Originally Posted by
WarriorLiberty
What i am getting from this CEO of this company in Springfield, OH, is that the person claims the following.
1.They don’t have a drug problem,They’ll stay at their machine
2.This CEO of a Company doesn't want to hire people who had experiences with this machine in the state instated they are hiring and picking Haitian migrants.
whenever i see company officials making claims that someone doesn't have a drug problem or what not.
They might have one while they have a job and arent on the streets with gangs...
Strange for a Metal Company to be hiring migrants instated of Americans.
https://x.com/RonFilipkowski/status/1833594196630114747
Reminds of one of the final scenes in
Camp of the Saints.
The setting is a meat packing plant, on the night that million Indian invaders beached their fleet on the French Rivera.
All of France is in an uproar as browns of every stripe rise up against the white ruling class.
The scene here is at a meat packing plant, where previously the owners had hailed immigrant workers over the native Frenchmen.
The first such crime was a model of the genre.
It was staged in Bicętre, in the slaughter room of a pork-packing plant, Charcuteries Olo by name.
The three Africans who worked there—stunner, hoister, and slaughterer, respectively—could go through an average of a hundred ninety pigs an hour, in two or three cut and dried moves, each one repeated a hundred ninety times. A grisly and gory job, and one that the regular help would have no part of.
Several hundred workers depended on these three men: the ones on the sausage line—stuffers, stringers, sorters—the ones on the tinned pâté line—packers and sealers—not to mention the various supervisory personnel, the wholesalers, the retailers, as well as an assortment of executives and stockholders.
Let one of these three indispensable killers suddenly have to take himself a pee, and the whole production would slow to a crawl. Such breaks, therefore, were quickly forbidden, in return for which the three were rewarded with a few extra francs per day—what the front office jokingly referred to as “bladder compensation.”
Now it happened that, just that night, the management, sensing the troubles to come, and the shortages sure to follow in their wake,
came to the conclusion that food would be trumps, and that the industry stood to make a killing if only huge stockpiles could be laid
away in time. And so, the order went out through the plant to step everything up.
It reached the slaughter room, moments after the end of the President’s speech, on the lips of the assistant production manager himself, with the promise that the bladder bonus would even be doubled.
“Sure ’nough boss,” one red-spattered black assured him, “we can sure ’nough do one more at least…”
The white man felt no more pain than any of the other pigs in the line.
Stunned, hoisted, slaughtered and hanging from his hook, between two blood drenched hogs, he started into production. As he moved along through each successive phase, growing less and less like man and more like pork, he caused a certain amount of interest, but no special disgust.
They had seen such things before, after all. At market, in the Congo. (Except, that is, for a few white women, who promptly took to their heels, or swooned dead away. As for the foremen, they just turned and ran. They had read the blank looks on the faces of their slaves, and had gotten the message.)
The Third World workers went on with their jobs, conscientious as could be, even unto the final labeling of the tins where the white man’s remains ended up as pâté.
Perhaps we even ate some of him ourselves.
As time went by and conditions grew worse, we tended to be a good deal less fussy...
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