Daily Stormer The Most Censored Publication in History
Note: This is the second article of the day and the first one is better. Probably. We might be doing second articles now. But get used to scrolling for second or – perhaps – even third articles. I was bored and exhausted, but I’m getting a vibe with this new format. As always, if you don’t like it, you are welcome to not read or to kill yourself. But I’m digging it and feel like it’s going somewhere good.
I would probably just use Spotify like everyone else. But in 2017, I was banned from using Visa/Mastercard for the rest of my life because I made a joke about an obese woman who had a heart attack after a car accident. So I can’t use that type of service.
I use some Russian torrent sites for music for the most part, but Brave‘s adblock works well on YouTube (I’ve literally never seen an ad, and I’ve never installed any extra addons), so I will sometimes use YouTube to check out various things. The sound quality on YouTube for anything uploaded in the last like, ten years, is as good as FLAC.
The Indians are ruining this formerly normal behavior which I had never thought much about, as they are ruining everything on the internet I have done for years without ever thinking much about. Somehow, Indians are going into playlists, and inserting AI marketing propaganda spam.
Jason Isbell got divorce raped, an event approximately as surprising as leaves on a tree, and recorded a solo acoustic album, so naturally I wanted to listen to the whole thing, and it was new and the Russians weren’t seeding it enough, so I go on the YouTube playlist:
This has been happening for months or more. Sometimes I put on a playlist, then I’m doing something, and an Indian AI ad comes on, and I have to walk over and turn it off. They are making the service completely unusable, in the same way they’ve made Twitter’s news feed unusable, the same way that they’ve made the American telephony system unusable. This country is an international terrorist state. This is terrorism. It is a base for spam and scams, and they are spreading it through every electronic means.
The fucking kikes are whining about Russia and China. What did these countries do? Has anyone even said? The worst thing a Russian has ever done to me is overcharge for a blowjob, and a Chinese person has never done anything to me. It’s conceivable they’ve fed me a domestic animal at some point, but I don’t know that, and if it did happen it was delicious, so what difference could it possibly make?
Indians are literally ruining everyone’s lives. Things that you would never even imagine someone ruining are being ruined by Indians. The fact that these people are scamming elderly Americans out of life savings on an industrial scale should be considered an act of war. It is an act of war. What else do you call it?
The other day, I had a guest, and we were drinking coffee and discussing very serious and important matters. I had put on David Crosby’s If I Could Only Remember My Name as a YouTube playlist because it was easier than grabbing the hard drive with the album on it and I was certain this was the correct mood for our discussion. All of a sudden, right in the middle of a thought I was expressing which could have been as important as anything anyone has ever said to someone else, the music stops and some AI voice comes on talking about “what is investment?”
I will say this with 100% truthfulness, not exaggerating in any way whatsoever: I was more angry than if I would have heard someone screaming “Allah Akbar” and looked out the window to see pressure cooker bombs blowing people’s limbs off. I can’t remember anything in my life that has ever made me this angry. I’m against getting angry. I really try not to do it, ever. (I’ve written about my anti-angry views extensively; perhaps we will return to this theme in the near future, we seem to be theming it up these days.) But this Indian AI ad in the middle of my incomprehensibly consequential conversation, interrupting the noble Mr. Crosby, it was such an invasion of my personal life, of my mind, of my space and things that belong to me. It was a soul attack. This is what it must feel like to be forcibly sodomized, though I imagine that is not nearly as bad.
The conversation ended, and I got up to turn off the ad, and started screaming that the entirety of India should be nuked, that every person in the country should be exterminated. I had never had this thought before. My guest asked if this extermination would include the children, and I said that it would necessarily need to because they will just grow up to rip off innocent grandmas, spam Twitter with pro-Israel fake news, and violate the sanctity of David Crosby’s masterpieces. My guest considered and agreed with me that the extermination would indeed have to include the children.
All of them. Every last Indian.
This has gone too far and it is getting worse by the hour.
What is amazing to me is that no one is talking about it. You can’t answer your phone with an unknown number anymore. It used to be that if an unknown number was calling your phone, it could be a business contact, or a social acquaintance, who has gotten your number from someone else. Now, there is a 97% chance it is a fucking Indian scammer. They have literally destroyed the entire telephony infrastructure of the United States.
And these people are talking about China. What did the Chinese do? Can someone tell me? They annexed a remote Filipino fishing zone? What in the fuck does that have to do with me and my life? Please list your personal concerns in order of importance, and tell me when you get to contested fishing waters in the South China Sea. Then list how many times in your week your life is invaded by some kind of Indian behavior.
If these war-obsessed lunatics like Marco Rubio were saying we should exterminate Indians, I would be fully backing whatever mindless jingoism they want to shove down everyone’s throats. Instead they’re talking about theoretical communistic infringement on the vibrancy of gay sex clubs in Taipei.
I can’t take it.
This Jason Isbell Album
This was originally about me trying to listen to the new Jason Isbell album, a solo post-divorce reflective piece.
Poor Jason.
I’ve followed him since I was a teenager, when he was in the Drive-By Truckers. As a goofy fat kid, he first played on Southern Rock Opera, but didn’t sing. Then on Decoration Day, he had the title track. This was a story of a southern Hatfields and McCoys type thing. It’s based on a true story. Decoration Day is of course a day when Southerners honor (or maybe they don’t anymore) the Civil War dead.
He also had Outfit, which was an ode to his weak and simple but loving and earnest father, which he has said was about real things his father told him.
He was only young when he wrote it and though it’s not the best song ever, there is a serious soul to it. I love the imagery of some Alabama painter from Appalachia being told by his son he’s going to become a musician and telling him “don’t tell ’em you’re bigger than Jesus.”
Shoutout to Mark David Chapman, btw. Freaking legend.
Jason was in the Truckers for a while, recording some good stuff, and in 2007 left the band and became a kind of Poet Laureate of Appalachia (I’m sure I’m not the first person to use that line, just to be clear). He was really the only voice talking about the issues of the poverty stricken whites of that region, and doing it a way that was hip enough that people in New York and Seattle were interested in hearing what he had to say. It was a great service. The themes were not limited to Southern/Appalachian issues, but a lot of them addressed the issues of poverty, and the way that the wars those boys were sent off to affected them, the issues they dealt with involving substance abuse and the removal of the jobs.
I’m not going to do a full review of his discography. I think all of the albums recorded between his departure from the Truckers and his marriage are worth listening to. I don’t like love songs, because I’m not 13 years old, and yet that is what most music is now. Jason’s songs are about people and stories, his hero being John Prine. Like all good poetry, they create images in your mind that stay with you. And there is a beautiful hillbillyism to it, which is unique. This combination of intelligence and rural sensibilities.
From “Alabama Pines,” the highlight of the last album before the nightmare wife era and the end of the fat drunk era:
Well, I moved into this room
If you could call it that, a week ago
I never do what I’m supposed to do
Hardly even know my name anymore
When no one calls it out, it kinda vanishes awayI can’t get to sleep at night
The parking lot’s so loud and bright
The A/C hasn’t worked in twenty years
Probably never made a single person cold
But I can’t say the same for me, I’ve done it many timesSomebody take me home
Through those Alabama pinesYou can’t drive through Talladega
On a weekend in October
Just head up north to Jacksonville, cut around and over
Watch your speed in Boiling Springs
They ain’t got a thing to do, they’ll get you every time
It’s not a song about him, but about a Southern man, lost.
The same year that was released, a female violinist, Amanda Shires, who had played on the album, staged an alcoholism “intervention” against him, which was in fact a coup to take over his music operation by seducing him by playing a mother type figure saving him from himself.
(To be fair, he did stop drinking and stopped being fat. Though I don’t think we should credit this vampire woman for that.)
She did take over. She married him and then became a permanent fixture of the band and moved them from Alabama to Nashville, where they began making machine music which no longer had much at all to do with Southern issues. To be fair, the albums did get progressively worse. But even the first one, Southeastern, was not great. Not great. The only song that is even really notable to me from the whole era was “Cumberland Gap,” which was a throwback to the pre-Shires era, almost as if even letting him record the song was a little treat given to him, like a mommy gives to a good boy.
He talks about the coal industry shutdown destroying his people’s lives, and it is generally going to assume that mommy Amanda wouldn’t let him say such a thing because of global warming (more important that the lives of everyone in Appalachia, obviously).
The album version is overproduced by Nashville parasites, but here’s a live version.
There were some catchy high-production poppy songs from those albums, where you might say “eh, it’s alright,” but I can’t remember any of them. The whole thing with Jason Isbell was about being the Southern poet. It was vibes. Making him into a machine rock musician producing poppy rock songs that are maybe “cool” enough to get pimped up on KEXP or Tiny Desk killed the entire point of Jason Isbell.
Towards the end, he was not only not doing songs about the South, he was singing about gun control and Black Lives Matter. Literally. This is what women will do to you if you allow it.
So, as every reader of the Daily Stormer would expect (apparently average men do not expect this, though I cannot grasp why), Shires divorce-raped Jason. The divorce was finalized in December 2023, and this month he released his first post-mommy album, which I was naturally excited about (which is why the Indian scam invasion triggered me to write this in the first place – I was peacefully listening when they attacked).
So, “Foxes in the Snow” is not as good as I’d hoped lyrically. But it is definitely and absolutely and completely a return to form after having been mangled by this vile star-fucker trollop. There is nothing political on it. And the music itself is absolutely spitting in the face of the Amanda Shires “let’s be a poppy rock band” thing that was happening. The whole thing is just him and his guitar, and the guitar is excellent. It’s in a lot of ways a John Prine tribute album, and the guitar work is absolutely on par with Prine.
You can see the fingerwork here.
But the live version sounds the same as the album version because some faggot nerd in Nashville isn’t mutilating it with some iMac app.
The above song, as well as many other songs on the album, are about Southern people. Listening, I wondered if he wrote most of these songs during the marriage and his wife wouldn’t let him record them. “Sorry honey, it’s time to sing a song about tranny bathroom rights!”
The songs about the divorce are not really what I would have liked to have heard. I would have appreciated some Slim Shady LP energy. He could write a John Prine style song about bringing his toddler daughter to dump the body of his wife he just murdered, explaining to the kid why he murdered her mother.
Remember when Eminem did that?
He put a photo of a body in a trunk on the cover.
Why was he allowed to do that and become a multimillionaire and I got banned from using banks and social media and .com websites for the rest of my life for a joke about a fat woman having a heart attack?
Eminem also rapped about raping his mother and killing all homosexuals. Also, about causing school shootings. And carrying around a blowup doll with a dildo attached and using it to anally rape women on the streets. That was just in one song.
What’s he doing these days, I wonder?
Huh.
Interesting.
I do wonder about this whole “banned from everything forever because of that joke you made about that dead woman.” I can’t put my finger on it, but it seems like something else is going on, as apparently, some people are actually allowed to make edgy jokes and it’s not really a big deal.
Anyway, Jason’s divorce songs are not full-pussy, but still pretty whiny. But there is one where he talks about how everyone treated him as the bad guy during the divorce, where he drops an f-bomb and lets a bit of anger out.
I’m going to post the full lyrics, because I know 70% of you hate this music but are interested in the concepts (while the other 30% hate the music and are just waiting for me to get back to the topic of my agenda to exterminate the Indian race):
Take your hand off my knee, take your foot off my neck
Why y’all examining me like I’m a murder suspect?
If I got a little loose, I just forgot to be afraid
But I started out a true believer, babeLot of dangerous memories, a lot of bars in this town
But oh, to have loved and lost and then still stuck around
But I heard God in the rhyme, I crawled out of the grave
And I guess I’m still a true believer, babeAll your girlfriends say I broke your fucking heart, and I don’t like it
There’s a letter on the nightstand I don’t think I’ll ever read
Well, I finally found a match, and you kept daring me to strike it
And now I have to let it burn to let it beI can’t remember my dreams, I guess it could be the meds
But the sound of you screaming won’t get out of my head
I still remember the fever ‘fore it started to fade
I really was a true believer, babeAll your girlfriends say I broke your fucking heart, and I don’t like it
There’s a letter on the nightstand I don’t think I’ll ever read
Well, I finally found a match, and you kept daring me to strike it
And now I have to let it burn to let it beLike the stain on your teeth, I’m as stubborn as wine
Just when you think that I’m beaten, I get up every time
So when we pass on the highway, I’ll smile and I’ll wave
And I’ll always be a true believer, babe
He’s describing a situation that virtually all men go through in a modern divorce: the woman has created a situation where all of “your friends” are really her friends, and then when she decides to dump you and take all your money and children from you, all those “friends” you had turn on you and claim you’re an abuser.
He also talks about God pulling him out of the wreck that the woman created, which is of course very good. He doesn’t appear to have started drinking again. Though I would wonder what kind of pills he’s taking that make him forget his dreams. Xanax does that to me, which is why I don’t take it very often. My dreams are very important to me. If it wasn’t for that, I would be scarfing up Xanax like Waffle House smothered and covered hash browns, because life is extremely stressful, particularly with all of these Indians trying to scam and spam me at every corner.
