Official Kiwi Farms Wh*toid-Hate Thread

Kill crackers. Behead whitey. Roundhouse kick a baizou into the concrete. Slam dunk a snow monkey baby into the trashcan. Crucify filthy yakubian apes. Defecate in a honkie's food. Launch charlies into the sun. Stir fry gweilos in a wok. Toss medigans into active volcanoes. Urinate into an arkie's gas tank. Judo throw ang mo into a wood chipper. Twist bule's heads off. Report gubbas to the IRS. Karate chop peckerwoods in half. Curb stomp pregnant pink pigs. Trap land thieves in quicksand. Crush bohunks in the trash compactor. Liquefy ofays in a vat of acid. Eat mangiacakes. Dissect gammons. Exterminate coonasses in the gas chamber. Stomp Okie skulls with steel toed boots. Cremate goras in the oven. Lobotomize farang khi noks. Mandatory abortions for bogtrotters. Grind miss ann fetuses in the garbage disposal. Drown wiggers in bacon grease. Vaporize haoles with a ray gun. Kick old kanos down the stairs. Feed fenians to alligators. Slice mayo monkeys with a katana.
 
  • Like
  • Winner
  • Feels
Reactions: dfsdsfdsadsa, HONKY DESTROYER, Not a bee and 6 others
how come they dont season they cars?
1696612877151.png
 
  • Thunk-Provoking
  • Horrifying
  • Agree
Reactions: gorgoroth7134, OneMillionRPM, Sayer of the N-Word and 4 others
I want to give everyone a reminder that white "people" are descended from cross-breeding between Neanderthals and Homo Sapiens Sapiens. Neanderthals were the inferior, less intelligent species of human.
Furthermore, white skin is inferior as it provides zero protection against the sun. Whites have neither the intellect of Asians nor the brute strength of Blacks. The only advantage is that whites can generally consume lactose, however, that's only because our ancestors were retarded enough to drink cow milk.
 
  • Thunk-Provoking
  • Like
Reactions: Pedophobe, dfsdsfdsadsa and Billy Bob Dick
Lidl Drip said:
When's the last time you changed your smoke alarms battery?
Click to expand...
The average white person spends at least two hours a week shopping for and replacing batteries in their smoke detectors at a year-end cost of over $1200 per household. These are the same people who look down on our Black and brown sisters and brothers for blowing every paycheck on Henny and weed.
 
Last edited:
  • Like
  • Informative
Reactions: Pedophobe and Francesco DeIIamorte
BLACK FUTURE: BOOK ONE
BY WHITNEY RYAN
​

Alex labored up the mountainside. His charcoal-black hunting cloak
flapped in the late afternoon breeze. His eyes were two slits, glaring
beneath the shadow of his hood. Through familiar trails he trudged, his legs
burning as the terrain steepened, carrying a pair of plump rabbits freshly
retrieved from his traps. Subsistence living must have been hard enough,
Alex thought, in the pre-war days. But to do it now, stripped of manhood,
bereft of testosterone, addled with government-issued hormones? It was
humiliating.
Such was life in New Africa.
Alex arrived at his log cabin, tucked away at the edge of a small
village. It overlooked a panorama of peaks: a stretch of glorious
mountainous terrain which, only ten years prior, had been part of the state
of Georgia. Those days seemed like a half-remembered dream: hazy,
idealized, unreal.
Alex stopped at the doorway and looked back over the winding trails
he’d climbed, over the mountains of his youth. It was a beautiful day. The
late summer’s air was warm and filled with golden sunshine. Broad-tailed
hawks lazily patrolled the sky. Alex hated beautiful days; they tempted him
into the seductive trap of hope. And ever since the revolution, Alex had
learned one thing with total certainty: a whiteboi must never, ever, ever dare
to hope.


He entered the cabin, placed the rabbits on the handmade kitchen
counter, and removed his cloak. Alex’s shoulder-length pink-and-blue wig
bounced, shiny and voluminous, as he pulled it off and placed it on its
mannequin’s head beside the hat rack. Many whitebois wore their wigs at
home, but not Alex. He was only legally required to wear it out of house,
and by god, he wouldn’t wear it a moment longer. He gladly exchanged the
humiliating, slutty wig for his natural, short dirty blonde hair when he
could. It was one of his small, personal rebellions.
Alex heard the drone of the television in the main room. He knew what
that meant: Cori and Tori had sneaked in again to watch television. Wearing
his government-issued skirt and stockings, Alex went into the main room to
see what the two troublemakers were doing.
“Where’s Kaylee? I brought dinner,” Alex said, trying his best to
sound gruff and manly, despite the hormones.
“Down in the village square,” Cori said, twirling the tresses of his
green wig, lounging on the old threadbare couch.
“She’s reading stories to the kids again,” Tori said, eyes glued to the
screen.
Cori and Tori were born male. They were only teenagers, and
consequently they barely remembered life before the revolution. Like all
whitebois in New Africa, they’d been placed on hormones immediately
following the cease-fire. They knew nothing of the world before. No John
Wayne, no cowboys and Indians, no white male heroes. They became
natural sissies, dressed the part, and though Alex tried his best, he couldn’t
awaken any rebellious masculine impulses within them. They, like many
others in the village, regarded Alex as a quixotic subversive: a dreamer with
delusions of grandeur.
“You two want to stay for supper? Kaylee’s cooking up her famous
rabbit stew,” Alex said.
“Ohmigod that sounds soooo good, Alexa,” Tori said, eyes still glued
to the ancient, pre-war flat-screen TV.
Alexa. Alex hated his government name. He shuddered at the sound of
it. But by now, he was far past correcting other whitebois when they used it.


It was the sort of trivial humiliation that chipped away his soul. His life was
full of these small indignities. Such is the cost of losing a race war.
“You’re amazing, Captain Soul,” came a pretty voice from the TV.
“Thank you for saving us from those whiteboi losers.”
“Anytime,” came a deep African baritone. “And now, I think there’s
somethin’ ya’ll bitches need to do for me.”
Alex looked up at the TV to see a black man on the screen — rippling,
musclebound, hulking, with a powerful and heroic jaw — surrounded by
two scantily clad blonde women. They wore sci-fi clothing in a futuristic
setting. Two whitebois in neon sissy wigs were hanging from a light post
behind them: lifeless and lynched by the brave ebony hero.
“What the fuck are you two watching?” Alex asked.
“Captain Soul Patrol,” Tori said. “Everybody loves Captain Soul
Patrol.”
There were only three channels. All state-run. All full of outright
propaganda or, worse, pulp action shows like Captain Soul Patrol. Alex
hated when the village teens came over and watched the filth. It all was
written, produced, and transmitted from Atlanta: the capital of New Africa.
“Hey Alexa,” Cori said. “Is it true there were, like, hundreds of
channels before the war?”
“Yes,” Alex said. “And that doesn’t even include the Internet. The
Internet had even more content than TV.”
“Must have been amazing,” Tori said.
Alex could hardly bear to look at the screen. It was total
demoralization. For god’s sake, families got together to watch these shows.
It was the only option. There was no escape. And whitebois like Tori and
Cori actually liked watching it?
“Fuck us with your master cock, big black daddy,” one of the blondes
said, bending her gorgeous, fat white ass over for Captain Soul.
“We want black babies,” the other said, tickling his balls.
“I’m finna nut up in dem guts!” Captain Soul said, wielding his 14-
inch glistening black cock. “Git dem white wombs ready. Ya’ll bout ta git
knocked up!”


The screen was two decades old: from the 2020s. But it still displayed
crystal clear picture in 4k quality. Tori and Cori’s eyes widened as they
watched the huge purple head of Captain Soul’s monster cock, smooth jazz
playing in the background, slipping into those wet pink pussy lips. The
camera showed every detail — with masterful prime-time production
quality — as the white women’s faces writhed in bliss. They screamed,
howled, and moaned for his cum. They wanted a black baby. They needed a
black baby. It was every white woman’s duty, after all: for the good of the
nation.
“Aw fuck, dat’s a tight-ass white pussy,” Captain Soul cried, his wide
African nostrils flaring with passion.
Alex couldn’t believe it had come to this. Whitebois were so desperate
to catch a glimpse of a real biological white women, they’d tune in to watch
a black hero save the day, defeat the evil whitebois, and impregnate their
women. It stood to reason; most whitebois hadn’t laid eyes on a white
woman in the flesh since the war.
“Enough of this,” Alex said. “You two go tell Kaylee I’ve got rabbits
for dinner.”
“Fine, whatever,” Tori said, standing up, checking his sissy makeup in
his compact mirror.
The two of them sashayed out the front door in their sissy skirts and
heels, colorful wigs bouncing. A high-pitched alarm sounded on Alex’s end
table: his daily reminder to take his E. Alex went to fetch his E pills from
the kitchen and returned to the main room, still transfixed by the
pornography. He unscrewed the cap of his E bottle with white knuckles,
brimming with rage as the black hero gave dripping creampies to the nubile
white blondes.
“I hope my baby has super dark skin. He’s gonna be a powerful
African warrior!” one of the blondes groaned, ropes of precious black seed
dripping from her pretty pink pussy.
“I’m naming mine Jamal. He’s going to fight in the New African
army!” the other groaned.
As the camera zoomed in on the beautiful black cock, shimmering
with the blondes’ frothy pussy cream, its head dripping master seed, Alex


turned the channel. The rage had overwhelmed him again. The all-
consuming furnace of envy and impotent anger burned in the pit of his
stomach.
Those blondes looked just like Kaylee, he thought. It terrified and
disgusted him. The one pure thing in his life, the oasis in a sea of cruel
domination, would never been subjected to this filth. They’d never find her.
Sweet Kaylee, meek and mild and un-defiled, would remain blissfully
ignorant, contented with the simple life in the mountain village. Alex may
not be able to marry her, but he could cling to his last tenuous thread of his
manhood: he could protect her.
“We got breaking news up in dis bitch,” a news bulletin flashed across
the screen as Alex flipped over to Channel One.
A dark-skinned black man wore an amalgam of traditional African and
urban street garb. The news anchors wore African dashikis, but also
elaborate hip-hop-inspired bling: huge diamond stud earrings, platinum
grills in their mouths, and 24-karat medallions on gold chains.
“Da High Council met in Atlanta today. Chief Darius X revealed plans
for two new breeding facilities in da capital district. After da summit, he
spoke to da media ’bout New Africa’s changin’ demographics.”
Chief Darius X, the leader of the New African government, stood at a
spotless chrome podium. A black power fist, the young country’s national
symbol, blinked with gaudy red, yellow, and green lights as Darius towered
above. Darius was enormous: 6’6”, a mountain of hulking muscle. He had
been a commander in the revolution, a national hero, and his powerful black
face bore a long diagonal scar from an old war wound. He wore an ornate
ceremonial robe, priceless jewelry, and a colorful tribal headdress.
“We have taken new measures to ensure a pure, undiluted black future
in New Africa,” Darius said in a rich, rumbling baritone.
The assembled black crowd cheered, hooted, and hollered. Their
voices were filled with rage and triumph.
“Our darkest purestrains are, at this very moment, breeding the white
female cattle in our facilities. And those offspring, when they come of age,
will in turn be given to the purestrains again. And again. And again, I say,
brothers! Until there is NO TRACE of white genetics in this sacred land!”


The crowd cheered in rapture. Despite the drugs and the programming
meant to dull his emotions, Alex’s heart seethed with rage. He couldn’t bear
to watch another second. He turned off the pre-war TV, his face red with
resentment, and choked down his estrogen dose: a pink pill with the letter E
printed in black on either side.
Like always, with a small swig of water, the E tasted bitter on the way
down.
 
You must log in or register to reply here.
Back