Marine Le Pen On Fire

 

Listen up, all ye heathen, Marine Le Pen's on fire:

Ask yourselves, since when did being a patriot, and a country having borders equate with Fascism? 

Follow the money to the root of the issue, our beloved, transnational, elite, insatiable great replacement rulers. Hint, dear readers, who benefits from massive immigration? Labor, or its private island owning boss. Ponder that, reflect on it, rainbow unicorn style.

In related news, Germany's donated 20,000 HE artillery shells to the Ukraine out of its stock of, ahem, 20,000 shells, but at least they have 15 nukes. Does this mean European defense policy is equivalent to some guy walking around unarmed with a dynamite vest? You get the issue.

Regardless, and as always, your call,

LSP

Just Taking It Easy

 

Huh, relaxing. Then there's Hawkwind

Hall of the Mountain Grill, or something like that. Here at the Compound we're whistling Dixie. Just taking it easy, until the next time.

"The time has come for you to choose, better get it right." 

Your old Pal,

LSP

Poetry Monday - Lepanto

 

It's everyone's favorite day, Poetry Monday, and here's Chesterton's Lepanto in full. You recall the battle, in which a Catholic fleet destroyed the Sea Johad and ended Moslem domination of the Med:

White founts falling in the courts of the sun,
And the Soldan of Byzantium is smiling as they run;
There is laughter like the fountains in that face of all men feared,
It stirs the forest darkness, the darkness of his beard,
It curls the blood-red crescent, the crescent of his lips,
For the inmost sea of all the earth is shaken with his ships.
They have dared the white republics up the capes of Italy,
They have dashed the Adriatic round the Lion of the Sea,
And the Pope has cast his arms abroad for agony and loss,
And called the kings of Christendom for swords about the Cross,
The cold queen of England is looking in the glass;
The shadow of the Valois is yawning at the Mass;
From evening isles fantastical rings faint the Spanish gun,
And the Lord upon the Golden Horn is laughing in the sun.

Dim drums throbbing, in the hills half heard,
Where only on a nameless throne a crownless prince has stirred,
Where, risen from a doubtful seat and half attainted stall,
The last knight of Europe takes weapons from the wall,
The last and lingering troubadour to whom the bird has sung,
That once went singing southward when all the world was young,
In that enormous silence, tiny and unafraid,
Comes up along a winding road the noise of the Crusade.
Strong gongs groaning as the guns boom far,
Don John of Austria is going to the war,
Stiff flags straining in the night-blasts cold
In the gloom black-purple, in the glint old-gold,
Torchlight crimson on the copper kettle-drums,
Then the tuckets, then the trumpets, then the cannon, and he comes.
Don John laughing in the brave beard curled,
Spurning of his stirrups like the thrones of all the world,
Holding his head up for a flag of all the free.
Love-light of Spain—hurrah!
Death-light of Africa!
Don John of Austria
Is riding to the sea.

Mahound is in his paradise above the evening star,
(Don John of Austria is going to the war.)
He moves a mighty turban on the timeless houri’s knees,
His turban that is woven of the sunset and the seas.
He shakes the peacock gardens as he rises from his ease,
And he strides among the tree-tops and is taller than the trees,
And his voice through all the garden is a thunder sent to bring
Black Azrael and Ariel and Ammon on the wing.
Giants and the Genii,
Multiplex of wing and eye,
Whose strong obedience broke the sky
When Solomon was king.

They rush in red and purple from the red clouds of the morn,
From temples where the yellow gods shut up their eyes in scorn;
They rise in green robes roaring from the green hells of the sea
Where fallen skies and evil hues and eyeless creatures be;
On them the sea-valves cluster and the grey sea-forests curl,
Splashed with a splendid sickness, the sickness of the pearl;
They swell in sapphire smoke out of the blue cracks of the ground,—
They gather and they wonder and give worship to Mahound.
And he saith, “Break up the mountains where the hermit-folk can hide,
And sift the red and silver sands lest bone of saint abide,
And chase the Giaours flying night and day, not giving rest,
For that which was our trouble comes again out of the west.
We have set the seal of Solomon on all things under sun,
Of knowledge and of sorrow and endurance of things done,
But a noise is in the mountains, in the mountains, and I know
The voice that shook our palaces—four hundred years ago:
It is he that saith not ‘Kismet’; it is he that knows not Fate ;
It is Richard, it is Raymond, it is Godfrey in the gate!
It is he whose loss is laughter when he counts the wager worth,
Put down your feet upon him, that our peace be on the earth.”
For he heard drums groaning and he heard guns jar,
(Don John of Austria is going to the war.)
Sudden and still—hurrah!
Bolt from Iberia!
Don John of Austria
Is gone by Alcalar.

St. Michael’s on his mountain in the sea-roads of the north
(Don John of Austria is girt and going forth.)
Where the grey seas glitter and the sharp tides shift
And the sea folk labour and the red sails lift.
He shakes his lance of iron and he claps his wings of stone;
The noise is gone through Normandy; the noise is gone alone;
The North is full of tangled things and texts and aching eyes
And dead is all the innocence of anger and surprise,
And Christian killeth Christian in a narrow dusty room,
And Christian dreadeth Christ that hath a newer face of doom,
And Christian hateth Mary that God kissed in Galilee,
But Don John of Austria is riding to the sea.
Don John calling through the blast and the eclipse
Crying with the trumpet, with the trumpet of his lips,
Trumpet that sayeth ha!
Domino gloria!
Don John of Austria
Is shouting to the ships.

King Philip’s in his closet with the Fleece about his neck
(Don John of Austria is armed upon the deck.)
The walls are hung with velvet that is black and soft as sin,
And little dwarfs creep out of it and little dwarfs creep in.
He holds a crystal phial that has colours like the moon,
He touches, and it tingles, and he trembles very soon,
And his face is as a fungus of a leprous white and grey
Like plants in the high houses that are shuttered from the day,
And death is in the phial, and the end of noble work,
But Don John of Austria has fired upon the Turk.
Don John’s hunting, and his hounds have bayed—
Booms away past Italy the rumour of his raid
Gun upon gun, ha! ha!
Gun upon gun, hurrah!
Don John of Austria
Has loosed the cannonade.

The Pope was in his chapel before day or battle broke,
(Don John of Austria is hidden in the smoke.)
The hidden room in man’s house where God sits all the year,
The secret window whence the world looks small and very dear.
He sees as in a mirror on the monstrous twilight sea
The crescent of his cruel ships whose name is mystery;
They fling great shadows foe-wards, making Cross and Castle dark,
They veil the plumèd lions on the galleys of St. Mark;
And above the ships are palaces of brown, black-bearded chiefs,
And below the ships are prisons, where with multitudinous griefs,
Christian captives sick and sunless, all a labouring race repines
Like a race in sunken cities, like a nation in the mines.
They are lost like slaves that swat, and in the skies of morning hung
The stair-ways of the tallest gods when tyranny was young.
They are countless, voiceless, hopeless as those fallen or fleeing on
Before the high Kings’ horses in the granite of Babylon.
And many a one grows witless in his quiet room in hell
Where a yellow face looks inward through the lattice of his cell,
And he finds his God forgotten, and he seeks no more a sign—
(But Don John of Austria has burst the battle-line!)
Don John pounding from the slaughter-painted poop,
Purpling all the ocean like a bloody pirate’s sloop,
Scarlet running over on the silvers and the golds,
Breaking of the hatches up and bursting of the holds,
Thronging of the thousands up that labour under sea
White for bliss and blind for sun and stunned for liberty.
Vivat Hispania!
Domino Gloria!
Don John of Austria
Has set his people free!

Cervantes on his galley sets the sword back in the sheath
(Don John of Austria rides homeward with a wreath.)
And he sees across a weary land a straggling road in Spain,
Up which a lean and foolish knight forever rides in vain,
And he smiles, but not as Sultans smile, and settles back the blade....
(But Don John of Austria rides home from the Crusade.)

Years ago, decades ago, an old friend would recite this in his library study in London over glasses of port. Moving, as is the poem.

Domino Gloria!

LSP

Princess Louise of Prussia

 

You may not like it, all ye Libs, but Princess Louise of Prussia was equally at home at court or as Hon. Col. of the Death's Head Hussars. Here, look at this:

The troops love her, understandably.

Because she lifts everyone's spirits, a force multiplier. She was the only daughter and the last child of German Emperor Wilhelm II and Augusta Victoria of Schleswig-Holstein, and a great-granddaughter of Queen Victoria through her father. Born in 1892, she died in 1980.

Some say, foolishly, that women shouldn't be allowed into the martial profession. That's clearly an error, see above. Others argue that Melania should be and in fact is Hon. Col. of the DLC (Dallas Light Cavalry). Prestigious unit, what?

Ride on,

LSP

A Sunday Sermon - The Fatherhood of God

 

Mountebanks, frauds and imposters such as the current Archbishop of York don't like the word Father applied to God. It's "problematic" for them because of peoples' negative experiences of fatherhood and "patriarchal oppression."

Alas, the all-prevailing, systemic scourge of patriarchal oppression. Quite the blight on our age, such as it is. But leaving aside the inherent apostasy involved in denying Dominical revelation, imagine if you can that the Yorkine prelate has a point, that people do have bad fathers and live in an oppressive, criminal patriarchy.

Think of Hunter Biden's disowned son, not even allowed the family name, while the Big Guy, the Patriarch rakes in millions while sucking down ice cream on vacation in Delaware, wherever that is, and directing the fate of the world. There you have it, bad dad, oppressive patriarch. So can we refer to God as Father or was Jesus wrong?

I'll spare you my homily but here, at the risk of length, is Benedict XVI, addressing the issue:

It is not always easy today to talk about fatherhood, especially in the Western world. Families are broken, the workplace is ever more absorbing, families worry and often struggle to make ends meet and the distracting invasion of the media invades our daily life: these are some of the many factors that can stand in the way of a calm and constructive relationship between father and child. At times communication becomes difficult, trust is lacking and the relationship with the father figure can become problematic; moreover, in this way even imagining God as a father becomes problematic without credible models of reference. It is not easy for those who have experienced an excessively authoritarian and inflexible father or one who was indifferent and lacking in affection, or even absent, to think serenely of God and to entrust themselves to him with confidence.

Yet the revelation in the Bible helps us to overcome these difficulties by speaking to us of a God who shows us what it really means to be “father”; and it is the Gospel, especially, which reveals to us this face of God as a Father who loves, even to the point of giving his own Son for humanity’s salvation. The reference to the father figure thus helps us to understand something of the love of God, which is nevertheless infinitely greater, more faithful, and more total than the love of any man.

“What man of you”, Jesus asks in order to show the disciples the Father’s face, “will give his son a stone if he asks for bread? Or if he asks for a fish, will give him a serpent? If you then, who are evil, know how to give good gifts to your children, how much more will your Father who is in heaven give good things to those who ask him!” (Mt 7:9-11; cf. Lk 11:11-13). God is our Father because he blessed us and chose us before the creation of the world (cf. Eph 1:3-6), he has really made us his children in Jesus (cf. 1 Jn 3:1). And as Father, God accompanies our lives with love, giving us his Word, his teaching, his grace and his Spirit.

As Jesus revealed — he is the Father who feeds the birds of the air that neither sow nor reap, and arrays the flowers of the field in marvellous colours, in robes more beautiful than those of Solomon himself (cf. Mt 6:26-32; Lk 12:24-28); and we, Jesus added, are worth far more than the flowers and the birds of the air! And if he is so good that he “makes his sun rise on the evil and on the good, and sends rain on the just and on the unjust” Mt 5:45), we shall always be able, without fear and with total confidence, to entrust ourselves to his forgiveness as Father whenever we err. God is a good Father who welcomes and embraces his lost but repentant son (cf. Lk 15:11ff.), who gives freely to those who ask him (cf. Mt 18:19; Mk 11:24; Jn 16:23), and offers the bread of heaven and the living water that wells up to eternal life (cf. Jn 6:32, 51, 58).

Thus, although the person praying in Psalm 27 [26] is surrounded by enemies and assailed by evildoers and slanderers, while seeking the Lord’s help he invokes him. The witness he bears is full of faith, as he states: “My father and my mother have forsaken me, but the Lord will take me up” (v. 10).

God is a Father who never abandons his children, a loving Father who supports, helps, welcomes, pardons and saves with a faithfulness that surpasses by far that of men and women, opening onto dimensions of eternity. “For his steadfast love endures for ever”, as Psalm 136 [135] repeats in every verse, as in a litany, retracing the history of salvation. The love of God the Father never fails, he does not tire of us; it is a love that gives to the end, even to the sacrifice of his Son. Faith gives us this certainty which becomes a firm rock in the construction of our life: we can face all the moments of difficulty and danger, the experience of the darkness of despair in times of crisis and suffering, sustained by our trust that God does not forsake us and is always close in order to save us and lead us to eternal life.

It is in the Lord Jesus that the benevolent face of the Father, who is in heaven, is fully revealed. It is in knowing him that we may also know the Father (cf. Jn 8:19; 14:7). It is in seeing him that we can see the Father, because he is in the Father and the Father is in him (cf. Jn 14:9,11). He is “the image of the invisible God” and as the hymn of the Letter to the Colossians describes him, he is: “the first-born of all creation... the first-born from the dead”, “in whom we have redemption, the forgiveness of sins” and the reconciliation of all things, “whether on earth or in heaven, making peace by the blood of his cross” (Col 1:13-20).

I can't add to such excellence. In Christ we see the true face of the Father and of fatherhood itself, infinitely powerful and sovereign, and infinitely compassionate and loving. The apostates ironically defraud themselves by throwing the baby out with the bathwater.

You'll notice that "these things," the mighty works of God and the nature of our heavenly Father, have been "hidden from the wise and understanding." (Mtt 11:25-30) Yes indeed, and revealed to "babes," to the little children who turn to Christ in purity of heart and humility of spirit.

Take note, imposters, wimmyxn and everyone else, he hath scattered the proud in the imagination of their hearts. He hath put down the mighty from their seat, * and hath exalted the humble and meek. (LK 1. 51-52)

In the meanwhile, we'll continue to pray as Jesus taught us.

Pater Noster,

LSP

The Lord's Prayer

It was bound to happen and now it has. The venerable if shrinking Church of England's second in command, Archbishop of York Stephen Cottrell told General Synod that the Lord's Prayer was "problematic." 

Why would that be? According to Cottrell, it's because some people have had difficult relationships with their fathers and others again "have laboured rather too much from an oppressively patriarchal grip on life."

Space Aliens

There you have it. Jesus got it wrong, he condoned abusive, oppressive patriarchal imagery and, per Cottrell, it's about time we changed all that. But if Christ got it wrong, what kind of God is he? Not much of one if at all and that's just it, these people don't believe in the God they pretend to worship.

You old frauds

Same thing, come to think of it, on wimmyn priests. Not ordaining them was unjust and evil. Jesus didn't ordain them... I leave you, the reader, to complete the unholy syllogism.

Ave Atque Vale,

LSP

Kulture

Our Vice President Kamala Harris leapt upon the philisophic stage last week at the Essence Festival of Culture, whatever that is. De essentia in mind, a moderator asked Kamala, our second most important ruler, about the nature of culture. She replied:

Culture is, it is a reflection of our moment and our time. Right? And present culture is the way we express how we’re feeling about the moment and we should always find times to express how we feel about the moment. That is a reflection of joy. Because, you know, it comes in the morning (laughing).

We have to find ways to also express the way we feel about the moment in terms of just having language and a connection to how people are experiencing life. And I think about it in that way, too.

 

Just having a language. You'll recall the godless pride of Babel was confounded, and I'm reminded of a time many years ago in seminary when an overweight young man complained about children being given rosaries in Sunday School.

"I don't like it, it looks really cultic." I looked my adversary in the eye and said, "No culture without cult, look it up, I dare you." Of course he didn't. And here's the thing, get rid of the cult, the worship and belief which undergirds, sustains and propels the people of the West and by extension the world, and you're left with barbarous gibberish or even worse, tyranny.

We've pretty much destroyed our worship here in the West, 2000 years of it, of the beauty of holiness, and behold the result, the confusion of the Pit, which when asked of culture says, "That is a reflection of joy. Because, you know, it comes in the morning (laughing)."

Quite, maybe she was high.

Ad Altare Dei,

LSP

THE BEST EVER PANZERLIED

 

What can I say?  Can you get a better Panzerlied than this? No, you cannot, in my opinion, imo. Big plaudit to LL and VM for the best PANZERLIED ever. Remarkable.

Cheers,

LSP

First Family Thursdays

 

First it was this, Hunter getting cracked up on the highway to Vegas to meet hookers. Fast as you like and then some, not to say degenerate multimillionaire corrupt filth.

And now this. Cocaine found in a "cubby" in the West Wing. Law enforcement says the culprit will probably never be found. But of course, and in the meanwhile there's been some kind of "evacuation."

Team LSP has discovered an exclusive photo of top level White House FORPOL decision making. Here it is:

That is all, for now. Stay tuned for further adventures on First Family Thursdays.

Your Old Pal,

LSP

Why Are They Laughing At Us?

 

A US Cyber Command Major was suicidal and depressed until he became "Rachel." Now "she is living her truth and is no longer battling depression or suicidal thoughts," says army.mil. The DOD gushed on Twitter, "Her journey from battling depression & suicidal thoughts to embracing authenticity inspires us all."

Oh yes, so inspiring and what authenticity. Leaving aside the US Army's cadre of suicidally depressed, overweight Majors, what's authentic about this? How is "Rachel" a warrior or even a soldier? It's obviously too fat to fight, get off my square, you're tilting it.

And a woman, an authentic, chromosonal, womb and ovaries woman, as in "science." Well no, not that, but drugs and scalpel can produce a blasphemous parody of the same. So how is "Rachel" a woman any more than a soldier? Because she says so and the Army pathetically agrees with this overweight, bulging-out-the-camo rainbow officer.

Authentic? Clearly truth has no meaning here. It's all, to put it politely, a matter of opinion and this, gentle readers, slides swiftly and with gay rainbow abandon into tyranny; truth, says Caesar, is what I make it. Which in this case is a vastly overweight Major attempting to fit into his already loosely fitting uniform whilst pretending he's a soldier and a fat woman.

No wonder the world's laughing at us, GloboHomo, and why would it be that the US Army is suffering a recruiting and retention crisis. Magnum mysterium, but don't worry, all you serfs, they'll draft you, male, female and in between to fight for the love rainbow of authenticity. 

What a hideous, bloody, authentically killer thing that'll be. You see, they're all about death - we build, they destroy. That in mind, the Unicorn's a vicious beast and its disguise, transparent as it is, is growing yet more thin.

There'll come a point at which the mask is off and we'll stand up and be counted. Mark my words. In the meanwhile, the world laughs.

Money on the Monkey and Devil take the hindmost, what?

Ave,

LSP

Which Side Are You On?

 

The modern Left hates working people and's replaced that awkward class with trannies. But what am I saying, our beloved rulers have off-shored coal (climate change) and all the rest, while importing millions of cheap votes and, heigh ho, cheap wages. So very leftist rainbow. Welcome to the no-sex trans utopia.

Whatever, just behold, all ye serfs, tolerance and diversity Pritzker profit. And you know what, I'm on the side of working people and the Faith which serves them. No kidding, that's partly why I voted 45 last time over, not that we have elections anymore. So.

See you at the Club. Double-breasted blazers forever.

#standards,

LSP

A New Dog

 

The operation got on the road to Burleson on Monday to take care of business. And so, to pass I35W time, I crunched the numbers and discovered that I was, bizarrely, 58 on that very same day. Here's the complex math: 2023-1965 = x. Tricky, isn't it, and hint, 59 ≠ x.

I know, that's pretty racist but there you have it, mathematics. Bottom line accountancy satisfied, business concluded to mutual benefit, Thai curry consumed, yum, and it was back on the road to the Compound where...

There was a dog on the porch and a grinning soldier. "Happy birthday, dad. We interviewed a number of dogs and figured this one was best. Look, he's part Ridgeback, and you love Rhodesia. He doesn't even bark."

Moving, eh? The kid had gone off to the pound and found a dog for his dad, with attention to breed(s) and demeanor. Well, there it is, the Compound has a new rescue dog and he's a good boy, part Ridgeback, part Heeler, part something else, maybe Lab and/or Pyrenees?

Regardless, what shall we call him? The  pound called him "Chester," which obviously won't do. Perhaps Rhodie? But hey, all suggestions welcome.

Hope you're having big fun today as we celebrate our freedom.

Green Leader,

LSP