I Believe in Hate Speech

Johnny Mongo here, and I'm laying it down straight—no filters, no bullshit, just the raw truth scraping against the bone like a dull knife on a whiskey bottle. I believe in hate speech, damn right I do, because without the sharp edge of real hate, love's just a limp handshake, a fake-ass smile in a world of con artists and cowards. You can't have one without the other; it's the duality of the human soul, the fire that forges the steel. True passion demands its opposite—hate isn't some demon to chain up in the basement; it's the honest roar that proves your love ain't just performative theater for the masses.I'd rather scroll through a feed bloated with venomous rants, raw and unbridled, than choke on the saccharine slop of enforced affection or the iron gag of speech codes that force you to whisper sweet nothings you don't mean. It's like being shoved into an arranged marriage, where the vows are scripted by bureaucrats and the bed's cold as a grave. You ain't loving out of fire in your gut; you're just surviving, ticking boxes for survival's sake. Give me the roughest, most scarred-up partner who burns with genuine fire over some polished trophy dangling on your arm for the cash and status. At least with the ugly truth, you know where you stand—feet planted in the mud, not slipping on the grease of lies.And who the hell scribbles these hate speech commandments anyway? The self-appointed guardians of morality, those ivory-tower leftists with their clipboards and agendas, preaching equality while sharpening blades for selective throats. Who do they aim at? The folks who built the foundations, the white masses caught in the crosshairs, just like how the streets flood certain neighborhoods with poison while others sip champagne unscathed. It's a rigged game, a double standard etched in digital stone: one set of rules for the favored, another for the rest, ensuring the scales tip against those who dare speak uncomfortable facts about heritage, intelligence, and the natural hierarchies that no amount of wishful thinking can erase.Look at the puppet masters pulling strings—outfits like the ADL, Color of Change, the SPLC—watchdogs turned attack dogs, sniffing out any whisper that challenges their narrative, making damn sure whites toe a line that's invisible for everyone else. This ain't just an American circus; it's a Western plague, spreading like rot through Europe. Take England, that crumbling empire of tea and denial: grooming gangs prey on young girls, packs of predators shielded by the cloak of cultural sensitivity. Forget the shattered lives of those English roses, abused and discarded; no, we can't offend the untouchables, can't call out the beasts for fear of ruffling feathers. What a steaming pile of horseshit, prioritizing fragile egos over broken bodies, all in the name of "tolerance" that's really just cowardice in a suit.So yeah, I stand tall for hate speech, because silence is the real killer, the thief that steals your voice and leaves you hollow. I hate the likes of Jonathan Greenblatt, Tim Wise, Don Lemon—not some petty grudge, but a deep, philosophical revulsion for their sanctimonious posturing, their phony righteousness draped over empty souls. They're the snake oil salesmen peddling division while claiming the high ground, hypocrites who twist words into weapons against truth-tellers. I want the world to hear it loud, unmuted, because it's the unvarnished reality: hate, when honest, clears the air like a storm, washing away the filth of forced harmony. Without it, we're all just actors in a bad play, mouthing lines we despise, living lives that ain't worth the breath.