March 21, 2016
The so-called “casting couch,” where predatory Jews sexually defile White women while promising to make them “big stars,” has been a well-known staple of the Jew-ridden cesspit known as Hollywood virtually since its inception.
This includes pedophilia, which is so rampant in Hollywood today it is considered “An Open Secret” that all child stars – including boys – are molested by these sickening Jews.
Beloved child star Shirley Temple is no exception (except thankfully she made it out relatively unharmed). She writes in her book Child Star: An Autobiography of multiple incidents in which Jews tried to rape or force sex on her.
When she was only 11 years old, her and her mother went to MGM Studios to discuss the possibility of having Shirley star as Dorothy in The Wizard of Oz. Left alone with the Jewish producer, Arthur Freed, he immediately whipped his schlong out:
“I have something made for just you,” he continued, fumbling in his lap. “You’ll be my new star!” That phrase had last been used when I was three years old in Kid in Hollywood.
Obviously, Freed did not believe in preliminaries. With his face gaped in a smile, he stood up abruptly and executed a bizarre flourish of clothing. Having thought of him as a producer rather than exhibitor, I sat bolt upright. Guarded personal exposure by both brothers and Father had maintained me in relatively pristine innocence. Not twelve years old, I still had little appreciation for masculine versatility and so dramatic was the leap between schoolgirl speculation and Freed’s bedazzling exposure that I reacted with nervous laughter.
Disdain or terror he might have expected, but not the insult of humor.
“Get out!” he shouted, unmindful of his disarray, imperiously pointing to the closed door. “Go on, get out!”
At the same time, her mother was getting a similar treatment from Jewish MGM Studios head Louis B. Mayer in the other room:
Mother and I were en route home before I spilled my executive-suite saga. Expecting her to be startled or angry on my behalf, I was surprised when she had her own tale to tell. Not only had Freed cut a figure, so had Mayer.
Ushering Mother to an overstuffed couch, Mayer returned behind his desk and mounted a long-legged chair, a vanity which gave him increased stature while seated. Wiping his eyeglasses on a silk handkerchief, he recounted how admiringly he regarded her. Every child should be so lucky to have such a mother, he purred, a real mother, yet someone sexy and refined. Usually solemn, his eyes glinted. Surely she could recognize real sincerity when she saw it. Never forget, he continued, at MGM we are a family. We take care of our own.
Slipping down off his chair, he approached the sofa and sank down beside her, uttering a contented sigh.
Surely she was the most unique mother in the world, he said. Someone who should be a star in her own right. He grasped her hand, pulling her toward him.
Mayer’s opinion of his personal prowess was rumored to be overblown, but not the power of his office. Reluctant to test either, Mother picked up her purse and retreated out the door, walking backwards.
Shirley Temple, fortunately enough, did not star in Wizard of Oz, and thus got away from these rotten kikes. Judy Garland, on the other hand, was not so lucky: she was reportedly abused and molested relentlessly by Mayer during filming, ruining her entire life.
There is very good reason we kept people who look like this locked into ghettos for hundreds of years.
When she was 15 she met with Jewish producer David O. Selznick of Gone With the Wind fame to try out for the role of Bridget “Brig” Hilton in his movie Since you Went Away:
“Please sit there, Shirley,” he said, his mouth held in a wide smile, lips parted. Doing as instructed, I watched as his eyes moved over me slowly, from hair to feet and back again.
“Let me move to see you.” He got up, and crouched down behind a potted palm. Adjusting his glasses, he peered out through the fronds. Moving slightly right, then left, for several minutes he continued this silent, furtive inspection.
Realizing he was engaged in some peculiar visual test, I remained motionless, letting him do the moving. After what seemed an eternity, he came around from behind the palm.
“You’ll do. You’re Brig.”
A bit creepy, no?
Shortly after that, Selznick’s artistic director, Anita Colby, advised Shirley to be careful if she “found him in stockings,” causing her to “[gather] the impression that casual sex could be a condition of employment” with Selznick.
Later, while in his office,
pulling up a high-back leather chair, he talked aimlessly about movies, and then marriage. Tipping back, he eased his shoes off and rested both feet on his desktop. In a flash I recalled Anita Colby’s early warning: beware of stocking feet!
Her prophecy wasted little time coming true.
“Circling first left, then right, around a chair,” Shirley escaped the perverted Jew – for the time being.
He would soon call her back to his office and try again, even more aggressively:
Coming around my side of the desk . . . he reached and took my hand in his. Glancing down, I saw the telltale stocking feet.
Pulling free, I turned for the door, but even more quickly he reached back over the edge of his desk and flicked a switch I had learned from Colby was a remote door-locking device. I was trapped.
Like the cartoon of wolf and piglet, once again we circled and reversed directions around his furniture. Blessed with the agility of a young dancer and confronted by an amorous but overweight producer, I had little difficulty avoiding passionate clumsiness.
“It’s just the grease that oils Hollywood’s wheels,” he laughed, feinting ineffectively.
Run Shirley, run!!
On another occasion, Shirley had a run-in on a train with the producer of the movie Mr. Belvedere Goes to College, whom she identifies only as “the Wizard” (hint: the producer of that movie was the Jew Samuel G. Engel):
Hardly the mogul he aspired to be or sometimes chose to pose, Wizard shoveled compliments in my direction, covering everything from appealing looks to yet-unrealized dramatic potential. Toward midnight the group thinned out and he offered to walk me to my own compartment. Only two ways to go on this train, he laughed, and I’m going yours.
As I turned in my opened doorway to say good night, he roughly shoved me back inside and slammed the door shut. In one hulking maneuver he toppled me onto the bunk previously made up by the car porter. The swiftness of his attack shocked me from my head to my high-heeled pumps, one of which fell off. his breath was heavy with a sickly aroma of whiskey, and with his free hand he was fumbling at his clothing.
Good God! I thought. I’m going to be raped!
After phoning her agent to demand the Wizard be “called off” or she would “quit the picture,” the Jew showed up at her hotel door with a bouquet of roses and began rationalizing his rapey behavior:
“Look, I’m going to be a big executive,” he said. “We’re going to have to get along.” He held up both palms in a gesture of inevitability. “What I had in mind was just a workplace formality.”
“It may be in your contract, but not mine.”
“Sex is like a glass of water,” he went on, using the clinical tones of a doctor diagnosing an affliction. “You get thirsty, you drink. You want sex, you have it.”
After avoiding the Wizard as best as possible on set, when the film wrapped, her and her husband Jack went to the Wizard’s house to have dinner with him and his wife:
After dinner, as we prepared to depart, I went upstairs alone to retrieve my coat from his wife’s bedroom. The Wizard followed, stepping softly. Just as I was lifting my wrap from her bed, he suddenly seized me from behind. With a quick twist, he spun me around and backwards on top of the piled fur coats.
For a second time I found myself an unwilling entry in a wrestling match. Exasperating and abusive though it was to me, his actions disgraced his charming wife, only steps away with her guests, and was a gross effrontery to my husband. Yelling “Murder” would have further inflamed a dangerous situation. Pushing up on his chin with both hands, I flexed a knee and struck with all my might, a blow which proved that microsecond lust can be switched off as quickly as on.
A short time later, famous Jew actor, singer/songwriter and movie producer George Jessel asked her to his office to “discuss a key role” in his upcoming film.
He wasted no time in revealing what he really wanted from her:
We were standing a pace apart, eyeball to eyeball. In one swift movement he opened his trousers and, with a sudden reach, encircled me with one arm, his face, droopy and baggy-eyed, looming directly into mine. I could feel his other hand groping to lift my shirt. Hard on the heels of the Wizard, this new assault seemed unreal, but little could I do but thrust my right knee upward into his groin. A blow enthusiastically pointed for his chin, it effectively knocked us apart. Pain, disgust, and hate flickered across his face, but I felt no mercy. More and more the adult movie business seemed populated with a bunch of copulating tomcats.
Jews = bad news.
The bottom line of all this is: don’t ever allow your women and children around Jews and God forbid, don’t allow Jews to take control of your media.
In fact, don’t even allow Jews in your country, period.
This just seems like basic common sense.