Reason #100 for Why Russian Invasion is Necessary – A McDonald’s Case Study

Roy Batty
Daily Stormer
July 28, 2018

Please watch this video.

How does this make you feel?

If you don’t want to watch, let me tl;dr it for you.

A scantily-clad and irate Mexican/possibly Asian woman throws her food like a chimp at a super-sized sumo warrior who ain’t having none of dat.

An epic beatdown ensues, full of nudity, gore and a revenge arc to boot. “Don’t you be talkin’ bout my momma” the super-sized Saiyan bellows as he executes multiple powerful hammer-strikes to the skull of the puny mortal feeble thrashing around.

Now I know what you’re thinking… why is this international news?


Things turned nasty at a fast-food outlet in the US after a customer hurled a milkshake and metal serving tray at a restaurant worker.

Footage of the violent incident, which is believed to have been filmed at a McDonald’s branch in Las Vegas, begins in the middle of a verbal row between the customer and staff member.

It shows the server walking towards a shouting customer before the latter starts to throw things, including a milkshake. The female McDonald’s employee can then be seen to grab the screaming customer, aiming punches towards her face, and drags her over a table.

It is because the Russians have finally started listening to my advice.

Few know this, but last year, I met with Margarita Simonyan, the RT director over drinks at a trendy Moscow bar.

She was wearing a very tight fashionable black dress with a plunging low cut, covered in see-through mesh. A crucified Jesus was being crushed by the pleasant squeezing weight of her two massive middle-eastern milkers. Unlike traditional depictions of an agonized son of God, this Jesus seemed to have accepted this heavenly twist of fate – his face was serene and not contorted, as if, all things considered, being nestled between Margarita’s wonderful breasts for eternity was worth the three days on the cross.

I tore my eyes away from her rather intimidating cleavage, but not nearly quick enough. Her watchful sanpaku eyes caught mine on their way back up to hers and she smiled a ravishing smile that revealed a crooked line of pearl-white teeth flecked with yellow.

My heart skipped a beat and a bead of sweat formed on my brow.

The distinct smoker’s tell gets me excited, despite my best attempts at self-control. Who, I ask you, is strong enough to resist the allure of a woman that advertises to the world that she’s willing to risk her health and her looks for a brief rush of nicotine to the head? I can almost make out Jesus shaking his head at me from down in his heavenly valley, but I don’t have the nerve to take a peek at the rich scenery again.

I say something half-way clever and she throws her head to laugh, her raven-black hair cascading down her arched back as she does so.

I’m disappointed by her straight smile. I was hoping for snaggle teeth, because I have a thing for women with almost straight smiles, but a tooth jutting out ever-so-slightly. The hit to the self-confidence of the woman far outweighs any losses on the overall beauty scale.

I can’t help but notice the overwhelming wave of perfumed musk enveloping over me like chakra or chi. I realize that it is her powerful, almost overbearing perfume that is washing over me, pulling me under almost. It is typical of the fragrances that swarthier women choose and usually, I prefer the lighter, sweeter and fresher scents that young northern white girls choose, but I have to admit that the musky, ripe scent sends my imagination to the exotic dune-swept desert where Margarita waits on the top of a beautifully arched but stock-still wave made of sand. She’s reclining on her side, wearing the same dress, but with an exotic head covering and rubbing her thicc thighs together ever so slightly like a cricket about to start its mating song.

The bzzt I’m expecting comes from my phone though and I’m sent reeling back to reality.

The contact name says: “Stormfag 1488.” It’s Andrew Anglin, getting all up in my shit. “What up bro, how’s the meeting going?” It says.

I almost say, “oh crap” loud enough for everyone in the bar to hear. “What is it?” She asks me, concern written on the graceful smoke-carved lines around the edges of her lips.

I’ve been having such a good time, I forgot that I was here to talk business. “Uh…nothing,” I mumble out.

I take a sip of my fancy cocktail that smells like merlot, mangos and marshmallows. I specifically asked for the gayest drink that they had, and I am not disappointed by what they made me. Needless to say, it is the most delicious cocktail I’ve ever had.

“Worldstar Hip-hop,” I tell her.

She looks confused and seems to resent me bringing the matter back to business. She stops tracing the hemline of her short skirt with her long curved turquoise fingernail and cracks her knuckles instead.

“Oh yes, I suppose we can talk business,” she says.

I nod and slam my glass down. “Just start reporting on shit from Worldstar Hip-hop. Show the world these niggers and spics chimping out in McDonalds and Wallmart. Blast that shit on the front page of RT all day every day. There is no more powerful propaganda than just showing the reality of life in America and the Third World conditions it is barrelling towards.”

She nodded her head slowly, soaking in the plan.

“Ok,” she said after awhile. “I’ll talk to Big Papa about it.”

She was referring of course to Putin.

And just like that, the deal was sealed. I waited a whole year to see RT finally launch “Operation Chimpout.

I came up with that name.

Anyways, let’s just say that Margarita was so impressed by my presentation and my plan that we became best buds.

You ever have that?

Like, you start respecting a wahman and all of a sudden you can’t think of her sexually anymore?

Well, that didn’t happen this time, hah, got you.

We had a good time.

Anyways, expect RT to get more based in the near future as Operation Chimpout continues to unfold.