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Sturgeon's House

The Hippie Hate Thread

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Usually when the Right eats its own, it's because they have committed a scandal or go full on bonkers. It takes awhile for folks to get fed up wth squishy sell-outs like Lindsey Graham or Mitch McConnell.

The Trump thing however is quite unusual and I a still coming to grips with the Civil War in the GOP over The Donald.

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I dont think its a GOP civil war donward

Most GOP voters seem to think ether he is a good candidate, think he isnt that bad but they are voting for X anyways, or think he is a bit of a hot head


The leadership wants him out of the race and his genitalia as a trophy 


Even the Rand Paul autists dont hate Trump with a passion, they think he is a hot head, and try to stump him, but they never seem to shit their Ayn Rand underpants over him in sheer anger like the GOP leadership 




I maintain my position that John Kasich is the best Republican canidate to run in decades


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  • 2 weeks later...

Pictured: Collimatrix was on the drug called U-235 and in a haze he created a time machine because plot. He decides to fuck those paradoxes and go back in time and Sturgeon goes along for the ride while the rest of the gang are busy doing important stuff like yelling at 14 yr kids on the internet who think Tiger Tanks are cool while Tied goes into cardiac arrest for eating too many Snickers bars. In contemplating on how to change history, it became clear. Kill the hippies. How? Shoot'em while looking as sexy as hell. 


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while the rest of the gang are busy doing important stuff like yelling at 14 yr kids on the internet who think Tiger Tanks are cool while Tied goes into cardiac arrest for eating too many Snickers bars.




My entire posting history has been motivated and probelled by heart disease 


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Joan Didion's Slouching Towards Bethlehem is a classic in that social dysfunction porn subgenre that never gets old; people who sincerely believe Rousseau's ideas about human nature inevitably prove Hobbes right instead.  The collection of essays takes its name from a line in W.B. Yeat's seminal poem The Second Coming.  If you don't like W.B. Yeats you are a stinkyhead and we can't ever be friends.



The title alludes to the place of the essays in Joan Didion's greater corpus; her writing mainly focuses on social disintegration in the Postwar United States.  People move to California to find something, only to find that they've somehow lost their souls.  Slouching Towards Bethlehem has some of her most lurid and memorable writing about this process, and is her best known work.


The bulk of the writing concerns San Francisco's Haight Ashbury district in 1967 at the height of the hippy epidemic.  How bad was it?



“There are only three significant pieces of data in the world today,” is another thing Chet Helms told me one night. We were at the Avalon and the big strobe was going and the colored lights and the Day-Glo painting and the place was full of high-school kids trying to look turned on.

The Avalon sound system projects 126 decibels at 100 feet but to Chet Helms the sound is just there, like the air, and he talks through it.

“The first is,” he said, “God died last year and was obited by the press. The second is, fifty percent of the population is or will be under twentyfive.”

A boy shook a tambourine toward us and Chet smiled benevolently at him.

“The third,” he said, “is that they got twenty billion irresponsible dollars to spend.”


There was, in 1967, an utterly incomprehensible amount of fuel for the fire.  In retrospect, it's a miracle that things weren't worse than they were.  How was the world spared total catastrophe in those dark times?  Who knows.  Maybe the intercession of Saint Nixon.  Who knows.


But even though it wasn't catastrophically bad, it was really bad.  How bad?



When I finally find Otto he says “I got something at my place that’ll blow your mind,” and when we get there I see a child on the livingroom floor, wearing a reefer coat, reading a comic book. She keeps licking her lips in concentration and the only off thing about her is that she’s wearing white lipstick.

“Five years old,” Otto says. “On acid.”

The five-year-old’s name is Susan, and she tells me she is in High Kindergarten. She lives with her mother and some other people, just got over the measles, wants a bicycle for Christmas, and particularly likes Coca-Cola, ice cream, Marty in the Jefferson Airplane, Bob in the Grateful Dead, and the beach. She remembers going to the beach once a long time ago, and wishes she had taken a bucket. For a year now her mother has given her both acid and peyote. Susan describes it as getting stoned.


Haha!  Giving the kids acid!  Lawks!  What fun!  But obviously, this was just the excess of an overzealous fringe.  The hippie movement was really about social justice, and peace, and stuff like that, right?



They are less in rebellion against the society than ignorant of it, able only to feed back certain of its most publicized self-doubts, Vietnam, Saran-Wrap, diet pills, the Bomb.

They feed back exactly what is given them. Because they do not believe in words—words are for “typeheads,” Chester Anderson tells them, and a thought which needs words is just one more of those ego trips—their only proficient vocabulary is in the society’s platitudes.


The hippies Didion encountered were, to a man, shockingly stupid.  They aren't exactly like the creatures in Theodore Dalrymple's essays, which give an impression of having fair or even strong native intelligence stifled by an abominable public education system and the social expectations of proledom.  No, instead the reader is left in wonderment that these people remember how to breathe.



“I been out of my mind for three days,” he says. He tells me he’s been shooting crystal, which I already pretty much know because he does not bother to keep his sleeves rolled down over the needle tracks. He came up from Los Angeles some number of weeks ago, he doesn’t remember what number, and now he’ll take off for New York, if he can find a ride. I show him a sign offering a ride to Chicago. He wonders where Chicago is.



Time passes and I lose the thread and when I pick it up again Max seems to be talking about what a beautiful thing it is the way Sharon washes dishes.

“Well it is beautiful,” Sharon says. “Everything is. I mean you watch that blue detergent blob run on the plate, watch the grease cut— well, it can be a real trip.”



By now I have an unofficial taboo contact with the San Francisco Police Department. What happens is that this cop and I meet in various latemovie ways, like I happen to be sitting in the bleachers at a baseball game and he happens to sit down next to me, and we exchange guarded generalities. No information actually passes between us, but after a while we get to kind of like each other.

“The kids aren’t too bright,” he is telling me on this particular day. “They’ll tell you they can always spot an undercover, they’ll tell you about ‘the kind of car he drives.’

They aren’t talking about undercovers, they’re talking about plainclothesmen who just happen to drive unmarked cars, like I do. They can’t tell an undercover. An undercover doesn’t drive some black Ford with a two-way radio.”

He tells me about an undercover who was taken out of the District because he was believed to be overexposed, too familiar. He was transferred to the narcotics squad, and by error was sent immediately back into the District as a narcotics undercover. The cop plays with his keys. “You want to know how smart these kids are?” he says finally. “The first week, this guy makes fortythree cases.”


In addition to being filthy idiots, hippies were also rapists.  When you want visual imagery to accompany the phrase "rape culture," think of a hippie commune.



An Anderson communiqué might be doing something as specific as fingering someone who is said to have set up a marijuana bust, or it might be working in a more general vein:


Pretty little 16-year-old middle-class chick comes to the Haight to

see what it’s all about & gets picked up by a 17-year-old street dealer

who spends all day shooting her full of speed again & again, then

feeds her 3,000 mikes & raffles off her temporarily unemployed

body for the biggest Haight Street gangbang since the night before

last. The politics and ethics of ecstasy. Rape is as common as bullshit

on Haight Street. Kids are starving on the Street. Minds and bodies

are being maimed as we watch, a scale model of Vietnam.



Sharon is very excited when she arrives.

“Don,” she cries, breathless. “We got some STP today.”

At this time STP is a pretty big deal, remember; nobody yet knew what it was and it was relatively, although just relatively, hard to come by.

Sharon is blond and scrubbed and probably seventeen, but Max is a little vague about that since his court case comes up in a month or so and he doesn’t need statutory rape on top of it.


But that's hardly fair, right?  Surely there were concerned, conscientious activists around, even a small percentage, floating in a sea of jetsam who really did care about the big issues of the day, and must be acknowledged for taking their stand on the right side of history!  Oh yeah, Didion saw them too:



The Mime Troupers get a little closer, and there are some other peculiar things about them. For one thing they are tapping people on the head with dime-store plastic night-sticks, and for another they are wearing signs on their backs. “HOW MANY TIMES YOU BEEN RAPED, YOU LOVE FREAKS?” and “WHO STOLE CHUCK BERRY’S MUSIC?”, things like that. Then they are distributing communication company fliers which say:


& this summer thousands of un-white un-suburban boppers are going to want to

know why you’ve given up what they can’t get & how you get

away with it & how come you not a faggot with hair so long & they want

haight street one way or the other. IF YOU DON’T KNOW, BY



Max reads the flier and stands up. “I’m getting bad vibes,” he says, and he and Sharon leave.

I have to stay around because I’m looking for Otto so I walk over to where the Mime Troupers have formed a circle around a Negro. Peter Berg is saying if anybody asks that this is street theater, and I figure the curtain is up because what they are doing right now is jabbing the Negro with the nightsticks. They jab, and they bare their teeth, and they rock on the balls of their feet and they wait.

“I’m beginning to get annoyed here,” the Negro says. “I’m gonna get mad.” By now there are several Negroes around, reading the signs and watching.

“Just beginning to get annoyed, are you?” one of the Mime Troupers says. “Don’t you think it’s about time?”

“Nobody stole Chuck Berry’s music, man,” says another Negro who has been studying the signs. “Chuck Berry’s music belongs to everybody.”

“Yeh?” a girl in blackface says. “Everybody who?”

“Why,” he says, confused. “Everybody. In America.”

“In America,” the blackface girl shrieks. “Listen to him talk about America.”

“Listen,” he says helplessly. “Listen here.”

“What’d America ever do for you?” the girl in blackface jeers. “White kids here, they can sit in the Park all summer long, listen to the music they stole, because their bigshot parents keep sending them money. Who ever sends you money?”

“Listen,” the Negro says, his voice rising. “You’re gonna start something here, this isn’t right—”

“You tell us what’s right, black boy,” the girl says.


Sensitive, enlightened souls, obviously.


So there you have it; more evidence, as if any were needed, that hippies were a bunch of savage, filthy degenerates.  Slouching Towards Bethlehem is a classic, you should read it.  Let the feeling of visceral horror and disgust you feel be a reminder for the need for vigilance and resolve in the long, but righteous war against hippies.

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Hippies bitching about Whidbey Island Naval Base or trying to wander into the nuclear submarine base at Bangor is nothing new for this neck of the woods.


I always dig the military mouth pieces who are interviewed for these type of stories who must feel somewhat exasperated having to explain. "Yeah. We've always been flying jets over the Olympic Peninsula. Oh, you didn't notice? Maybe it's because you don't live here!!!"

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Some time ago we had an agreement with Germany. They were sending to us their "difficult" teenagers, while we were moving them into remote Siberian villages, far from civilization and Facebooks. And it worked!

I bet that we can find more of those remote Siberian villages, so others can send their hippies to be remade in hands of both Mother Nature and Mother Russia. When their urine will become ice and bears teeths will be inside of their drug-filled trashbins that some people can mistakenly call "body", only then we can start to hope that at least some of them will survive and have a chance to become a human. And i hope that many others will be eaten by bears and wolves, will be frozen to death or die from eating snow 7 days non-stop.

At least this is how USSR was fighting Soviet hippies and thats why there is almost no hippies in Russia.

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Just wall off a nice section of forest and dump them in there. Let them go feral and kill each other. 


This was my suggested punishment for luddites, only dropping them alone in the woods of china with a gunshot through their Achilles tendons. We'll see how loving and graceful they find nature when they have to limp away from the population of various Tiger species in China who will basically always go for a wounded target who will have trouble fighting back over a perfectly healthy one.

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  • 1 month later...

Altamont was a shitshow.


Here is the stabbing and the aftermath of the stabbing. I believe this footage is from the "Gimme Shelter" documentary about the concert.


Awesome. I didn't notice the black police officer who is taking statements from the white hippies.


This footage shows a Hell's Angel's bike being knocked over and the events leading up to the stabbing during the Rolling Stones "Under My Thumb" set.

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Nah. Hippies and the Counter Culture have been monetized and neatly tucked into the billfold of the almighty Corporate Dollar. You too can own a psychedelic colored Mac Tablet Phone while wearing an ironic Make Love, Not War t-shirt as you surf the Internets for free at Starbucks, downloading the latest hit single from the pop artists #LilDerpFace whose song consists entirely of remixed backbeats from the 1960s and some god awful Autotuning. 


The Rolling Stones looked scared shitless while they were being whisked away in their private helicopter.

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I look forward to seeing the reactions of the forum's resident cannabis enthusiasts.

I've seen it happen a lot, but till now I didn't have a terribly specific explanation for it: People smoke shitloads of weed until they become pretty much retarded.

Seen it often enough that I've gotten a bit of a grudge against the drug. Not hard to imagine why if you've seen a couple promising young men turn into utter human waste over the course of a year or two...

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TIL George Lucas was a cameraman for the documentary "Gimme Shelter" whose footage I linked to up above. Although his camera malfunctioned and none of his footage was used.




Also, I had forgotten that the Hell's Angels punched out Jefferson Airplane lead male singer Marty Balin during the actual concert. The fight starts at around 3:00 mark.



Per Grace Slick. ""You don't hassle with anybody in particular. You gotta keep your bodies off each other unless you intend love. People get weird, and you need people like the Angels to keep people in line. But the Angels also-- You know, you don't bust people in the head for nothing. So both sides are fucking up temporarily; let's not keep fucking up!"

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In a development shocking to absolutely nobody: http://www.telegraph.co.uk/news/health/news/12019820/Skunk-causes-damage-to-vital-nerve-fibres.html

It seems perfectly obvious to me that long term use of any psychoactive chemical could damage the brain, but I'm obviously not a hippie.

And not a single link to the actual study was posted.

But yeah, changes in brain structure coming from heavy use. I'm sure the two-packs-a-day crowd and your average alcoholic won't show anything similar.

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