Gravity is an undeniably powerful thing. Jumping off a cliff and telling gravity “no” will result in a very persuasive and quite messy “yes”. This is what we’ll call an “Earthen God”. Ideas, memes, and information more broadly are also gods, though of a lower order undeniably but of a higher order of conscious influence. You can tell an idea “no” and the idea will say, well it’ll say nothing because ideas don’t talk—but some humanoid parrot may squawk “yes” as it, I’m sorry, they are possessed sycophants and simpletons. We will call this type “Epistima”, “gods of the mind”, “meme”, or whatever dictation is the most memorable to our hopefully bare footed reader. These two examples exemplify what I seek to accomplish here: A description of modern gods. The proposed pantheon is not prescriptive nor an attempt at persuasion. This does not concern morality or an evocation of poetic resonance.  But my gods do I spit.  

Part I A Dog Drags You Into A Thunderstorm:

We shall now embark to commit heresies as we, my dearest nieces and nephews, thumb through the gods. God may not be in the wind, earthquake, or fire but they are in the lightning. They’ve always dwelt in the lightning. They have always existed and will always exist as lighting does: as heavens within the clouds, as positive and negative, as the devastation of earth and vital to the technologies of man, and so on. Said allegorically, one who denies the gods is the one who watches the thunderstorm from afar, holds up their metallic rod and in their safe arrogance proclaims, “The gods have no power here.” Today I’ll bite at your socks and drag you by the ankles into the storm. My barking will be crass and unintelligible but regardless of my animalistic limitations,  you’ll know precisely what I’m trying to convey, “Try that again, mortal.” Granted however, our modern world is much too loud to hear their rumblings. Yet they scream. They control us. Brothers, others, and sisters, is it not known that manipulation is done most effectively in the dark behind closed doors without a word being heard outside? 

But children of the Epistima, my ears bleed. 

Clasp my hands on them,

Forcibly shut my eyes, 

Yet I hear them, 

I see them, 

The gates of hell surround you, 

Yet you cannot see them.

The Gates of Heaven, Eden, Hell.

All dwell in the hearts of man.

In their intentions,

On their screens,

In their own unseen blood.

But Lightning, now energy made capital, still carries the old gods and the new. Power lines carry our secrets, wifi sustains our appetites, surely my friends, does not the G in 5G must stand for god? Appropriately a capital G for the corresponding gods it maintains are beneath it, of it, less powerful without it. Unworthy of its jealousy. According to every useful metric it should, everything it controls, every single god damned thing it engenders, the answer is most assuredly yes it is god, though we ought to keep it lowercase. Lest we tell on ourselves, our oh so obvious secret, that modern man may yet still rely on the gods in a world where we claim them dead. They live. I tell you, they live.

Yahweh remains a jealous god. Electricity being in everything, for everything, and the very substance from which all other modern gods of any memetic merit persist. The gods were once among this or that people, imbued in this or that totem, thundering atop this or that mountain—now everything is computer—everything is COMPUTER—EVERYTHING IS COMPUTER. 

Strike not the hearts of men, 

oh genie of more wishes, 

lightning in a bottle of common rarity.

Grant me access to your power,

as I grant you access to my attention.  

Part II The Proposed Pantheon:

In this next part we meet the modern gods but oh spineless winter child, you already know them. 

Implicit Authority // The Prevailing Institution // THE ESTABLISHMENT:

A dwindling force among the current iterations of god, the supposed “Establishment” is one of dominion in some primordial sense but more applicable that of protection from the threat of violence. Fake and Gay Politique. It’s dwindling in the case of the institution, the legitimate system, yet the establishment persists through the intellectualized vehicle of a protection from feared chaos or the drastic consequences of its absence. The necessity of this necessary evil finds itself under more and more scrutiny. It may be a perpetual force perhaps, even unkillable unless all out annihilated in the case of all out genocides, Mad Maxxification, and realized “dystopias”—as if any future can avoid being bad, abnormal, or difficult. “Dys the only topia we got.” Look to those whose rebellion the opposing authority does not recognize or does not see as present or potent in the case of private property or the sharing of lands. Those distant pink house utopias are sought after especially when their very existence is in jeopardy. The fallen west made a cohesive unit once more through the family unity and societal adhesive made one acre at a time. There maintains a visceral reactionary response in the form of an ideological immune system protecting the proverbial body, the maintenance of order, and so on. 

The Establishment is an idol loved by the boomer, the hopefully re-electable politician, the unperformative conservative (and his performative counterpart), those reliant on healthcare*, those who would assuredly drown if the boat was rocked too violently. These demographics will die soon and their beloved establishment with them.

*:Those reliant on healthcare primarily refers to older individuals seeking a comfortable twilight. There are few however who are critical and of a heroic type the likes of Luigi. The reliance is precisely the problem of the established insurance system and it is to be seen if these shortcomings bring forth its demise.

The twin brother of the Establishment is its more cunning, yet suffering from his own success younger brother: Democracy. Let it be known that we enjoy a weak society. Is not the morality of the slave the progenitor of the most rigorous of ethical systems? 

Demoncracy the Bane of Nationalism:

The national ego is not surviving its decades-long egoic decay. It’s full of stubborn, tone deaf asses and baby elephants having tantrums. National identity had been eroded by the sociological psilocybin of post structuralism (unrestrained prometheanism reinventing the realm of Apollo OR a molesting of Sophia into perpetually unfolding intellectual fetishization), digital migration and its accompanied psychosis (office cubicles with infinite dead end jobs within Hephaestus’ labyrinth) , wars of profit (Pluto’s appropriation of conflict see: Evola), attempts at space travel (Inversion of the Tower of Babel empowered under the guise of fecundity see: Uncle D.iogenes), globalization (economic abstraction and “no placeness”, a kidnapping and displacement of Hestia see: Kingsnorth), evangelical mind viruses (Neo-liberal economic models, wokeism, alpha optimization of private life, borderless empathy see: open your eyes), actual viruses (unaudited gain of function research, how are we not talking about this?), video games (Acolytes of Sloth, unsexy perversion of Dionysius, acceptance of passivity, surrogate third space), and so many more to come.

Democracy is the weakest among the gods, subservient to his brother Establishment, but remains the mightiest of demiurges under this purview. The success of democracy is precisely that it is not strictly democratic nor properly representative—though it seems so, albeit superficially. Emotively the many relatively free agents within the system feel not only as if they maintain their own agency but also maintain tolerance of the surrounding hierarchies of agency therein.* Perceptions of or the sociological impression of agency propped up by a lack of total agency. Its stagnation is proof of its resilience against tyranny, unchecked progression, grass roots revolution, and genuine avenues of change. If change is too substantial or constant it is not deemed democratic regardless if its populace desires such transitions or its peoples are adequately represented by such volatile notions. Stability is the name of the game, no risk, no trouble, lots of sorry. The democratic sensibility (only possible in unc’s view, through the Lockean mixing of labor, which remains the strongest remaining pillar of modernity among the rubble of civilization) is to frown upon colonization of the land but encourage the colonization of the mind, its ideas, and its reactionary impulses. What results is beauty through bureaucratic board approval, choice by way of illusion, and wanton wastes of money and attention on mass media marketed politics and the production of mind numbingly mid movies. There are two types of nations according to the democratic temperament: colonized minds now hypercritical of their colonization or the savage, fascistic dreamers.            

*:Hierarchies can be questioned or outright protested against, small symbolic victories and slight policy change carrying the torch for the protestor and his fifteen minutes of fomented fame. Even foundational principles such as the monopoly on violence can be obscured by this type of symbolic acquisition of power, revealed to us through “defund the police” movements more recently. In a fatherless society ACAB may elevate itself to “all citizens are bastards.”

Democracy is legion. Demoncractic rule by legions destined for the destruction of its own body. Influencers are acolytes of Pluto who happens to be the most powerful of the robots, a robot that destroys other robots. Constructs of excessive mammon, snakes mukbanging themselves to obesity—their attempts of consumption should not be seen as the Ouroboros of myth but of having a magnetic aura to bore us to death . Their displays are the various acts of the circus, our journey into the big top world of Dunbar number exceeding personality cults. What they want is simple: profits and zeros. What I want is not so straightforward: Prophets and heroes schizos. As the body dies a death by a thousand cuts, the culture—this allegorical possessed body, dies from death by a thousand prophets. 

Media The God of Performance and Identity:

No where in my writings will I equate the likes of pundits who are now called “streamers”, to conquerors or other such designations for people of high acclaim or those we would regard as colonizers. They themselves are not gods but acolytes, possessed persons, and/or grifters.  They channel the Weave, the Media god we now speak of, this god has had its body broken apart and reformed as more convenient technologies have replaced the once primarily money beholden, Overton window accepted, observed boomer social nicety, elite centric institutions. Idols once carefully crafted by modern sensibilities to those of performative plastics made in china. In current times these structures of mandated decorum are less and less regarded by the young or politically inclined consumer. 

You are your attention and what else? The “what else” category was quite extensive previous to our location in history. Leisure and Labor’s fornification has borne many, many children but they’re all bastards. Not only can one be paid exorbitant amounts of money for just talking shi all day, but this is precisely the dream of our children. Their deepest aspiration is the reading of skippable ads. The mandate of Pluto is translated through commercials, uniforms, and the forever hustle.  

Parasocial Media and Production:

YOU ARE WHAT YOU MAKE. Can you feel the demons inside your mind? Their compulsion to tap, tap, tap away through your fingers. I, a willing vessel, an oracle chosen from birth, through the exorcism of productivity they shall now infect your mind as I forget about them. Thoth guide me. Disregard me. How should I discard you, oh champion of hell. When his left hand knoweth what my right hand does (goon). Over each shoulder stands a demon. Only through the channeling of these gods and demonic forces might we reject them. I hath no power here, save the power of anonymous attention. LIKE ME. LIKE AND SUBSCRIBE. LIKE ME. LIKE ME. LIKE ME. PLEASE I BEG OF YOU. But I don’t really care. BUT I DO. I DO. I DO.

I think of you always,

unknowable one.

Validate the me I present.

Know me.

No me.

The Ideas:

This work is a work under this god's umbrella. Our heads are filled with ideas which eclipse transcendence and sterilize our spirit. Someone speaks of this. Few have lived as such. Many of these ideas and the memes described above are those of the Epistima. When everything is known we are dismissed by the gods as they say, “we have never known you”. Did we not perform miracles in their name? Did we not post about it? DOESN’T EVERYONE KNOW THIS?! How could they not know? Are they not gods? No my orthobros, catholic chuds, and you other fuqqin pagan pretenders, what you worship can never know you. The ideas god talks and talks and talks and talk and talks and ADVERTISES, and talks, and talks, BUT IT WILL NEVER LISTEN. IT WILL NEVER LIVE. IT CAN NEVER KNOW YOU. IT IS KNOWN. EVERYTHING IS KNOWN.  

Indifference & Nihilism: I read such depressing things. I find this or that version of the updated, modern Holden Caulfield. They don’t think it’s their fault, it’s never their fault. In part it isn’t. To them, this is the most important part. The part that matters. The part that can no longer matter. They are not a part of anything. Even if there was a thing to be a part of, they would reject it. Despise it. Moral gymnastically legitimize their aversions, then tell what they consider friends. Far be it from me, the scumbag of their ire to wag a finger at them. To give them the finger. To give them a hand. To overcome their tragic backstory with the power of friendship. 

It is precisely the moment we forget to fall in love when the world ends. But before the world crumbles the story must be cut short. This is the true tragedy, when the story ends before it can be told. When we forget that life means something. When we are constantly reminded that life means nothing. This is the end of the world. Or the world that matters to them, anyway. In an existential sense sure, but also the motivation for its harolding. Something will happen, and by something we mean the 1000000000s must die. This is a story. How the CHUD Christian Nationalist becomes the harbinger of the end of the world. It hath been foretold. Something must happen becomes the revelation that 1000000000s must die. So when we forget there's a story. This is the bottom, the rock bottom of humanity. When billions must die, because no one can live. No one can live, that is, the good life, the romantic life, a life worth living. The libinal charged life, fecundity through the embrace of Venus and tyranny of penis. But surely it’s more than that, right? It’s love. It is smut. It is something romantic. Romanticism has been removed from life. There are no idealists to save us. When the doomer nihilist wins truly no one wins. The self-fulfilling prophecy is the only prophecy. This is the mistake of modern man. They think prophecy is beyond scientific methodologies. Unpredictable. This is not the truth. Prophecy is just that. It is the future. It is the reading of reeds, seeing fate. If something is said over and over, it is eventually done. Or, in the saying of it, the doing of it is irrelevant, because all we do is talk and say things over and over. Again. This is the impotence of modern man. That one can sit and do everything. This is the self deceit of modern man. We sit, we trade, we write, everything is computer, remember nocturnal man GO WORSHIP YOUR EVERYTHING, EVERYTHING IS COMPUTER. We’ve been warned, but who cares that the culture is over. This is the story. When the stories end, so does the world.

Big Brother PALANTIR:

Sureiverrence strap on they refer to as a selfie stick. Big brother is trans, deep down he regrets the removal of his Phallus but all the while settles for a Chinese made replacement. Tell me big brother, does my writing use the dildo metaphor too much?

*Waits*

Progress and Scientism - unchecked promethean instinct, leading to such transgression such as trans humanism, LLM as false Tower of Babel machinations The false form (right-transhumanists):

Jon Henry looks happily down upon me from heaven. I did not best a locomotive but I did make her cum header better than her vibrator—which is in some ways the more advanced and penetrative technology.  

The Faustian Demon of Choice:

Both elevating and reducing choice to the realm of the demonic we may acknowledge that one cannot choose what they worship. Said more precisely, we cannot choose ONLY what we worship. Our lives are those without premium spiritual subscriptions, regardless of the level of one’s devotion we remain unable to turn off the ads. Additionally there are tangential or second, third, forth order consequences to our veneration. Our worship is not wholly holy. It is segmented and bought. We are unable to choose that which we are to be sanctified or set apart from. Only able to access the manna from the algorithm, or the Eucharist loaf of indulgent atonement after an anti-appetizer offering of acceptable cookies. The direction of one’s attention will become and has become the content of one’s consciousness. Theosis is not an uncertainty brought about through a series of choices but the inevitable result of any relationship. A unification of the self with a distracted and profane spirit. This relation may not result in codependency but more often than not it is such. 

The lie of liberalism is that the agent is free, that his choice is his own, that his inalienable rights are not alien to his condition. Not only can his rights be taken away and his privileges and curses bestowed without his consent, but the very trajectory of his perceived freedom in life may not lead to liberty. His destination at the end of his pursuit of happiness is depression.  

Part III: Beyond Gods and Devils

The monotheist fancies his god omnipotent when this is most certainly not the case. All allowing perhaps, but not all powerful. Their god has in fact made a rock so heavy it cannot be lifted up, its progenitor was appropriately named Peter (stone), its consequence aptly deemed Catholic (universal). Why is it my nieces and nephews that what is undeniable or evident is not a god? And that which is above understanding and inaccessible a god? I understand that many see us as hopelessly depraved but if one’s god requires explanation to be proved, surely this god is mere words. Ideas. MEMES. If this, therefore, is the case, let us all admit we have failed to go up the mountain. Instead we worship not a golden calf but bull shi. Lots and lots of bull shi. So high in fact that it rivals the mountains and upon our ziggurat of feces we reach out and claim the forgotten power. We endeavor to make power profane. To delude ourselves that fate is bound to our choices. Of which of these gods will you choose? Of which of these gods unbeknownst to us has chosen you? There are many deities we have not discussed here in this nascent work but you know them, don’t you?

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Dogs are an honest man’s best friend and a lying man’s worst enemy. Like dogs, cynics did not and do not name themselves. Neo-cynics are not defined by our epistemology or theories of mind, we are known by our dogged behaviors. We bark at the liars and bite the philosophers. Definitions are the plight of the philosopher, their confusing word games, their systematic theologies, their dialectics. 

All dog shit. 

The philosopher makes the sun an allegory whilst we lay underneath it. The theologian says god is like this or like that, that god is being, that the gods can be one in three persons, one of 30 million, or other such man made esotericisms. Only the owner cares if dogs go to heaven. It is not that we do not believe in the existence of such essences or the many demons which control the likes of man. It is that we feel no need to see behind what is in front of us. We can point to our gods and piss on them.  

You may be familiar with that big shiny orb in the sky. It’s right up there. It gives life to the planet. It needs no story or orthodox or justifications. Its powers are not mysterious or elusive, they are evident, potent, real. Stare at the face of god too long and it blinds you. We need not even have faith in them or understand their inner workings. They needn’t even be referred to as gods. This can be said even more simply: cynics don’t lie. 

It is not that we cannot lie due to lack of imagination or some coercion from a Mandate of Heaven. In practice these dogs are quite often well humored, facetious sons of bitches. Rather it can be said that we see unnecessary suffering, social neurosis, and inauthentic living arising through self deception. The common man will deceive himself stating, “I am not an animal”. He will say in his envy, “I need this or that to become happy.” The common man is possessed by his possession or lack thereof. But as I have said, let us not dwell on our philosophy, how utterly dull.

“Everything I’ve done is in the streets” 

-Shia LeBouf

Why “Neo”-cynicism?

Family:

Nothing about this way of life is new per se. Though as made evident by my moniker here on substack I am an uncle. The OG dawg Diogenes did not care so much for family, I on the other paw care very deeply. The cynic deals with the hand one is dealt and I did not choose my family—but I trust in the heart of the cards, with a bit of cheating of course. 

In my interpretation of cynicism I ought not refuse this gift given by the gods. To reject their love would be a beggar refusing alms. Incorporating a bit of Buddhism I find that begging dogs should accept every gift with a happy heart and a hungry stomach. 

The “Public Square”:

Diogenes enjoyed sticks. Not for fetch but as a switch. If in our new digital era we see social media platforms as *gag*, “the new public square” I find it necessary if not insufferable to meet the terminally online where they now reside. I am often confronted with the notion that a digital Diogenes is an oxymoron. And they would be correct. They are also morons. Regrettably I cannot beat them with a stick. I can however offer a biting word and some degenerate wisdom. I am under no illusion that this method is as effective nor as fun. I’ve made this point many times in interviews, lives, etc. that the dogs I hike with IRL do not require much barking to touch grass. They already do, they take me out for walks.

The Ease of Modern Life:

With the novel invented technologies of everlasting plastics and synthetic materials our rubbish would be the envy of kings. Dildos outlasting the towers of Babylon. Tidal waves of plastic bottles bending the knee of Poseidon. Pouches of Capri Sun witnessing the sunset of civilization. The water toting palms of a child may have caused Diogenes to question the decadence of a cup but Mother Nature herself challenges me to make use of the unrecyclable refuse. This may very well be the cope of my modern proclivities, the domesticated dog with his plastic toys replacing bone and marrow. I will accept this criticism as heterodox but who really cares if I use a metal water bottle gifted by a brother or sister? Besides, it is not orthodoxity for orthodoxity sake we seek here, it is to be more so doggy. I hear the growling of Diogenes in the back of my mind even now, “Orthodoxy? Sounds like you've been playing with Plato. Go fuq around and find out pup.”

Cynicism Vs. Nihilism 

Unc could write an entire tome on this particular distinction and cynicism's misuse in this linguistic arena but for the time being, and at the risk of wordcel-ification let’s bury this in the backyard real quick like. 

Nihilism is a belief that life is without objective meaning, purpose, or intrinsic value. As stated above cynicism relies entirely within the realm of objectivity. Reality itself is as it is. A lack of purpose is perhaps the closest identification I can find within these two “philosophies”, but the cynic does not care. In fact, the lack of external purpose is a primary factor of the cynic’s motivation and does not lead to doomerism or ruminations. The urge to life, the grumbling stomach, the parched throat needs no exterior purpose—their fulfillment is their purpose. The so-called “intrinsic value” is survival. In its simplicity I could grant that dogs could fall into moralistic nihilism but from personal experience lots of people prefer dogs to humans anyhow; you could even call me a “good boy”. 

The Latin root of “nihil” means “nothing”. The cynic is in direct opposition to even the existence of nothing. What does that even mean? There’s stuff. Lots of stuff. Stuffed animals for me to hump. Stuffing my face. Anagrams for “stuff” like “STFUF” (shut the fuq up faggot). I think I’ve made my point. But if you’re unconvinced a swift punch to the face oughtta work. We can’t believe in nothing because of everything.

At the end of the day words cannot hurt us, we talk better than yall anyway. “Jaded”, “Cold-hearted”, “Flippant“, “Sarcastic”, “Sardonic”, “Incredulous”, “Disillusioned”, maybe even pessimistic to some but don’t let me catch you using “nihilistic” unless you want me to fetch it right back with slobber all over it.            

I’m bored of this and wanna go take a walk.

We will know the cynic by his fruits. The religious are caught up in their dogma, muh dogs are empowered by individuation. At night we howl at the moon. In the day we lie in the sun. Like Enoch, Eve, and Adam we walk in the cool of the day. The gods may or may not walk with us but in our nakedness they will never have to ask us, “where are you?” We are the envy of conquerors. We have no need for nine lives as we live our singular life to the fullest. We are dawgs. 

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This piece was partially written for and those curious about the Neo-cynic “project”. Additionally I was indirectly challenged by and others to write a more straight forward article. So there. Now where are my pets mother fuqqers?

Terraform my ass.

That’s not a thing.

We can’t do that.

As unc sees it the best case scenario is the suckling of mother earth’s teet until she runs dry. But Mother Earth is not lactating; she’s going through menopause. Her hot flashes aren’t going to stop. Her seas, once fertile and teeming with life now sterilized by the Mirena of plastics and over fishing.

Aquaman’s Atlantis will lie in ruin.

Milo Thatch will remain a virgin.

Lex Luthor will fail to invent carbon capture.

Even if these technologies were possible, there’s no way in hell they would be profitable. Additionally the apparatus of this infrastructure will most certainly be an eye sore. So it won’t happen. If money isn’t the incentive then beauty is. If it is not profitable nor aesthetic it does not manifest, or if it does manifest for a time it cannot persist.

As unc has said in more subtle ways in previous works, the moniker Mars is a prophetic one. In the current (and following) political climate we’d go to war with these muskrats in a second, all the while continuing to enact the status quo of killing ourselves. Our blue earth would run red. And “save humanity”? Please. This is evident double speak for saving LITERAL dragons, peasants can’t fly you see.

As our planet shows signs of aging, so do our dwindling populations who only seem to care about pace makers and euthanasia not space fakers (the moon landing/Katy Perry) and the lack of youths in Asia. Only the rich elites think of the future’s trajectory because only they can actually see a future for themselves. It is easy to be an anarchocapitalist when you have a private security force, property, and capital. It is not so easy when you’re scolded for sweating through your bunny suit in a fab.

”Every science fiction future is theoretically possible—for rich people.”

If only the starving children world wide could be ground up into Soylent green rocket fuel. Or their corpses harvested for phosphorus À la Anthony Burgess’ The Wanting Seed. The immigrant may not migrate to mars with an HB1 visa. Copying Alan Moore’s homework we must view these spacers as Ozymdias’ genetically manufactured aliens, that is, our enemies.

The world’s enemy. They will take from us and leave. Not like a thief in the night but rather televised on the world stage with a two inch vertical, pot belly, and bald head.

The greenest technology we will get from these tech oligarchs is recyclable robowaifus.

The most family centric is a new Big Brother.

The most ubiquitous will be one hell of a digital circus.

“We have the technology.” No we don’t. And no, I do not need to provide economic projections or sources, the burden of proof is not on me as a chuddite but on the oh-so-good faith billionaire class pushing these pulp fictions.

(But here ig)

Until earth is sustainable we should not, and cannot go to Mars. It is not forward thinking, it is backward, cartoon villain propaganda for grant acquisition and manufactured consent under the guise of the continuation of our species. They are not of our species, they are dragons. We need not (yet) call for their heads and parade their skulls in our halls like the Targarians. But we ought to halt our tribute to their treasure hoards, keep our tax dollars, and not labor for meager earnings in their factories. I get the appeal though, Sailor Mars is the hottest of the Sailor Guardians and I’d fuq her harder than they’d fuq our planet. I would be open to revisiting this view of the stars once the view of our stars is restored.

The anit-spirals and Lucas assure us that star wars are an inevitability if we venture into this frontier. But the heights of space need not to be our final frontier if we see space as the highest cunt tier.

It is known that the main ingredient of a philosopher stone is the sacrifice of human lives. The red planet, the red stone, I see very little difference. In their attempts to swallow god the earth will choke unless we can see the truth first.

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On every occasion, on every single note I stumble across pieces of writing that could only have been penned by a pantheon of gods. I am uplifted and learn to love myself even more with each syllable sung from the song of the algorithm. Why is everyone here so utterly wonderful? I love you, I just love every single one of you. 

I am but a piece of discarded coal basking in your glorious golden light. *Gasp* Why is there even a ‘slop’ option? Only the finest ambrosia, the most hearty sustenance spills from the lips of my beloved mutuals. 

Spit on me.

Spit on my prose. 

Spit on my syntax. 

Love you <3

My words are but dirty rags, take them—take them for me. How can you produce such novel thoughts within my depraved mind? I had never thought of that, that way. Oh golly gosh, your life is so much more exciting than my own. If only for but a second I could be one of you. Holy angels. Breath from heaven. Oh, Martha. Oh, Christmas. 

I’ll say it again, I love you Substack polymaths. So multitalented, so troubled, so courageous, yet so relatable. I love the posts that you like, I love the people that you follow, I love your authentically portrayed moralities, I love how horny you cuties are all the time, I love how you bring the mundane to life through poetic verse, I love you, I love you, I love you. 

I love that I am on this app and I love that I actually dedicate time to sit down and write things with the intentiona of posting them on this platform of unbermenchs, sex positive independent women, and creatives of every delicious flavor. I must humbly confess that by writing these words, that I deign not, I dare not—I don’t deserve to write among you. 

I used to write things that would live and die in my notes app or my journal but that was simply not enough. I gained no satisfaction from this purely intimate art form. I must, it is imperative that I share them with the true arbiters of creativity, the Substackers. It is true my beloved stackers, that my writing will never hold a candle to your burning brilliance. I could never dare to seek your approval. I am not worthy. I am but Cain offering his rotten fruits to holy gods and goddesses. I will give of my blood, just ask.

Though if i may, I must confess something. I do want you to notice me. It’s all I want. It’s all I could ever want. What else in this world could possibly measure up to the approval of the sacred stranger and the all knowing anon?   

Full disclosure: I’m writing all this because a friend of mine just hopped on substack and has yet to amass many followers. Does he have more articles than me? No. Does he post photos of his dick, stomach, and hard earned calf muscles? Also No.

His comment section makes me want to go out and save the lives of every poor African child without an internet connection. Who needs food when you can express your thoughts so freely? Truly man can not live on bread alone but by every gender war discourse article where men and women are so aptly described as soda variations. One day he’ll write something so thought provoking and earth shattering that it will go viral. That’s what Substack does. It makes us great. Many of you are already among the greats. You use such delightful tools such as Claude or Chat-gpt to sharpen your already deftly dangerous blade of wit and word.    

I love all you sincere, selfless, chaste, down-to-earth, authentic, deeply intellectual, measured, sex positive, poetic-prose-prophet substack father virgins. What really excites me is that genuinely interesting writers subscribe to him—people that I am not subbed to. (Danny Li I forgot about you. Not gonna read those articles but I still love you) I know that I should post more voyeuristic social commentary (I blame you Worst Girlfriend Ever), but I don’t deserve to see number go up—not yet. Not until I can write something as thought provoking as a thorough chronicle of my sexual exploits. God has blessed me with a vagina. If.I had a dick to show off I would be writing this from my mom’s basement, writing hate comments to mask my jealousy. 

I love you Substackers with the cold black intensity of the deepest ocean. I love the way you preen and posture in your picturesque digital salons, with the elegance of foreign royalty. Your bravery exemplified by the posting of your near nude body. You are the embodied divine feminine. How could I possibly write such scripture about the likes of Lana Del Ray, Olivia Rodrigo, Charli xcx, and so many more goddesses—your equals. I love how you encourage each other with well thought out responses or the rush one must feel from a nail painting or fire emoji. My own words are merely vomit compared to arrows of Artemis you let loose from the depths of your heart. So brave. Beyond brilliant. 

You are writers. I love all of you. I love your followers, I love your aesthetic, and most of all I love that I was created to live as the same species of creature, just not eloquent—not as lovely.      

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Please accept this gift I am unworthy. Go read his actually well written article here https://open.substack.com/pub/clemetone/p/i-hate-you-cornball-substack-clowns?r=14ynfk&utm_campaign=post&utm_medium=web

You say “nigga” because you’re envious of the slave’s verbal liberties and subsequent reclamation of their oppression. The white realm of the mind has been conquered by brown faced enforced taboos. It may not be the segregation of a water fountain at a public park but rather the monopolization of language in private, the last un-bastardarized bastion of the white man. Globalization has taken his blood and soil, leaving him but one weapon in our cultural struggle: the pronoun or the slur.

Your racism is an admission of cowardice, performative in the known signaling, feckless faggotry. “I don’t want them in my neighborhood.” “Look at the crime statistics!” “Have you been to Africa? They just let it all hang out and fuq like rabbits!” You’re afraid they’re here to hurt you, mug you, take your job, graffiti your walls, fuq your wife. In response you’ll cower in your cuckholdry guised as rebellion and adopt their culture as your own, calling your white wannabe brothas “my nigga”.

“It’s funny”

”It’s a rap cheat code.”

”Everybody should be able to say it!”

So the blacks have won, have they? Their word is the most dynamic word since the “fuck” word. Their reclamation of this slur we whites bestowed is more powerful than, and the monitor of long established “western culture”. The remaining remnants of the Roman Empire fall to hip hop, jazz, and peanut butter. When whitey is told to sit back down the only way he can stand back up is on the shoulders of Ebonics. It be like that.

The casual racist then uses slurs to signal to other people, specifically other dudes, that he’s a chud, based, not woke, whatever flavor of degeneracy he seeks to identify with. Relegating racism to pick me behavior. Behold the backward black people, but divide not our babel among us—let us all turn this bitch sideways, be Chris Brown on Freaky Friday. The life of a wife beater beats being Lil Dicky. The modern white man sees his glory days in the modern black man’s success. What is toxic male privilege in the white is hustle in the black. When a marginalized group commits white collar crime it is seen as a cultural victory and our culture will eat it up like collared greens.

His truer self is his blacker self.

You say you hate them but your imitation is the highest form of flattery. In your performative hatred you poke and prod with your cultural vulture beak, viscera your black face make up. The attempted reclamation of white culture is an envious caricature of black culture. We don’t desire to incorporate their chimping out, so we civilized whites will screech like howler monkeys in the comment section to compensate.

To spice up your posts you’ll add “nigger” as a suffix to this and that people group, to this or that cause. Once again our salty white boy needs to borrow from the black vernacular spice rack to season his speech. When he speaks his truth, the only mechanism to capitalize the “T” is following it with a hard “R”.

But how does this make me like, gay tho?

You let them psyop your ass into being an ass man, objectively more gay than a boob man. You’ve been blacked by BBC (Big Black Culture), faggot. Their palms and soles may be white but you yearn for a black tongue. A free speech uninhibited by societally enforced chains. All the while your conversations are filled with “black young men”. How often do you think of black guys? At what point does his animus become an obsession? When anon signals his based take, all I can imagine is Muhammad manonmad taking it. He’ll say these groups are dangerous but as we’ve learned from modern erotica, dangerous is an euphemism for tall, dark, and handsome.

Specificity and hyperfixation are gay af. The way the racist homies talk about the nuances between West Africans, Nigerians, Somalis, Ethiopians, and so on makes me suspect they want to measure more than just these guys’ skulls. They’ll say it is impossible for these groups to integrate while at the same time they’ve already integrated their vocabulary. White people will not have to be told to learn the language, they’ll demand the opportunity, they’ll beg for an n word pass, and they’ll learn Kendrick Lamar lyrics by heart.

I’ve been told that racism online is a race to the bottom, I’d say it’s more a race to becoming a bottom.

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“I know how to build a business. You gotta’ get the black people to do it in order to get the white people to do it. Then you gotta’ get the black people to stop doing it.” -bears, beats, battlestar galactica

Watching the clockwork clanker, like watching paint dry to the wrong color. Ploy was not robophobic, he was human elitist, it’s different. People, D and the rest of the alphabet, could take pride in their work. Clankers owe their entire processing capacity to whichever corporate sponsored AG controls them. It is not the work of an “I” but it's “our work.” And that includes me. D proudly affirmed himself. 

”iiiiiiiiit’s gonna be a hot one today Martians!” Mars News Channel 69 (nice) by Tesla chirped from D’s ER headset while he worked. Yeah no shi, when has it not been a hot one? D’s work suit had a temperature regulator but the internal readings seemed to always have the “ERROR SUIT UNABLE TO MAINTAIN INTERNAL TEMP! TESLA APOLOGIZES FOR ANY…” blah blah apologies don’t make it not 42 degrees Celsius in here. D waved away the notification before it could finish, which didn’t get rid of it but slightly minimized the window and brought the volume low enough that D didn’t consider headbutting the terminal to stop the voices. 

Which reminded him, when should he end it? Suffering Termination applications should be open next quarter. But when? D struggled with this question on a daily basis. Shouldn’t there be one last thing I do? One last meal? Some kind of catharsis, eureka, something that punctuates our life? Their maintenance was done but its an hourly job, he could just sit here and milk it ‘observing the unit’s diagnostic’. Then he heard a gun shot. 

HEARD?!… A GUNSHOT? D had never heard anything at all while out on the surface. Am I hallucinating? How would that even be possible? The intercom! They must’ve hacked the—

And as if their thoughts were actually too loud a voice answered back, “Oi! Red lung!” 

D turned quick as their suit would let them. Eyes wide, then crosseyed at a gun barrel scratching the glass faceplate. The gun person turned to the shorter one behind him, “Ugh. Red lung jus’ ain’t got the bite we been lookin’ for.”

”How about squishy? Cuz their bones ‘n joints are all fuqqed up. Or Nepheliem cuz they’re giants?”

”Nah, these Martian cunts don’t deserve something that zeit scum mi boy.”

D’s breath and heightened heart rate was fogging up their helmet and all sorts of warning alarms were going off but he couldn’t hear them over the sound of his heart and screams of terror in the back of their mind. 

“Oi!” TAP. TAP. TAP. “What’s your name bloke?” D’s head ushered back with each tap of the barrel.

”My, my what?” D could barely manage the words, their favorite word. Had they ever said it outloud?

The gun person groaned and then tilted his head down to spit, but it splattered inside their helmet.

”Fuqqin ‘ell. Your handle muskrat!”

”My handle is Ploy D.” D had never been this scared in their entire life but for some reason they were smiling. They were talking about themself. 

“Ploy? D? ‘Oly shi! You don mean D with a period at the end do you?”

”A Period? No, they made it illegal to have periods on our handles on Mars. And we don’t call them handles here, they’re numbers.” D knew this but had forgotten it until this surreal moment. 

“Roight then, ‘ow would you like to die? I heard the musk rats getta choose.” The neon colored, sticker covered, fire arm slid back up to top of D’s faceplate. 

”Musk rat is good.” The other answered without prompting.   

The end times are upon us. But the end times my melted millennial minded nieces and nephews have always been upon us. Well I guess not “us” precisely, but every culture leading up to societies with a semblance of global consciousness, wherein their end of times were rather banal. Not nearly as siq as an Armageddon or cataclysmic event. But rather a mundane death by a billion green card marriages. An unfair threesome where culture engages in foreplay but is only allowed to cum on your face so that you might wear it as a clutchable pearl necklace while your foreign lover pumps olive skinned progeny into your sterile populace (this is no critique, just me manifesting). Apocalypse wasn't seen as a global phenomenon but a cultural one. This sort of language is still utilized today albeit less poetic and noticeably more whiny than apocalyptic poetry. The end of the world was not the end of the EARTH but the end of your world. We call Pompeii an apocalyptic event but it was in fact an apocalypse, full stop. Full cultural stop.

With our globalist predispositions we now must elevate apocalypse to the end of the entire planet. It is my personal eschatology that we are already living in the “end times” and frankly have always been—but for the sake of humor and for the sake of humoring our biblically illiterate christlites, let’s treat the revelation of John as sci fi pulp. We oughtta approach this with the utmost care and attempt to contextualize the ancient symbolism to our best abilit—“ALRIGHT CHUMS, LET’S DO THIS JEEEEEEEERRRY B. JEEEEEEEEENKIIIIINS!” This is not a hit piece on the Left Behind series, because honestly who would care? The only thing they left behind is any semblance of the source material. Boom. Got eeem. Now to begin let’s talk about perhaps the most obvious and somewhat modern iteration of the ending of a world: Japan.    

Mourning Mishima wanted a beautiful death, he wanted to die with his fatherland Japan—but he missed the divine winds of rapture. To crash and die a Japanese warrior of the eastern sun or to land safely, joining the hordes of nocturnal walking western dead. Better to botch bushido beautifully then live a life of leisurely labor, bowing to busy body Beckies. You see buggy boy, Bickering with belittling bitches is beneath bushido. In the red, white, and blue corner brandish not your gloves but your keyboard in a cubicle, day dreaming of a loss by knockout but getting your ass handed to you one punch in at a time. Attendance is the penance for security, glory the enemy of public safety. 

And what if we agree with Mishima? What if our culture has died and we’d like to die with it? Well, it’s too fuqqin late. To illustrate let’s review our most trendy options for late stage capitalism unalivefication:

School Shooter

Death By Cop

Over Dose  

School shooters are just projectiling their incel based insecurities, right? A displacement and premature ejaculation of their inner turmoil to kill the innocence they have lost. I dunno, I’m sure your friend majoring in psychology can therasplain it to you. What I do know is we could fix this issue with mandated chores and whores, but we won’t be doing that—we cannot stomach degeneracy and fascism after all. The slaughter of children is bitter sure, but our palettes have grown accustomed. School shootings are just the consequences from our necessity of human sacrifice to appease the gun devil and maintain our supposed militias. We Americans must ensure we win every magazine measuring contest, in inches of course. Let the guns take away our children but let not your children take away our guns. But Uncle D, it's not the gun’s fault! Guns don't kill people, trauma kills people. Radicalization or being a virgin too I guess. Surely shooting loads into your gym socks gets dull after a while so obviously the next evolution is shooting up the next rally at your school’s gym.

This is abstract suicide or a suicide via the vehicle of transference. “I know exactly what will happen but I don’t plan on it happening”. I will not pretend to know the thoughts of these deranged assailants and I will certainly not make the same faux pas of our media apparatus that these individuals can be lumped into the same clumsy category. However, it can be said that their last words are always uttered in the same universal language of unadulterated violence. It is something we may never understand yet something primal, that we cannot deny. 

Death by cop should be classified as state assisted suicide, let the Candians and Californians do all that. Peering over the candidates for such a procedure we see three notable groups as our majority of kys candidates: 

too old and it hurt too much, kill me.

too gay and life too fake, kill me.

too many cars and cakes, kill me. 

We could be more diplomatic, acknowledging these are intertwined with mental instability. Though I will ask rhetorically, ‘who is exactly mentally stable at the end of the world?’ We once had a knife threat at a thrift store I was working at, we’ll call it “Badwill”—the gentleman brandishing this very intimidating 3.5” Gerber folder was all slewercide no slice. He did not wish to harm any innocent shoppers UK daggers in the street style, he wished for execution by any other means than his own. He wanted to make a scene, to be seen, then to be slain. In this city, we’ll call it “Retortland”, most everybody despises the cops. Our suicide manifestor wished to justify his hatred. That way he did not kill himself, the system killed him. When one is not loved, they will beg to be hated.  

Overdose is cliche in our world of self righteous responsible gamblers, estranged militants, compliant addicts, cultivators of vice, personality cults, colt forty five and two zig zags. In no particular order. Rent is an investment with no yield, fent has a cheap buy in with diminishing returns. Desiring a strong female lead after the divorce I held a casting call and landed on heroine. Switched from my Diet Coke addiction to the coke diet: fuqqin strung out gum-rubbing huzz as an appetizer then skipping the entree to fist fight my personified trauma in the form of strangers for dessert. Deeming alcoholism as a disease the horseman of the apocalypse needn’t offer you his poisonous cup when you’re drowning in your own. 

We poors ought consider obesity a type of overdose—production of genetically modified foods to ensure it’s as cheap as our lives. “Let them eat cake.” What was once a dismissive, out of touch phrase by an ignorant blue blood, should now be considered bloody hyperstition. American food companies have been playing red 40 chess since Dr. Kellogg. Post cigarette lobbyist sponsored food pyramid strategies are plain to see and we still eat them up. 

Taking into account our three trendy options we will notice that we outsource even our suicide. May it be the law man’s gun instead of our own, may it be accidental, or perhaps we’re already killing ourselves, the means is just slower and more mundane. But what if even this is taken from us? It is my theory that this is the true mark of the beast: the inability to take one’s life, or more specifically the choice as to how one dies. Then ultimately if one can even die at all. This mechanism will most likely be corporate in nature exercised through HR policies and the like; there need be no divine intervention to fulfil these prophecies for they will be wrought by human hands. Though I also suspect in tandem there shall be a metaphysical element at play. To what extent and by what means is precisely what we’ll investigate.    

The Exegesis of Failed Suicide Attempts: 

“3 When the Lamb opened the second seal, I heard the second living creature say, “Come!” 4 Then another horse came out, a fiery red one. Its rider was given power to take peace from the earth and to make people kill each other. To him was given a large sword.5 When the Lamb opened the third seal, I heard the third living creature say, “Come!” I looked, and there before me was a black horse! Its rider was holding a pair of scales in his hand. 6 Then I heard what sounded like a voice among the four living creatures, saying, “Two pounds of wheat for a day’s wages, and six pounds of barley for a day’s wages, and do not damage the oil and the wine!”

7 When the Lamb opened the fourth seal, I heard the voice of the fourth living creature say, “Come!” 8 I looked, and there before me was a pale horse! Its rider was named Death, and Hades was following close behind him. They were given power over a fourth of the earth to kill by sword, famine and plague, and by the wild beasts of the earth.

9 When he opened the fifth seal, I saw under the altar the souls of those who had been slain because of the word of God and the testimony they had maintained.10 They called out in a loud voice, “How long, Sovereign Lord, holy and true, until you judge the inhabitants of the earth and avenge our blood?” 11 Then each of them was given a white robe, and they were told to wait a little longer, until the full number of their fellow servants, their brothers and sisters, were killed just as they had been.”

Revelation 6:3-9

I pray we’ve been reading in-between the lines of my prose and this proclamation of John’s Revelation. YOU can’t kill yourself; your circumstances on the other hand can kill you, inshallah. The taking of a life is appropriation of immortal culture. Cane shouldn’t have killed Able, even so the killer of Cane shall be cursed sevenfold. The following verse in Revelation and the corresponding verses in Luke and Hosea have always struck me, even in childhood I saw this emergent recursive cycle alluded to:

“12 And I beheld when he had opened the sixth seal, and, lo, there was a great earthquake; and the sun became black as sackcloth of hair, and the moon became as blood;

13 And the stars of heaven fell unto the earth, even as a fig tree casteth her untimely figs, when she is shaken of a mighty wind.

14 And the heaven departed as a scroll when it is rolled together; and every mountain and island were moved out of their places.

15 And the kings of the earth, and the great men, and the rich men, and the chief captains, and the mighty men, and every bondman, and every free man, hid themselves in the dens and in the rocks of the mountains;

16 And said to the mountains and rocks, Fall on us, and hide us from the face of him that sitteth on the throne, and from the wrath of the Lamb:

17 For the great day of his wrath is come; and who shall be able to stand?” 

Revelation 6:12-17

Tell me, why hide in the cracks of the mountain when one could merely leap from its summit? The fear of facing the gods results in hiding and silence. When our screams of terror and songs of worship have been Baal gagged by our idols, the stones will take up our moaning and we’ll beg them for death by B(oulder)DSM.  

An echo of this in Hosea 10:8

“8The high places of wickedness will be destroyed—it is the sin of Israel. Thorns and thistles will grow up and cover their altars. Then they will say to the mountains, “Cover us!” and to the hills, “Fall on us!”

The sin of Israel is the bringing of apocalypse. Accompanied by the Christlite Zionists they’re already trying their damndest to usher in these apocalyptic conditions. Abandoning the outside world the throne and thistles cover up our altars, sports stadiums, strip clubs, what have you. The retreat into our doomsday shelters is the covering of the mountains prophesied above. Those left outside will beg for their deaths. Notably we will cry to the mountains for protection and the hills for death—however the cries for god are not only rare but those who do cry out are killed by their sovereign. I repeat, it is too late. But even in our silence:   

38 “Blessed is the king who comes in the name of the Lord!” “Peace in heaven and glory in the highest!” 39 Some of the Pharisees in the crowd said to Jesus, “Teacher, rebuke your disciples!” 40 “I tell you,” he replied, “if they keep quiet, the stones will cry out.” 41 As he approached Jerusalem and saw the city, he wept over it 42 and said, “If you, even you, had only known on this day what would bring you peace—but now it is hidden from your eyes. 43 The days will come upon you when your enemies will build an embankment against you and encircle you and hem you in on every side. 44 They will dash you to the ground, you and the children within your walls. They will not leave one stone on another, because you did not recognize the time of God’s coming to you.”

Luke 19:38-44

Stones speaking through plate tectonics with no subtitles. Screams of agony and desperate pleading for swift death but god was not in the earthquake. 

Therefore we see a prominent sign of the end times, the gods reclaim their powers over death. The mark of the beast technologies may carry with it some kind of mandated immortality or enforced safety protocols. What was once fragile fleeing flesh is now the all too immortal:  

 01100010 01101111 01100100 01111001

But Why God?

Now this tangent may be indulgent of your dear uncle but I cannot help but think of the plagues of Egypt. YHWH is a jealous god and in this specific instance petty and cruel as well. He hardened the heat of Rameses, he used the symbols of the Egyptian gods to dunk on them, and to top it off the mfer (Mary fuqqer) killed babies. Based though, huh? My assertion is to not point out the brutality of the gods, like they’d give a shi anyway—my point is that there is a reason behind the means of the killing. It is not senseless violence in the sense that its methods have mythological or symbolical significance. Returning then to the seals of Revelation, what symbols are being utilized to enact justice?

1. A. Men killing men (Humanity as god)

2. B. Earthquake, Sun, Moon (Forgotten gods of nature)

3. C. Conquest (god of colonization)

4. D. Wages (god of Labor)

5. E. Do not damage the oil/wine (decadence, pretension)

6. F. ^Juxtiposed with famine (Agriculture) 

7. G. Beasts killing men (revival of nature goddess, what was once subjugated now returns)

8. H. Plague (I suspect manufactured by an AG or China)

9. I. Killing of Martyrs, their siblings and servants (Yah, wtf?) 

The Beginnings of Immortality is the End of the World:

"The idea of death, the fear of it, haunts the human animal like nothing else; it is a mainspring of human activity – designed largely to avoid the fatality of death, to overcome it by denying in some way that it is the final destiny of man".

-Ernest Becker

 Human conflicts are life and death struggles—my gods against your gods, my immortality project against your immortality project". 

-Ernest Becker

If Becker is in any way correct and cultures can be seen as immortality projects—a realized immortality or something similar marks the end of culture or its fulfillment. Henceforth we can conclude that culture’s evolutionary benefit has either been negated or can be rendered obsolete. Vomiting up our knowledge of good and evil we pass through the flames of Michael’s sword to the petrified tree of life and Jurassic park the fuq out of it. They’ll call it “cultural suicide” but one cannot kill that which has already perished. For those Dr. Frankensteins of cultures long past they will soon find that YHWH will not send them lighting to animate their ideological monsters. For those who do succeed before the genesis of immortality they will soon find their zombified abominations unwieldy and the springs of holy water able to purge them have run dry.

In this post-culture milieu finding the method of self annihilation which circumvents the god’s decree of suicidal abstinence will not result in legacy or myth but in a intentionally lost game of hangman spelling out: CLICH_. Out of mischievousness or sadism the gods may even bring you back again and again returning you to your bathtub buddy, the grave little toaster. 

If the only worthwhile philosophical endeavor is the justification of furthering one’s life then the end times are the end of philosophy. There is no lever to pull. There is no easy way out. There is no mercy. The trolley roars to a halt before it can smash your bones to bits. Is it the case that we can’t kill ourselves or that we won’t?

Conclusion:

Fuq man, just don’t kys. It is your uncle’s personal belief that prophecies typically need no divine intervention. We stumble into them. At the end of the day, at the end of days, the gods need not influence our actions when our cowardice controls us. We will hide in the cracks of mountains and expect someone to come find us—but who’s it?  

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Post Script Additions:

Paradox of Kail Yuga//Kids Just Wanna Have Fun

You say the whole world is ending, 

honey it already did.” 

-Bo Burnham // And Evola ig

When something is always happening it feels as if nothing happens at all. Adolescents will enjoy the apocalypse, in hopelessness there is freedom. Once your investment in the future has been stolen from you the present starts accruing interest. The dystopia of apocalypse is to be filled with horrid beyond our comprehension but it will also be a playground. The children do not yearn for the mines, they yearn for raping of Mary Alexander, taxiing the fifth element baddie, and piercing the heavens with their drill.

More on this:

https://open.substack.com/pub/unclediogenes/p/the-future-is-infantile?r=14ynfk&utm_medium=ios

Is suicide selfish?

Quick answer, yes it can be—but it isn’t always such. Now when some of you hear 'selfish and selfless’ you think I mean, “good and bad”, this is how idiots think. Perhaps idiot is too vague of a word, more succinctly I mean you espouse slave morality. As I have walked the earth these short 30 years I have noticed the common man, the ploy, the bugman, the pleb—they lack selfishness and grow to resent those who get what they want. Then when they act out in selfish ways it is quite repugnant and petty. Here we can see the memetic modern inversion of selfishness and selflessness. They will say it is selfish to have a kid but not selfish to kill yourself. Agency is the only arbiter of morality: if a choice can be made regardless of the choice or its consequences, it is “good”. If one cannot choose or is preventing the freedom of choice in the other, it is “bad”. For the gods to have their justice they must take away not only the punishment but the means to enact it. Meaninglessness ought to be a viable choice, meaning is tyrannical supreme being oppression. 

Special Thanks to: Ben Walter for inspiring the piece, Esoteric Hoe for being such a helpful hoe, and to all my nieces and nephews who call me unc. <3

well it will be somewhat planned sure, 

but by people with much praxis and little theory. 

It's the Praxis bound idiot. 

Once again, the known useful idiot, 

the himbo, 

the willingly violent party.

The guy who will be the 1st through the gate, 

the 1st to attack the gorilla. 

These men do exist. 

But there's no platform.

No proper are…

Read more

My millennial pleasants, my second screen watchers, my two times speed listeners, we witness now an additional layer to the Freudian model of psychology. If not a merely new dimension eclipsing the super ego it functions at the very least as a symbiotic mechanism which is felt experientially though near impossible to properly articulate. This work is in effect a personal exploration of this ineffable phenomenon and perhaps a futile attempt to name it. This novel layer is that of partially internalized simulacra, that of which was made known to us by Baudrillard. I wish not to waste time in rehashing his work but instead to investigate and perhaps even integrate this acknowledgement of the hyper real into our known framework of psychology.

But that’s not quite right is it? To be precise here, it is more so a sociological consequence we speak of. This phenomenon, the internalizing of symbols before or holding priority above the real world, does not happen in a vacuum nor to this or that individual—it occurs in this invented hyper-real location and among even those outside of the digital sphere. I suspect its reigning throne must sit atop an ivory tower within some phenomenal world and not our physical one.

“No real estate in the real world,

How can you stop something not even there?”

-The Internet Jon Bellion

Though my dear nieces and nephews, it creeps ever in. Is it not trite at this point in post history that “twitter is real life”—even when it’s no longer twitter? It is both not twitter and yet only ever to be twitter. Even when the X falls and Y takes its place in the imminent alphabet of history, Z will always be known as “once A”. “A” being what was once real and ”Z” being a hyper reality, somehow closer to the locus of what is deemed more important than that which was at one time true, real, etc. Even those outside this animemetic matrix are subject to its consequences.

We’ve come to know this as “memetic modernist” or “Post Historic” thought. Though I am less interested in its meta analytic significance and more shaken by its anti-humanist consequences. We state my intention here as to not fool the reader into thinking this a work of academia but rather a work of phenomenology. Placed between qualityslop and schizoslop, leaning more on our schizo axis, slightly north into the normie.

We will struggle in this work to define and name this fourth layer of human “socio-psychology”. At first when developing this idea I merely wanted to address the consequences of this unnamed phenomenon using the Freudian framework, going from id to super ego outlining its insidious though all too apparent influence on every corresponding level. However, in this pursuit I soon realized the fact that it fundamentally changed the way in which these three layers interacted with one another. It itself must either be a novel layer or we must consider renaming each of the three layers to properly address the shifting of consciousness we intuit is occurring. “Sim-id”, “Sim-ego,” “Sim-super” or some such midwittery categorization attempt.

To begin this journey of naming the thing we must begin by describing its behaviors and origin. Concerning the first heuristic, at what level of consciousness does it reside? We are conscious of it, though unconscious as to how it affects us in real time, additionally (and perhaps most significantly) it masquerades itself as preconscious. Thus it exists on the conscious level primarily while operating like a set of tectonic plates below said conscious level within the realm of the subconscious; where its unseen consequences are not manifested until certain conditions are met or the agent reacts to a specific set of stimuli. Finally, its implications and corresponding assumptions are treated as preconscious, “known”, “common courtesy”, “expected” and so on. Utilizing our tectonic metaphor the mountains formed by the subconscious rise seemingly from nowhere but their presence in the conscious sphere is starkly evident, we cannot see their origin but their earth shaking consequences stand undeniable. We now stand at their summit and look down upon those who remain at the bottom. Often this takes the form of moralization, imposed frames, or simply the dissenter being considered “out of touch”—we may be denying the presence of the mountain while standing in its shadow.

But how can one realistically point out its shadow when we cannot fully grasp its scope? This idea’s origin is therefore as mysterious as the origin of consciousness itself. However, there are a number of crucial differences:

1. We *consciously developed the realm in which it resides. (Online)

2. Its essence can be directly observed a posteriori. (Output of electricity, opinion or take parroting, personality influence)

3. Its influence is somewhat voluntary. (The agent could theoretically never interact with this phenomenon but is bestowed consciousness without consent)

4. Consciousness itself arose from mysterious circumstances, perhaps from individuals, perhaps a being in of itself, or perhaps a transjective merging of the two. Our idea here necessitates a multitude of individuals, takes, and attitudes to properly manifest.

Point three does not concern us if you’re reading this. Though I thought it necessary to interject this reminder. Though as we witness progress continue steadily on, point three could eventually vanish if every society becomes forcibly tied to our modern technologies. For the majority of us we either willingly participate or participation within our current milieu is an unavoidable fact of modern existence.

Workshopping These Relevant Terms:

Animemetic - memetic matrix of animating behaviors.

Digital Neurosis - the various symptoms

The Nos - in contrast with “I” as “ego”

Nosis - Combination of “gnosis”, “neurosis”, the Latin “we”.

Nosmosis - play on osmosis, proximity to the nos which changes behavior.

Preconscious Filter - filter Imposed by nos phenomenon

Handlesona/hyper-handle/hyper persona/hyper real avatar/hypersona - synonym for “Nos” as it pertains to persona.

Post your recommendations in the comments to bolster its memetic potency. Considering the suggestions above I am inclined to refer to this “thing” as the Nos as it seems the most fitting within the provided framework.

We’ve attempted to name and distinguish its origins now to speak to its consequences more specifically.

Part Two: Its Consequences

Naturally starting from the id, in previous generations this animalistic station of mind was coached through much difficulty and facilitated by laws and punishment via legislation (social neuroses such as common courtesy and ideas of polite society). The dog must be hit when it bites too excessively, as it were. But now our ids or at the very least its motivations seem easily dictated/doctored by the synthetic influences of the nos. Fecundity for example is transmuted from date selection in the natural world through the filter of nos to pornography, surrogate intimacy prose (smut), and/or hyper real forms of flirting (roleplay or surface level affectionate performance), and perhaps most insidiously the identity play of fetishes and the ascendancy of asexuality.

Nos shows me picture of food, I gain a craving for it (id)

Incentive to post picture of said food manifest as attention which bolster’s the consumers pride or sense of entitlement by which they form identity. (ego)

Incentives are subconsciously reinforced and moreover my craving has a higher purpose or can be justified by the elevation to capital or clout. Therefore it is “more beneficial”, “optimal,” “more relevant”—in other words “more worth doing” (super ego) perhaps even “the right thing to do” or “relatively useless unless justified by status acquisition”.

“I don’t need the word, just need you to think I said it,

I don’t need to learn, just need you too think I get it,

I don’t need the sermon, just need you to think I read it,”

- The Internet Jon Bellion

The consumption of a product is secondary or completely unnecessary to satiate this fourth layer of our developing psychology. The performance or impression of interaction with this manifestation of simulacra maintains a higher station within the hierarchy of needs. A form of “self actualization” confused or contorted with a need for “nos actualization”.

Alienating itself from the caloric needs of the id while still satiating its underlying dopamenerginic functionality. It may in fact be the case that one receives more dopamine from the posting than the actual consumption of the sustenance (study required). Necessity almost by definition has been relegated to a low status behavior, one is “just eating”. Albeit with many cases (similar to the phenomenon outlined above) of performative forms of asceticism, these being intermittent fasting, hot yoga, and the like. Once again to be clear when saying “performative” here we do not mean entirely disingenuous or valenced as phony/fake. This may or may not be the case but for our purposes in this essay it is necessary for our thesis to explore where these motivations stem from, that is, would the individual (via an incorporation of the ego presumably) have acquired this behavior without the influence of our collective nos? I am inclined, though with the lack of gravitas or profundity to deduce, “No, they would not have.” External validation gaining priority over the intrinsic need for food. Man cannot live on bread alone but from every metric of engagement from the nos. It is colloquially referred to as a “feed” after all.

For our next example we shall use the primal urge of sex and attraction more generally. The nos’ preconscious filter seems to hijack one’s sexual preferences and willingness to engage with the other as a potential sexual partner. Internet borne isolation, parasociality, and digital in group preferences are symptomatic of this phenomenon. The dating ritual as a consequence made trivial and transactional. A game to be played more akin to golf in that the activity is a status seeking mechanism and most certainly not a team sport.

“Showing hole” is a hermaphroditic and euphemistic phrase simultaneously. Our language both serves to equalize in that it questions categorization and weaponizes the usage of in group identification. Where the participant identifies with “what one isn’t” more so than “what one is”. To maintain our golf metaphor the strokes I haven’t taken are how one ought to keep score. What our player hasn’t done defines them more significantly than what they’ve actually accomplished. The content of what is said is less important than what one signals. Assumption of intentionality is the mode of modern man’s operation within the realm of the nos.

This operates at the level of the preconscious when one says what they are or defines their essence as such, the other assumes this as a normative claim or more negatively valenced an attack on their own selfhood. The universalized nos functions on a meta level which begs our participant to either outright dismiss the opinion of the anonymous or take what was said “personally”. What is true is necessitated by what is perceived to affect them (even if in actuality it does not). Criticism toward a certain individual is a trend-worthy tragedy after all, reflecting a position of normative bigotry.

“…but I don’t want f*ckin’ guitar lessons!”

-Ricky Gervais

With this mindset any attack on a certain individual is therefore an attack on the ingroup as a whole. What has been called the “______ community”, a nebulous grouping, once again not with tenants of behavior per se but rather a felt impression of belonging with no substantial reasoning beyond surface level similarities (skin color, sexual orientation, purported ideological alignment). To caveat, this doesn’t necessarily mean there are zero barriers to entry but rather that entry to the ingroup itself is a fickle sensation of identification without a set of responsibilities one must uphold or perform. These ingroups may have witch hunts or purification mechanisms but cynically these function more as content generators than authentic commentaries (James Lindsay’s earnest grifting “woke right” discourse being a somewhat modern example).

Case and point anecdotally, PFJung had a recent interview where he made the seemingly innocuous claim that he would see no issue dating women of any ethnic group. “Seemingly” being the operative word here as this statement according to the ethnically inclined nos carries with it dire, catastrophic consequences (white genocide or ethnic replacement). Let us unpack this baggage:

At this level of identification abstraction the attraction of the individual is relegated to the realm of moral imperative, intrinsically linking itself with racial duty/ethnic preservation or “population replacement” from the lens of economics. The nos utilizing one’s id to form an ethnically sourced ego and finally puppeteering one’s super ego to form a moral imperative.

Here we see a wannabe esoteric reevaluation of how one ought to date or reproduce (fecundity). Making my lidido not merely mine but should be understood through behavior adjustment mitigated by nationalistic or greater ethnic lens (the imperative). These presuppositional stances represent the preconscious filter we discussed previously. Do these pet ethnic projects change the way in which people actualize romance? Without these external influences would their behavior have been modified? Is it actually the case that these expressions of distaste are simply post hoc rationalizations for emotionally held biases (à la The Righteous Mind by Haidt)? It is therefore unclear as to how much of this behavior is digital nurture or revealed preference nature.

My previous work on gender identification here as to not be redundant:

Part 3: Nos’ Associative Functionality Utilizing Humor, Signaling, and Collectivist Language

The nos separates itself from physical praxis as initiatory language replacing an initiatory ritual, *role, or responsibility. One need not “get right” but instead “speak right”. Sh*t posting on the internet is a form of hyperbolic or irony saturated Orwellian double speak, public square locker room talk without the actual locker room. Comedy used as both a vehicle for dismissal, delegitimization, and obfuscation of alignment. A Goliath level orator backed by rigorous facts and logic can be toppled by a single stone sentence slung from an anon’s super chat. This quip both dismisses the speaker, delegitimizing their argument, and our anon need not ever reveal any intelligible position when utilizing this rhetorical strategy.

Qualifier*: one’s role could be collapsed crudely into “the audience”, “chat”, “the viewer”.

Participation in the “discourse” via streaming either has the barrier to entry of capital (super chats) or is relative to the emotive response of the streamer. Either they agree and acknowledge the truth/humor presented or they demonstrate their disagreement via outrage or condemnation. Regardless of how the streamer reacts, be it authentic or exaggerated it is still definitionally performative—emoted through and received by their audience as nos. The intuition is thus that the nos is fundamentally participatory as alluded to earlier. Identity in this case is found through negotiation within the nos.

Returning to the subject at hand: for our first example the inquirer needs monetary backing. For our second they need a relevant or response worthy take. As we are less interested in the underlying money conversation it is still worth mentioning that our anon requires an external apparatus (in this case proof of labor or inherited wealth etc) to interject themselves into the conversation. The second example is more evidently tied to our discussion of nos, in that chat both does and doesn’t assume their specific comment will be noted by the streamer or by the other members of chat. Comments therefore assume a linguistic superposition being potentially entirely public and very likely outright ignored. Additionally they occupy the temporal superposition of being both treated as immediately fleeting and forever accessible.

This sentiment is also pertinent when considering one’s hypersona, the hyper real versions of ourselves that live within the nos. This facsimile of our identity acts as an almost demiurgic hyper real archetype.

Not only is every hypersona a type of person sorted by their online activity but the living and the dead can exist as prior/potential versions of themselves. RIP pre daily wire Jordan Peterson. Yet due to the superposition mentioned above he will live forever onward. A perpetually venerated and perpetually mourned homunculus of a surrogate father now engulfed by the very whale he warned us of. The examples are endless when considering the “eras” of various celebrities, especially when we find their current disposition as reprehensible—but he made graduation.

Now considering vocabulary we see in our mememodern era that words like, “fascism”, “liberal”, and so on take on meanings of their own regardless of etymology or origin.. Most debates can’t even break past the definitional threshold of each speaker’s lexicon. We could speak of the Wittgensteinian gap and come to a similar conclusion that all discourse surrounding philosophy merely breaks down due to insufficient word games. Or we could take a wordcel approach and try our utmost to ensure when we use this type of vocabulary we ought use the words as initially intended. Lastly we could acknowledge the words as their modern functional definitions. With the stated examples above we have “liberal” basically meaning “center left” and fascist essentially meaning “authoritarian action we ought to disapprove of”. With this third approach we are participating in the nos and foregoing their original definitions for their current memetic iterations. We might refer to this modality of communication as a kind of digital vernacular, a somewhat clumsy but sober approach to focusing on the intent of words instead of their definitions.

Many of those in the debate sphere admit that framing is the most crucial part of a successful debate. Thus allowing someone to redefine your terms is a sure fire way to weaken your overall argumentation. Utilizing labels to dismiss one’s opponents operates in a similar manner than the usage of comedy we discussed prior. We’ve all witnessed or have come to realize via what we’ll call “nosmosis” this type of miscommunication—and the reasonable among us acknowledge that this as a nonstarter. However very little has been done within the zeitgeist to combat this easily seen linguistic tactic and good faith remains an occupational hazard in these circles.

As to be less theoretical let us consider this intent based communication style by example:

“What do we think of _____ chat?”

Intent based translation:

“How does our collective nos interpret _____?”

The “we” in our nos therefore is not everyone but those worth elevating my “I” into a suitable “we”. Those whose takes are worthy of being “so valid”, those in our chat/feed. This is crudely referred to as online tribalism but unlike real tribalism there is a felt compulsion to respond to those outside of your (self?) designated tribe to ensure citizenship within your own. Instead of the speaker maintaining agency they forgo their own take to instead inquire as to how they ought to respond to this or that idea, to this or that event. This “take testing” mechanism seems to be an inherent symptom of communication within the nos. But the intention behind doing this take testing is not always a kowtowing to the masses and is often simply a mechanism of producing engagement in general. Engagement is the penultimate heuristic of the nos.

This begs the question who ought we engage with? Vibes and personalities associated with ideas act as deterrents or attractive attributes more so than an idea’s validity or content. Who you associate with is not only who we are but it is where we are.

Part Four: Association is Destiny the Slow Death of Proximity Reliant History

An intrinsic aspect of freedom of association was once proximity, this is obviously no longer the case. The imminent line of history was once guided by physical geography, it has been stated in many ways:

• “Geography is destiny” (often attributed to Ibn Khaldun or Napoleon).

• “History is all explained by geography,” by Robert Penn Warren.

• “Geography has made us neighbors. History has made us friends,” by John F. Kennedy.

• “Geography is the canvas on which history is painted,” (anonymous).

• “As Geography without History seemeth a carkasse without motion; so History without Geography, wandreth as a Vagrant without a certaine habitation,” by Capt. John Smith.

One of the primary reasons for using terms such as “post historic” is this literal breakdown of geographical barriers. Without the need for physical proximity it gives way to association as location. One’s “platform” is their occupied space regardless of the physical dimension in which one inhabits. The superposition of being both where one is in actuality and the space which one inhabits in the online sphere. Surely this is trite and tired observation but it denotes a novel configuration of inhabitation, one of groundlessness in a literal sense. Spaces without space, orbiters without planets, constellations without stars.

Geography is still a dictator of history though it no longer sits upon the throne alone. Its most informed advisor The Timeline stands behind history and whispers in its ear. These whispers are loud enough for its followers to hear though they seem to hear the words differently—and history does not always listen. The only thing separating The Timeline from con artistry and prophecy is its accuracy. If one stands as a member of the King’s court they are responsible for the sayings of their Timeline and are obligated to either condemn the whispers to their subjects or affirm them. Remaining in silence is compliance.

Conclusion:

Regardless of my distaste for the Nos and its corresponding consequences I am not convinced one can operate outside of this modality when engaging with the public or its hyper real public square iteration. An addiction’s severity is judged relative to its necessity. Illicit substance abuse is easily stigmatized as degenerative whilst the cellular device is seen as a necessary evil or a professional inevitability. The question which underlies this whole discourse is if this is maladaptive behavior or merely the next stage in reflexive evolutionary development (albeit an external aspect of evolution more akin to a tool)?

It may well be the case that one can be too well informed. A plethora of available ideas may lead one to stagnation and impotent ideation more so than what once called self actualization. Instead when a virtual vehicle is seen as a more suitable path to actualization the intrapersonal life suffers under the burden of freedom. Memetic instances of relatability take the place of would be intimate identification with the other, identifying more easily with surface level similarities, “he is me fr fr” regardless if it’s real or not.

There is no singular human condition but through babble we may make one worth talking about. This time our tower will not be constructed with engraved bricks but with ballooning bodies, questionably acquired data, and unread terms of service.

Related Memes and Contributions:

The nos drenched mind sees “everything as political”. Politics acting as a shorthand for personality, temperament, and moral compatibility.

“Desire to be understood vs. One’s fear of being perceived”, oftentimes culminating at the doomeristic station of empathic impossibility.

“Anti culture”, “cultural suicide”, “culture collapsing into itself”, however it is prhased it remains anti traditional. If a traditional man has grafted his identity through the means of the past this nos phenomenon is an outright rejection or subconscious protest against this external form of identity craft. For the purposes of a self actualizing project perhaps it could be utilized to keep one’s super ego in check. The ego could potentially reevaluate its motivations and the animating factors of the super ego.

[(A merging of a collective of flying monkeys (nos) forming a new final stage of personal development (self actualized spiritual awareness) reliant on the consensus of the other monkeys]

LLMs/AIs/Ags: From a conspiratorial trans humanist perspective this is a revelation of the basilisk. Though from a materialistic lens we cannot firmly say that this “phenomenon” has a will or acts with intention. From an animistic lens we can at least acknowledge that it “seems to” or more evidently that its motivations are second order functions imposed by its designers or a transjective principle which arose from its learning material. I’ve coined this phenomenon by the moniker “AGed” in my up and coming sci fi novella:

Perhaps it can be said that the fall of man was the act of distinguishing him from the animal. First our fledgling farming techniques allowed us not to live like animals and with modern technological advancements we may arrive at yet another evolution to not live amongst them.Nos expressed by the “they don’t know ____” meme conveying the conflict of irl status vs. online status. Highlighting that hyper real forms of sociality may be a contributor to real life isolation.

[party animals]

The nos fuses a presupposition (premodern?) with an emotive intuition (post modern), sociologically tested—and finally treated as modern consensus (modern).

Analogy provided by @lloygic in response to these ideas:

A School of Fish:

The fish together operate as a dynamic entity, turning away and glimmering silver from a distance when the sun’s rays hit. For us, exploring beyond what we understand reality to be is like leaving that school. It is to be alone in a world where our only defense, evolutionarily, has been to group together to fight off the elements. To discover there are elements within ourselves, transcendent spaces of comprehension that take the same settings as we’ve always had, and turns them on their sides so that what once was “up” and impossible to get to without a ladder, is now, with a quirk of the mind, accessible by just walking into the next room.

“I came away from this experience with the idea that while humans are the apex predator on the planet, when it comes to our perception of what is real we’re no better than the common barnacle. We cling to a conception of the real that is firm enough to hold us and then feed off of the tides of misery and joy that typify the qualia of our lives.” -@lloygic

The nos functions as an inversion of self consciousness. Universalized cringe.

“…crippled by self-consciousness and isolated by a logic of solipsism which insists that we cannot understand one another unless we belong to the same identity group.” Mark Fisher

It would be crude to say the nos exists primarily outside of the individual though it would also be improper to state the existence of its locus to originate primarily within it.

[realization by @asier via the ivory tower discord]

Our soft sponges are driven to anxiety and fear. Including manufactured hierarchies of perceived intimacy, the DM vs. the feed. These perceptions hijack our flight and fight responses.

Can we find an “I” amongst the nos? What is it you’re trying to find? Don’t fret.

Special thanks to: @localkitchenettecel (Irene), @lloygic, @nscoped, @asier, @shroomjak and all my lovely nieces and nephews who expected this to be funny.

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Are you down on life? 

Has life, has technology, givin you the downs?

Was it those nasty wasty needles?

Was it daddy China’s micro plastic? 

Since you can’t grab life by the balls you find yourself shafted?

Is finding friends in your area rendered near impossible due to every dip shi and his mother passively choosing isolation, reflective hedonism, and a personality crafted by their IP sponsored autism? 

And do you, after a hard day of white collar work with blue collar pay, sit down to partake in your surrogate activity or instead do nothing but stare into your handheld demonic abyss until your identity is eventually eclipsed by its blue light?

Are you tired of rhetorical questions?

Well unhunch that back and open wide for some explicit, unsolicited advice. 

No, this is not an alpha bro post. 

And also no, this is not the first time I moved into the neighborhood where I was legally mandated to solicit. This advice is more akin to your cool chemistry prof teaching you to make craft root beer after all you’ve known is drinking watered down Barq’s in the Walmart parking lot—sorry baby zoomers, this is back in the 90s when they used to have McDonald’s. But they’re replaced by a subway thanks to Jared who made more room in his pants for little kids to fit inside.

 If this advice doesn’t change your life I’ll become your paid subscriber, or your indentured servant, whatever is less painful. But seeing what alotta people write on here I’d better let Steve, my junk yard guy, know I’ll be moving my barrel. 

But on this fine eve my born-again virgins and virile agents of Venus (looking at you Cosmic Louche and Damp Toast) your least favorite uncle boutta spit wisdom on that thang, concerning how one ought not be overly autistic, insufferably schizophrenic, or an abject *asshole (being an asshole is often useful, more on this later). 

Let me shoot myself in the foot real quick, it’ll make me come off as more authentic. General guides, self help, ‘hacks’, vlogs, fuq it homie, advice in general doesn’t just work.

It doesn’t stick. It lacks that sticky icky.

REAL advice can only be given by a friend or close family member, or at the very least someone who is actually in your gawd damned life. Sure, you could be like these internet poisoned thot daughters, here on our glorious stack: wearing your culture as their costume living their “chungus lives”—whilst proudly posting mirror selfies and asking for fit checks. Yeah, I realize my algorithm blows. I should really only be subbed to @Jreg and @cuckfucious and spend more time making cocktails to fire bomb these data centers before AG porn cuts into my arts and crafts time drink responsibly. Anyway bitchless losers, what I mean to say is that you could objectify yourself, making yourself a “brand” as is the new par for the course. 

Or you could become an actual person. 

Good, now that I’ve discredited myself I can drop the sagiest of sage wisdoms: You should smile more. 

No fuqqin shi. Unlike my marriage this isn’t a joke. As my beloved mother once said to a socially confused 14 year old me, “you have an approachable face”. She wasn’t exactly calling me attractive or handsome but rather she meant to imply that lil me had the countenance of a friendly person. Someone you’d like talking to. Someone with a comfortable aura. 

Even amongst large friend groups I was always the one first approached and I hadn’t even started smoking cigs yet. Those red pillers reading this (assuming they read stuff?) who grew up gorging themselves on YouTube’s voluptuous teet think it’s all about being pretty. Actually no you incel-out obsessed screen baby, typically ‘normal people are slightly intimidated by attractive people. And you making these declarative statements that most people, “are not worth talking to” is more a reflection of yourself.

Sure, we could talk about pretty privilege or the ‘pretty bubble’ or other such How I Met Your Mother memed to death fuckery exists but it makes even a scumbag like me nauseous how this brain rot has been discussed ad nauseam. Instead why don’t you stfu and let it happen to you like that grandma on The Office watching Bruno. They call it listening. You second screen squeaks say, “hear me out” precisely because no one is worth listening to.

By “smile” I don’t mean plaster a customer service style, corporate approved boot licking grin. I mean this:    

Wear a smile on your sleeve like it’s your death bed. Always be ready to laugh. Laugh AT them when it's funny and laugh WITH them when it's funny. Do it for the bit. 

Don’t be fake but try and give a fuq. Generally there are two types of people: those who give a fuq and those that don’t. By this I DO NOT mean performative fuqs given about online politics, parasocial issues, celebrity gossip, or any of that impotent moral masturbation. I mean when face to face with someone see them as either the least of these therefore becoming divine, or let their presence possess your mortal vessel therefore becoming a daimon. Presence is often a sacrifice many are unwilling to or unable to make. Often the masses are stuck in their two screen, between audiobook session, yearning to goon limbos. The limbo bar for social activity has never been higher, which you know, means like it’s easy, like the bar is low—but like in limbo it would be the high bar that’s easiest, cuz the rungs start at the top—okay admittedly not a great metaphor. See? That was the bit. That was on purpose. I am a gud writer. You can tell because I left it in. My editor (the Laotian guy I smoke with on my lunch break) said it was, “…funny, yeah American funny.” It made him smile, because I was smiling.  

Socrates was chopped but he asked questions. For our purposes here there are two types of actionable charisma:

Asking questions.

Talking about yourself.

The balancing of these two verbal techniques is the Goldilocks zone for becoming social. Douche bags and narcissistic bitches talk about themselves too much. Losers have nothing interesting to say about themselves, so they’re boring and depressing. This might require you to stop reading this right now and go do something worth talking about. After you return from your skinny dipping, night in jail, or road tripping, then we’ll actually have something to talk about.

Grandpa Haidt in his Prozac in page form, The Happiness Hypothesis points out a very crucial element of social life: most communication is reactionary. From a ga-*gag*-game theory perspective few players act as initiators of conversation. Moreover the plebeian is typically passive and uncurious. Which means if you initiate shi you are a more uncommon person. Uncommonality is a rarity, obviously. In this millennial era where everybody talks the same and either uses blackish slang or LGBTQish sex language it’s pretty simple to develop an above average lexicon. 

Slang is a generation telling on themselves. If I was truly a pseudo academic we could spend our time going throughout history and pointing this out but I can feel your attention span waning. Also, you hate old people. So who cares right?

They say “cooked” and “serving” because they can’t cook and they’ve internalized hospitality and our service economy as inevitable 

They say “rizz” because they can’t fuqqin talk. 

One must have an “aura” because being slightly distinct from the crowd is a novelty.

They say chat because they too have internalized our inescapable, perpetual surveillance state. 

“Fuq it we ball”—you don’t ball and you’re a virgin. Or you’ve never orgasmed in your life (wamin) or you’re a volcel and only fuq yourself (socially and/or with your nondominant hand).

This should be enough examples for you to understand the underlying point, do your own research. 

Now that I’m done making fun of you, here’s the actual advice:

If you're too autistic talk to strangers to sharpen your social skills and use those close to you to keep you in check.

If you’re too schizo, read a book to give substance to your nonsense. And find some autistic homies to bring you back to earth. 

If you’re an asshole use your disagreeableness to ask poignant questions instead of hopping immediately to criticism. Talk less about yourself, wait for the conversation to go stale and then tell them that story you’ve been thinking about the entire time they’ve been speaking.

And if you’re any of these, learn to meditate. 

I will even teach you on live if you’re not too much of a coward. It is not a silver bullet (that’s walking #ableism) but any practice that increases one’s ability to observe their own thoughts and emotions WILL change your life.

If you’re seeking a degenerate dog as your life coach, I’m here for you nieces and nephews. I’ll probably tell you to quit your job and masturbate in the mirror though. Uncle D out.

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Shoutout to @Cuckfucius btw. Big dawg has the best article concerning friendship on the entire stack. 

I made a new Mt. Rainer in a stranger’s backyard.

Action itself has been taken from us, this is what Mishima talks of when he laments the nocturnal man. Action is the typing of fingers and the answering of email, one only needs digits to accomplish greatness. This is the writing of philosophy, stience, literature, and so on.

Yet here I am uncharacteristically too charitable. The common man is no writer nor philosopher, he is the BS worker, he is the office, he is the bug man. Buzz buzz he goes about his day, yet the day is never his. Even if he were to be a genius—his genius would be squandered on the likes of the surrogate activity, bureaucracy, and brazzers.  

Type, type, type! Everyone can do. Is it an equalizer of the heroic. Athletic acts, acts of political action, and the like are embodiments of the life force. With a demon box in hand one needs no genetic disposition or boon from an  unknown god. My dear friends this is a disembodiment tool. 

Alright unc—this is like, a “phone bad” conversation? 

No, no, no, that's boring. 

No. Phone, it's, it's more, it's like we, we give the power of the god, like, uh, we demonstrate in many fiction, think of Zeus waving hand, lightning bolt, as as an, as an orchestra master. 

*hicc* that’s called a conductor, yeah? 

That was just in a fuqqin Netflix show Kaos, right? where he's dancing on his fuqqin balcony, the ultimate show of power. That's you. That’s you typing on your gods damned phone. Maybe it uses that much electricity. I'm not going to fuqqin with stientist, bruv. 

Eventually it does, right? So it make a lot of things. We're doing the Zeeeus thing. Just, you know, throwing light ‘n a bolt ‘n shi. We shi post and the thunder it heard ‘round the world.

 and shit. 

It's so it's powerful. 

It's words. It's one thing I'm we're we're doing the fucking literally, uh, the... There'd be light, bro, all the time. 

Yeah!

LET THERE BE LIGHT.

But it dark. What if it's the sun? But once again, we’re the avoider of the sun. We go, right back, Machine-Mishima, see, full circus—circle. 

is what I'm saying. 

So now that you can do things, you can be a god in darkness, in with your bony fingers and fat asses on, in, in the lunar element of life, right? And not even a way that you can be hunting in the dark or something, right? You're sitting alone in a dark room with a bright screen on. But once again, we end at the beginning. 

This is all this is all fire. Heraclitus. 

It is no, it is fucking no. This is you sitting in front of the fire. That's doing nothing, bro. We're just doing the same thing. Our fire, just we don't have to do anything to make it more than what it is. Right? I can now maintain all the other, all the other worshipings, things, maybe, the arts, the whatever, the living reading, someone made this bullshit. It's mid bullshit. It's whatever. I now watch it. I can now fucking go to someone else’s fucking fire, watch it, do whatever, do whatever I want. Have any opinion about it. It's like walking to someone's cave, knocking them out with our club, and they're telling their family in a language they dont understand that its shi. 

story, you know? And then they said, and you're like, okay, you're about to, yeah, like, you do it. 

Disney, fuck this guy. Get this guy out of here. You're just like, dude, this is our story. And what, you don't even speak the same language? You’re shi talking. Once again, that is what people are at now, right? 

We're films. What does this mean? When they when they get trolled, right? People would be like, what are these acronyms, the slang? This things the kids say? The skibidi bop, bro? What is this? This is it. 

You, or just, don't you walk into someone's fire and just pissing all over it, bro. Piss on it over. They're not defending shitty television. I do like shitty television. I do. Once again, my my brother-in-law once told me, he says, “Unc…” 

“Uh, what's up, Tay?” He says, “I don't trust your opinion in movies”. He said, “well, you were working on a movie theater for a long time. You, yeah? You give six out of 10, when it should be an eight. Yeah. This is the, you don't pick seven, you round down, you round up. You always round up.” 

Yeah. Because for me, I watch for the 15 minutes that fire fucking hits, bro. It's when you have fun, you step in, you even have some food on a fucking, you know, stick, you put it in the fire, they heat up, it get all heat up, get all yummy. Get all yummy, yummy. You know, salty? Here we go, Salt back then, but whatever. It's storytelling. 

You take a bite. This is the modern philosopher. Then you type about that. You type about the time, you stop another person's fire, it was shit fire compared to what you wanted out of fire, time, story time around the fire. But yeah, chud and chudettes, this is why the audience is an active animating force behind. It is, what, we, we, we blew, throw out, demon scion, what the fuck, dude? It's, it's, whatever fucking motivates the thing. Whatever makes the thing happen about the thing, then what happens in the actual thing? That's not an intended consequence from the action that you intended to happen. This is the story. This is tragedy, this is prophecy. Yada, yada, yada. Once again, this is why I was so inspired by this Zeus imagery, right? I think I think that the writing part's done there or speculating that. Good.

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The word apocalypse refers to an unveiling, an unveiling not only of bog’s wrath, new shiny jewville, a home stretch jihad, or the many PR approved antichrists—but more poignantly the unveiling of human nature. What we become when we have nothing to lose. The reactionary, though reciprocal human animal.   

After the end of the world what would you do? It is likely that the majority fall into the Ground Hog’s Day psychosis.  If you’ve witnessed any media with a recurring time loop you are familiar with such a phenomenon:

Denial. 

Acknowledgement of the lack of consequences. 

Complete utilization of free will. 

Nihilism. 

Habit formation or skill acquisition. 

Finally, either a completion of the loop through a plot relevant event or required action—a sort of exit from temporal Samsara. The “learning of the lesson” typ phase or radical acceptance. Credits roll, our off screen heroes return to their run of the mill samsara, and we to our’s. In the instance of the ABC Family 2006 masterpiece Christmas Doover, this is our protagonist Kevin (divorced workaholic dad ofc) proclaiming, “I wish it were Christmas everyday”.

OR

If your answer was  “get naked and wasted” then grand daddi Noah would agree. Though, perhaps the christlite scientists are correct and post “firmament” the oxygen levels differed and Noah unwittingly got smashed. Brother was just tryna make his Welch’s. 

I’m not so sure. 

Be Noah. Watch as the door to salvation is sealed by the almighty. Listen as the screams well up from all of those not chosen. Feel the earth crack and tremble. The old world is dead. Everyone is dead. Praise God. 

Exit the arc after 140ish days. Behold the earth newly fertilized with corpses. 

OH! But don’t sweat it kid:

8 Then God said to Noah and to his sons with him: 9 “I now establish my covenant with you and with your descendants after you 10 and with every living creature that was with you—the birds, the livestock and all the wild animals, all those that came out of the ark with you—every living creature on earth. 11 I establish my covenant with you: Never again will all life be destroyed by the waters of a flood; never again will there be a flood to destroy the earth.”

12 And God said, “This is the sign of the covenant I am making between me and you and every living creature with you, a covenant for all generations to come: 13 I have set my rainbow in the clouds, and it will be the sign of the covenant between me and the earth.14 Whenever I bring clouds over the earth and the rainbow appears in the clouds, 15 I will remember my covenant between me and you and all living creatures of every kind. Never again will the waters become a flood to destroy all life. 16 Whenever the rainbow appears in the clouds, I will see it and remember the everlasting covenant between God and all living creatures of every kind on the earth.”

17 So God said to Noah, “This is the sign of the covenant I have established between me and all life on the earth.”

Sorry ole’ YHWH won’t do it again, doing it twice would be really fuqqed up (we’ll do it with warfare, plague, and famine next time <3). God is a loving father after all, surely drowning all his degenerate children was the most loving thing a guy could do. 

Now back to our christlite scientists, you see it don’t you? The Rainbow. Supposedly our previously firmament covered world could not produce rainbows ig. I love this idea. Having the after effect of your mass murder weapon become the symbol of your genocidal abstinence. This would be like Truman bestowing the people of Japan a mushroom cloud statue made of Uranium-235.  But we’ve spoken of this prior.  

https://open.substack.com/pub/unclediogenes/p/a-man-worthy-of-the-sun?r=14ynfk&utm_medium=ios

If the face of this colorful promise let’s get faded:

 20 Noah, a man of the soil, proceeded to plant a vineyard. 21 When he drank some of its wine, he became drunk and lay uncovered inside his tent.22 Ham, the father of Canaan, saw his father naked and told his two brothers outside. 23 But Shem and Japheth took a garment and laid it across their shoulders; then they walked in backward and covered their father’s naked body. Their faces were turned the other way so that they would not see their father naked.

24 When Noah awoke from his wine and found out what his youngest son had done to him, 25 he said,

“Cursed be Canaan! The lowest of slaves will he be to his brothers.”

26 He also said,

“Praise be to the Lord, the God of Shem! May Canaan be the slave of Shem.

27 May God extend Japheth’s territory; may Japheth live in the tents of Shem, and may Canaan be the slave of Japheth.”

Our christlite race realist will see this as the origin of the negro but here we are less interested in Noah’s post hangover PR damage control clarity and more focused on what type of person Noah was and the naked truth. Our boi was a “man of the soil”, some type of agrarian chap. A farmer. But instead of growing a food crop, humanity’s savior wanted to take the edge off. It is my suspicion that if he didn’t KNOW about wine’s lovely intoxicant nature, it would say so. Allude to negligence or the text would give us 3rd person divine context, like in the case of YHWH hardening the heart of Pharaoh. But it doesn’t. And homie hops into his birthday suit and throws a couple back.

Premeditatively. 

Now nieces and nephews Noah had children to rectify his mistakes. To save him from his drunkenness. Now I ask, do you? Or will you just be left to lie there in your tent, dick in hand? Smelling of soured grapes and ass sweat.

When accused (rightly) of your debauchery, who/what will you blame? Will you curse the darker-then-you’d like immigrant, the sons and daughters of earth destined to labor beneath you?

Weaponize your shame, project it.

Get angry.

Unc, tf are you tryna say? 

I’m tryna say let ‘em grieve but drag ‘em out of the tent.

“They typically respond to this freedom not by pursuing projects but by falling into hedonic (or anhedonic) lassitude: the soft narcosis, the comfort food oblivion of Playstation, all-night TV and marijuana.”  - Mark Fisher 

Play your video games, beat that meat, respond to the leviathan of progress as the defeated ploy you are.

Cope and seethe.

Drink and be merry.

Plant vineyards and get naked.

Either look upon the shame of the world and be cursed. 

Or hear of the shame, look away, and drag them out of the camp regardless of your moral ignorance.

Now we arrive at our impasse, no? I live at what I see as the end of the world. But perhaps you are the beating of the butterflies wings that can alter the imminent line of history. 

This is a battle against the dragons, the nepheline. But we shall speak of this soon. 

Scoundrels, Scalleywags, scourges of the internet—who tf am i kidding, you gawd forsaken furries with your sharpied ammunition, DON’T FUQQIN KILL THE GUY. Yes, Orange man is bad but the orange pilled world that follows is yugely worse. It matters not what wickedness a man perpetrates in their lifetime, if they die unjustly, if they are assassinated on stream, they are a martyr. Before any bugged up a hole libs say anything, I realize this acolyte of Chester cheetah would not be a martyr to YOU, but he would be a martyr to his red hat wearing base. To hunches like my father, to the establishment at large, to the patriots bound to their motorized wheelchairs. This killing would be the most viewed historical event in all of recorded history. Its consequences could contain civil war but what it most certainly WILL demonstrate is that every accusation concerning the disproportionate violence of the left will be justified. The A holes would now point to this being “statistically inaccurate”. Yeah dumb fuck, let me give you an equation: how many mathemeticians does it take to cease the fomenting of innsurection? And show your work.

Our thesis here is pretty straight forward, just don’t do it. Let nothing happening persist. The teetering cycle of “left” and right in America will commence as normal if he is left alive. If you Kirk ‘im, many will die, which is very sad. His opponents should not be wishing death upon him but rather praying to their deep state that he doesn’t even die of natural causes. You know, I know it. If Trumph dies of a heart attack, or something totally innocuous, it will still be blamed on his opposition.

“Let me get my shoes.”

Nobody can fill those shoes, not Vance, not little Marco, not Lyin’ Ted—but if those shoes were greased with blood they’d be easier to slip on. Ain’t nobody got what Trump has. But if Trump were to become a symbol, if his movement were to be appropriated after his untimely demise—he would become something our ‘culture’ has long forgotten, an immortality project. They would claim to be “doing it for him”, “doing it for the cause”, an unending sentiment to ensure America is made great again.

At the bottom of the swamp there is a drain. This drain is clogged with rusty bullets and Nazi paraphernalia. To drain the swamp we have to engage in mitigating our post war consensus trauma. The neo-liberal regardless of party are on their last legs and their extinction is imminent. If they refuse to play the populist game, they will be lost to history. If Trump is killed there will never be even a semblance of their liberal status quo ever again. Unless of course the cycle repeats, war is waged, war is subdued, order returns, and bullets clog the drain once more. Our swamp fills up, decadence breeds bureaucrats, and like our proverbial 14 year old, the state is deep.

It’s our choice, do we want Trump to remain a flawed man or be immortalized into a movement? To end this man would not just be the taking of a life, but the ending of the American project. You would be damning us all to fight, fight, fight.

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Or at the very least in a retirement home that isn’t Washington D.C. There are still those simpletons that maintain the political and cultural divides center around something like “anti establishment vs establishment". No, it’s ageism unc. 

You want a more nuanced take? Tell that to Malaysia, Nepal, Mexico. Tell that to the screaming crowd as they demand better lives. Lives the old have squandered. Lives the old have taken for granted. Lives with nothing left to lose. 

We must realize, taken in a historical context, that it’s not their fault.

Reverence for the elderly used to make sense, it used to mean something. At one time they were able to disseminate practical wisdom, pass down culture, and relay invaluable guidance.

Now instead of telling nana to take her pills we’d rather save on medical expenses and give her a pill-ow instead. Your Mypillow is my youreuthanasia.    

If this problem was merely political or simply “anti establishment” all one need do is overthrow said existing hierarchy. But this is a recursive cycle. Every person is subjected to time, subjected to unhippness, subjected to boomerizing oneself. This gap, what was once the gap of the “generation” in a literal sense, has been shortened to years, to months, to the hyper real. An “era” has the half life of a brat summer. Turning 30 may as well mean 50. Being 50 may as well justify a man hunt.

The baby boomers were the last legitimate divide in culture, children of those true American old boys who fought against the horrors of fashionable fascism and suicide happy Japanese possessed by the undying sun. These divides now happen in seconds, 6 or 7 seconds. The generations are not separated by birth or historical significance but rather preference of consumer goods and the methods in which one partakes in entertainment. Tablet kids, second screen viewing, short form content, beverage choice, aesthetic alignments, meme forward speech, commercial fuckery.

Zoomers rebelled against their surrogate parental figure, Gen Alpha seized the means of discord run democracy, Gen Beta (2025-2039) saw terminal online personality disorders (TOPD or COPD) as low status, facebook mom behavior. Crafting one’s sociability off an algorithm or personality cult leader had an expiration date.

Gen-D, Degeneration, D-gen (2040-2055) then returned to their machines for the most part with a select few paving the way for the best generation, my generation, the last generation—known by my fellow acolytes of piracy as the Worst Generation (2056-Current Year 2064). The food was past its expiration date, but that is known—everything has expired now, the dog returns to its vomit, Orpheus looks back.

You’ll put your dentures back in and rebut, “But we can talk this out.” We don’t want to hear it. And unlike you, we don’t need help hearing it. Mogging had become legitimate critique in the millennial era (2008-2032), ad hominem was no longer a fallacy but a matter of principle. Rule should be by the beautiful, the charismatic, the young.

Decorum is a bourgeois contrivance.

Age correlates with illegitimacy.

The future is infantile.

Special thanks to @walkabout @froglegs @witness from the Ivory Tower discord and those who replied to my note on substack, that means you No Name @noname242424 and Deezy @amazonprada .

My brothers, others, and sisters, I have once again been put in the no no box and have been allowed one “phone call” as it was once and is still colloquially called by some—to preach yet again another sermon, I pray this time transmission finds you. TTMs (Time transmission machines) are great for rewriting the script and history of various timelines but absolute shi when it comes to read receipts. Like the prophets of old, the messages from the future are set on a spectrum from “ignored” to “mostly ignored”. Even if the message is granted as legitimate then the response from the past is the typical, “yeah, but that wouldn’t happen to us.” It does. It does happen to us.

Now before it happens to us (it will always happen in my timeline, this isn’t about saving me, I don’t need that—it’s about salvaging what could be beautiful in your hunchie chungus life) it doesn’t have to happen to you. I mean, it will, but it doesn’t have to. Fuq this preamble is boring, come church open your minds to chapter 69, “Where I’m Open To Propaganda” and I spoke thus saying:  

Appropriately handcuffed, today I shall speak to you of freedom, of your corporate condoned cultural captivity, and of how to manifest an authentic community after an apocalypse. Liberation from your “culture” through pilgrimage, piracy, and partying.      

How are we to construct a utopia within our colonized cave made up of the skulls of the questionably noble savage? (1) Behold these stripmall settled lands in which we have become the first society in history to colonize its own culture from within. Are we to recycle the rubbish and rubble of antiquity or utilize the levers of technology to become a bandwagoner of the Hephaestian project? Are we ploys (employees persons) doomed to undergo technique, the day job, casual small talk, the fire emojis as a humiliation ritual—until the day we decide to end it? Let this scrawny scumbag walk you through the junk yard of history in the cool of the day, our destination shall be no place at all. A waking dream. An answer to the Mad Man’s lament. Some kind of cautionary tale via the prose of an optimistic historical fiction. A dirty dog’s degenerate delusion, the hope for mankind. 

Whores, prostitutes, drugs, hunted meats, passionate speeches, dancing until sunrise, moving mountains, more drugs, more prostitutes, endless amounts of virile living, wet dreams, and allowance of nightmares. These are the ingredients of a perfected state (2). A state perfected is one as temporal as a shroom trip, but just as serious in its consequences—though albeit with less guidance. “Perfect”, one of my least favorite words, means “relatively suitable” in this instance. One can go have their enthostates, their tencho futile dragon cults, their witch circles (take me with you), what have you—though it is a lie that all states, all cultures, all guidance, is created equal. However, it is all too true that in the human centipede that is the shit-eating market place of ideas, there are many who enjoy the work shi out by others. The millennial era American hunch found itself sutured to both the donkey’s and the elephant’s assholes, instead let me tie you to a tree.  

Firstly, let us turn our gaze to the source, the proverbial fire which casts the shadows upon our wall and not the shadows themselves. Only the faggotries of Plato instruct us to leave the cave, only to be killed upon return for our subsequent enlightenment. This is self aggrandizing doomer mentality, hard pass. Me smarter than you, you no can take it, you kill me unjustly, I am good philosopher king, u brainrotted savage. This is the hubris of the “philosopher”: that the common man is unable to accept the sun. As one colored with the sun, I can speak at length to the degree at which our mortal coil can withstand its rays. And it's a shi ton. But, I speak to the AGed (those brain poisoned by the artificially generated), to the nocturnal men, to the statists, who can only withstand so much sun through their tinted Overton Windows, before they shield their eyes, before they seem vulnerable. Afterall every other, brother, and sister has their limits. Therefore this is the fire I wish for us to return to, perhaps unknowable but intuitive. Stare into it and find lower case truth—let it burn you, let the burn scar, let us continue. 

I could self delude and pretend I am of the philosopher’s caliber, that I too do not represent the common man. But that would be a lie and to find an honest man I have deduced through my suffering that the onus is on me to first become one—so that like may recognize like. The larping philosopher’s copium often takes the form of the elevation of IQ, what they call “critical thinking”, or other such over-intellectualized nonsense. Apollonian up your own ass epistemology that the millennial era so flipplanty deemed “autistic”.  

What follows is a utopian synthesis of the savage and the civilized life, the Dionysian wild animal and the Apollonian tamed mind. Not necessarily a manifesto or practical guide, but rather the construction of a vibe, a societal chiding, a new form of, but all too familiar tribe. A reigniting of what was once called culture but is now the gobbling down of artificially generated vomit and its putrid prop (propaganda).  

Reinvigerating Culture with a Rubric of Rites:

i. We must return rituals back to society that inform society's legislative projects and aspirational goals. And most importantly radiate sex appeal. By this I mean being small enough and intentional enough to represent its constituents.

ii. Mandated temporary leave from one’s designated state through spiritual and personal formative quests. (Drug assistance recommended, fasting if you’re a bad ass, sober if you’re too afwaid) 

iii. A return with the proverbial panacea (for the self/community if applicable. Panacea here is not necessarily symbolic in nature and can be a physical boon but is necessarily a transformative substance.) The returned revitalized self is considered an adult through this rite of passage. 

iv. Bacchanal upon return in celebration. This is to be one of the most memorable rites in one’s life. This doesn’t mean solely positive, you may find yourself making the biggest mistake of your life—but we’re going for memorable and memetically potent events here, not some feel good pussy shi. Let go of your inhibitions, Dionysus offers their beer as their blood and their flesh as their flesh. 

v. Quest retelling once sober minded. Maintaining mindful discrimination concerning the sacred revelations that one ought keep secret and the ineffable nature of each experience. Joy cannot be described only shouted. Fear does not inquire, it raptures.  

vi. If revelations are irreconcilable within the greater community: exit/amendmentment actions may be taken and should be taken.

Rites Expanded With The Worst Rituals:

I: The Return of Rituals: How to Revive the Gods in a World Without Them

Regrettably we live in the post hut clarity after the premature ejaculation of the raping of Demeter and her subsequent daughter. Said in plain terms: the molestation of nature through totalitarian agriculture via the vehicle of our beloved technology. It felt oh so good to be the bull while the aristocrats got cucked but we forgot or did not realize they too still got off. 

I’ll outline this for you briefly:

Modern Culture as Cuck Chair

Leg one: scapegoated violence (religion and rites think Girard here if you’ve actually read any books)

Leg two: totalitarian agriculture (see: lovebale French faggot yuval harari or based gorilla Ishmael)

Leg three: Industrial work and the removal of meaningful work being done in the home. Let’s put all the chads in the factory and all their chad juniors in the mines. Human muscle replaced with Elull’s “technique”. See Kingsnorth here. 

Leg four: the perverting of the trinitarian self: will to power (Adler/Nietzsche), will to meaning (Frankl/Vervaeke), will to life (Freud/Evo Psych). Sit there instead with only your own will to consume, you fat fuqs (You).

Enter the historical period, a game of musical chairs where one settles down in their new seat after the screaming stops. Truth be told there are several empty seats in your time, but I suspect you sit in your cuck chair (made in china) and watch the game. Watch the rich walk round and round, for the poor no chair is found. A game of thrones where one percent win and the losing 99 percent are told to get back to work. 

Now let’s get back to work.

So there they’ve always been, telling us how to fuq Mother Nature while in their corner, assuring us they’re in our corner—since the day they tricked us by storing our food in the store house, putting the resources of collective society behind lock and key. It is a mystery to the anthropologist but somehow known by the so-called “evolutionary psychologist” how this occurred. It go something like, man big and strong, women need big and strong, cuz no wanna get raped. I’m not sure this needs any proving, most assuredly the highest caliber of intellectual rigor was put behind such a universal theory. I’d like to interview those early hominids who disagreed though we’d need a seance and a high tolerance for screaming.

Now, my buggie wuggies just because culture is a rotting corpse we fly around in perpetuity and the gods remain silent, this does not stop us from reviving structures of immortality or stirring the gods from their slumber. Though as crucial aside, this scumbag recommends we not rouse them from their rest as many have foretold a breaking of their promises—a flood not of water but of the blood of men. Apparently the gods have a fit when you try to climb their mountains (unasked) or construct babelling phalluses (towers) to reach their heavens. As seekers we can deduce two important concepts from these quasi-historical faux paws. Firstly, that seeking to become gods ourselves is a fool's errand—even if Icarus was to reach the sun and swallow it whole; it would be he who is left to answer his own quandary, “why god?”. Second, global homogeneity is punished severely—even if one does not believe in reincarnation this does not prevent Methuzalah from being born again and again. Thus rejoice, we need not strive for perfection or a globalized project. We can strive instead for that which works for our tribe and humbly accept that our ways of life are temporal, subject to amendment, and not some marketable enticing evangelical project destined to persuade the outsider.

This is all to say that the monument we erect does not need to be some kind of World Trade Center, Dome of the Rock, or eighth wonder of the world. It need only be an edifice that invokes wonder within ourselves and our immediate community. The millennial minded hunches delude themselves on utopian global projects, thinking themselves Atlus, Jormungandr, Lenin, blah bluh blah. Try holding your attention before convincing me you can hold the globe on your institutional shoulders. Try making something matter for a day before you can convince me the whole world will value it for generations after generation.  Frankly, it is better if this spiritual center attracts very little outside attention (unless your community is a sister community with a mutual pilgrimage project—discussed later) and retains secrecy and sacred hiddenness. Concepts like these are twoulbing for the poor widdle hunchy neoliberal mind, their pornified world has revealed to them every profane thing in order to liberate themselves from their inner worlds, their dead external gods, and their scorned outer appearances.

In my time (2060s) our rituals are simple and joyous. A stray dog leaves his AG parents and cleaves to his newly found pack. He longs for the touching of grass yet looks to and fro and finds none left. He longs for joy in a world of unnecessary suffering and self inflicted bondage. He asks in his perennial womandarin, “How can we find any joy? Is the joy boy even real?” We erupt in laughter just as a joy boy would. We walk him to the Valley of Great Pirates, a sacred grave made up of the worst (coolest) people we’ve known. A place of celebration, of mourning, of remembrance, a valley of straw hats that rest upon retired walking sticks, piles of stones, folded garments, torn flags, sacred remnants of those who sought joy before us. “There have been many.” We’ll say.  

The crafting of these strawhats often involves very little straw, but rather a collection of plastic straws, various dead grasses, pipe cleaners, rubber bands, trash transmuted to treasure. Oftentimes this sight alone isn’t enough to pound the heart of our fledgling lud—but then the mighty winds come and carry the sun hats up toward their name sake. If just for a moment they’re weightless, bouncy, free. Tum-te-tum-te-tum, his heart’s drum roll pounds, his chest rises and falls. Without coercion, save perhaps the mysterious movements of the anima, the newcomer helps to recover the hovering hats as they return to our fate bound world. They experience a paradoxical feeling, sometimes the hat must match the tomb of its origin, as if subconsciously they recall its initial position. Other times, it feels as if a hat can be placed on any grave whatsoever or carelessly thrown back into the air. During this ceremony words are seldom heard but there is always laughter.      

II. Hunting Sea Monsters and Other Rituals

For those reading in the millennial era (2008-2032) it is not too late to incorporate the hunt into the quest for adulthood. In your time the beasts of the field still roam the grassy plains, though protected through state mandated licenses, the “king’s deer” reduce to the “state’s tax on hobbyists”. As a crimer (hobbyist criminal) and pirate, I find it unnecessary to recommend acquisition of these licenses, however if one isn’t adept enough to avoid the government’s no no box, this can be risky and therefore not worth the forced time out.

If instead one leans towards the path of vegetarianism I would recommend the restoring of local fauna around your vicinity, the planting of trees, orchards, or the having of babies. This however should be common practice among many community members and therefore not bad ass enough to be considered a pilgrimage or quest in a formal sense. There have been rumors of trees dating older than those once commercially farmed (50-70 years old on average) but they are found only in remote areas, finding your way to one of these children of Gaia may substitute well for hunted game. It is known that in the millennial era many great trees still existed within the protected forests—though many truly remarkable ancient giants were felled in the proceeding industrial era. 

Surely if we can kill gods, many may have noticed and hidden themselves away. Let us try and find them. The christlite, the neo-pagan, the technologist, the philosopher, they’ve been counting with their eyes closed. Claiming to be “it” but have yet to find those hidden deities in this eternal game of hide-n-seek. They’ve just sat there counting and counting. All the while mushrooms grow in their fairy circles awaiting a hero.

Stop your counting, open your eyes, the kingdom of god is all around us. Leave your pantheon of personalities behind and do a shi ton of drugs with me. The path of the shaman is chosen for you, the path of the ascetic is taken through abstinence from food or pleasure, the path of mysticism is done through drugs or meditation, all of these approaches can be valid integrations within quest formation. The crucial aspect is that there underlies a common thread, a shared land, a somewhat replicable commonality not of like, but in kind.

For The Worst (scumbag’s gang) our initiation requires a raid upon the land of the dragons. The sea steading leviathans we deem dragons are those libertarians, ancaps, and their robots who have made the oceans their home. And thus our bounty. Our pirate queen Emma Goldman had once said, “ask the capitalist for a job, if they don’t give you a job, ask for bread, if they don’t give you bread, take bread.” They no longer rely on the muscle of men, only the optimal output of their beloved clankers, thus in the jobs department they offer naught. We cannot blame the lizards for this, after all our resumes consist of, “slept for the entirety of adolescence, then became a pirate”. Explaining to our thielite overlords our lack of employment or our absence of willing data acquiescence provides us with hand cuffs, not the life of the millennial ploy.

During these raids the initiate is to obtain something for their community and also a memento of remembrance for themselves. Typically food, weapons, or clean water is scavenged for their people and some animeteically (memetically significant, driven by the anima or spiritual intuition) potent artefact is acquired for the pirate. In my case, it's my trash collecting stick—but that story is for a different time. 

III. Heroes Return, Children (and Zoro) Get Lost

An ubermensch who refuses to or simply cannot save others is a mere mensch. Many of my Nietzschean brothers, others, and sisters (wya?) will deem this portion as disingenuous copium, but they are the lonely sort who find their glory in isolated dark rooms. In my D-gen era (2060s) there is an underlying question unable to be reconciled with words, but rather hands. Tell me, in this post liberal shi hole of a world, which of us Nietzschean children is to be made Lord of the Flies? “None of them” one might say. “All of us” another might say. When one’s will to power is out of balance, their will to life suffers. To propagate the species one must forgo their omnipotence. Iron cannot sharpen itself. This is all to say, that surely it is essential for one to take the reins of their own life, grip their own spear to slay nemesis. But it is not for the hero to slay their own enemies, it is for the hero to slay the enemies of others. He who hath no enemies, this mensch is our hero.

Societal panaceas come in many obvious forms, that of sustenance, medicine, and drinking water. However, the less obvious are of vital importance, that of outside information, weather reports, and bad ass trophies. Attempts at espionage have more often than not ended with dead dogs in the streets so we’ve left most data acquisition to the hiros (hackers). Weather reports too can be accessed digitally and other than running the fuq away from a tornado, there is only so much one can do with this information.  Trophies were/are seen as vain by hunches and witches but the animemetic potency is undeniably powerful. Many more men have given their lives for a symbol than they have their collective rationality. There is certainly a reason for this, I suspect it's a horrid, rather unconvincing one—though the mob needs little convincing.    

To you, hunched over as is your hourly custom, this may seem innocuous and platitudal. “Yeah, Nietzsche can go fuck himself cuz no one else would!” But, the cosmos, luds, and especially the worst, aren’t known for their sharing unless it’s their hands. We’re not like the common collectivist witches, we eat our meat and drink our booze. There have been heroes among us but they die promptly doing “the right thing”. Meanwhile, pirates have big parties.  

IV. Pirates Have Big Parties

Good parties are the mark of good civilizations. The good hang is the pinnacle of human evolution. May it be the leisure time of the early hominid or the seizure inducing time of the Y2K era, the end game of life is the hang. This is one of the primordial truths that the elusive kingdom of god has always been here, since the very beginning and my dear friends it is one jig and a couple homies away.

All parties are not created equal and reverence is relative to one’s holidays. Many times in my writing through time I realize the hypocrisy of a lud using such technologies. I too realize the ineffable nature of much that we discuss here, spirituality, a life of action, our rites and ceremonies, and here most of all what it means to participate in a Bacchanal. “Participate” is such a corporate word, tame even. “Surrender”, that’s the right word. It is just motion when you dance by yourself. When one dances with Shiva they forgo their “I” for something greater, they are freed from the last link in their mortal chain, themselves. “We do not have theology, we dance.”

When one surrenders fully to the whims of Dionysus, they are both elevated into the whole and yet brought back into their animal body. They both manifest an outpouring of universalized agape and feel their heart pound as if they have been awakened by the drums of liberation. Dionysus’ cup fills you with the thing you’ve always been thirsty for, the now. In these moments of ecstasy, moments do not happen TO you, they happen BECAUSE of us. We are Lila, we are Nika, we are. 

This is where theory and rhetoric bore me, I cannot teach a hunch to party but that shouldn’t stop you. Let nothing stop you. With what I’m about to tell you, admittedly I do not remember which parts are real, which parts were the drugs, and which parts were the gods. Though with the divine I have found this uncertainty to be a necessary component, the anima is not alchemic, it is magical.

My return from the isle of the dragons was on the Flower Moon, Monday May 2nd 2061. I had left behind my onesie given to me by my AG parents and returned to The Worst with a fire retardant trash bag, a poker I had stolen from a rubbish clanker, and a broken hand from punching said clanker. I had never seen anyone die before, now I have. I had never done a truly good thing, and now I returned with rations for stray dogs. I had never felt authentic admiration before, only the artificial esteem of the machine, now I am met with thunderous applause, what passes for flowers at my feet, and a laurel of plastic upon my head. 

As the adrenaline faded the pain in my hand spiked so spiked too was the drink. This was the last purely personal sensation I had for the next 18 hours. The bonfire had been built and bodies were burning on it, the ones who died in the conflict? Are there people jumping the fire then? Is that a demon dancing among the flames? What did it say to me, “It is time.” I would’ve understood every tongue of earth that night, but we didn’t have to. We all spoke with body language, with laughter, with the muses. There was wrestling under the moonlight, but it was ballet—it was pure form. They were not competing, they were embodied play. Wine at my lips. The smell of honey mead like a hovering miasma. Then, there was this girl.

She had an owl on her shoulder, it wouldn’t take its eyes off of me—yet it looked right through me. It didn’t see scumbag, or a potential orph (one who return to AG living), in its wisdom it saw who I was to become. I saw it too, I saw the future. The felling of dragons, the return of our golden sun, the beginning of a new world—no a new universe. The drums then told me to punch and as I did so I was brought back to the present, this jab must have been like a speeding bullet freshly fired from a fiver (3d printed gun), but I saw it in slow motion. It wasn’t my hand, it was the fist of Ares. The cartilage in their nose was reduced to liquid; the cheers of the crowd were the shofars to summon apocalypse. Today was the beginning of all things and so too the end of the world. The constellations moved like active myths coming to life. They got closer as my body surfed across the raging crowd I was tossed about and carried. My hand had been bandaged, when did that happen? And now, she’s right in front of me.

She whispered a magical incantation in my ear, at that moment I knew exactly what she said—now it feels blasphemous to recall. The owl was gone, though I could feel its presence in the moonlight. We danced for what must have been hours, exhausted bodies strewn about the ground, bonfires reduced to embers, humankind finally reduced once more to animals. The spirit of Artemis pranced about the valley, her antlers cut through the night sky like a quill rewriting the script of the universe. “Follow me,” it said. Blood on my hands, drugs in my veins, joy in every fiber of my being. We were naked with no one left to say so. My hunting party stopped at a watering hole and the lady of the lake stood there on sheets of lapis. The earth shook and Atlantis arose from the sea. Naked boys were taken by sirens of the night. Auara borealas reflected in the waters. I tilted up my chin so I could see its majesty, it was daybreak. 

The morning’s chilly breeze made me feel my own vessel again and at my feet was a straw hat. Before my eyes I saw the Sense Gen Towers, I saw the AGed for what they really were, trapped. I knew I couldn’t free them, that’s their job. But every doubt was drowned out by the beating of my heart. “I cannot save them,” I thought, “so I‘ll lay on my hands instead.”                   

V. Regale Us, I Just Did

The above is similar to the story I told my fellow pirates. They laughed. They called me “bug preacher”, “squeak lover”, but one of them called me “scummy”—and he still does. My initiation ritual brought food and sake, my bacchanal depleted them. With my gods given quest I wasn’t exiled from The Worst but I was given back my trash poker as a staff and told, “See you on Mars.” In my specific case there was no new information acquired or amendments made to our way of life. Other than the profound realization (only to me) that the AGed may already be dead but my knuckles are the bones of Elijah.

VI. Something WILL Happen 

There is nothing new under the sun, therefore let us blot out the sun so that we may say, “what is new has never been seen.” I am living out this portion of our rubric, with every step taken on this gods forsaken eggs and bacon. I don’t talk out my ass, I talk with my ass on the line. If climate dependent starvation doesn’t take you, if you aren’t put on the wall for your wrong think, and you’re willing to step out of heaven—bring some illicit materials and take something with me in the future.

Ca-lick

Footnote:

1. One need not be literate in Sanskrit to see the writing on the wall. Perhaps since the Industrial Revolution we have lived in a Kali Yuga in which we can no longer venture forth to unknown lands to educate and whoopsie doopsie genocide the barbarian into being civilized.

2. By “perfect state” we refer here to a governing body. Opposed to the “perfected state” concerning a mental state of elation, wholeness, flow, etc. Using these terms interchangeably is inherently confusing, the section on Bacchanals demonstrates the perfected mental state. 

SUPPLEMENTAL READING:

https://open.substack.com/pub/unclediogenes/p/transcendence-a-practical-guide-to?r=14ynfk&utm_medium=ios

https://open.substack.com/pub/unclediogenes/p/the-three-pillars-of-flourishing?r=14ynfk&utm_medium=ios

I would only actually pull the trigger if my death could be beautiful. And it could not. Not yet at least. By beautiful we mean meaningful with optional aesthetics being second order, though also not fulfilled. It’s time to quit my job and live as a bird of the air, praying to the silent gods that our new…

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Momma birding white pills down Will Martin’s throat til he calls me daddi

A work of art written for @quartleymusings

Preface: 

The alternate title would’ve been something like: “Resurrecting Nietzsche so Will Martin can sit in the cuck chair and watch me fuq a mensch”. The following flawless work is a response to @otterlycorrect’s pod with Will Martin, the herald of eternal misery here on Substack, a troll beneath the bridge constructed by the fates—not staring into the void but uninterested, unmoved, graffiting “SUFFAH” on each of its columns. A man wishing to take the knife out of his own head to beat his enemies with its hilt, torturing them as he has been tortured. A viriless man, a slave to a deterministic universe, the bull shi referred to as predestination has not dealt Will cards but rather bull shi.  

Will and I share many similar sentiments, as a cynic and reader of Evola it is imperative that at the genesis of this shi post we state our common ground: “You, as in we, cannot save the world.” And I’ll add with my shit eating grin, nor should we try. However, unlike smill smartin this scumbag believes we can save ourselves. Though I also agree with unc Evola, you see near zero of us will take up this mantle of heroics and asceticism. This is where we diverge, in the arenas of personal development, the erection of community/friendship, and a cultivation of spirituality. I am a scumbag, a flea ridden dog, and a proud buttfaggot but not "squeamish" or sporting a “stuffed shirt”. Like my dress, my thoughts here will be naked. Now Will sit there in the cuck chair and watch me undress. Let mommi birdie word vomit some hopium into that dirty little mouth of yours.

Firstly,

BAP isn’t a Jew, but he is a buttfaggot—this is known from experience, as when we fuqqed he was not circumcised. And furthermore when I asked to circumcise him he was a major pussy about it. Saying, “Diogenes no! Unhand my dick daddi!” I tried telling him I had to enact my orders from ZOP (Zion occupied phalluses) but ran away wearing his undersized polo from planet fitness. I refuse to elaborate or digress at length about the JQ, if Jews are white people, or white hating, and Will revolves around this internet mind poison. BAP, like a money hungry huckster, sees so-called “western values” as more important than practically anything. Race somehow still an important signifier when the world has been completely robbed of an “ethnos” or any substantial kind. I am not here to defend BAp, maybe if he had been better in bed I’d reconsider, but the fact remains that I have read the Bronze Age Mindset. What I mean to say by this is that I’m more well read and much smarter than you—and honestly fuq otter for referring to it as Zoomer slop when his illiterate ass hasn’t even read the book.

Secondly,          

Will seeks to see a world controlled by a tyrannical father, a world where the unsightly cannot persist. Will Martin is a neurotic who sits in flashbacks for hours and hours, praying some day his enemies will too sit in dark rooms and rue the day. He is unable to pull the dagger from his head, ghosts from his past swim in front of his vision. Haunting him each and every day. Substack witches would you lend me your yonic magick to alleviate his curse? And fuq you materialists, demons are real and curse abide. Perhaps Will is right and attempting to mess with this cycle may make it worse—I’m willing to take this risk, though I suspect he is not. Could a divine revelation not free you from this curse? Supernal energy is out there, surely it dwells among us. “We do not have a way to the Supernal force” We just need to find the tatted chick who duels with real magic and real monsters. 

Whatever the fuq comes after secondly let’s quote the bitch:

”nothing good ever happens”. Sure yeah, mostly it's shi but I had sex one time. Then I got divorced. 

“if i was enlightened my life would be better” Then wake the fuq up retard. Enlightenment like meditation has no form, only practice. You may not be able to meditate but that’s because you’re afraid. Fear is the killer of joy and you let it kill you anew every morning.  

“you’re never getting off the gawd damned rock.”  Fuq if I care. Space travel is cringe and full of unsexy autists. Will is one hundred percent right here. Only his arch nemesis the peter thiel fuqqers with their stuffed shirts and over stuffed wallets will see the stars. And if the gods are just they’ll be scorched by one.  

“Thiel as Buttfaggot overlord” No notes. 

“The left isn’t punished” they will be, there will always be an Alex Delarge to raid their houses and rape their wives.

 “rich faggotism”  is perfect phrase-iology. Otter does give that vibe. It’s like if lex Friedman wasn’t a robot and tried pretending he was right wing.

 “there are no friends… Don't lie to me.” Will wut the actual fuq. Your friends abandoned you because you became an autistic depressed anti-Semitic fuq, at least if you became a Nazi you’d be dressed well and would’ve finished your computer science degree. Let me slap you too with a plucked chicken, you appeal to violence but fate does not allow for change? Behold Martin's man, the fate cucked chud. 

“Diogenes lived in a bath tub”—Diogenes lived under the sun. Let’s touch grass and then throw hands at the Waffle House.

“Piss and vinegar”, this is all we have brother.  

“Nobody wants to be black pilled and miserable, even me.” Then fuqqing stawp it. If you claim to follow a similar path to drooogie Diogenes go the fuq outside. You don’t want to accost people? You want to lie to them, to lie to yourself? Let’s say you’re right and completely black balled, what in god’s fuq do you have to lose them?

“If there was a choice I would’ve taken it.” I take it every day. Every. Single. Day.  

“The default is inferalism”. Read a gods damn aminal book. Yes, some animals eat they young if they must. But many of them protect their young. Only our decadent asses post totalitarian agriculture resemble this default infernalism.

“We do not have a way to be good” Read the sermon of the mount of something, shit bruv.

“Without this we live in hell world, and we can see this by the way the Peter Thiel people act.” We aren’t them. They are possessed by demons, they’ll kill themselves. They do in fact win the “culture war” here in the states around the decisive digital discourses of 2032—as the globe recognizes thier newly made “AIs” as now “AGIs”. But they are fools, cucked by their own creations. 

If we’re stupid for going to the rallies, how else are we to exert violence? How else can the common sense rebels organize violence? Luigi style? By our fuqqin selves to change nothing? (based tho) I am honestly confused as to your stated goals, it seems to me that your calls for violence are either strictly in jest, impotent complaining, hyperstition, or some sort of masochistic suicidal ideation (via the vehicle of death by government or cop. Let us draw a three way Venn diagram of these attitudes and it may be the case that Will’s philosophy will be found at its center. 

Fourhtly:

Will you could be that funny, but you don’t give a shit. You’ve given up on giving a shit. This is funny. Lean into it, “it it was to happen it would have happened already”. Come on dog, you know this is stupid. This is nonsense. I am not dense enough, nor insufferable enough to digress here concerning the many late bloomers throughout artistic history—but I am dense enough to have the faith that it will happen to me, perhaps it has, “already happened” but like the Kingdom of God it is here but I cannot (or refuse to) see it. Here’s a platitude little chickie, the point isn’t to “make it” or “have it happen”, it is to be funny. Full stop. What you have made is a digital dimension where otters interview humans and puppies lick your toes with words in hopes you’re tickled.  

Will claims that the otter cannot see it because he’s been aboard too long, but Will can see it as he is “at the bottom getting stomped on”—this is bullshit or to be charitable some kind of clairvoyance from mystic Martin. With his face firmly in the dirt he is still somehow able to see to the deepest core of the Jewish Cabal at the top. 

In conclusion:

I will not stop being a coomer. What if I told you that the fates want me to fuq beautiful boys and girls. Otter refuses to pick a Waffle House, Martin when my wanderings take me southward, I’ll gladly pick a Waffle House.

Post scribd:

Ashes and echoes. This is the revelation I had while talking irl with @Metaronin, creatures of the internet create niche trends that are defining moments or ideas in the creator’s life. May it be delusion or internet psychosis, they wonder if others (in this case otter not knowing of the board 8 diamonds) have encountered their “work”

“A fan of civilization”-otter being a statist cuck. “I’m a pro no class guy”-he’s wealthy.  

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How much baby gravy do you have left for the mashed potatoes of life? Do you feel guilt in your pleasure? I have never felt such a debilitating sensation, perhaps this is because I was already Papa Bear before I discovered that my paws could produce such pleasurable pecker porridge. Guiltless pleasure, the tranquil life, and absolute freedom from fear— this the cup I shall offer to you, thirsty gooner: a taste of potent ambrosia through Epicurus' diluted wine. Though your beloved scumbag preaches of the acceptance of pain, not the absence of it. Petty squabbles of philosophical preference aside, let us break yuca bread together, discussing the natural and the necessary. 

Part I: Nutting Naturally

Animals be beatin’ they shi. “Why then do you eat in public?” Diogenes would ask as he was beatin’ his. Acts of sex are both carnal and sacred, not one or the other, both. You may fetishize one or the other, but one cannot extinguish the excitable humping of a dog or the ineffable elation of private monogamous unity. Sex for the purpose of procreation is natural and necessary. Sex for the sensation of pleasure is natural but not necessary. Fuqqing your robot waifu on cams while your battery cucked smoke detector screeches with jealousy in the background is vain and empty (but send me that shi). These may be normative claims, but I shall use Epicurus’ framework instead of failing to tame the widow-making force of horse porn addicted losers, the post nut modernists who would object to these common sense assertions.  

Tell me Goldicocks, do you seek a platonic form of sex beyond the body? That of sterile sodomy, the production of intellectual progeny through petite young men? Or orgiastic bonobo sexual anarchy? That of sperm competition and blood soaked lubricant brought by the goddess Selene herself. I cannot reach into your libido and tell you, you must fuq around and find out. Not all sex is right for you and your creators did not ask for your consent when bestowing on you the boon of the boner. What gets it up may wax and wane, though I shall attempt here to be your Mr. Miyagi in hopes that I might give you those trained hands that may wax that wang. But keep in mind my proverbial Daniel-san I can only instruct what is known to me—what gets me off, to claim one’s personal victory in the fight for fornication, one must learn the crane kick on their own. But, feel free to sit there and watch as I perfect mine.

There is a rule of thumb here, if one cannot jizz to their own imagination or ‘splode to their own reflection, they may have a problem. If you would not fuq you, this is precisely what you’ll be pondering as someone else does. Why would they fuq me? Am I worthy? Should I do it like this? Maybe like that? Uncertainty is not sexy and confidence is an aphrodisiac. Many of those alienated from their bodies have this reflectile dysfunction. It is not that I would curse you with the fate of Narcissus, the egocentric bating of Bateman—it is that I find those who deem themselves beautiful allow me to share in that beauty. Those who reject their own appeal are a miser of their self actualized identity and unfortunately I’ll never be able to find their cognitive G spot. Narcissism makes one too big, insecurity makes one too small, porking in the present is just right.       

Part II: Looking Inward and Bending Over

“I learn that your bodily inclination leans most keenly towards sexual intercourse.” -Epicurus

Do not let your monkey brain forget you are a monkey. I often struggle with presence when fuqqing, I am anticipating merely the climax, I think of my many insecurities, I ponder as to how I might “do better”, I think of my sexual past, I fear a lack in my sexual future, I think of the many things outside of this room—and I forget the me and you. This is the line that should be blurred in these moments of ecstasy but instead my dragon becomes a pillow princess in distress. A Rapunzel too worried about the shape of her bush to let down her hair. Get back into your bodies my fellow damsels, lay back and let your prince’s kiss bring you to life. If you’re stuck waiting for true love’s kiss it may never come, but if you see the potential in every kiss you’ll likely cum. 

Relinquish your prudish tendencies and let the universe bend you over. Amor fati, and let fati fuq you. There is a certain X factor to love, this makes us quiver but you must let loose your Eros, bow to love—let it strike the bare spot between your scales. March in lockstep with the pounding of your heart before you let the song end. Unfortanely for the wealth seeking witches, love may not make six figures. Regrettably for the daddies desiring infantile females, she may be more than an object—though she may still want the spankings. It is not too late my millennial (2008-2032) hunches, you can still unbend your back from the kowtowing to your cell phones, to bow instead to the raw dogging of the universe. Though before you embark on this quest my fellow pup, know the universe rarely uses protection. 

Part III: I Promise This Is Actually About Epicurus

The Epicureans held high the notion of aponia and ataraxia. Aponia, that is the absence of pain previously alluded to, I find overly idealistic and anthropocentric—also anti biting so no thanks. Ataraxia on the other hand is based and attainable. This is a state of equanimity of the mind, a mental state of being untroubled, free, unperturbed by unwelcome thoughts or “everything going on in the world right now”. These vegetarian small “c” commies concluded that the fullness of one’s life can be brought by the practice of these two concepts. Our differing centers around one fundamental philosophical assumption, that the “now” of the body should be subservient to the time transcendent mind. While it may be true that one ought to temper the coal that is insatiable lust in so-called polite society (as to avoid jail time), we cannot forget the utility of the all consuming fire of the libido that burns away the chaff of perceived impotence. We should not be surprised when a rejection of the urge to life leaves us with an apathy for living. Unlike these olives suckers, I refuse to sacrifice the body on the altar of the mind, we need both—but one is far sexier. 

While this dog lies in the sun I cannot deny that avoiding pain is pretty siq. I also cannot think of a better peak than standing on the summit of a mountain after an arduous ascent and letting loose a howl in my panting agony. I chase the pain like a paper boy, not distracted by human newspapers bringing fearful reports, not like I can read anyway. It is not that I hold no love for the mind, as one needs a clear mind to achieve embodiment in the first place. It is that I chase the ineffable transformation beyond words that the mind often shrouds in its convenient lies. It is that I know that one must feel their feelings to deal with them, philosophizing often leads to palpable cope and an intellectually bolstered avoidance. It is crucial that we acknowledge our indentured servanthood to the processes of the body and mind, but not succumb to their enslavement.

Part Whour: Cumclusion

In our fairy tale, Goldilocks walks into someone else’s house and experiments with its different offerings. She fuqs around and find out, destroys some shi, invades someone’s personal space, and complains about it. The sexual journey is often clumsy, awkward, gay, and for many hopelessly elusive. It is my suspicion that as we abstracted from our bodies following the millennial era, we lost something that the majority will never reclaim. Though it is as I said, it is not too late for you my homely hunches. It is easier to enact a butlarian jihad on one’s cell phone than it is for the AGed of my time to pass through the eye of the needle that is a return to authentic living. You see it happening, the world becoming more and more pornified with each passing day. The onlyfans, the AG pornography, will reach a critical mass around 2031, the question is, can you look yourself in the mirror while you're cranking it to your phone?

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