Monthly Archives: October 2017

More secrets about women

A valued reader took slight issue with a previous post on women. ‘You focus too much on the penetration part!’ went the accusation. Well, no and yes.

No, because love is war and penetration is male victory. As Nick Krauser said: in seduction, once she lets you penetrate her, you have won. The power dynamic flips; before penetration the woman has the upper hand, after penetration the male has it. This is why the salesmen Always-Be-Closing-script translates so well to seduction: once you penetrate, you self-congratulate!

Saying the same in different words: men are built for war and war requires penetration of borders, be they territorial or vaginal. That this is a horribly politically incorrect thing to say in our #metoo-world does not make it any less true.

Yes, because expansion is only one half of the male experience. The other part is territorial guarding. Once we conquer our territory, we cherish it and similarly we cherish our woman. A woman wants to feel your penetrative power, but equally she wants to feel you care for her, that she is special and that you will protect her. Hence woman’s love for never-ending foreplay, which for women might as well be called mainplay. Rape is a very common female fantasy, but I’d say the most common female fantasy is a high-status man who loves her so much he’d die for her.

Walking the balance between these 2 sides of the coin is what Aubrey Andelin calls Man of Steel and Velvet (h/t Nick Krauser). Because the Western system thoroughly hates men of steel I focus more on that part, but my valued reader is correct: both steel and velvet should be in balance.


On a related note:

The role of women is submission and nurturing. Women do not consciously work on their role like men because women lack agency; a woman is not aware she wants to be submissive until she has been enthralled by a male who demands her submission. She is also often not aware she wants children until she has them; the idea of children might actually scare her but this is only because women are bad with ideas. Once she gives birth, feminine instincts turn on and suddenly the world revolves around her children.

Now, the nurturing of children can only be accomplished in a safe environment that encourages her and affirms her role as mother. So the nurturing instinct of women is the inverse of the velvet instinct of men – the two complement each other.

BUT, we have established that women will crawl 9 miles over broken glass to have sex with demon lovers. Women don’t do well on their own. They are like the children they raise. And their attachment to their children is just as emotional as children are. So left on their own, women are apt to fetishize their children, to make little Gods of their children. This is where the submissive role of women comes into play. As women play in the sand with their kids, they need men to set the boundaries of the sandbox. Hence the need for the steel instinct of men which complements with the submissive instinct of women.

A healthy family is always the same: father –> mother –> child. But in a feminized society the mother wears the pants and the mother’s instinct is to place the child above all else, so the pyramid is inverted: child –> mother –> father. This is dysfunctional, and the solution for a father who finds himself in such a position is to lift weights, raise testosteron and read what knowledgeable fathers like Rollo Tomassi and Dalrock have to say on the subject.

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Part IV: Under Attack

’20 minutes until checkpoint landing, please finish your whey and fasten your seatbelts.’

 Barron woke up to the metallic sound of Hans, the pilot, on the intercom. He yawned and peeked through the plane window. It was dark outside, but down below Barron saw land illuminated by hundreds of specks of light. They must already be in England. So far so good.

5 minutes later Perv came out of the cockpit and asked Barron to come with him. Something came up. As Barron entered the cockpit he saw Hans conversing with a voice crackling through the radio. ‘…Repeat, runway is damaged. Please confirm change flight course to six three zero Elstree Airfield.
– ‘Flight course six three zero Elstree airfield confirmed’ Hans answered. He looked nervous and when the radio switched off he immediately turned to Perv. ‘This is bad news. They say it’s a runway fire. Could be true, but it smells bad.’
‘I agree’ said Perv. ‘Smells like a trap.’
– ‘Maybe I can find some alternate landing spot. No way Elstree is safe.’
Hans grabbed a black address book. He leafed through it and pointed at a scribbled address. ‘Here. It’s more of a farm than an airport, but they’ll have fuel and I can…’
Before Hans could finish his sentence an alarm in the cockpit went off. Recognizing the sound, Hans looked at the radar. A dot was rapidly approaching their position. Hans turned white. ‘shit shit shit it’s a missile. The motherfuckers are actually shooting at us!’
‘What?’ Barron exclaimed. ‘But that’s an act of war!’
‘Maybe, but that doesn’t change a thing for us. At least this is not the first time I’ve had to evade a missile.’ Hans took the steering wheel and pushed it forward. The plane made a nosedive and started picking up speed. Through the front windows Barron could see the missile approaching in the distance. On the radar a second dot appeared, not far behind the first. Hans murmured: ‘two missiles huh? Oh man…’ Sweat dripped off his forehead as he steered the plane in a straight line towards the first missile.
‘Just a little bit further… Just a little bit further…’ The missile came closer and closer and Barron for the first time felt that dreadful fear of dying. Suddenly, Hans jerked the wheel to the left. The plane made a sharp turn, so sharp that Barron had to hold on to his chair as to not fall on the left wall of the plane. The missile passed straight underneath the cockpit, under the wings and passed the plane.
‘YEAH’, Perv shouted, but Hans was too occupied with missile number 2, which was now visible through the window. He stabilized the plane as fast as possible and made another nosedive, pushing his entire body on the steering wheel.
‘C’mon baby, go faster…’  Hans pushed the wheel so hard it seems to almost break. The missile was now less than 100 meters in front of them. Hans made the same turn and the plane jerked to the left. The second missile flew right passed the cockpit but a second later they heard a loud bang and everything shook. A voice shouted from the back: ‘the left wing is hit!’ Barron looked out and saw the tip of the wing was blown off. The jet engine was burning. Hans frantically tried to stabilize the plane but it was clear they were losing altitude. ‘Status report’ Perv demanded.
-‘Unsalvagable. We will crash. I might pull off an emergency landing.’
‘Too risky. We will jump, rendez-vous and head for our connection in London.’
-‘Yes sir.’ Hans switched on the intercom. ‘Gents, you may have noticed we have taken a slight hit. The Bombardier can not be saved, we can. Parachutes will be provided. Stand by.’ 
Perv handed Barron a parachute. ‘Put this on. Have you ever used one of these?’
Barron shaked his head. ‘Yeah that’s what I thought. I’ll keep it simple: pull this rope when the ground is getting too close for comfort. Don’t touch anything else. Understand?’ Barron nodded.

In the back Perv’s men stood by calmly as the shaking of the plane threw around cutlery and shards of ceramic plates. They put on the parachutes as Perv opened the emergency door and yelled: ‘We rendez-vous below! If you lose track of the team, call me! Good luck men!’
And with that the 6 men jumped out of the plane. Barron went 5th, followed by Perv. The plane quickly became a small spot and Barron was engulfed with darkness and wind. He was barely processing all that was happening, but the sudden turn of events gave him an adrenaline rush he had never experienced before. He had never seen the other parachutists so clear, never heard the rush of the wind so clear, never knew so clearly what to do. When he could distinguish leaves on the trees below he pulled the rope and the parachute opened. As he glided downwards, he saw a big explosion in the distance, where plane was heading to.

New Dutch Government: par for the course

TLDR; the Dutch government continues to function at relatively high level and continues its downward progressive spiral like the obedient American/European Union province it is.

Right after the 2017 Dutch election I had a short convo with John Rivers on Gab who, after listening to a Dutch drunk guy thought all hope was lost:

Screen Shot 2017-10-20 at 16.35.04

Turns out I was right. It was a close shave though: at first the VVD cuckservatives turned to the Greenlefts as a coalition partner! Luckily the mainstream Christians turn out to have some balls after all and the talks with the Greens crashed on immigration. So now instead of an openly leftist coalition we have Kukke III: the closeted cuck coalition. Like George W. Bush won a third term.

The 60-page coalition agreement summary reads worse than a bachelor student’s thesis, but from what I gather the following points are included:
– Taxes on products will go up (6% to 9%)
– Healthcare premiums will go up
– More EU
– Mandatory visit of Dutch art & learning of national anthem for high school students

That last point of course is the kind of consolation prize aboriginals receive from their new conquerors: ‘no no no of course your culture is still important. Here’s a complimentary museum ticket.’ Ah well, at least the Greens are not in the coalition. Alf’s overall judgment of the new Dutch coalition: it’s the party cartel all right, but not the worst part of the party cartel. Par for the course.

edit: 1/3rd of the minister positions will be filled with women. Go figure.

The Orb of Covfefe part III: Liftoff

Barron tried to maintain a sense of location, but when Perv stopped the car all he knew was that they were somewhere on the Virginian countryside. They had arrived at a tiny airport with a small entry hall, control tower and 2 private jets.
‘the left one will be our ride, your majesty,’ Perv said with a wink. ‘A Bombardier Global 20k, state of the art.’
– ‘Whose jet is this?’ Barron asked.
Perv shook his head. ‘Like I said, can’t tell you. Let’s just say he’s an, *ahem*, enlightened billionaire who wants to play it very carefully. Anyway, let’s go meet my team.’
– ‘Your team…?’ But Perv was already walking ahead.

They entered the hall. 4 men, one in pilot’s attire, where waiting for them. The first thing that struck Barron as he shook their hands was that they all looked as if they were chiseled out of marble. He jokingly said: ‘you all look like you walked off the cover of Men’s Health.’
Perv laughed. ‘Well, Hans here has indeed featured on that particular cover. But that is a side job. Their main task, besides ushering in a new aesthetic for Western man, is to fight the ZOG. You will find them to be well-trained and highly capable.’
Barron was as confused as he was impressed.

The plane lifted off within the hour. Once comfortably seated in the spacious chair, Barron took the time aboard to unload his curiosity.
‘Why are people trying to kill my dad?’ he asked Perv.
– ‘Why is water wet? Your dad has a lot of powerful enemies. I think they are very scared that your father will crown himself God-Emperor of America.
‘God-emperor?’ Barron blinked.
– ‘Yes. Kind of like when Napoleon crowned himself emperor of France. I don’t think your father originally intended to do so, but after the Texas- and California-hacking scandals of 2020, a lot of people lost faith in democracy, and I think your dad was one of them.’
‘So they are scared my father will stop them.’
– ‘Well either your dad stops them or they will stop your dad. And so far, your dad has done a pretty good job. He built the flying golden palace, he built the wall… So it’s not too surprised that they’ve decided to play dirty.’
‘They shouldn’t be able to poison him.’
– ‘You’re right. There is a security leak at very high level. It is bad news.’
Bannon didn’t like to think about the implications. He changed the subject.

‘What is the Orb of Covfefe?’ he asked.
– ‘Afraid I don’t know much about it’, Perv said. ‘From what I hear it has some kind of healing power. Supposedly the Muslim prophet Mohammed used it to conquer Arabia. Later, Genghis Khan tried to take it but died before he succeeded. And now it is in the hands of king Salman, head of the royal Saud family.’
‘Bannon told me the Sauds are very protective of the Orb. How will I convince them to lend it to me?’
– ‘I dunno kid. I guess Bannon thinks you can somehow pull it off. Try asking nicely?’
Barron laughed but frowned immediately after. He’d have to think it over. First they actually had to get there.
‘Are we flying to Saudi Arabia in a straight line?’ he asked.
– ‘Sort of. We need to make a brief stop in England to refuel.’
‘I thought England was on the brink of civil war?’
– ‘I didn’t say I like it. But we have no choice. Don’t worry, the refueling point is as safe as we can get.’

Bannon said nothing, but stared out of the window. So this was the plan. A dangerous stop, followed by an audience with a king who had very little reason to trust him. Asking a girl out for a date seemed easier. How could he obtain the Orb? Maybe fear of a world war would persuade the king? Perhaps he could convince the king that, as Bannon claimed, the Jews were behind it? Muslims didn’t like Jews, right? Perhaps he could even steal the Orb? As Bannon went over all the possibilities in his mind, his eyes closed and he finally caught some sleep.

Man’s limitations

We are defined by our biology. Our biology is defined by our genetic blueprint. Our genetic blueprint is adaptable through nurture, but it can never transcend its programming. Maximizing its programming is transcendence. Or, stated differently: an orang-utan can not build a space shuttle and it is stupid and insulting to expect an orang-utan to build a space shuttle.

Similarly, biology means differences between the sexes.

Woman creates and nurtures life. Man builds, conquers and protects the environment in which woman can create and nurture life. Naturally there is some overlap: some women are more masculine, some men are more feminine. But the way the previous sentence is worded tells you the basic principle holds.

Because of these different roles it is clear that women want to be owned by men. Women fight other women to be owned by the highest-status men. Similarly, men want to own women and fight other men over ownership of women.

Owning one or multiple women is not like owning a table. It is also not like owning a dog, although it is more similar to owning a dog than to owning a table. But a woman is neither a dog nor a table; she is a woman. Thus different rules of ownership apply, rules which are hard yet not impossible to explain.

As white men, we have lost ownership over our women. Unfortunately, this is entirely our own fault, for we are our own worst enemy. It was white men who pushed progressivism, white men who pushed feminism, white men who pushed women into the workplace. Emancipation was a tactic for some white men to gain the upper hand over other white men. It was very successful. And women didn’t protest too much, for it is in woman’s nature to shit-test men, and boy, has feminism given women a lot of opportunity to shit-test men.

The white men who illegalized female ownership effectively set small fires to white society in order to more effectively plunder it. Being a cold-hearted logic machine, I can appreciate the effectiveness of this strategy.

Nonetheless these fires are growing into infernos that consume us. Most white men would like to not have a society that is falling apart, thus the desire to stop the inferno. The problem is that for the foreseeable future we are, well, fucked. I realistically expect continued deterioration until the day I die. (This seems to be where reactionary blogosphere diverges from the dissident-right blogosphere: Audacious Epigone points towards Generation Zyklon being a woke beacon of hope. I am skeptical, for I do not see them talking much about reinstating ownership of women, in fact I’m pretty sure they would find it horribly sexist and misogynistic of me to talk like that.)

The problem is that men are limited. We do not think in terms of society, we think in terms of direct proximity. A man can have about 150 meaningful social relations and the only way to scale his status beyond that is to improve the status of those he chooses to have a meaningful relation with, if necessary by switching the people within his Dunbar. Dunbar Dunbar Dunbar. (of course there is variance: introverts have a small Dunbar, extroverts a big Dunbar.) So beyond our Dunbar we are not communicating with each other; we are jockeying for status, showing off our Dunbar.

For instance, take this revealing phrase from a recent Scott Aaronson post:
how can a person read Gower’s blog, or Slate Star Codex, without seeing what I see, which is basically luminous beacons of intellectual honesty and curiosity and clear thought and sparkling prose and charity to dissenting views, shining out far across the darkness of online discourse?’

Regarding the charity-to-dissenting-views part: I do believe Jim is banned from both Slate Star Codex and Scott Aaronson’s blog, while neither Scott is banned from Jim’s blog. So that is a bit hypocritical.

As for the rest: Scott makes a valid point. Which is to say, as far as he is concerned, his part of the blogosphere is a luminous beacon of intellectual honesty. He is simply optimizing his status within that circle. What he says may be cringy, but it is no doubt well-received by Gower and Scott Alexander, who both fit Aaronson’s Dunbar preferences and have a –for blogosphere terms– large fan base. I do the same thing when I flatter Spandrell or Jim. We are all trying to scale our Dunbar. White men in particular are very proficient at this.

This dynamic shows up everywhere.

Movies: Oh you had dinner with Shia Lebeuf? Well I was invited to Leonardo Dicaprio’s yacht. Yeah I used to have an occasional lunch with Weinstein, but that was before all this came out. Never really liked the guy anyway.

TV: Yeah that Jimmy Kimmel man, he really is a funny guy. Oh you do golf with Conan O’ Brian? We should hang out some time.

Politics: You know I had dinner with Podesta and we did some really interesting things. Yeah he and Mark Zuckerberg shoot each other mails, he told me all about it.

YouTube: Man did you check out Idubbbz’s video on Ricegum? Dude even Pewdiepie was in it! Ricegum’s career is over.

Music: wow this collab between Pharell, Katy Perry and Calvin Harris is lit!

Alt-Right: yoo did you check out the beef between Vox and Andrew Anglin? No? Well lemme tell you it was crazy!

Cross-overs: so Justin Bieber invited Adam Sandler and David Spade over for lunch. Guess he wants to be an actor. Well he’s got some competition from Logan Paul — he made an appearance on Jimmy Kimmel!

I could go on and on but I think the point is clear. Dunbars rule the world. So, if you want to save (and in effect, rule) Western civilization you can only do it with a Dunbar that is sufficiently high in status. Not all Dunbars are created equal. In fact, they are horribly unequal. Thus the reactionary assertion that the masses are not so important as they naturally prefer to align themselves with the highest status Dunbars. So if you want power, you want to scale your Dunbar into the ruling elite.

The problem with this is that, as Moldbug hypothesized and Jim asserts, our ruling elite for the largest part is crazy and becoming crazier every day. Observing how even Trump is unable to build sufficiently high-status Dunbars within the ruling elite, this seems true.

So, you need to build a new Dunbar to challenge the existing highest-status Dunbars. Which is hard, very hard. If Trump can’t do it, I doubt you can. Which leaves the next best thing: scale as effectively as you can and wait for the existing highest-status Dunbars to collapse or grow sufficiently weak so that you may usurp them. Which in fact is what everyone already is doing. Good luck.

The Orb of Covfefe, part II: The Pick-Up

That night Barron slept restless. His dreams were filled with images of fire, of his mother screaming and of men hijacking the Golden Flying Palace and crashing it into the One World Trade Center. He woke up in the middle of the night and, unable to fall asleep again, double- and triple-checked his luggage. Time crept by like a snail and Barron felt he had been looking at the clock for an eternity when, at 4:55, the doorbell rang. Barron rushed to open the door. To his great surprise a beautiful blond girl greeted him. Barron felt his cheeks turn red. ‘Ehhh… Hi?’ he said.
– ‘Hii!’ the girl said. ‘Soo nice to meet you! You’re taller than I expected!’

Barron looked at her sheepishly. ‘Are you my driver?’ The girl giggled. ‘No silly, I’m just here to ring the doorbell! Perv will be your driver.’
– ‘Perv?’
She pointed to a red convertible parked in front of the house. In the driver seat sat a muscled man with gelled blond hair, sunglasses and a colorful sleeveless shirt. Next to him sat another girl, a brunette. ‘Perv’ held up his hand and made a peace sign. Barron awkwardly waved back and turned to the girl in front of him. ‘Ok, I’ll grab my bags and we can go.’ The girl smiled the kind of smile you see on the covers of magazines. ‘Great!’

Five minutes later Barron shook hands with Perv, who up close was even more chiseled and broad-jawed than he looked from afar, and the brunette, who might as well have been a Victoria’s Secret Angel. Barron wondered where the hell Bannon found these people.

‘Good to meet you!’ Perv bellowed. ‘I presume Jenny has already told you who I am. Call me Perv.’ He turned to brunette next to him. ‘Time to say goodbye love.’ She pouted her lips but kissed him on the cheek and got out of the car, keeping the door open for Barron, who took her place on the warm leather chair. Perv stepped on the gas and off they were. In the car mirror Barron could see Jenny and the brunette waving them off. He looked at Perv. ‘Isn’t it rude to leave the women behind like that?’ Perv laughed. ‘Don’t fret young Barron. Their submission is as solid as your dad’s wall. They will be OK.’
– ‘Where are we going?’
‘To an undisclosed location where a billionaire who’d rather not be named has a private jet waiting for us.’
– ‘Us?’ Barron raised an eyebrow.
‘Yes. I’ll be travelling with you, as your personal bodyguard so to speak. I hope that’s not a problem.’
– ‘Not at all.’

As the car turned on the highway and the first rays of morning sun warmed his face, Barron started to relax. He wondered what other strange things would be ahead.

Somewhere in Italy a black limousine drove over a countryside road. In the back of the limousine sat an old man in a dark-blue custom made suit. The man had just secured an EU-funded bail-out of a bank he owned (although no one would find his name in any of the official documents), so he was feeling festive, insofar men his age still felt festive. He lit a cigar. As he inhaled, a metallic voice cracked through a speaker. ‘Sir, you have an incoming call from central. Highest clearancy.’ The old man exhaled a puff of smoke. ‘Put it on screen’.
A LCD screen switched on which projected the grey silhouette of a man. ‘Good day George. Congratulations on your success with Banco Di Diversità. Quite the multi-billion-dollar deal.’ The old man nodded. ‘Thank you, although I am sure that is not the reason you are calling.’
– ‘Indeed. I am calling because a situation has come up. A possible kink in our American plans.’
‘I thought we finally had a breakthrough?’
– ‘Yes, we did. And we still do. But it seems our success is not guaranteed after all. They are sending Trump’s son, Barron, to retrieve the Orb of Covfefe.’
– ‘Barron? He’s just a kid! Besides, the Saudi’s would never lend out the Orb to an outsider.’
‘Are you willing to bet all our plans upon the Saudi’s not lending out the Orb?’
The old man thought before answering. ‘No.’
– ‘Neither do we. The boy must be stopped. Either way. Take care of it.’
George nodded. ‘I understand.’
– ‘Good.’
The monitor flickered and turned off. The old man was alone again. He took a long puff of his cigar and stared through the window, admiring the luscious green vineyards they were passing. So, he thought to himself, the last stand of the Trumpists is the young Trump kid. How appropriate. Yet, how silly. Compared to the deal he had worked out today, stopping the boy would be like taking candy from a baby. He smiled. It was time to make some phone calls.

 

The Orb of Covfefe, part I: Dark Clouds over the Flying Golden Palace

(lay-out is horrible with lack of indents and everything. Will fix this next week.)

 

The sound of hurried footsteps echoed across the grand hall of the Flying Golden Palace. Barely audible whispers spread through the corridors: ‘have you heard? He is ill.’ ‘What, like a flu?’
‘Maybe, but maybe not…’
‘Well he is quite old.’
‘Last week he was healthy as a 20 year-old!’
‘I heard his face has turned green.’

Young Barron tried to ignore the whispers as he trudged through the hallways. Yet he knew that he wasn’t called to his father’s chamber without reason. His father had looked a little pale last time Barron came over for dinner, but he hadn’t seemed too bad. Some cold, he guessed. But the request to visit his father had a tone of urgency to it that didn’t sit right with Barron. He opened the majestically gold-plated doors to the Trump residency.

Immediately he saw something was wrong. A team of what he assumed were doctors surrounded his father’s bed. His mother was sitting at the head, cleaning his father’s forehead with a washcloth. Everyone except for his father was wearing body-covering gear you’d normally see in operating rooms, covering all mouths and hair. A nurse at the door handed him similar garments. ‘The doctors don’t want to take any risks’ she said. ‘He is weak enough as is.’ Without a word Barron put on the mask and rushed to the bed. He gasped when he saw his father. Emperor-Elect Donald Trump’s eyes were closed, he was breathing heavily, and pearls of sweat were dripping down his head. This wasn’t just some cold, his father’s life was in danger!
‘Dad!’
At the sound of his son’s voice Donald’s eyes opened. ‘Hello son. Not feeling so great as you can see. Don’t worry, these doctors will fix me up soon. We have the best doctors!’ He tried to give a doctor next to him a firm pat on the back, but he could only muster the strength for a gentle touch.
‘Dad,’ Barron said, ‘you wanted to see me?’
‘I always want to see you’ Trump answered, but barely had he spoken the words when he groaned in pain and groped his stomach. A doctor turned to Barron: ‘your father is in a great deal of pain; it is best to let him rest. Come, I’ll show you the medical reports.’
Barron followed the man to an adjacent room where even more doctors and nurses were huddled around big monitors on the wall with displays of his dad’s vital signs and what seemed to be an extensive medical history. He caught bits of conversation between the doctors:
‘…. Gastro-intestinal infection…’
‘… Progressive illness…’
‘… Possible Russian involvement…’

Barron figured this would be where he would be instructed on the medical reports, but the doctor kept on walking, exiting the room on the other side. Barron followed. They went through a deserted corridor and just as Barron started to wonder why the doctor’s physique seemed familiar to him, the doctor opened a door to the right and went into what appeared to be a broom closet. He beckoned Barron to follow. Barron hesitated. ‘What’s going on?’
‘I’ll tell you’, answered the doctor, ‘but first come in and close the door. Please.’ Something in the man’s eyes told Barron he could trust him. He closed the door behind him. The doctor ripped of his mask and Barron gasped as he recognized the face beneath. ‘Mr. Bannon! What are you doing here! My dad fired you!’ Stephen Bannon grinned.
‘Sometimes people need protection whether they want it or not. It seems your dad is in dire need of some protection.’
– ‘Will he die?’
‘On the current course: yes. I’m afraid your dad has been poisoned.’
Barron’s eyes grew. ‘Poisoned? By whom??’
‘The New World Order. The people actually in charge of this country. Jews, globalists, democrats, you name it.’ Bannon’s eyes flashed around nervously. ‘Already they are applying pressure to blame it on the Russians. The weaker Trump becomes, the less he will be able to resist the war they want to plunge America into.’
– ‘The doctors have to save my dad!’
‘These so-called medical experts can not determine the nature of the poison and even if they could, I’m not sure our American medicine can save him. We need a very special type of medication. We need… The Orb of Covfefe.’
– ‘The… Orb of cowfayfay?’ Barron looked puzzled.
‘The Orb of Covfefe. It is a mysterious Arabic artefact, rumored to have brought Jesus Christ back from the dead. It can cure any ailment, but only of those with a pure heart.’
– ‘You must be kidding!’
Bannon grabbed Barron by the shoulders and looked him straight in the eyes. ‘No Barron, I am not kidding. The Orb is real and we need it to save your dad. I can not trust anyone. Barron, you must go and retrieve the Orb! You must! For America! For your father!’

Barron was silent for a moment.

‘This… Orb of Covfefe… Are you sure it can cure my dad?’
‘Yes Barron, I am 100% sure.’
– ‘Where is it?’
‘In the possession of the Saud family, in Saudi Arabia.’ Bannon pursed his lips. ‘I would’ve arranged for them to bring the Orb directly to us, but our relation is… Complicated. They don’t trust me. No Barron, it must be you. You must personally go to the Saud palace and convince them to give you the Orb.’
Barron breathed deeply. ‘Okay, I’ll go.’
Bannon smiled. ‘Great. You’ll fly in a private jet with as little stops as possible. I’ll have a guy I trust pick you up at 5 in the morning. Tell no one about this, not even your mother.’
Barron nodded.

When Barron stepped out of the closet, he thought he saw a shadow of a figure disappearing at the end of the corridor. He turned around to tell Bannon. But Bannon had disappeared. The broom closet was empty.

Arjen Lubach, or: how to kiss the ass of Power

Arjen Lubach is a non-Jewish leftist entertainer who dreams of being the Dutch Jon Stewart. In fact, he already pretty much is the Dutch Jon Stewart. Congratulations Arjen!

The above video is a very recent hit. Which is to say, a huge viral hit according to the media, but with less than 2 million views it is barely half the views of a daily Jake Paul video. To be fair though, Lubach’s first viral video on Trump got 25 million views, but that was a funnier video.

The authorities tell us a story about poor li’l Lubach, just tinkering in his garage with his under-appreciated content, who through sheer talent and perseverance is slowly recognised as the beacon of funny truth that he is. “America Hates His Rifle-Skeptical Guts But Damnit If He Doesn’t Speak Truth!”

Nonsense.

If you hadn’t heard yet: countryside Americans have lost on all major issues: they’ve lost marriage, healthcare, abortion and even the right to assemble. And let us not forget the statue storm destroying conservative statues as we speak. Guns are pretty much the last thing they have left.

City Americans love Lubach, which is to say: those in power in America love Lubach. Why? Because Lubach perfectly parrots the party line, just as Jon Stewart, John Oliver and Stephen Colbert perfectly parrot the party line. They are messenger boys. It is only as long as Lubach’s message is in line with the powers that be that Lubach is lauded as great content creator.

This is why I didn’t even have to watch the video to know what Lubach was going to say. It’s about Trump? It will be hating on Trump. It’s about guns? Yeah it’ll be about restricting gun control.

And I hear you asking: ‘isn’t Lubach making good points?’ No, he isn’t. Controlled for race, Americans murder at about the same rate as people in countries with strict gun control. Gun control seems to play a negligible role in homicide rates. See the 2015 Paris massacre. See Jim. It is the opinion of this blog that every Dutch male with a house and a wife be given a government-issued Desert Eagle with 10 clips magazines and a laser pointer.

So why are leftists so adamant about gun control if it isn’t about saving lives? Because leftists are the priests, and the priests hate it when warriors have power in the form of guns. What is really at stake is just another struggle for power.

So no, Lubach is not speaking truth to power. He is kissing the ass of power. Which is probably the smart thing to do. Just, not so interesting.

This 1 Secret About Women Will Blow Your Mind…!

So what are the biggest blogs on the dissident right? Sticking to those that regularly receive over 100 comments per post: Heartiste, Dalrock, Rollo Tomassi, Jim. What do all these blogs have in common? They all offer you advice on how to deal with women. Even at Jim’s blog, who likes to repeat that he is not a PUA blog, one can not help but notice that the PUA posts consistently get most comments.

Isn’t that funny? So much stuff in the world to write about, but the stuff males care about most is how to deal with women. Goddamn women.

Well, it’s what right-wing males care about at least. Left-wing writers aren’t really into the PUA stuff, instead they sell memes for raising your intellectual status in general, e.g. if you read the latest Scott Alexander you can go to parties, raise your eyebrows ever so slightly and tell people: ‘why yes, the research shows that liberals are more trusting of people while conservatives are less trusting, which explains everything. Liberals are hopeful, conservatives are cynics, hmmmm yes.‘ (Preferably you do so while twirling around an olive in a martini glass. Afterwards bend over to smell own farts.)

But back to dealing with women. Lots of men have trouble dealing with women. This makes sense: women and men are in a never-ending evolutionary race, where the man evolves new techniques to plant his seed in woman’s womb, while woman evolves new techniques to ensure only the strongest man plants his seed in her womb. Think of ducks: male ducks have grown long corkscrew penises to rape female ducks, female ducks in return have grown long vagina mazes to resist insemination by weak corkscrew penises.

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Ah the beauty of nature

It is quite similar with humans. The man invades, the woman pushes back on the invasion for purpose of testing its strength. If the invasion is weak, the woman repels the invader, is in fact repulsed by the fact that said invader ever set foot on her womanly territory. However, if the invasion is strong, the woman’s defences crumbles and she loves the invader for making her defences crumble.

Thus the dualistic nature of woman: bitches towards men they perceive as weak, loving towards men they perceive as strong. And always testing, al-ways testing.

Money and corporations

What is the role of capitalism in the fall of the West?

To answer this question we need to look at money. How much money is there in the world? No doubt answers vary, but here is what internet detective Alf has come up with:

(1 million / miljoen = 1 x 10^6 = 1.000.000
1 billion / miljard = 1 x 10^9 = 1.000.000.000
1 trillion / biljoen = 1 x 10^12 = 1.000.000.000.000
1 quadrillion / biljard = 1 x 10^15 = 1.000.000.000.000.000)

Walmart, the #1 corporation, has a yearly revenue of $480 billion. If you add up the top 25 corporations yearly revenues they make about $5 trillion a year.

The United States federal budget for 2015 is $4 trillion. Interestingly $0.6 trillion of that is money spent they don’t actually have, but I guess that as the feds control the money press, such deficit isn’t considered a big problem.

There is about $80 trillion in number money worldwide (so stuff like bank notes and saving accounts).

The amount of money in worldwide property I read estimated at 250 trillion dollars. Lower than I expected.

The worldwide debt is about 200 trillion dollars. How can the amount of debt be twice the amount of money needed pay off debts?? Here we see again how money is only part factual, other part magical. Technically speaking money is only a means to a goal, so if you control the means (like the FEDs do the printing press) you control the goal and you needn’t worry as much about debt. In fact, debt is a useful tool to create money out of nothing.

The value of the stock market amounts to 70 trillion dollars.

The value of derivatives, which if I understand correctly, is mostly gambling with the financial market, apparently amounts up to 1.2 quadrillion dollars! If I happen to have an intelligent reader who can explain why this market is so huge, please do.

So the total monetary value of at least the West comes down to a sloppy 1.8 quadrillion dollars, or 1.800.000.000.000.000 dollars, give or take a dollar or two.

So back to our original question: how evil are capitalists?

I don’t think capitalists are so evil. I disagree with the idea that capitalists are bandits and that all their production of wealth is an accidental side effect. Most white capitalists dislike slaying the goose that lays the golden eggs. If you turn a profit this year, you’d like to turn an equal or greater profit in next 20 years. Or so it goes for most white males, who enjoy building stuff.

I also don’t think capitalists are that powerful. Back in high school they taught me that international corporations are so powerful because they can operate international, meaning they escape the laws of Western nations. But as Moldbug says: independence? What independence? Independence granted by the international community? What does independence even mean if it has to be granted? What is Somaliland?

In reality there is no escaping the international community. Even a powerhouse like Royal Dutch Shell is supervised by the dozens of NGO’s, diplomats, state department agents and whatnot. The priests are in charge, the capitalists follow.

But it’s still good to assess the capitalists’ power level. Which seems to me best expressed in money. As we saw, the total budget US ($4 trillion) is narrowly defeated by the unison of the 25 biggest companies ($5 trillion). So the top 25 companies united are a good monetary opponent for the US — but even then the US military budget ($600 billion) alone tops company #1 Walmart ($480 billion).

… And beyond money there’s the priests-in-charge thing. Money is worth a lot, paper is worth nothing. Even property is worth nothing if you are not allowed to defend it.

Thus we see every company obediently saluting the Rainbow Flag.

lgbt fascisme

The merchant class is powerful, but not so powerful. Religion trumps money. Holiness is where the status of modernity is found, which explains why all the rich kids are digging wells in Ghana.