By Colby Malsbury
Ah, springtime. When a young man’s fancy turns to thoughts of….checking out what’s trending online early and often.
Which is no different than how he spends his time the other three seasons of the year, come to think of it. But hey, he might deign to crack a window open this time, and let some of the pervading stale musk out. So let’s give credit where it’s due.
So what exactly is burning up this Online that I’ve heard so much about these days? Why, a polymorphous mass of Newspeak conveying the message that whatever degenerate humanity decrees to be right in its own eyes must be the ironclad Truth, of course! What can I say? The days are getting warmer, and riot season is about to dawn in the urban areas. Nothing like a polite but firm affirmation of your own omnipotence to get your REEEEEEE’s cooing and the subsequent fires raging, all right.
It does seem, though, that this seasonal theme is particularly Luciferian this year. To wit:
Even before the snow was completely off the ground, those modern mendicants of the Mollochian methodology of John Dee – commonly known as ‘scientists’ – were heralding a wonder. Operating on the basis of the world being all the more richer the more Spielbergian it happens to be, they popped in their old bootleg cassettes of the Jurassic Park soundtrack album at a presser and announced to an awed mob that they had brought the much-missed (?) dire wolf back from extinction!!! Nothing to it, really. Just extract a DNA sample from a fossilized femur, implant the genetic goulash into an existing wolf egg, wait 3 hours and stir occasionally, run the mixture through a 3-D printer, and Bob’s your uncle! The result: a litter of adorable resurrected pups, ready to grace the cover of NatGeo or a re-issue of Edgar Winter’s Frankenstein album, as the case might be.
Wasn’t that enlightening??? Could alchemical reconstructions of woolly mammoths and stegosauri be far behind???
Well….no.
As it transpired, all that actually happened was that a minuscule percentage of dire wolf DNA was successfully grafted onto the existing genome of the common old grey wolf. The “triumphal” result couldn’t even be described as a hybrid. All we got was a litter of certified 100% grade-A grey wolf cubs, very slightly modified into albinos with especially annoying yips. One finds more anomalies in the natural breeding patterns of any grey wolf pack in the Arctic.
But no matter. The scientific community and their sub-Bill Nye popular spokespersons are still parroting their remarkable feat and wondering when the Nobel Committee will come calling. In the meanwhile, perhaps they could busy themselves duct taping bone fragments together and announcing their re-discovery of Piltdown Man.
Need I point out, as well, that these results could easily be construed to suggest that white is nothing that can’t be created in a test tube, and that any further characteristics embedded exclusively within the European races can be discounted as mere social constructs that don’t catch the eye in a still photograph like beige, yellow, brown, or black do? No wonder the Cryptocracy is still working fervently to close this particular sale.
And speaking of science: why rocket off to the planet Wakanda when you can put the planet Wakanda INTO a rocket???? Isn’t that multitasking or something? And are not women especially gifted in that regard?
Y’see, it was no longer sufficient to allow Netflix to finance inordinate amounts of thuddingly dull celluloid documenting the adventures of black women in the 50s who managed to not flunk out of physics and algebra to band together and invent NASA, thus stealing the thunder from that dastardly deviant Werner Von Braun. No, it was time for Jeff Bezos to establish his very own Appalling space program and send his wife and a gaggle of her insipid ethnic friends into orbit to prove that dey kin show Massuhs Armstrong and Aldrin a thing or two! Too bad Stanley Kubrick is no longer with us to script their landing on the dark side of the moon, but we can’t have everything.
And thus was born the Blue Origin mission. Hmmm….blue as in Democrat? Must be some more of that vaunted Cryptocratic riddling.
Anyway, Katy Perry and four B-listers launched into “space” – or at least a reasonable facsimile thereof, one that allowed them to bounce around like nitwits and take selfies of themselves, and never mind casting awed glances out the window for even a fracture of a second, let alone deign to pretend to be working any kind of controls or establishing any kind of connection with home base. Girl bosses work hard, and party harder, I guess. Then actually competent technicians on the ground brought them home, Jeff pretended to have trouble blowing the ejection bolts on the capsule door, and the chicks ran out giggling and kissing the ground. The end. Best episode of Josie and the Pussycats ever.
But never mind the lack of dignity and decorum. This was still a monumentally historic feat. The first-ever all female space launch!
Except…it isn’t.
That honor belongs to Russian cosmonaut Valentina Tereshkova in June 1963. An honor all the more notable as it was a solo effort. It was also a three-day jaunt, not a forty-five minute lark. Not much time to hold a slumber party out among the stars when you’re in that predicament. Granted, it’s no less of an odious display of feminist agitprop. But if one wants to properly virtue-signal, at least get some basic history right beforehand.
Well, science isn’t really a thing among girlbosses anyway. Their jam is more along the pathway of true crime. And boy, did the spring present a doozy of a case to unfold before their tastelessly mascaraed and false-lashed eyes!
George Floyd’s worthy successor Karmelo Anthony – whose name sounds like the title of an Italian ballad sung by Perry Como on Texaco Star Theater in 1954 and which name, furthermore, seems to be in deliberate reference to past NBA player Carmelo Anthony – did what any civilized Christian being would do when asked to leave a tent at a Texas track meet and went all Ginsu on the slavedriving Whitey teenager who dared to issue him commands. The result: one dead white youngster by the name of Austin Metcalf and one more surly Ebonic thrust into the national spotlight by communist influencers kvetching about the raw deal he got.
And Dindu’s defence has been positively breathtaking – continue acting indignant for the cameras and let his family and their appointed Soros action committees wield all the obfuscation cudgels on his behalf. Boy, that ought to inspire the faithful. Even Martin Luther King took pains to holler out a few hypocritical egalitarian platitudes while he was being rightfully hauled off to the holding cells of Birmingham.
And wield those cudgels with vigor his spin doctors are indeed doing – to the point that they refuse to concede that Metcalf could possibly have been the progeny of human parents, as indicated when Metcalf’s father was roughly escorted out of the audience of an indulgent Fred Goldman-style pity party arranged by the Anthony family to capitalize on their son’s conviction to the hilt. The neo-Pharisees who oversee the Wakandan cult cannot even tolerate the quiet, unassuming presence of a Peter in their midst as they conduct their own little star chamber. Sufficient for their son’s martyrdom is their own debased will thereof.
What else has been going down? Oh, yeah – the Jesuitical bishop of Rome went off to his eternal disreward. The ten years between 2015 and 2025 had many, many contenders for Top Wokie, but Francis the Talking Mule might have even bested Justin Trudeau in that contest. Who could possibly top his stellar posturing?
Well, we have a comer.
After initial reports that the Conclave was smitten with liberation theology-affirming Cardinal Luis Antonio Tagle of the Philippines – to the point that some news outlets were considering him the papal frontrunner right before the white smoke was vomited forth – the world gaped in wonder and varied “conservative” Catholic prelates pretended to be delighted when the decidedly omega-looking Cardinal Robert Prevost of Chicago (Obama’s kinda town!) appeared on the balcony pretending to be Pope Leo XIV.
The initial gut reaction from MAGA was a caterwauling of beer-soaked war whoops, as finally after like a gajillion years a MURIKAN was finally in charge of the forces of Antichrist! But after the initial kneejerk, a few of the more tech-savvy among them started doing some digging on X and discovered old tweets of his advocating for open borders and pleading for signatures on the ‘Catholic Climate Petition’ and the like, and that kind of killed the buzz. Not enough to completely stop the myriad of memes online showing Leo the Lyin’ eating deep dish pizza and reminiscing about duh Bearzzzzzssss, but hey, never let a good fad go to waste.
As it has been the custom for decades now for new popes to choose their names based on traits they wish to continue in their namesake predecessors, it would do Tradcats well to remember what Leo XIII is best remembered for – his 1891 encyclical Rerum novarum, a commentary on the West’s inevitable industrial permanence and the place of both worker and employer therein. While not explicitly revolutionary, generations of left-wing Catholic scholars have interpreted this work as opening the door to the acceptance of tenets of Catholic socialism, and mainstream religious historians for over the century have proclaimed it an overall progressive work, its middling objections regarding usury to the contrary. Given Prevost’s background, and given that Western industrialization is as dead as an Epstein witness, it stands to reason that he’ll be eager to bring forth an encyclical written on decidedly more Trotskyite, Frankfurt School grounds. Perhaps Rerum fabulousum, affirming the right of genderfluids to attain the priesthood provided that they remain celibate – which, in these times, means not having your phone off and not recording you while you’re doing what you do behind locked cloisters? Only time will tell.
It will make for good popcorn fare, observing him telling nascent nativist countries like Ireland and Italy that they must accept untold more numbers of Moors within their borders if they want the head honcho to consider them Christian, I have to admit.
(For an excellent take on the new pope, including an alternate reading of the significance of his connection to Leo XIII, see Michael Hoffman’s piece on his Substack here.)
In far less interesting news, there was a selection…uh, ‘election’ in Canada recently. Spoiler alert: it was bound to fail, and fail it did.
Conservative leader Pierre Poi’lie’vre, National Flameout‘s Man of the Year, blew one of the widest leads seen in recent electoral polling and handed the Liberals a fourth consecutive mandate under Mark Carney, onetime globalist golden child now relegated to the geopolitical wilderness after his stint as governor of the Bank of England didn’t generate a sufficient storehouse of shekels to send over to Ukraine or ‘Net Zero’ devotees in Somalia or wherever.
I’ll give him credit, though, for being very aptly named. In addition to indeed being a very devious and unsavory ‘carny’ who would rig any midway game you would care to partake in, his first name definitely suggests the Mark of Cain, and Carney’s vagabondage upon the earth – culminating in triad citizenships in Canada, the United Kingdom, and Ireland – is worthy of his spiritual forefather. No doubt he’ll be a great builder of Canadian cities as well, where everyone subsists on 100% digital pogey and no one will own anything, yet be happy.
Of course, what put him over the finish line was Trump’s persistent yammering about ‘the 51st state’ and “threats” of amalgamation, even though Canadian products are inherently dumb and unneeded, to hear him tell it. There is no better way to guarantee leftist nationalist sentiment at the polls up here than for an American president to pull a stunt like that, and Trump sealed the deal by making his preference for a Carney government as explicit as possible, saying he would prefer doing business with Marky Mark and his Funky Bunch.
Canadians being the most credulous people on earth, though, this didn’t stop them in their reinvigorated fervor for the much maligned Justin Trudeau’s party. They bought Carney’s ‘Captain Canada’ spiel hook, line, and sinker, and immediately began participating in the inane ‘Elbows Up’ economic nationalist campaign he instituted as a pathetic secular replacement for the muscular Christianity of old.
And once he was installed, how did he repay their efforts? Why, by trotting down to DC like a good little lapdog and nodding and smiling at everything Trump had to say about how things are gonna be, of course! Then he came home to plaudits from Canada’s state-run media talking about how statesmanlike he had been, and the movement to create a synchronized technocratic cyber-prison between both countries could get under way in earnest, as per Elon Musk’s and Peter Thiel’s wishes.
So thank you, Liberal voters, for your unbelievable perspicacity and political acumen! We couldn’t have made it without you. Especially we in the western provinces, where separatist sentiment is growing exponentially and justly.
And if all of these springtime developments weren’t worthy enough of hashtags, to top everything off the ongoing meme of ‘globalists blocking out the sun’ is ramping up again. Because naturally warming temperatures are the surest sign of the environmental eschaton there is, doncha know. It seems to be feeding off of a brief but intense bit of rumored fear porn that was making the rounds about how a mass blackout of the energy grid in Spain and Portugal was caused by a solar flare. Never you mind that even major media outlets are now conceding that the likely culprit was an overburdened and unsustainable renewable energy grid heedlessly embraced by Iberia back in the day – the germ of conjecture has now been planted, and you can bet that the likes of Bill Gates and the UK’s Keir Starmer will be running with it, just as soon as stratospheric filter financing from the Rothschilds comes through.
That’s just a short summary of the crazy we have witnessed in 2025 thus far. More to follow.
What ties all of these seemingly variegated strings together?
Nothing less than the oldest story of time: vestiges of fallen mankind willing themselves to be what they are fundamentally not – namely, objects of worship. Pretenders to Godhood. The serpent has never stopped whispering in the ear of the descendants of Eve about the glories of usurping Glory, but his task is rendered far, far easier in these times when he is able to possess mechanical internet servers. Lucifier is nothing if not hyper-efficient.
In such an environment, one can project one’s preferred candidate for inclusion in the governing structure of Elysium and have the nomination approved by default by the polyglot algorithm which oversees all. Resurrected prehistoric werewolves? Sounds good. An all-lesbian space shuttle crew? Right this way, ladies. A “good boy who dindu nothin”? There’s always room to be made for one or two more of those. A Midwestern transplant to South America draped in the finery of Antichrist? Do you even have to ask?
And all of these bear the imprint of their spiritual mentor Nimrod, one of history’s premier posturers. A mighty hunter upon the earth he might have been. A god-tier architect who fancied he could storm the gates of heaven in a protracted siege he was not, though his underlings sure thought otherwise.
They are especially smitten by Nimrod on account of his Cushite, and thus Hamite, ancestry. The trope of the powerful black lording it over all other races so that his own particular worldview might prevail did not originate in these postmodern times. Nor even in the virulently Marxist antebellum times, when lust for strange flesh was at just as much of a fever pitch.
What of the global ‘one speech’ that made such a misguided marvel possible in the first place? That would be the universal acceptance of atomization, on both the left and right wings of the Web of Babel, in furtherance of a perceived one-world nexus of power that a failing global elite still embraces as the furthest means to their domineering ends. It certainly doesn’t hurt that the language common to all social media users is an increasingly moronic pidgin style of English, in which phrases like LOL and WUT sum up the ironic achievements of post-Christian thought far more eloquently than I could ever hope to do.
And, till God sees fit to scramble their speech from one another – perhaps one of the aforementioned solar flares would be a most apt manifestation of divine judgment in this regard – we can only expect this trend to continue. Lots of hooters and hollerers on Mars Hill, but only one unknown God.
Now if you’ll excuse me, there’s a hot take on some Qatari airplane taken possession of by Trump that warrants my undivided attention….