Hello again. C.H. Dalton here. How are you enjoying the Internet today? Good. I’m glad.

I am a man of science, but as many of my students know, I am also a man of passion. Specifically, a passion for the show Cash in the Attic on BBC America. Or, in a pinch, Antiques Roadshow. That’s why I spent all last weekend going through the back of my closet*, looking for hidden treasures.

Unfortunately, there wasn’t much to find: some clay pipes, my old Teddy Roosevelt Bear, a stack of Mad Magazines... At one point I thought I found a 1955 double-die penny, but it turns out it was just a regular penny.

The only interesting item I came across was a commemorative plate from the 1901 Pan-American Exposition, in Buffalo, New York. If you’ll remember, the Exposition was where President William McKinley was assassinated by the foreign-sounding anarchist, Leon Czolgosz (pronounced “Shol-gosh”).

Looking over this small, chipped plate—a relic of my great-great-grandmother, Sadie Dalton, who worked at the fair’s revolutionary “Women’s Pavilion”—I was reminded of two things. First: what a grand, cosmopolitan city is Buffalo. Surely, there could have been no finer spot for an exposition that brought together the entire western hemisphere. And second, what an insidious threat we face from foreigners.

Immigration from Mexico is a popular topic of debate these days, but lost in the shuffle seems to be the dangers from Eastern European immigrants coming to this country, or, as in Czolgosz’s case, being born here.

How many more Presidents must we lose before something is done about Eastern Europeans and their descendants coming to our shores, defiling our women, and assassinating our leaders? I’m willing to bet Lee Harvey Oswald and Sirhan Sirhan had some Eastern European blood in them. John Hinckley was probably Arab (they’re notoriously bad shots).

I’d like to suggest that we curtail immigration from the rest of mainland Europe, too. And Ireland. And Wales and Scotland. Basically, everywhere but England.

Southern England.

It’s just like former Atlanta Braves pitchman John Rocker said about New York: “It's the most hectic, nerve-racking city. Imagine having to take the 7 Train to the ballpark, looking like you're riding through Beirut next to some kid with purple hair, next to some queer with AIDS, right next to some dude who just got out of jail for the fourth time, right next to some 20-year-old mom with four kids. It's depressing.” Except replace all that stuff with something about Polacks.

Well, that’s all for this week. To make your voice heard on this important issue, be sure to write your local Congressman or City Councilmember, or really anyone you know. Letter-writing campaigns are all about volume. Good day.

*That’s “closet,” singular. I can only afford one on an academic’s salary. For the last fifteen years I’ve lived in a studio apartment situated above a tire shop and neighbored on either side by a kennel and a gay nightclub.

Hello again. C.H. Dalton here, with another one of my Dalton Award-winning missives on race and racism. This week, I’d like to discuss the Jews.

Not the friendly, nebbishy Jews you see on The Goldbergs, or the brave, homicidal Jews in Israel, who are doing their best to bring about End Days by reclaiming the Holy Land. Not even the grasping, Machiavellian Jews in the Emmanuel family.

No, I’m talking about the most important, powerful Jews of all: the Jews who run Broadway. Instead of “The Great White Way,” they should call it “The Great Olive-Skinned, Hook-Nosed Way,” if you know what I mean.

Rodgers. Hart. Hammerstein. Gershwin. Gershwin. Lloyd Webber. Tharp. As far as I know, all Jewish. Doesn’t that strike you as a little more than a coincidence?

Like all red-blooded Americans, I enjoy a good musical—or, if the mood takes me, Seussical—but it’s important to understand the machinations behind the magic, so you don’t fall prey to their Homo-Zionist agenda.

The Jews have held a stranglehold on musical theater since its very inception in Egyptian times; they came up with elaborate song and dance numbers to help allay the drudgery of building the pyramids. For example, the song “’S Wonderful” from Funny Face was originally sung by Hebrew brick makers working in the hot, North African sun. (Brick making is a historically gay profession, like interior design and sea warfare.) And Jazz hands were originally invented to intermittently shield their eyes from the sun.

So the next time you head to the theater, remember: the neon lights may be bright on Broadway, but they’re powered by the ceaseless greed of our Zionist oppressors. That $125 you paid for a loge seat at The Color Purple is going straight into their vampiric coffers.

Don’t let this stop you from attending the theater; just make sure to be on your guard against the Jewish propaganda hidden within each Broadway show.

That’s all for this week. Come back next Wednesday for another elucidative online message from me, C.H. Dalton. Good day.

Hello again. C.H. Dalton here. I’m sorry I can’t write more often than once a week, but in addition to my course load and my research schedule, I’m currently recuperating from measles, mumps, and rubella. It seems I shouldn’t have taken that particular vaccine quite so lightly.

But my houseboy, Lin-Manuel, has brought a laptop computer to my sickbed, and he is typing this for me as I go.

I hope you’ve been enjoying the online lectures I’ve been posting for your edification—viewing them is good for course credit in ethnography here at the Institute, and the feedback has been overwhelmingly positive. I’ve already received several offers to lecture on all-white cruise ships throughout the North Atlantic.

This week, I’d like to address what I see as a disturbing trend: same-sex miscegenation. Miscegenation has been a legally recognized fact of life in this country for tens of years (and God bless Alabama for holding out as long as it did), but it’s come to my attention that more and more young men and women are coupling with other members of the same sex who are members of different races.

Whether it be male “rice queens” who long for the power balance of a heterosexual relationship with a submissive woman, but find women sexually unattractive, or those nancy boys who like nothing more than to be dominated physically by a big, strong black man, homosexuals everywhere are dipping into the forbidden tide pool of interracial courtship.

They may call it “love,” but nothing is more abominable in the eyes of God than when a dreadlocked white lesbian scissors with her dreadlocked black lesbian life-partner on their coarse, hemp blankets. These sick, unnatural couples must be stopped before they pollute our children and our gene pool with their unholy union. Don’t ask how—they’ll find a way.

I encourage all my readers to lobby their congressmen to introduce a constitutional amendment banning interracial same-sex marriage. They have one in Indonesia, and the institution of gay marriage is stronger there than anywhere else in the world. (You can look it up on Conservapedia.)

That’s all for this week. May God bless you and keep you, and may He prevent you from giving in to your sinful, all-consuming desires. Good day.

Hello again. Welcome back to my regular series of missives on the topics of race and racism. According to my editor at Gotham, the book-buying public is a greedy, cannibalistic horde of mindless cockroaches, with attention spans to match, and they demand fresh content at regular intervals. So, here! Here you go! Here is more fresh meat for your gnashing, insatiable maws, you vampires!

Ahem.

This week, I’d like to address the problem of private education.

In public schools, children are taught a time-tested, state-mandated curriculum of Greek, Latin, public speaking, and gymnastics. For centuries this coursework has improved the mind and body, and equipped our young people to succeed as academics, pugilists, and brewer-patriots.

But now every schoolmarm with a freshly cut switch and a few new ideas about molding young minds has got it in her head that she can start a school that ignores those basic, federally approved tenets. I am speaking, of course, about the scourge of Montessori and her devilish minions. These schools teach children that “free exercise” and “sass talk” are perfectly acceptable methods of learning.

Well let me address something to all these Wall-less Schools and Private Bordellos of Pedagogy: cut your hair, you damned, Godless hippies. How dare you let the next generation of Americans skip and prance about like chimp-pansies on blacktop “playgrounds,” when they could be drilling their conjugations while splayed atop a good, old-fashioned pommel horse?

“Whee!” is no substitute for “hic, haec, hoc,” you Charlatans.

Of course, public schools may soon be no better, if we elect another busing-happy Jewblood like Lyndon Johnson.

That’s all for this week. Come back next week for another one of these bloodless, mercenary epistles. Perhaps some good shall come of them, though, as I shall soon have enough for a proper chrestomathy. Good day.