from: Nick Stamatakis at Helleniscope

Those of you who are blindly falling for the PSYOPS and the unbelievable propaganda of American (and European) so-called “journalism”, you now have a wonderful opportunity to detoxify your mind by listening to one of the very few TOP political scientists this country ever produced, Professor John Mearsheimer of the University of Chicago.  But first please take off your “Cold War” blindfolding experience.  This is not the 1970s or the 1980s.  This is a totally new world – and the New World Order you were used to taking for granted is about to expire.

Alex Aliferis: Why the hatred for Christian Russia by the Globalists?

There smil’d the smooth Divine, unus’d to wound
The sinners heart, with hell’s alarming sound.
No terrors on his gentle tongue attend;
No grating truths the nicest ear offend.
That strange new-birth, that methodistic grace,
Nor in his heart, nor sermons, found a place.
Plato’s fine tales he clumsily retold,
Trite, fireside, moral seasaws, dull as old;
His Christ, and bible, plac’d at good remove,
Guilt hell-deserving, and forgiving love.
‘Twas best, he said, mankind should cease to sin;
Good fame requir’d it; so did peace within:
Their honours, well he knew, would ne’er be driven;
But hop’d they still would please to go to heaven.
Each week, he paid his visitation dues;
Coax’d, jested, laugh’d; rehears’d the private news;
Smoak’d with each goody, thought her cheese excell’d;
Her pipe he lighted, and her baby held.
Or plac’d in some great town, with lacquer’d shoes,
Trim wig, and trimmer gown, and glistening hose,
He bow’d, talk’d politics, learn’d manners mild;
Most meekly questioned, and most smoothly smil’d;
At rich mens jests laugh’d loud their stories prais’d;
Their wives new patterns gaz’d, and gaz’d, and gaz’d;
Most daintily on pamper’d turkies din’d;
Nor shrunk with fasting, nor with study pin’d:
Yet from their churches saw his brethren driven,
Who thunder’d truth, and spoke the voice of heaven,
Chill’d trembling guilt, in Satan’s headlong path,
Charm’d the feet back, and rous’d the ear of death.
” Let fools, ” he cried, ” starve on, while prudent I
Snug in my nest shall live, and snug shall die.

Timothy Dwight: The Triumph of Infidelity (1788)

Here shall you, raptur’d, find there is no hell;
A priest shall teach it, and the gospel tell;
The pleasing truth, so long from earth conceal’d,
To bless desponding guilt, is now reveal’d.
Thus rang the thrilling voice the new world round;
Each villain started at the pleasing sound,
Hugg’d his old crimes, new mischiefs ‘gan devise,
And turn’d his nose up to the threatning skies.
The perjur’d wretch, who met no honest eye,
But felt his own retreat, his spirit die,
Clear’d up his wither’d front, and true he cried
Ive sometimes been forsworne, and often lied;
But all’s a farce; as proves this doctrine new,
For God must help the perjur’d, as the true.
Up Florio sprang; and with indignant woes,
As thus he cried, his startled bosom rose — —
I am the first of men in ways of evil,
The truest, thriftiest servant of the devil,
Born, educated, glory to engross,
And shine confess’d, the Devil’s Man of Ross.
Here’s three to one, I beat even him in pride;
Two whores already in my chariot ride:
Shall then this wretch? — forbid it Florio, heaven!
Shall sin’s bright laurels to this priest be given?
No, still on Satan’s roll shall shine my praise,
As erst on C — — ‘s lists of yeas and nays.
Half pleas’d, the honest tar out bolted — ” whew ” !
” Good doctrine, Jack ” ” Aye, too good to ” be true. ”
P**** scowling heard, and growl’d — The day’s our own!
I’ll now tell two lies, where I told but one.
W****** more hard than flint, in sin grown old,
Clinch’d close his claws, and grip’d his bags of gold.
In vain, he cried, their woes let orphans tell;
In vain let widows weep; there is no hell.
Six, six per cent, each month, must now be given,
For pious usury now’s the road to heaven.
All who, tho’ fair without, yet black within,
Glued to their lips the choice liqueur of sin,
Whose conscience, oft rebuff’d, with snaky power,
Impoison’d still the gay and gleeful hour,
Check’d the loose wish, the past enjoyment stung,
And oft the alarm of retribution rung,
Thrill’d at each nerve, to find their fears were vain,
And swung triumphant caps at future pain.
And now the morn arose; when o’er the plain
Gather’d, from every side, a numerous train;
To quell those fears, that rankled still within,
And gain new strength, and confidence, to sin.
There the half putrid Epicure was seen,
His cheeks of port, and lips with turtle green,
Who hop’d a long eternity was given,
To spread good tables, in some eating heaven.
The leacher there his lurid visage shew’d,
The imp of darkness, and the foe of good;
Who fled his lovely wife’s most pure embrace,
To sate on hags, and breed a mongrel race;
A high-fed horse, for others wives who neigh’d;
A cur, who prowl’d around each quiet bed;
A snake, far spreading his impoison’d breath,
And charming innocence to guilt, and death,
Here stood Hypocrisy, in sober brown,
His sabbath face all sorrow’d with a frown.
A dismal tale he told of dismal times,
And this sad world brimful of saddest crimes,
Furrow’d his cheeks with tears for others sin,
But clos’d his eyelids on the hell within.]

Timothy Dwight: The Triumph of Infidelity (1788)