It makes perfect sense if you think about it. What have the Slavic people done in Africa? Overthrow governments and install anti western dictatorships that spew anti colonial anti imperialist anti western pro Russian propaganda.
What have the Japanese done in Africa? Drink raw cow blood because some tribe told you they do that and you believed it?
https://youtu.be/d7i1TUsxkfM?t=22m40sThe East Asians have a culture much superior to Africans in the eyes of the west because they have adopted western ideology and ideals such as the technology known as the LGHDTV. Africans have no natural understanding of LGHDTV. We are trying to educate the people however here at white industries.
And people say Africans don’t have their own science. My race science is better than yours! White people evolved from cows and that’s why they can drink milk.
Adolf thought so.
@previous (B)
Fun fact: there were cross dressers in the German army during World War Two. It’s no wonder he liked Japanese traps.
who cares? if it were actually true then
@1,383,667 (NameForAttention)
> The East Asians have a culture much superior to Africans in the eyes of the west because they have adopted western ideology and ideals such as the technology known as the LGHDTV. Africans have no natural understanding of LGHDTV. We are trying to educate the people however here at white industries.
like ALl africans? regardless of the color or what have you?
@previous (D)
Are you insinuating that Peter Thiel is a homosexual?
The night was the kind of thick, restless night that makes you feel like you could spend a hundred years on the same page and still find something new. Berlin’s post‑war streets were a patchwork of cracked cobblestones and graffiti, the scent of burnt coffee, and the low hum of whispered deals. In the shadows of the ruins, where the walls had once stood proud and then fallen in the war’s roar, a different kind of economy had taken root—one that survived on the edges, on the margins that no official record acknowledged.
At the edge of that world was a place called the Kronen‑Wende (the Crown Turn), a dimly lit bar that looked older than the war itself. Its sign flickered between red and amber, a promise of warmth and the faint hope that someone’s business would close on their own terms. Inside, the walls were lined with cracked mirrors and a handful of cheap paintings that depicted women in an almost nostalgic, almost impossible array of dresses. In that place, the rules were written in the language of survival and longing.
One of the most regulars at the Kronen‑Wende was Hanna—a woman who had been born as a man, and who in the chaos after the war, found herself drifting across the thin line between gender and profession. She was 26, with a sharp jawline that had once been the mark of a boy, but whose face now softened under the heavy eyeliner she applied each day. Her hair was cut in a short, practical bob that framed a face that had learned to smile both for the men and for the people who looked at her differently. Hanna’s work was complicated by a particular kind of fetish that had spread among certain patrons of the city: cross‑dress. The fetish was not a simple one; it was layered with a mixture of curiosity, humiliation, and a strange sense of reverence. In a society where the war had left many men with broken bodies and fractured minds, there was a new kind of male psyche that sought to own a woman’s body, even if it was one of a man in a dress. It was a form of power, a kind of twisted intimacy that gave a brief moment of control in a world that felt like it was falling apart.
The stories of that night were not merely transactional. When Hanna slipped into a black silk dress that had been donated by a neighbor’s sister, it was a gesture that carried both a weight and a lightness. She felt the fabric against her skin, the way it slid over the hips she had once worn to protect herself from the cold. She had chosen the dress because it was simple—soft black, with a slight ruffle, a collar that made her feel like a queen and a servant all at once. The costume was not about transformation; it was about the feeling of being seen in an entirely new light.
The men who came to the Kronen‑Wende were a heterogeneous group. Some were wealthy businessmen who had returned from the war with more scars than they could admit, some were war‑orphaned veterans who had learned to find pleasure in the smallest comforts, and some were young men from the city’s underground who sought to experience the feeling of being both the master and the captive of a body that defied the strict binaries that society demanded. One evening, a man named Jürgen walked in. He was in his early thirties, and his eyes flickered with a desire that had nothing to do with the war’s brutality. He had always found a particular fascination in the way a woman’s body could be both fragile and strong. The more he looked at Hanna, the more he was aware of the way the dress clung to her, the way the black satin caught the dim light and seemed to hold a secret of its own. Her eyes were an ocean, and his hunger for the truth was the tide that brought him closer to her. Jürgen’s request was explicit, yet it had a tenderness that made Hanna pause. “I want to see you as a woman,” he whispered, “and I want you to let me touch you as if you were an object in a dream. I want to taste your perfume, your skin, and make you feel both proud and vulnerable.” Hanna, whose heart had always been split between the world she was born into and the one she had forged, listened to the plea and nodded. The night was thick with possibility. The way she answered was a careful mixture of courage and caution. She had a life to keep, a story to tell, and a desire to protect herself, but also a desire to let someone see her as she wanted to be seen.
She lifted her black dress and let it fall open like a curtain, revealing the delicate fabric of her skirt, a slight blush that grew from the inside out. Her chest rose and fell as she breathed, a quiet rhythm that made the room pulse. The bar, once again, seemed to inhale and exhale with her.
Jürgen’s hands,
trembling, touched the fabric of her dress, and then slipped through the thin layers of silk, feeling the warm curve of her body beneath. He ran his fingers along her collarbone, over the curve of her breast, and into the soft, unblemished skin of her arm. His breath hitched as she turned her face toward him, her eyes a silent invitation to a world where the rules were rewritten. What made that night special was the sense of humanity that lived in the shared space. The bar’s walls, the cracked mirror, and the faint smell of rain on concrete were the backdrop of a dance that was more than the act itself. It was about the exchange of vulnerability, about the acceptance of something that might otherwise be shunned. When Hanna turned her head, she looked at Jürgen’s face and saw a boy’s fear, but also an adult's longing to hold and to feel. She held his gaze, and in that moment, the world narrowed to a single connection.
After the night, as the first light of dawn began to creep over the city, Hanna slipped out of the dress, back into the world of the ordinary. Her eyes were no longer the same; they were richer, holding the weight of someone who had seen the darkness and chosen to hold a part of her heart in a place that no one else could touch. The world of post‑war Berlin was still full of danger, but it was also full of a strange, almost unearthly tenderness that came from those who dared to cross the line between self and other.
(Edited 59 seconds later.)