Let’s Hope Aryan Nations Goes To The Dogs

(Sung to the tune, “The Teddy Bear’s Picnic.”) If you drive out to the Idaho woods, you’d better be white as snow.

If you drive out to the Idaho woods, be careful where you go.

There’s crosses burning bright and hot, There’s Hitler heiling, guns are cocked.

Today’s the day the Aryan’s hold their haaate fest.

People today give swastikas such a bum rap, Jeff Dissell tells me, pointing to the Nazi symbol around his arm.

The red in the band, he explains with great reverence, actually represents the blood of Christ. White is for the Savior’s purity. And the black….

Stupid me. All this time I thought swastikas stood for that sawed-off paper hanger named Hitler and the systematic slaughter of 6 million Jews.

You know, I have to pinch myself sometimes to make sure what I’m seeing is really happening.

That sums up my day at the racists. I have the unholy feeling I’m surrounded by vampires and the sun is sinking fast.

Here I am, standing in the North Idaho woods with a melonhead who’s garbed like he’s ready to start the Fourth Reich: Shiny jackboots, a black German field cap, blue shirt, bright Aryan patches and, oh, those misunderstood swastikas.

How many snake eyes must the hand of fate roll before a person cashes in enough mental chips to join Richard Butler at his seedy white supremacist headquarters north of Hayden Lake? Butler says at least 100 of the faithful will be on hand for this weekend’s “Aryan World Congress” - aka Loserville. They have come to hear the speeches and to feel that singular glow that can come only from a flaming cross at night.

“This is Mecca,” states Jeremy, a 19-year-old skinhead who hails from Oklahoma (the Big Bang State).

Breaking with normal teen fashion, Jeremy sports the black-shirted Gestapo look once made popular by goons who hung der Fuhrer’s enemies on meat hooks.

Yes, the Butler compound is a goose-stepping vunderland populated by a vast cast of caricatures.

There’s the 16-year-old kid at the guard shack with a mutant four-pronged ice ax strapped to his waist. The last time anyone saw something that lethal it was sticking out of Leon Trotsky’s head.

REPORTER: “Er, what do you call that kind of a weapon?”

KID: “Oh, just some fun.”

Who says neo-Nazis don’t know how to party?

There are Hans und Fritz, Butler’s German shepherds who guard the property. It figures an old racist like Butler wouldn’t have any black Labs roaming the Aryan acreage.

There is the young woman in the black bonnet who assails the public school system for abandoning academics to teach American youth “how to cornrow hair and how to raise a homo in a homo world.”

There is the aptly named Gerald Gruidl (rhymes with strudel) who looks at us gawking race-traitor reporters and quips, “Now we know what the lions, tigers and monkeys feel like.”

I bet you do, Herr Gruidl. Especially der monkeys.

Only Col. Klink is missing from this menagerie.

At 78, Butler is facing the nacht music. He knows he soon must choose a successor to lead his Aryan warriors into the next century.

Will it be Gruidl? Or Louis Beam? Or John Miller?

And will these contenders wrestle over Butler’s power like snarling jackals after road kill?

For now, Butler isn’t saying who is man enough to fill his jackboots when he joins Adolf and Eva in that great bunker in the beyond.

Personally, I’m pulling for Hans und Fritz.

, DataTimes ILLUSTRATION: Color photo

The following fields overflowed: DATELINE = ARYAN NATIONS COMPOUND, NORTH IDAHO