see who wants to be THIS guys’ friend when I’m a huge internet superstar!  All joking aside, I LOVE attention, including negative attention, and I would love to become an iconoclast blogger, commentator, pundit or dude who sits on TV surrounded by other people and says witty putdowns of the opposition.

And I think this book will help lead the way.




Book Review: Republican Party Animal



Author: David Cole

Publisher: Feral House

I’m starting to have my doubts about Ben Shapiro, the yarmulke wearing editor and writer for Breitbart, after he used the whole David Duke scenario as a way to discredit Donald Trump.  It’s so hypocritical that the same guy who claims “facts don’t care about your feelings” goes all “feely” the second Donald Trump didn’t publicly declare that he’s going to personally fly over to David Duke’s voting district and strong arm him with a couple of goons to make sure he won’t vote for Trump.  Why does it matter if Trump publicly denounces David Duke or not?  And I mean especially for Ben Shapiro considering Trump’s daughter is married to a Jew and Trump has never not supported Israel, so what the fuck, Ben?

But, I get it; the big boogie man of racism is the one taboo that leaves people with that icky feeling, which is why, if you decide, as a Jew to make your hobby Holocaust revisionism, you better make damn sure that the only people who know about it will never spill the beans or you’ll be all washed up in this town, ya hear?

I actually had no idea who David Cole was outside of just being one of the witty writers for Taki’s Magazine and the creator of wonderful, satirical videos such as this one below, which mocks Obama’s “nonviolent intervention” video.

But, as I soon discovered, David Cole has lead a much more interesting life, or rather, several lives.

For those who don’t know, Cole was the “infamous” Holocaust revisionist, who made the claim that Auschwitz wasn’t an extermination camp, but just a labor camp and that, possibly, instead of six million Jews being killed, it was four million.  He appeared on a number of talk shows, including Montel Williams, Phil Donahue and Morton Downey Jr., where he made such claims, and he did a number of speaking engagements.  Unsurprisingly, at one speaking event that was held at UCLA, the crowd threw food and drinks at him.

Eventually realizing that not much good would come out of attempting to present another side to possibly the most sacredly event in history – in the West that is; Cole actually toured Japan doing his lecture and had to give the mainstream Holocaust story first before giving his revisionist version since not many Japanese textbooks discussed the Holocaust – he “went underground” at a time when the internet wasn’t as prevalent and sold both “mainstream” and revisionist Holocaust videos.

Eventually his mainstream videos caught on and he came out of hiding, reinventing his identity as the much more Jewish sounding David Stein.  Soon enough, due to his charisma, he became a big shot organizer for Republican interest groups such as Friends of Abe and the Republican Party Animals; in other words, he put on glorified keggers with bands and celebrities.

For several years, he lived the high life and then, one fateful evening, his life collapsed at the hands of his bitter ex-girlfriend when she ratted him out for no other reason than to be a vindictive bitch.  Thanks to a wonderful invention called youtube, all of Cole/Stein’s old clips from the talk shows were on the internet for the world to see, and the cat was out of the bag.  Within minutes Cole/Stein’s entire life changed as the conservative media world purged him, and any record of his involvement was Stalinized.  Meanwhile, while the story was supposed to remain a private affair, the media eventually picked up on it as well, and Cole/Stein was publicly crucified.

And that takes us to the present day; apparently, like me, Cole likes to put down a few drinks and write un-PC screeds on the problems of the world.  Unlike me he gets paid to do it.

Republican Party Animal is a fantastic read.  Part of that has to do with the fact that Cole is a strong writer, inserting clever jokes, witty asides, juicy gossip and his own slanderous view of various people in the conservo-sphere.  Spoiler: he REALLY doesn’t like Ben Shapiro or Pam Geller, claiming the former ripped him off and the latter is more about sensationalism than truth.  She also apparently called him an “asshat”, an insult that I was too old to use when I found out it existed.

But more importantly this book discusses some bizarre and disturbing inconsistencies about the way we treat certain taboo topics.  For instance, it’s completely acceptable to debate whether American slavery was the cause of the Civil War or whether what happened to the American Indians can truly be considered genocide, but, in fourteen European countries and Canada, if you question the Holocaust in any way, you could wind up with a prison sentence; in the U.S., where free speech is still a thing, you will receive scorn, derision and accusations of being a bigot or a Nazi.  And, while questioning/revising/denying the Holocaust is illegal in Canada, you’re at least allowed to say anything you want in your defense when you’re in front of the judge.  In Europe, you’re either allowed to recant your views or plead insanity; they will not allow any other plea.

And, while we’re on the topic of inconsistencies, talking about a genocide that happened in the past can be considered illegal, yet the Canadian government had no problem giving Léon Mugesera, the government official accused of launching the genocide of the Tutsis, full amnesty and allowing him to teach there.

During Cole’s revisionist years, he came in contact with Holocaust deniers such as  Ernst Zündel, whose 1988 trial was possibly the biggest influence on his becoming a revisionist, along with Mark Webber of the Institute of Historical review and David Irving.  In addition to that he was physically attacked by Irv Rubin from the Jewish Defense League and even had a $20,000 bounty put on his head, which eventually lead to his “recanting” his views and going underground.

The entire book is fascinating, and is essentially two different books.  The parts about his time with “the Beast” and the pretty outside/ugly inside model who betrayed him are fascinating to read if only as a warning to men to be careful who you get into a fully committed relationship with, and the insider stories about all of the people he mingled with in the conservative world are also interesting.  Apparently Andrew Breitbart was a real egomaniac, Bill Whittle was nothing but a gentleman and Clint Eastwood never walked over to anybody; everybody walked over to him.

Please note: Republican Party Animal is NOT a Holocaust denial book, and David Cole/Stein is not a Holocaust denier.  He makes it clear that there is a big difference between a denier and a revisionist, and that he is the latter.  On top of that, he’s a staunch supporter of Israel.

If nothing else, this book tells a unique story and has some interesting insight.