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National Orc Day (NOD): A Report from the Front Lines
by M.H.
23 January 2004
Birmingham, AL (1/19/04) -- Alabama is the home of a lot of propaganda
factories. Down in Montgomery we got Kool Mo Dees, a disgusting
nigger-dick-sucking jew if there ever was one. Kool Mo runs the Southern
Poverty Lie Center. Down in Auburn we got LewRockwell.com, home of fat
libertarian Lewpus. The guy no longer weighs 300 lbs. like in days of
recent yore, but he's hardly lost as much weight as Rusty Limbaugh. When I
was down there in Auburn last summer, I saw fat Lewpus at a Wendy's stuffing
four potatoes down his pie hole. Yes Lewpus knows all about the jews, but
he's also a man kept well by a particular group of them (Burt Blumert, Miles
Kantor, Marcus Epstein).
Then in Birmingham (where Lynard Skynard in the song "Sweet Home Alabama"
said "they luv the guv'nor" -- not true, it was only really the niggers who
loved that bastard George Wallace and only after the whore stepped out of
the school house door and promised them the moon in the White man's taxpayer
dollars), there's the Birmingham Snivel Rights Institute, the world center
for Martin Lucifer Coon propaganda.
My friends and I work for the food service of a local college with a bunch
of niggers. You don't learn the barbarian hyena nature of the nigger until
you work with them day in and day out for years. They constantly show up
late or not at all, steal the place blind, rap their nigger verse, hold
their balls constantly, smell like shit, and engage in all sorts of other
sundry ape behaviors.
Now comes a national holiday in honor of King Koon, an effrontery
celebrating the full integration of the nigger orc into our society. Well
I'll be goddamned if I'm gonna worship that coconut-headed king of orc
dorks.
It was unseasonally cold in Birmingham today (1/19), in the 30s, but myself
and three friends, with the day off at the commie college, decided to go
down to the 11 a.m. public ceremony held at a large orc church downtown off
of Eighth Avenue South and 23rd street. We had four great signs. Mine said
"Orcs have Aids," and my three partners' said, "Orcs Are Dumb," "Orcs Kill
Thyself," and "Orcs are Dorks."
My friend Scooter ("Orcs are Dorks") drove us in his huge old blue late
1970s Ford pickup (with no license plate in case we got into some heavy orc
head pounding). We arrived downtown right before 11 and parked in a nearby
bank parking garage off of 20th street. The block had been cordoned off by
the police but after the start of the ceremonies we heard a bunch of sirens
outside to the east (niggertown projects) and most of the pigs disappeared.
Because we got there a bit late, we had to settle for a place in the
standing-room-only back of the church. Only after we got inside did we
reveal our signs. The signs got a few strange looks from little orcs
sitting in the pew ahead of us who were there on some Martin Lucifer Koon
field trip from a nearby school. Speaker after gangly speaker droned on and
on about "racial equality," "the dream," "colorblindness," and all other
such bullshit. It made me sick to my stomach to be there to hear that. The
last intolerable speaker was Birmingham's fat black pig mayor Bernie
Kincaid. "Carry on the dream! Carry on the dream!" the fat black pig kept
squealing at the end of his spiel.
Things got exciting toward the end when a few of the dim "bruthas" finally
got the point of our signs. Four of the Louis Farrakan-looking bow-tied
super uppity niggers approached us, barely containing their anger. The lead
one, Jiminy Cricket Nigger, had a flat pug nose with nostrils as big as
manhole covers. He was snarling mad when he saw my "Orcs Have Aids" sign.
"I want you to know that you guys have 5 seconds to take your racist shit
out of here. I can't believe you hateful bastards would do this inside a
church on Dr. King's day."
"This was advertised as a public event. We have every right to be here by
the First Amendment," Scooter said. "Yeah, but I don't have to look at your
racist shit," he said taking my sign, throwing it up against the wall behind
me. "Look," said my friend Mark, "if you boys want to take this outside,
fair and square, we're game." Jiminy Cricket Nigger thought for a minute
(if it's possible for a nigger to do such a thing), looked around the church
and the hordes of people streaming outside past us, and then balked. He was
about 140 lbs. light and had a lot more uppity nigger in him (chip on his
shoulder given to him by the jews) than bite. Scooter, a foot taller and
about 50 pounds heavier, would have pulped him to bits. I was kind of glad
since I had wanted to sleep in that day, it was cold, and I really wasn't
rarin' for a street brawl at the moment. Even though I think we could have
taken the four wiry niggers, I also didn't like the possibility of an
afternoon in the slammer and I'm sure the four niggers in the expensive
suits thought likewise.
"I tell ya what," Jiminy Cricket Nigger said, "in memory of Dr. King and his
noble legacy of non-violence, I'm going to be your superior and not stoop to
your level. I'm going to be kind enough to let you leave here alive to
think about what this day means and what you've done to disgrace it."
That's the translation out of Ebonics of what he said, anyway.
"Oh, how kind," Scooter said. My other three friends dropped their signs
and we all walked back to the garage where our truck was. Quite a few other
people noticed our heated exchange, but not many understood what was going
on or really cared. Given that it was now noon and very cold and windy, all
most of the orcs wanted to do once they got outside was get home, warm up,
and chow down on some soul food.
Thanks to some serendipities, the real hell raising was just about to begin.
We got back to the truck and it wouldn't start. Scooter has several old
batteries sitting in the back of his truck that he's working his way
through, so he has to do a swap. This takes about ten minutes. While we're
all huddled in the cold and cramped in the cab, we see no other than the
small nigger field trip that was sitting in front of us stream up the
stairwell into the garage toward a short, green bus that had parked
lengthwise over about five spaces on the opposite, downward-sloping side of
the garage from ours. There were about 15 kids in all. In the lead is a
super-dark bowling-ball headed male who walks up to the bus door, twists his
key, and breaks it off into the door lock. The dumbass then tried to pick
the broken-off part of the key out of the lock but couldn't get it. The
negress school teacher behind Bowling Ball Head had no luck either. The
little niglets then started to squirm and whine in the cold.
Meanwhile Scooter gets back and cranks the truck. Luckily it cranks up and
during the few minutes it takes for the truck to warm up and the old heater
to start spraying us with warm air, we fill Scooter in on the comedy in
front of us. Scooter's eyes lit up.
You see, before we left that day, Scooter spent the morning changing the oil
out of that old truck, something that had never been done. It was as black
as tar. He put the filthy oil first into a pan. Before we left, what made
us late was pouring that tar oil into four large party balloons. We did it
in case there appeared any, well, targets of opportunity we might see today.
There must have been two gallons of filthy tar oil in that huge old truck.
And now our targets were lurking on the down ramp of the garage right in
front of us.
Scoot first backed out and drove us (wrong way) up the parking down ramp we
were on to the roof of the garage where we made a quick battle plan. There
were four balloons, Ronnie got two, I got one, and Mark got one. Then we
had to divvy up our targets. I demanded and got Bowling Ball Head. Mark
got assigned the school teacher negress and Ronnie, who was an all-state
short stop in high school baseball, agreed to pelt anything that moved
beyond those two. I got into the right front of the truck bed and lay on my
side right behind the bed wall. Mark and Ronnie lay right behind me. Scoot
rolled down the passenger window and said he'd come in real slow and close
like he was offering help.
The truck lurched forward and after one left turn descended to where we
first parked. Then we took another left turn and the truck slowed down to a
stop. Lying on my side, I saw the roof of the bus loom over the wall of the
truck bed. I heard Scoot say, "Y'all need some help?" That was our cue.
Peeking over the bed wall, I saw thick lipped Bowling Ball Head approach the
truck. When he stopped to lean in to the cab he was little more than a foot
away. The balloon slammed down into the top of his left shoulder with such
force there was a blast cloud of oil. Even Scooter got doused. Half of the
windshield inside the cab was splattered. The crowd of freezing niglets
gasped in horror.
Up sprang Mark. He just lobbed his grenade non-chalantly as if throwing a
softball. That's what I should have done. There's no need to throw
liquid-filled balloons that hard, and it's better to be accurate, which Mark
was. School teacher negress, who was standing right behind Bowling Ball
Head, got hit right on her big, fat boobies. Her black leather jacket was
covered in oil. It was dripping in multiple waterfalls from her jacket and
purse. Next came fastball Marky. He preferred my approach, and since he
was an ex-high school short stop with great arm strength, he could throw
both fast and accurate. He fastballed his two large projectiles into the
throng of gasping niglets. There were howls and screams as the crowd of
huddled and screeching niglets was engulfed in two huge black explosions. I
figure he soaked about 7 or 8 of them from head to toe. The near side of
the bus was splattered with and dripping oil.
Ol' Scoot was just having a good ol' time watching us from the back window.
"Go! Go! Let's go!" I said. He put the pedal to the metal and we left.
If I live to be 105, the look of shock on the faces of those pathetic,
oil-soaked niggers is something I'll never forget. Bowling Ball Head ran
after us for about thirty yards before giving up. He couldn't copy down a
vehicle tag number 'cause there wasn't one on the old truck.
We went home, popped open a case of brew, and laughed about it for the whole
afternoon. National Orc Day 2004 was the best National Orc Day I've ever
experienced and most likely ever will experience. I'm not afraid of being
recognized since niggers have told me over the years that we look as much
alike to them as they do to us. We won't be going out in the Blue Bomb,
though, anytime soon. At least until things die down again.
Happy Orc Day!
M.H.
Ed. Note: This story came in over the transom from an anonymous "M.H." heretofore unfamiliar to VNN. I point that out because the story is suspiciously well written, and smacks of a possible set-up, since, for all I know, it is a federal crime with a mandatory minimum 25-year sentence to throw water balloons at apes. So, just for the record, let me say that VNN in no way advises nor supports the involuntary cleansing of niggers through the application of used motor oil. Regrease uppity jigs at your own risk, readers.
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