Cuck Island: The Genetic Miracle

ASIDE FROM our desire to ensure justice in every case and assign human characteristics to things that clearly aren’t human, the biggest weakness we as Whites have is a desire to avoid conflict at almost any cost. This failing is relatively new in our people and is a result of the civilization we built. We are victims of our own success, having conquered the hostile nature both without and within — and then assuming this battle was over forever. Unfortunately, the Jewish century good times in the West proved to be fleeting, as was always the intention of the poisonous mushroom working behind the scenes. When the attacks from the dark hordes resumed, we were asleep. Consider today’s absolutely incredible tale of moral failure, weakness, and abject cowardice from Airstrip One. You may want to have an air sickness bag at the ready.

On the day Georgina Lawton was born in a London hospital, the most extraordinary thing about her arrival was the absence of drama that accompanied it.

Just take the beating, White man. It’s easier than trying to fight back and you wouldn’t win anyway.

Her birth provoked no angry interrogation or recriminations from her father — merely delight and unquestioning acceptance. 

I have reached the final stage of dealing with the death of my ancient homeland.

Yet Georgina was not the baby either of her parents had been expecting. They were both white while she, with her tightly-curled, charcoal-coloured hair and huge brown eyes, was unmistakably black.

This is the greatest dishonor a man can experience. There’s really only one course of action that will allow you to even partially recover your manhood at this point. I’m not going to say it, we all know what it is. Instead, I’ll just meekly accept the destruction of hundreds of generations of my people. I guess he already knew it wasn’t his, since he has no testicles.

If Jim Lawton, a kind, mild-mannered giant of a man, had any misgivings when his first child arrived at Queen Charlotte’s Hospital in Hammersmith 28 years ago, he kept them to himself. Only his evident pleasure at first-time parenthood is chronicled.

When I talk about the “last man,” this is the kind of behavior I’m referring to.

‘He was elated — a daughter! He cooed and cuddled and accepted me without any question,’ recounts Georgina in her powerful new memoir Raceless, drawing on the knowledge that she was unconditionally loved by both parents.

Raceless, gutless, gelded, and doomed. My vile whore wife just delivered eight pounds of total horror. I’m elated.

But while Jim embraced the new arrival, his wife Colette’s mind was racing. Her relief at giving birth to a healthy girl was swiftly usurped by shame and trepidation. 

He’s going to have some sort of problem with this, right? Even the most debased man wouldn’t just calmly accept this state of affairs, right? Welcome to not-so-Great Britain after Europe’s Second Jew-Assisted Suicide Attempt.

She knew straight away. Her baby was the result of a one-night stand she’d had with a black barman at a pub in Shepherd’s Bush exactly nine months earlier. 

There will always be an England.

She told no one about this secret — her guilt exacerbated by her strict Irish Catholic upbringing — until after Jim’s premature death, aged 55, from cancer in 2015.

“Secret.” I’m sure no one figured it out. Also, good old sad sack Jim was already dead long before the cellular chosen did him in.

Meanwhile, a midwife threw the couple a lifeline that would anchor the story of brown-skinned Georgina into their solidly suburban Caucasian lives.

I saw on a BBC show produced by our ancient friends that our ancestral lands were already full of tar monster aliens back in medieval times, so this probably explains it.

The reason this beautiful baby was so different in complexion from her parents was doubtless down to a ‘throwback gene’ from a distant lineage, she said.

This makes a lot more sense than “committed genetic suicide on a vomit-soaked floor in some bar.”

The falsehood persisted unchallenged. Georgina — contrary to the evidence of everyone’s eyes — was actually white, they insisted.

‘It was a story my mother would repeat again and again, and one I would learn to recite hundreds of times,’ writes Georgina, as she recounts the far-reaching effects this denial of her race had on her. 

You wuz kangz, honey.

The first intimation that she was different came from a five-year-old girl at school — button-nosed and, like all the other girls in the class, white — who suggested Georgina scratch her skin to make it white.

Yes, there was a time when British schools were for White children.

But she also encountered cruelty. A teacher questioned her publicly on why her ethnicity was marked as ‘White British’ on the school’s records. Was it a mistake, she was asked.

We need a new box for “bastard daughter of a thousand non-White sailors.”

Georgina’s resolve faltered: ‘Both my parents are white and that’s all I know really…’ she offered. The teacher was not appeased. ‘But that doesn’t make you white, does it?’ she persisted. ‘Do you think there was some mistake at the hospital when you were born?

Based teacher. Today’s vocabulary word is “cuckoldry.”

‘Were you adopted without being told? Or perhaps there’s been an affair? I’m just wondering how this could have happened.’

Could it be a bar slut and a living fossil? I’m just wondering.

The questions, insistent, intrusive, utterly mortifying, stayed with her. That evening she told her parents about them. ‘Nosy old cow!’ was her mother’s retort. Her father’s forehead furrowed. The well-worn story about being a genetic throwback was reiterated; the blame attributed to the teacher for her intrusiveness.

How dare you notice reality! Mom gets indignant while dad silently prays for the cancer to spread faster so he can die and escape this waking nightmare.

And the sense of her separateness only deepened. With her friend from school she got a weekend job at a National Trust café — the very apex of Britishness — and noticed, for the first time, that black male customers flirted with her.

Was she ‘habesha’, one asked. At home she Googled the term and found it meant someone originating from Ethiopia. Was the teacher right? Had there been a mix-up of epic proportions at the hospital when she was born?

Sheeet, yew won fyne motah scootah. Is yew hab-eesh-huh?

Quick tip for my younger readers: when you claim to be a Negro on your job application so you can still find work in a country totally hostile to your race and then you get called out on it, just tell them you’re “habesha.” It’s likely the employer will become scared and confused and you should get hired.

But her parents persisted with the story of the genetic miracle and, cossetted by their love, she did not try to unpack the lie. 

I would classify this as a “plague” and not a “miracle.”

She’d crave the pallor of the rest of the family — ‘I’d have killed for a dusting of freckles my mum and brother had on their arms and noses’ — and covet the shade so her darkness did not deepen.

Wow, it’s almost like miscegenation is this horrible tragedy and not a good thing like the talmudvision is always claiming.

She remembers how her mother always encouraged her to identify as white, while her dad was more reticent.

“Remember, you’re White,” explains your mother while father sits quietly in the corner with a shotgun in his mouth. Wait, it’s the United Kaliphate. I meant to say he sits quietly in the corner with a spoon pressed to his throat.

Jim had consented to provide his daughter with a DNA sample shortly before he died, while still insisting she was his.

She was working as an intern, writing for a magazine, when she opened the email that changed her life irrevocably; that told her there was a ‘zero per cent’ chance of Jim being her biological father.

Yeah. No kidding. What a surprise.

Panic and outrage were rising in her voice as she phoned her mum. ‘How has this happened?’ she demanded, with indignation.

I got drunk and a nightmare creature “filled the milk bottle.”

‘There was a man, one night, in a pub in Shepherd’s Bush,’ began Colette. ‘But I can’t remember anything else.’

Thank g*d we defeated the not-sees and saved the world.

But Colette had only the sparest of details. The man was ‘dark-skinned, dark hair, dark eyes. But it was just one night. I don’t have anything else to tell you. That’s all I can remember,’ she said.

Your father looked like a giant piece of filth with yellow eyes.

Georgina wanted to know if her father had ever challenged her mum about her infidelity. Did he ask the truth? Did he threaten to walk out?

He wasn’t a total and complete failure as a man, right?

‘No he didn’t,’ said Colette slowly. ‘We really never spoke about it.’

The death of a nation has a dignity all its own.

For Georgina to understand her mother’s reticence she had to appreciate the shame that surrounded illegitimacy, infidelity and dual-heritage children in Catholic Ireland.

I know it’s hard to believe, but we used to be spiritually healthy before taking the Semitic cyanide. 

‘If we do it right, the way we live our lives, the reach of our actions and the things we do for others will leave a mark on the world long after we are gone.’

Make sure the mark you leave isn’t “raised a half-breed abomination while meekly accepting your wife’s sickening infidelities with genetic aliens.”

Full Story.

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Source: Modern Heretic