Aphrodisiac Dave!!! Nazi Babe Magnet

Not a joke: a new government-funded report claims I turn on ALL the right-wing ladies!

Remember in 2022 when Trump’s favorite Naziboi Darren Beattie said of me, “He’s just an ugly dumb guy?”

Well Trump’s own Justice Department just released a report claiming that I’m the female far-right’s most powerful aphrodisiac!

“Ugly dumb guy,” eh? Turns out, Darren, that your Eva Braun cosplay wife masturbates to me nightly.

I’m kidding of course. Beattie’s wife is known Kremlin agent Yulia Kirillova, because who else but a spy would marry an overweight lonely incel with government clearance?

Beattie didn’t marry a Chinese spy, because he already has enough chins.

But I digress.

On May 29th, a report was released funded by the National Institute of Justice, Office of Justice Programs, U.S. Department of Justice.

That sentence doesn’t have enough “Justice” in it. Let’s try it again:

On May 29th, a report was released by the National Institute of Justice, Office of Justice Programs, Justice Division, 3rd floor of the Justice Wing of Justice Towers, Justice League, U.S. Department of Justice.

That’s better.

The DOJ gave a grant to RTI, a nonprofit research firm in North Carolina (Gyook-Gyook County, Shitkicker Road at the Dang Dukes intersection, just two miles from Ol’ Clem’s trailer. No, not the nice one; the one he died in).

The report’s titled The Body in Extremist White Supremacism. Here’s the abstract:

This article advances the study of racial extremism by analyzing how its practices of violence and sexuality are marked on the bodies of participants in the form of scars, physical stances, abuse, tattoos, pregnancy, injury, strength and size, using an extraordinarily rich and extensive set of narratives collected from lengthy in‐person interviews with 47 former members of U.S. extremist white supremacist groups. The embodiment of racist violence is found to be important in making racial extremism a visceral aspect of the lives of its adherents. The embodiment of racist sexuality is found to be an iterative process of assessing one's sexuality and the value of one's sexual body to others, a process that serves as a portal to women's victimization while allowing some women to gain access and influence in a highly misogynistic world.

I see shirts of brown, boots of black,
Tie up that white bitch, carve your name on her back. 
And I think to myself, what a highly misogynistic world. 
Ohhhhhh yeeeeeaaaaaaaahhhh!

The authors of this study you paid for are:

Mehr Latif, Department of Conflict Resolution, Human Security & Global Governance, University of Massachusetts (not to be confused with her dull and mediocre brother Meh Latif).

Kathleen Blee, Department of Sociology, University of Pittsburgh.

Matthew DeMichele, RTI International.

Pete Simi, Department of Sociology, Chapman University.

And here’s where I come in. According to the “interviews with 47 former members of U.S. extremist white supremacist groups,” the dudes and their babes all agree on one thing: the best way to get your prospective “She Wolf of the SS” in the mood for some jackboot knockin’ is to blast ME screeching “WOODEN DOORTHS! THWIMMING POOL! THISTH DOOR OPENSTH IN!”

Thanks to you fucking assholes who won’t let my 1992 work die, I’m the sexy soul-man of Nazis.

Barry Whitepower.

From the report:

The reinforcing nature of misogyny and racism in extremist white supremacism is also evident in the use of sex to recruit new members. Multiple women described being pulled into the group through sexual relationships with men, as did one who recalled an immediate sexual attraction to a man, despite their age difference:

“So, I went to his house and he’s older than me. He was really very along the lines of Clint Eastwood; he was an older guy but super handsome. I ended up spending two or three days with him and hung out with him and we took the kids swimming, and I made him a lemon meringue pie and all this. He was—this is the guy for me. I mean it’s like we had everything in common.”

Sexual attraction, what she described as feeling they “had everything in common,” allowed her to quickly adopt a racist persona:

“I remember he showed me the famous David Cole video, you know, the David Cole Auschwitz video. I had never even considered the fact that the Holocaust wasn’t true… But he’s like, ‘there’s like a lot that’s been exaggerated about it,’ and I said, ‘Oh I didn’t really know that.’”

For this woman, the door into extremist white supremacism had been opened by her flirtatious encounters.

If I had the means, I swear I’d put that 1992 video online myself, but crawling with corrupted files. Stuxnet, for deniers. Had I even meanier means, I’d distribute thumbdrives containing the movie that explode like Hezbollah pagers.

I don’t think I can properly communicate, even as verbally skilled as I am, the hatred I hold for people who keep that 1992 “film” alive. Who refuse to listen when I tell them that it was a for-profit propaganda video I made because the Institute for Historical Review (then under the thumb of Willis Carto, with Scientologist Tom Marcellus as director) offered me $4,000 bucks.

Yes, I made a terrible error; I’ll never argue that point. But I swear to you, on my life, that I never thought the fucking thing would have legs. I mean that; may I get ass-cancer to the worst degree if I’m lying. Marcellus offered me $4,000 to use footage from my most recent Europe trip to make a VHS video the IHR could offer as a premium to new subscribers of their journal.

I half-assed the job to such an extent, it took four rough cuts until Marcellus was satisfied. He was furious at how little work I was putting into it. Haven’t you seen the fucking video? Everyone else has. Long shots of blank, black screens as I do narration, because I was too lazy to add titles or visuals. Stock photos pulled from Time-Life books. Pat, cliched conclusion (“and THATTHS why we mustht alwayths be THKEPTICAL of HITHTORY!”).

All I remember from “making” the video (scare-quotes because the “making” involved hooking my Hi8 camera to a VHS and editing between them like your pedo uncle Jim-Jon when he gets his vacation footage from Sea World ready for the family party by removing the closeups of boys’ trousers)? The early-morning calls from Marcellus yelling at me that the most recent cut I mailed him (no online file transfers, Zoomers; we had to use FedEx) sucked. “WE’RE PAYING YOU FOUR GRAND! By Xenu Himself and all that’s Thetan, you WILL deliver a salable product.”

And I’d groggily say to him, “Tom, just TELL me what you want me to say. Write me the words,” and he’d reply “No, YOU’RE the ‘boy genius.’ I’m not paying you so that I have to do work. You write it.”

What I ended up creating was a propaganda piece with no value as a history doc.

The lesson? The “what did we learn, Palmer?” moment?

Well, to start with deniers are the definition of the quote (misattributed to Mark Twain) “It's easier to fool people than to convince them that they’ve been fooled.” Deniers falsely see themselves as “truth detectors” immune to propaganda. Yet I propagandized them like a sumbitch and they won’t admit it. They’ve based their entire life on the “revelation” they received, the “rebirth” they experienced, upon seeing that video. It “opened their eyes,” “red-pilled them.” To admit, to accept that they were propagandized by a kid working for a Scientologist for four grand?

It’s literally like trying to tell a Catholic who saw Jesus’ face in a taco shell, “dude, those tacos come from Crispy Christ in El Sereno. They all have Jesus on ‘em.”

“No, it’s a MILAGRO! You cannot weaken my faith by sowing Satan’s doubts.”

I gifted generations of idiots a “milagro” by taking one true thing (the krema 1 crematorium building at the Auschwitz Main Camp was indeed remodeled/reconstructed after the war) and surrounding it with stale talking points that had no purpose beyond sowing denial for the IHR. I spread “Satan’s doubts” by taking one factual truth (krema 1 in its present state is inadmissible as evidence of gassings because it’s a postwar rebuild) and one ethical truth (the Auschwitz State Museum should have been up-front about this with tourists; making them think the room was “original state” was inexcusable) and using those two truths to make a video that catered to deniers while conveniently leaving out all evidence for mass exterminations.

That’s how propaganda works, Cletus. You always begin with a core of truth, something totally, 100% accurate. The load-bearing wall that supports the bullshit you construct around it.

But honestly, I was not trying to fool you, Cletus, or anyone else (JimBob, Cooter, Boog, Gator, grampa Bama, grandma Dirtcunny, or good old Cousin Cousinraper). I was just trying to give Comandante E-meter his final cut and be done with it while, admittedly, being enthralled by an exciting year in which it really did seem like “revisionists” had better arguments than they ended up having. You had Christopher Hitchens, John Sack, Arno Mayer, and John Toland boosting revisionist takes, while the anti-revisionists would refuse to debate, because Deborah Lipstadt told ‘em not to.

When I was on the Montel Williams Show I mindlessly repeated a David Irving talking point, because at the time I still trusted his judgment: “How can the Auschwitzth death toll be lowered by three million but the overall sixtth million doesthn’t go down?” and all the historian who was brought on the show to “debate” me would’ve had to say was “Western historians never bought the Soviet figure of four million at Auschwitz. It was never part of the calculations, not by Reitlinger, Bauer, or Hilberg. Can you name one prominent Western Holocaust history book that used the inflated Soviet figures?”

And I’d have had no choice but to sit there stammering like a fool, as I’d have had no answer.

But no. All the old fart on the Montel Show would say was, “I will not talk to these people or answer their claims.”

This handed me a victory that greatly and falsely increased my confidence.

No Internet, and no back-and-forths between the “experts” and young Cole. Hence why my time between coming into revisionism and exiting was two years. I had to find out a lot of stuff on my own.

I’ve long pointed out the irony that Lipstadt, the bully who insisted on “no debate,” ended up being forced to debate when Irving sued her for defamation in the UK. And her attorneys slaughtered Irving in court. Debate worked (anti-deniers understand that now). The fucked-up thing was that she only reversed herself on “no debate” to save her own ass from a potentially large court judgment. She made her reversal purely for self-interest, not historiography. Her 1992 “no debate” policy birthed “revisionism victorious” talk-show clips that deniers still pass around today. My youthful arrogance and ego did the same.

She made mistakes in 1992, I made mistakes in 1992.

You had to be there. It was a bizarre time and we should move past it.

But don’t tell that to Elon Musk, who often retweets those who archive my old videos and clips.

I’d love to force Elon to only build rockets with technology that was actively in use in 1992.

Oh wait, considering how his rockets explode, maybe he does.

When it comes to the Holocaust, Musk boosts deniers who forever live in 1992.

Here’s me being told “now that you’ve entered the chamber, you will never leave…for the rest of your life.” I don’t look pleased.

I hate to say this, as it will come off as arrogant, but I may be the greatest propagandist of our time.

Please allow me to qualify that claim.

What makes Night of the Living Dead the most successful movie ever?

It’s hard to gauge NOTLD’s worldwide box-office, because the film fell into public domain decades ago. But it remade horror movies as a genre, single-handedly birthed a new genre (the modern zombie film, generally considered the most popular genre of the last 50 years), created a hundred various billion-dollar franchises (Walking Dead, Resident Evil, the “Days Later” films, etc.), and likely made over a billion dollars itself, factoring in everyone who profited after it went public domain.

Avengers: Revenge of Emperor Fuckwad earned a billion dollars, but it cost $400 million to make. NOTLD only cost $114,000, yet it transformed the business. It’s as seen and enjoyed and culturally-relevant today as it was in 1968.

NOTLD stands out because of how little money went into making it. It was just some Pittsburgh locals shooting a film in an old farmhouse. George Romero, the director and co-writer, was talented but no genius (sorry). John Russo, the co-writer, is not even remotely talented. The actors were local amateurs (except for the leading man). These were “let’s put on a play in the barn” yinzers.

But it fucking worked. They created a legend, an icon, in spite of themselves. Had they not been such amateurs when it came to distribution deals and copyright protection, they’d have all become multi-millionaires. Because there’s not a streaming site on earth (from Tubi to Netflix to Amazon) that doesn’t have the movie available 24/7.

When I call myself “the greatest propagandist of our time” my point is, no propaganda film has ever cost so little or been put together in such haste and disinterest only to have a lifespan where, 33 years later, it’s posted hundreds of times a day on social media and retweeted by the world’s wealthiest man. Nazis use it to get laid. Bitchute, Odysee, and Rumble have a thousand uploads (when it shows up on YouTube I get it pulled, but Bitchute, Odysee, and Rumble don’t allow that).

Indeed, Musk has ensured that the video can’t be pulled from X. It has special privileges. I’ve been directly told that I cannot make a copyright claim against users who upload it. Other videos, sure. But not this one, not the one “Wooden Doors Musk” protects.

I had zero budget. Yes I was paid four grand, but only after I gave Marcellus his approved cut. Making the “film” was just me and my VHS on my living room floor. No cost at all.

No budget, no government support a la Goebbels and Ehrenburg. Yet the video has a life that cannot be taken. Not even by its maker. When Supersize Me was exposed as a fake, people stopped viewing it. But in my case, my homemade video-for-hire created a cult. A cult in which the identity of the members is based upon my video. Spreading it, sharing it like a Jehovah’s Witness pamphlet (literally, hundreds of deniers a day spam threads with it like they’re sharing “the good news of Jesus Christ”).

When Supersize Me was justifiably attacked for inaccuracies, vegans - a target audience - accepted that the film was flawed. Crazy as vegans can be, they had not built their entire lives around one movie.

But deniers see my video as an inerrant holy icon. Every time I try to speak reason to them, they tell me “you may have cucked, but you can never take away the video you gave us. It’s truth cannot be diminished!”

When Supersize Me’s Morgan Spurlock died in 2024, nobody mourned him. Nobody flooded YouTube or Twitter with memorials.

When I die, my cultists will see to it, with Elon’s help, that my propaganda video will be posted a million times, to a hundred millions views.

I know that’s coming, and I know there’s nothing I can do to stop it. My cult is comprised of the most stupid people on earth. My regular readers, like you, are wonderful. Your support and friendship keeps me going. But my denier cultists, the incurious masquerading as the curious, the closed-minded speaking with the affectation of the open? I truly wish I could kill them all.

No loss for mankind.

A net gain, indeed. Eugenics in action.

Defective minds, defective genes.

But as much as I hate them, I hate myself more for birthing them.

BTW, that fake Twain quote, “It's easier to fool people than to convince them that they’ve been fooled?” It’s a memer’s condensation of something Twain actually said. And the context of the genuine quote is fascinating, and appropriate to close this piece.

In his autobiography, Twain recounts how, as a boy of fifteen, he assisted a fraudulent “mesmerist,” a phony hypnotist who came to town with a traveling show. Twain willingly went along with the con, pretending to be a “random audience member,” play-acting at being hypnotized, faking “holy visions,” falsely claiming to be impervious to pain, as the paying suckers gawked and gasped and spent on the mesmerist’s “magic elixirs.”

At the time, in the moment, the forever-curious Twain was fascinated by the power of lies, the ease of tricking two hundred people a night. The gullibility of the crowd, the audacity of the con man.

But as the years progressed, Twain realized that he couldn’t disabuse his hometown locals of their belief that his “hypnotism” schtick had been real. Even Twain’s own mother couldn’t accept that her son made it all up. This affected Twain greatly. He thought he could fool everybody just for kicks, then years later be like “har-har, it was all a joke! I was faking the whole thing,” and the townspeople would be like “oh dang! And we fell for it! Jokes on us, Clemens, you little imp! You got us good.”

But no. Nobody accepted that he was faking, no matter how vehemently he copped to it. These poor simple folks had, in their minds, witnessed a miracle. Giving it up, admitting that they were conned, would take away the one special, “magical” thing they’d witnessed in their sad, meaningless lives.

Twain was guilt-ridden:

It is curious. When the magician's engagement closed there was but one person in the village who did not believe in mesmerism, and I was the one. All the others were converted, but I was to remain an implacable and unpersuadable disbeliever in mesmerism and hypnotism for close upon fifty years. The subject revolted me. Perhaps because it brought back to me a passage in my life which for pride's sake I wished to forget; though I thought — or persuaded myself I thought — I should never come across a "proof" which wasn't thin and cheap, and probably had a fraud like me behind it.

The truth is, I did not have to wait long to get tired of my triumphs. Not thirty days, I think. The glory which is built upon a lie soon becomes a most unpleasant incumbrance. No doubt for a while I enjoyed having my exploits told and retold and told again in my presence and wondered over and exclaimed about, but I quite distinctly remember that there presently came a time when the subject was wearisome and odious to me and I could not endure the disgusting discomfort of it. I am well aware that the world-glorified doer of a deed of great and real splendor has just my experience; I know that he deliciously enjoys hearing about it for three or four weeks, and that pretty soon after that he begins to dread the mention of it, and by and by wishes he had been with the damned before he ever thought of doing that deed; I remember how General Sherman used to rage and swear over "When we were Marching through Georgia," which was played at him and sung at him everywhere he went; still, I think I suffered a shade more than the legitimate hero does, he being privileged to soften his misery with the reflection that his glory was at any rate golden and reproachless in its origin, whereas I had no such privilege, there being no possible way to make mine respectable.

How easy it is to make people believe a lie, and how hard it is to undo that work again! Thirty-five years after those evil exploits of mine I visited my old mother, whom I had not seen for ten years; and being moved by what seemed to me a rather noble and perhaps heroic impulse, I thought I would humble myself and confess my ancient fault. It cost me a great effort to make up my mind; I dreaded the sorrow that would rise in her face, and the shame that would look out of her eyes; but after long and troubled reflection, the sacrifice seemed due and right, and I gathered my resolution together and made the confession.

To my astonishment there were no sentimentalities, no dramatics, no George Washington effects; she was not moved in the least degree; she simply did not believe me, and said so! I was not merely disappointed, I was nettled, to have my costly truthfulness flung out of the market in this placid and confident way when I was expecting to get a profit out of it. I asserted, and reasserted, with rising heat, my statement that every single thing I had done on those long-vanished nights was a lie and a swindle; and when she shook her head tranquilly and said she knew better, I put up my hand and swore to it--adding a triumphant "Now what do you say?"

It did not affect her at all; it did not budge her the fraction of an inch from her position. If this was hard for me to endure, it did not begin with the blister she put upon the raw when she began to put my sworn oath out of court with arguments to prove that I was under a delusion and did not know what I was talking about. Arguments! Arguments to show that a person on a man's outside can know better what is on his inside than he does himself! I had cherished some contempt for arguments before, I have not enlarged my respect for them since. She refused to believe that I had invented my visions myself; she said it was folly: that I was only a child at the time and could not have done it.

I realised, with shame and with impotent vexation, that I was defeated all along the line.

And so the lie which I played upon her in my youth remained with her as an unchallengeable truth to the day of her death.

Carlyle said "a lie cannot live."

It shows that he did not know how to tell them.

In some ways Twain’s experience is exactly analogous to mine. People telling you that they know your mind better than you do. I can tell deniers “no, I was not ‘threatened’ into changing my mind. My family was not ‘threatened.’ I’ve explained my exit from ‘revisionism’ for 31 years, always citing the historical evidence behind my choice.”

But no; they know my life better than I.

Last year one high-profile Musk-boosted denier on X posted that “the Jews” had so bullied me that when my mom died, “the Zionists” prevented her burial on the Mount of Olives.

My mom, as secular a Jew as ever lived, had never set one foot in Israel her entire 85-year life, nor had she ever wished to. Also, she found the idea of graves and coffins ridiculous; a lifetime member of the Neptune Society, her wish, expressed in our family trust and her will, was to be cremated.

I have her fucking ashes in an urn.

So I asked the denier, “what evidence do you have that my mom ever wanted to be buried on the Mount of Olives?”

His reply? “What evidence do YOU have she didn’t?”

Well, knowing her every day of my life, being a devoted and loving son, her caregiver, her voice when she became ill.

“Sorry,” the denier replied, “but I think she was denied burial on the Mount of Olives, and you can’t prove me wrong. Show me video of her explicitly stating ‘I do not want to be buried on the Mount of Olives.’ Otherwise, your opinion is of no greater value than mine.”

I asked him, “do you even know her name?”

“Makes no difference; you’re not presenting me with any physical evidence! Nothing to elevate your claim over mine” he replied with the denier’s smugness for using affectations to invert an argument. The 1992 denier affectation of “we demand physical evidence!” has been inverted to actually dismiss the very notion of evidence itself. Because it was always just about questioning and challenging as a tactic; it was never about “evidence.”

See why I hate these people?

Still, I played to them. For two years in my early 20s I boosted, and in many cases created, the affectations, the cliches. Deniers study my 1992 work to such an extent, many of them have actually come to speak like me.

Well, if it helps ‘em get laid…

Still, Twain’s story isn’t entirely analogous to mine. Twain outright lied for applause and attention, then regretted that he’d been too convincing.

You can believe me or not, but during my “revisionism” journey of 1992-1994, I was not purposely lying. I was in error on many matters. Though not all; there’s not a fraudulent Cold War-era Holocaust camp museum exhibit I challenged that’s not been fixed. I won those small but not insignificant fights but lost the bigger battles because I mistook the small but not insignificant fights for the bigger battles.

And that’s on me.

But there was no “plan” for my Auschwitz video. No dastardly scheme. Just me wanting four grand and capitulating to a Scientologist twice my age because I justified it (wrongly) as “fuck it; nobody’ll ever see this piece-of-shit video again.”

And I can’t deny that in my youthful arrogance I got lost in the moment, carried away to such an extent that I abandoned discernment. Still, I got in in 1992 and got out, publicly admitting my errors, in 1994. As I stated in a previous post, I don’t think it’s that horrific for a 21-year-old kid to get involved in something, have a few victories, make a bunch of mistakes, and two years later get out and renounce the whole shebang.

I’m about to turn 57, but those two years of my life will forever define me.

So yeah, I hate those fucks. The “fans” and foes alike who think I only existed from 1992-1994.

Twain waited 35 years to try to undo the damage he did to the people of his town.

I tried to undo my wrongs the moment I realized them, in late summer 1994.

That’s gotta count for something, right?

No. Not to you.

To you, I was either infallible in 1992 and “the Jews” made me “cuck,” or I was a “Nazi liar” purposely trying to bring about the next Holocaust.

The notion that I was a kid trying and sometimes failing doesn’t even cross your mind.

I don’t hate all of you; a small handful of you are great and decent people.

A small handful.

The rest? What I’d like to do to them?

For propriety’s sake, let’s end this column here.

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