Dude, chill the fuck out! I know you’re mad, I’m mad too. We’re all mad. You have problems but you’ve misidentified them. It isn’t black people or Jews or immigrants that caused your problems, it’s the lies you’ve been fed your whole life. It’s the old lies of the patriarchy and the new lies spread by your buddies on the internet.

You’re worried about weakness and that’s understandable. You probably had a mean daddy who ridiculed you or hit you, or maybe your daddy wasn’t around. You had trouble making friends and that made you so angry! You felt helpless and you still feel helpless. You want to be the powerful one. You want to be the mean daddy for a change! You want to show the world who’s boss! Fuck those foreigners and niggers and kikes!

You can’t get laid either. You’ve tried being nice and you’ve tried negging. Women won’t give you what you want. It’s just like Mommy. She wouldn’t either. She made you feel like a baby. A helpless baby. But now you’ll get even. You don’t need women anyway, now that you’ve found your buddies online.

You even belong to a group! When you were little, they didn’t pick you for the team or they picked you last. They wouldn’t let you into their clubhouse or tree-house or their little fort. Now you are respected, a person with ideas and guns and backpacks. You are part of a community, a brotherhood. And if you aren’t afraid to die, you can be a hero! All you need is some ammo.

But here’s the thing: You won’t really be a warrior. Shooting at unarmed civilians makes you a pussy, or a cuck, if you prefer. Real warriors run into battle, not mosques or churches or shopping malls. There have been too many of you guys for us to remember your names any more. I can’t even name the guy in Las Vegas, and you’ll probably never come close to his body count.

What you want so desperately is a purpose, a community, and an identity. Your online group may provide a sense of all three, but it’s a sham. The world you imagine will never come about, and if it did, you wouldn’t know how to survive. You spend too much time at your computer. You don’t know how to grow crops or raise cattle or drive a tractor. You can’t get a date, so you won’t be able to reproduce. You wouldn’t be happy without another group to hate, so then what?

You have not thought this through, have you?

Why don’t you join the US Military if you love your country so much? Aren’t the uniforms scary enough? Are you afraid of being in close quarters with men who are bigger and stronger than you? Are you afraid of guns when you’re not the only one who has one? Are you afraid of a meritocracy? Are you lost in situations where memes don’t bring status?

I feel for you. You thought you were entitled to the whole world, as a free white male. You didn’t know that it only works that way for the wealthy class. You didn’t prepare for a shitty job market when you were spending all that time online instead of studying. You nursed your resentment when you should have been learning how to socialize, how to dance, how to make eye contact, and how to laugh at yourself once in a while.

You could still have a real life if you gather your courage enough to move away from your computer. Your buddies will denounce you but they’ll get over it. Later, much later, you’ll see how pathetic they are. And when you see one on TV, in handcuffs, or in a scowling mugshot, you’ll think, Dude, YOU are the problem, not those Mexicans buying school supplies.

At least, that’s my dream for you, b’ezrat hashem, inshallah.

I was innocently reading a thing about the Beats in NYC, when I came across the name Genesis P-Orridge.

What a story! Genesis Breyer P-Orridge is an artist/provocateur who decided to turn himself into his wife, a dominatrix known at Lady Jaye. They spent $200,000 on surgery and other procedures, in an effort to turn themselves into identical beings who would then metaphorically become a Third Person. Or something.

Lady Jaye died before the project was completed but P-Orridge now refers to him/her self as “we.”

Read more here, or google his/her/their name to find more images. Or maybe everyone already knows about this, just like the ponies. No one ever tells me anything!

Neither do I!   But a whole lot of people are working hard at this very moment to perfect their gait and spruce up their saddles in preparation for some exciting “ponyplay.”

Why am I the last one to find out about stuff like this?? My husband showed me an article in the LA Weekly about a 50 year old woman who dresses up like a pony and makes a good living at it. She goes to crazy pony events where ponies and masters hope to hook up, and others where the ponies compete for awards.

Listen, I understand role-playing. Naughty schoolgirl, fine. Cantering around with a bit in my mouth and a tail in my butt, I’m just not feeling it.

Here are some hooves you can buy….”Nice look, clip-clop sound when used on the floor.”

What the fuck is wrong with people, you know? Life is so difficult and complicated and so easy to screw up, why try to live it as a fake pony?

Nearly two years ago, I brought up the subject of antinatalism here, and the arguments that ensued in the comments thread were impassioned, long-winded, and hysterically funny.

I’ve just discovered that the argument about antinatalism is still going strong, so if you missed it, check up on it here and here. I think the proponents of this belief system are not only wrong but tragically unglued. They appear to be desperately trapped in an endless loop of faulty logic, with no evident escape.

Enjoy!

In the current New Yorker, there is a long profile of the performance artist Marina Abramovic that caused me to wonder: Is my life actually Art?

Abramovic has been provoking and shocking people for thirty years. Next week, MOMA is hosting a retrospective of her work, with actors performing some of her most famous “pieces.” That alone is controversial; even her former collaborator and lover, Uwe Laysiepen, thinks it’s fundamentally dishonest to recreate performance art.

Most of Abramovic’s art has involved subjecting herself to pain and humiliation (a genre called ordealism.) Reading about it, you can’t help but feel that this art is beyond parody. My favorite piece is the one where she scrubbed a roomful of rotting, maggot-infested cow bones on her hands and knees, sobbing while video’s of her parents were projected on the walls of the “space.”

In another early piece, she stood still while the audience was offered a wide array of implements with which to torment her.

At MOMA, she will mount a work called “The Artist is Present,” in which she will sit still at a table for ten hours a day, staring into space, throughout the retrospective. Audience members may choose to sit opposite her at the table.

Here is the thing: I personally sit staring into space for MORE THAN TEN HOURS A DAY! I never thought of this as Art, but now I’m mulling it over. Maybe it is Art,   a sort of confrontation with time and eternity, a refusal to interact with gainful employment, and therefore a statement about the subjugation of of modern Man, I mean Women.

Read the article in the New Yorker if you possibly can. It’s a transformative experience that doesn’t even require you to get up off your ass!