The left continues to Streep, and it is not taking. It is igniting something that the elite fear. The Saxon.

Men on our side take fair play and sportsmanship seriously. For the last eight years, we’ve watched the other side score time after time, dancing and taunting in the end zone with glee. They did it with a lot of help from the officials and announcers, which wasn’t right, but we learned that the rules have changed. Sometimes we were even told outright, “That’s what happens when you lose elections. If you don’t like it, win next time.”

So we did. And now we’re being told that not only do we not get the trophy, we’re not even allowed to celebrate, but should slink off the field in shame. They’re going to keep dancing in the end zone and calling us losers, and we’re supposed to keep taking it.

Yeah, this isn’t going to go well for them

CH comments on what it will be like.

There are signs of volcanic life surfacing in long dormant White America. A White hot fire rises. Recently, I saw once such sign, a very small sign, but magnificently portentous because it was an act of pro-White rebellion committed deep in the heart of a decadent anti-White shitlibopolis; the nature of the act was one that I had not encountered before in the wilds of any SWPLville.

A handful of posters promoting an anti-Trump protest march were taped to traffic light poles and other utility boxes near an outdoor cafe. As I watched with growing interest, five corn-fed and bearded White men wearing working class clothes and ear-to-ear shitlib-eating grins strode purposefully from one poster to the next, tearing them down and (respectfully) walking to a nearby garbage can to throw them out. As they performed their valuable public service, an effete, stoop-shouldered white manlet snarled at them from across the street. Even at twenty paces I could see the manlet’s curled lip quivering with menopausal rage.

The Fantastic Five noticed him too and, gathering together in a V-formation of happy force, triumphantly strutted across the street toward the iconic white liberal, whereupon they rudely impaled his personal space to remove the last anti-Trump poster that happened to be on the traffic pole situated at that corner right where he was standing and fuming. One of the Five swung in front of the manlet and made a dramatic show of crumpling the poster and tossing it into the garbage for a sweet three-point conversion.

The funniest outtake from this scene was the manlet’s utter enfeeblement in the face of an impudent provocation from his mortal enemies. Snarling from a distance, he was left speechless and catatonic when the Five entered his comfort zone; his inability to act on his suppressed rage a reminder of his low-T futility. I loved witnessing his libsnarl give way in slo-mo glory to a chin-tucked, downcast-eyed, beta male turtling once he realized the Five were heading his way to commit what he must have fantasized was unimaginable horrors against his nonblack body.

Nothing physical happened, this time, but something much worse occurred: the ouster of the shitlib from his position of power in the public space he considered his own, and his abject humiliation in the face of real resistance.

I have said for years the next turning is coming and it will be not progressive. It will be a reaction. It won’t be the liberal virtue signalling that ends, it will be the end of the liberal project, and a move to small, tight society. The future is not the EU and a liberal social welfare state: it is Victoria.