It is said that a conservative is a liberal who’s been mugged, but in its advanced stages, Passover Syndrome appears to be incurable. Witness the white activist who moved to Haiti and suffered an all-night brutal rooftop raping at the hands of one of her black “brothers,” only to blame it on “the white patriarchy,” members of whom were suspiciously absent during her assault. Or observe the eagerness to excuse a recent anti-white bloodbath by framing it within a context of unsubstantiated allegations that the gunman had endured racist jokes at work.
If a racial Doomsday ever comes in America, I doubt that the nonwhite marauders will ever draw fine distinctions between the “good” whites and the “bad” ones. I lived a half-block off Hollywood Boulevard during the 1992 L.A. riots, and I recall a member of rap group Boo-Yaa T.R.I.B.E. being quoted as saying that the rioters should quit looting South-Central L.A. and instead burn down Beverly Hills—home of the exact record executives who finance anti-white albums by ingrates such as Boo-Yaa T.R.I.B.E.
If a large-scale Day of Racial Reckoning ever comes, Passover Syndrome sufferers will find that when it comes to hating whites, nonwhites truly don’t discriminate. Rather than the sweet scent of compassion, those with the disorder emit the rancid smell of fear. If a real race war were ever to pop off in America, they’d be the first to perish.
The only mystery is which side would kill them first.