Is "great replacement" theory a dogma, conspiracy, or actually a good theory that fits the observations?

Mowl BFF 👇



Yes, I saw the trial of the Buffalo shooter was currently in train and white supremacists were casting around for vindication.

Buffalo is Schumer's back yard. So, he has been pretty unequivocal (and highly vocal) about the ignorance, evil, and stupidity of the shooter's theory about things.

Great Replacement Theory | Buffalo killer's manifesto.

There is an important point to make here.

Realise that a theory selects and corrals a set of facts about reality, and excludes other facts that do not corroborate or add anything to the theory.

(In the case of theory become dogma it may additionally distort or twist these facts, and encompass devices to exclude inconvenient facts etc).

So we see in the Buffalo shooter's manifesto the setting out "the great replacement" theory, and which facts are emphasised under that theory, and which facts are left out.

(In fact we see the exact same theory as E Electricity's in this manifesto.)

Whereas, Schumer's theory about what constitutes reality is different. He emphasises different facts, such as that the economic system is a positive good for society, and to do what it does, it must continually grow.

But in the face of declining and ageing populations, to keep this economic system, this positive good, sustainable, you must draw on immigrants to sustain it, he emphasises that fact too.

And obviously Schumer does not differentiate between people or discriminate on the basis of race, skin colour, nationality, religion, ethnic or national origin, sexual orientation. That is also part of his theory, more of his emphasised facts, that this sort of discrimination and ideas like scientific racism, have been discarded by history.

So we have Schumer's theory up against Payton Gendron's and Electricity's theory. (So called "Great Replacement Theory".)

Therefore when Schumer advocates regularising the status of illegal immigrants towards making their economic system more resilient, he is not talking about the same thing as Payton Gendron, Electricity, and compadres are.

Now here's the thing. When Schumer suggests regularising the status of millions of illegal immigrants he is consciously acting in the frame of his own theory of things, he is not acting in the frame of there being "a grand elitist plan to replace white people and their culture".

(For example the furthest thing from his mind is the replacement of the great "white" game of chess with the great "black" games of Oware or Mancala, say.)

Now let's say you disagree with his idea, in practical terms, not just because you hold a certain ideology and dogma about "the great replacement".

What frame of reference should you engage in on the question? - Should you engage in terms of economic questions, and interests, and race to the bottom, dignity in work, or even in terms of advancing small, appropriate technologies, policies, and polities as a superior alternative to the mainstream ethos of "bigger is better"?

Or should you adopt the frame of Great replacement theory, set out in Payton Gendron's manifesto linked above and the posts of E Electricity spammed across various Irish fora?

Which frame is likely to lead to productive discussion, and which frame is likely to lead to ever increasing divisiveness and hardening resolve?

Which frame in fact is likely to lead down the road well summed up in the following:

"... masses of ordinary people chose to abdicate their individual critical faculties in favor of a politics based on faith, hope, hatred and sentimental collective self-regard for their own race and nation...

... the progressive, and almost total, moral collapse of an advanced industrial society at the heart of Europe, many of whose citizens abandoned the burden of thinking for themselves, in favor of what George Orwell described as the tom-tom beat of a latter-day tribalism. They put their faith in evil men promising a great leap into a heroic future..."


Mowl BFF 👇

You do realise that I never read/open/follow any of your links, Thicko?

Good man, do try to keep up.

Thick cunt.



Get a load of Jambo's "Great Replacement Theory" mates who bussed in to hijack the East Wall residents concerns, screaming at them that they're being "replaced".

Actually I think it's this guy more than any refugee who comes from "the heart of darkness" (like they used to describe the innermost regions of Africa, and a primitive way of living.)

This guy sounds like a deranged halfwit screaming his magical beliefs about great replacement dogma, on a par with any of the great superstitious primitive religions and juju and voodoo etc.

Reminds me of the superstitious beliefs around Nigerians who can change into cats - just here we have East Wall Residents are going to change into an Asylum seeker, presumably.



You'd need to keep an eye on those kids who turned into cats.

Val likes a cat sandwich of a cold evening.

As for your man shouting at the East Wall crowd about replacement?

Where do they find these cunts and why do they listen to them?

During the Celtic Tiger period, when I came home and went to work for some pretty cash-powerful clients, one told me that he couldn't get Irish staff to work in his bars/lounges restaurants/hotels because the general attitude among the Irish was that working in the service industry was beneath them because they came from a 'rich' country. So most of those jobs were taken by incoming migrants (the same migrants Ireland had no problem with during the glitzy tiger period) and many of them were, over time, eventually promoted into positions higher up the management chain.

The outcome of this factor was that after the tiger gasped its last, young Irish people found themselves being interviewed for these precious jobs by persons who spoke Irish-English as a second language. China, Asia, Latin America, Eastern Europe, Middle East, African nations, etc. This stuck in Paddy's craw finding himself either selected or denied by a migrant who wasn't even 'Irish' as such.

Paddy has nobody but himself to blame for this angle. He had choices. He chose to borrow and spend rather than work and save. This is a simple overview of how life and commerce was twenty years ago. In the period from 2002 through to say 2008 (when the tiger knew she dying but she kept flashing the cash) young Irish people were being given their work instructions and duties by persons from another country.

Go clean ze toilets, then take out ze trash.

Take you this packages, hop on your bikers, and deliver it to that man name.

You - stack those shelves with beans, those with greens, then take your coffee break out back later.

Paddy was seething with rage. Being bossed around by Gupta or Jamal? To clean the jacks? Moi? The fuck is this shit? What did I miss?

Well, you missed the bus, you thick fucker. You had all the chances in the world to get to work, to prove your worth, and to move up the chain and eventually become something more than just a toilet-scrubbing bot getting the boot from a lad from from bongobongo land.

You borrowed, you spent it all on trash, but in time the interest rates were crippling, the debt took any spare cash you had, you had to downsize, step down the ladder. You thought you were rich, you thought you had it made, you thought your country had finally emerged from some serious funk over the previous hundred years and now she was in her prime.

Me? I saw what was happening and left in and around the millennium to set up a solid base here while keeping another temporary one over in Dublin. From around 2003 onward I saw my payment rates skyrocket - because I had to ask for several times the usual fees otherwise I wouldn't be taken seriously. So I did exactly that, got paid, saved the lot, took it back here and only ever arrived in Ireland in hit and run mode. Fly in, get to work, never stop, do eighteen hours a day for three/four/five weeks depending on the season and its events. Pile the cash up (but never count it, that's bad juju - count the money when the contract is finally up) then transfer part of it via my bank and take the remainder in cash - but never over the €10,000 limit.

I kept it going until 2011, and amazingly enough, many of my clients were still expecting me to charge the same rates. So I did - just to be taken seriously. The next four years all saw the fees dwindle, and by 2014 the game was up. I flew in thinking this is the last of the good times. Wrong. The good times over. The bodies were lining the streets, tents everywhere. A zombie nation. Empty pubs. Empty steak restaurants. Pub landlords with long faces, apartment landlords with dollar signs in their eyes. Fucked. Up.

Dublin had changed, massively. So too the counties I worked in. I was talking to more Chinese staff than Irish. The owners and managers were still Paddy types but the floor staff were migrants. I knew the game was up and I went back to Helsinki deflated, I barely covered my costs and only made about enough to cover the next two/three months up here. So I shelved the company and told my main contractor I wasn't going to be available at the current fees. Handshake, thanks and goodbye.

But I could see the melting rage in some Irish staff members; they were being told what to do by someone not even born in Ireland, let alone have an Irish accent. This rubbed Paddy and Bridie up no end, they wanted these people out, now. Not tomorrow, now.

So consider my laughter at Paddy's own inability to see the wood for the trees? He walked himself into penury. He needed no crutch, no assistance, no advice - he knew how the game played out. Until he didn't, of course. By then, I had my mattresses stuffed with Celtic Tiger cash.

Because I never borrow, I work for my treats. I knew the price and I understood the value. This isn't some grand plan I made, after all: I'm from Ballyer. I just saw the situation for what it was at the time: built on sand, pie in the sky, Paddy and all his high hopes - crushed on the wheel because Paddy thought he was the dog's bollocks. That was the late nineties and I already saw my rental fees shoot up to levels still higher in 1997 than I pay today twenty-five years later in the happiest country in the world. With the best life quality anywhere in modern Europe.

You lot?

You allowed yourselves to be courted like a silly girl thinking she was in love. Now you have no knickers, you're carrying someone's baby, you have nowhere to hide, and you're looking for somebody to blame. Enter The Great Replacement Theory and watch as they spit and grovel in a rage. Watch as they grasp and cast about, blaming everyone else for their own mistakes. Trying to find a foothold but slipping further and further down the more they struggle. Oblivious to their own greed, avarice, desires, and thoughts/dreams of infinite wealth.

You are where you are now because this is what you caused on yourself, whether you know it or not. You're to blame because you had choices. Nobody shoved you into the hole you're in now, you dug that for yourself. Now you're being replaced by other people willing to do shitty work for shitty wages. In ten years from now, just like twenty-five years ago, they'll move up the ladder through diligence and discipline. And your kids will find themselves facing the same bullet to be bit, because you raised them to believe in foolish high hopes that'll never come true.

But the smart people? Like me? Who surfed it but never dived under?

I'm still laughing. I made my sacrifices four decades ago - pre-millennium. I built a bridge that cost me dearly at the time, but it served me well and saved me from the certain fate facing Ireland: she was completely out of her depth and running towards the cliff. Like lemmings, you and yours followed.

Look at you now?

Then look at me.

Then look at you?

Now look at me.



Nice on the ground insights, Mowl, thanks for that.

I regularly say similar in a more pedantic way, one of the most significant insights in economics way back when was "... La cause unique de la depression c'est la prosperite...”

In other words, it was precisely what we did during the celtic tiger that lead directly to the situation today.

But populism's appeal lies in always pointing at others, blaming them rather than looking to ourselves, always advocating ultimately some dystopian 'quick fix' like Jambo's send all immigrants "home",.

Rather than asking of our people that they understand the consequences of their past choices, understand the consequences of their democratic acquiescence, that they gain the maturity to understand economic realities such as lie in Clement Juglar's dictum above, and that they take responsibility for themselves, not always look to abandon the burden of thinking for themselves, instead hoping to sink their individuality into some coming messiah like charismatic populist "leader" who (falsely) promises them some future based on an idealised picture of the past.


... Go clean ze toilets, then take out ze trash...

And any bets it was the likes of Jambo back then had no problem with the situation, let the servant hold the tap and offer him a towel and aftershave, and grudgingly dropped a nice shiny 5 cents in the bowl afterwards for his trouble.

In fact it was the middle class so called "shitlibs" like the Slate gang, who saw the problem, highlighted it with scathing satire and contempt. Only later when the chickens came home to roost did Jambo and compadres pick up all that "Great Replacement Theory" and all the rest of it.


Paddy's only excuse is that he had a momentary lapse of reason. Because money. And even though he knew perfectly well that the economics of those days didn't work quite like some thought it did, he still refuses to take any responsibility for his choices. The banks made him do it. The societal pressure forced his hand because his neighbours all had shiny new cars on the driveway. Jimmy Choo's on their feet. Gucci handbags. The latest football strip for each of the kids. Dinner out three times a week. Winter breaks. A suntan. Decking out back for the new barbecue (with a roof ever it). Ugg boots for all. Four wheel drives for all. Designer knickers and boxers. Driving the kids to school dressed in pyjamas. Perfectly styled hair and shining fingernails for the ladies. Business macs for the lads, three cell phones and shoveling steak on the stone down their throats at lunchtime. Cocaine to beat the band.

But all parties end eventually, and many end up in a right mess. Paddy's mess includes a hefty bill: he's now €265Bn in the hole with a population of less than five million indigenous other Paddies. The bill's too big, someone ate more than their fair share, how do we divvie this one up?

Well, by bringing in cheap labour and and charging five star rates for no star accommodation. By having Gupta and Jamal scrub up after them, then blaming them for robbing the plastic cutlery. Now they want their servants booted out. Fuck off, we don't need you anymore, we don't even want you anymore. But could you just sweep up my kitchen for me before you leave? I'm used to the best of both worlds, you see.

Now Paddy hates his servant, and the servant hates his master too. So he keeps to himself; he doesn't want to integrate because he knows perfectly well that he isn't loved, needed, or cared for. He sticks to his own and tries to ignore the racism that's replaced the sneer he got used to when he first arrived. He thinks Paddy is a two-faced cunt and wants nothing to do with him now that the veneer has cracked. He'll employ his own people, Paddy won't do what he's told. Little conclaves of his own race begin to assemble here and there, they build churches to their gods, they pay heed to the days of obligation. They try to maintain a sense of who they are and where they came from, while Paddy is completely lost in all this cultural confusion. They grow stronger, their resolve grows stronger too and they're determined to rise above the racism by working their fingers to the bone to keep what they earned.

Paddy sees what he's earned and wants to take it back, he thinks it's his by right. It's in Ireland after all. Paddy sees his neighbour lose the five bed house and move home to the Mammy. The the family begins to fall apart and they turn on each other. Gupta's resolve only grows stronger, his determination not to lose what he built for himself forces his hand and sees him working eighteen hours a day all day every day to protect it.

Paddy and Bridie are walking down Grafton Street and they see the Gucci handbags in the windows and their neighbours in tents in the doorways. The ultimate irony of Paddy and Bridie getting it all wrong. Again. Every chance Paddy gets, he over-reaches and expects the same. But the money's all gone and there's nowhere to hide from the cold and biting rain. The future is bleak, just like the past.

Paddy knows there's nobody out there who can fix this, so he blames the state, the sitting government, the landlord, the shop owners, the binmen. Anybody but himself. He thinks that maybe voting them in one more time might see them help Paddy out of the hole. But politics is full of liars, just like banks. It means nothing to a sitting government minister if his brief ends up costing another few billion, because when you're already a quarter of a trillion in the hole, what's another billion or two? The next election will take away all that worry of he doesn't get returned. So now Paddy is looking at the extremes to see what possibilities there are.

Do Sinn Fein have the cop-on required to get us out of this mess? Fianna Fail put us into it, and they had Fine Gael in opposition, but they didn't do shit about it either. Those other fringe parties are full of hairy fuckers and posh lads in cheap sneakers. Can't trust them. So maybe Paddy starts listening to Mary-Lou and Peader about the numbers. Can they fix it? Well, as Mowl says: if they can't fix it then they can at least break it, fuck it up completely so that there's nothing left for the vultures to rip off the carcass.

Paddy can't believe he's been fucked over like this.

The IMF, the ECB, ze German banks, le French banks, even those fucking Brits again: they should never have given us access to all that 'free money' a few years back. They should have known that Paddy's just a savage in a blue collar. It's their fault. Not mine. Them and the immigants. They turk urr jabs. They killed our Gods. They won't even scrub our toilets these days because they have our kids doing that for them. Every time Paddy goes into the kiosk for a pack of Johnny Blues and a packet of crisps, some Paki lad is asking them 'King's or Tayroe's, Bra?' in an all-too familiar Dublin drawl with a heavy accent of Pakistani in there to wind him up.

They're all laughing at us, he thinks. These fucking bastards have to go, I can't take this shit anymore. If I have to, I'll kick them out myself, he thinks - after seven cans of Dutch Gold and not a drop of whiskey left in the cabinet. Even his coke is cut with cheap speed. It winds him up. Makes him tense, angry, flighty, ready for action. Any action, Even battering Irish coppers outside the local in Dublin 10. He hates his neighbours too, because although he has fuck all either, his garden's nice and clean because he tends to it every day, so Paddy throws his trash in and gives him the finger. He's turning on his own now. Everyone is suddenly his enemy. Even his own wife, who - if she a mind to after sick and tired of Paddy's drinking, turf him out into a hostel and have the state pay for the kids and the two-bed flat in Palmerstown or Lucan.

Now Paddy can't even afford a house in Ballyer, and the house his Ma lives in is worth around two fifty plus, just like it was around twenty years back, and unfortunately Mammy is in great health, years left in her. Paddy wonders what would happen to her if she was to fall down the stairs and break her neck? It'd be a godsend. Ah no, he thinks: that's over the line. Far too much. So he opens another can, rolls some more soap-bar hash, and does a line of coke speed to clear his head.

He's angry now, looking for someone to thump, so he heads down the pub thinking the wife is glad to see the back of him for a few hours, that he's doing HER a favour by going drinking. Then he comes home drunk after midnight, flops into a chair and eats his chips and battered sausage. The stink off him is rancid but he's oblivious to it, all that matters now is finding a way to have granny pushed off the bus.

So Gupta and Jamal know all too well that going down to the local is a big mistake in the current climate. So he has his over, a big happy dinner with traditional dancing and drinking and playing board games from home. Everyone in their best shirt and skirt. Paddy hears the noise and hammers on the wall. It goes on, so he pulls up his sweat-pants and goes to their front door:

'Turn that fucking wailing shit music down and fuck off back to whatever Mecca shithole country you came from, you and your fucking prayer mats'.

To which Gupta replies: 'I will when you turn down the Angelus at six every evening..'

Poor Paddy, he can't win.


Well, ain't this a shame? Looks like the Kool Aid has gone to some fool's heads.

Imagine being in conversation with THIS thick cunt?

CG&P is fast becoming a rat-pack member leader. Perhaps it's the A Team bullshit has gone to his head, but this isn't the CG&P I remember. The one I remember was clear-headed, honest, he stayed on point, had the ability to perceive beyond the shouting and roaring and then assess the details.

This populist bin-lid banging is a shame to see.

Very sad for you, CG&P - but when you find yourself in the trenches screaming your head off alongside scum like Clarke~Connolly, you can't expect to be taken seriously again. I'm mortified for you, man. I thought you were much better than this, but I guess I was wrong. You're flirting with Val fucking Martin, in public. You're a minion of Youngdan's too - in public. Jambo's claimed you as one of his foot soldiers and you've lined yourself up alongside him.

That's a fucking shame, but I suppose I was looking at things through rose-tinted glasses, eh.

Next step is you moderating Pish.

Think about that?

After all, if your behaviour over on Arsefield's is anything to go by, then you definitely aren't the man I thought you to be.

Members online

No members online now.
Top Bottom