All posts by Alf

The terrible truth

A recurring theme on this blog is acceptance of the world around us. See the world as it is, not as other people tell you it is, or as you’d like the world to be. Big difference. Truth tellers need metaphors to explain the difference. Hence the allegory of the Cave, The Matrix and They Live.

Personally my favorite image for ‘waking up’ comes from an Asian horror movie I saw so long ago I forgot its name.

[EDIT: thanks to a very helpful comment I now know the movie is called Nang Nak. Trailer. Movie. Spoilers below so stop reading if you want to watch it.]

In the movie, the protagonist, a jungleman, returns to his wife and newborn child after a long absence (I believe he fought in a war). He is overjoyed to see his wife’s pregnancy went well, to see he now has a family and that they love one another. They live happily together in their bamboo house on the jungle riverbank.

However, other villagers act differently. Since his return they avoid him as if he were cursed. The man does not understand but does not mind so much. He is happy after all.

Then an older man comes to him and says: ‘my friend, something is terribly wrong. I have to tell you: your wife died in childbirth and so did your child.’ Our protagonist gets angry. His wife is at home, in good health! How dare this grey goon say something so horrible! But the old man insists. ‘Your loved ones have passed. Evil spirits have taken their place. If you want the truth, bend over and look through the opening between your legs. Then you will see.’

Our protagonist shakes his head in disbelief. ‘Crazy old man, who does he think he is.’ He goes home, finds his wife and child smiling and laughing. He kisses them on the forehead. All is well.

But something feels wrong. He never sees his wife eating, for instance. His wife never goes out into the village, for another. Other strange things keep happening. And the villagers still retreat in fear whenever they see him.

Eventually it is too much for the man, and one day he stands in his bamboo living room, bends over and looks through the hole between his legs. The first thing he sees is cobwebs and dust everywhere. The second thing he sees is the rotting carcass of his wife, lying on a chair, cradling the remains of a dead baby. Naturally, he freaks the fuck out.

I don’t remember how the movie ended and I’m sure I’ve misremembered some parts, but that scene of the rotting wife carcass always stuck with me. That is the red pill at its worst. Not some ‘I know Kung Fu’ bullshit, just some plain old ‘nothing is what you thought it was, the people you thought loved you actually hate your guts’. Truth can be horrible like that.

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Immortal gene, mortal man

The first nervous system, an electric communication channel between cells, was evolutionary adaptive for making a binary decision: forward or backwards, which can be explained in different but actually similar terms: eat or don’t eat, left or right, fight or flight, reproduce or don’t reproduce. It is said that fight/flight includes a 3rd option, freeze, but it still a dual decision: 1) make decision or 2) postpone decision. So, always dualism. Always nature’s love of symmetry.

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Our brain still works in the same manner as that first primitive nervous system did, still the same neurons firing of ‘yes’ or ‘no’, just many more neurons with many more interconnected decision trees. Like binary code, but interlinked binary code.

neuron-map

It’s the interlinking part that makes a nervous system self-conscious, that makes a neuron metaphorically say ‘I am part of the whole but I am also me’ and makes a human literally say ‘I am part of the whole but I am also me’. A computer can be programmed to say it, but not to understand it. Per Jim (PJ), artificial intelligence turns to be hard to figure out, with currently developed computers merely getting better at missing the point. We lack the ability to artificially create adaptive feedback loops.

Our brain cells are adaptive feedback loops. Mutation makes it so they often miss the point, but over time natural selection makes for resilient neurons. Thus humans are wired for optimum decision-making, which is to say they make decisions well above the threshold of ‘let’s jump off every skyscraper roof’ because natural equilibrium drifts towards safety barriers.

Do our brain cells function like a democracy? No. Nature is generally to our right, so likely a lot more dictatorial, in that some neurons overrule others. But there are connections and feedback loops between all nodes, so not absolutism either.

Does a neuron have consciousness? Can it separate itself from the brain of which it is part? No, it can’t, unless you’re the kind of person who believes hugging trees and not killing wasps raises your status, in which case you’d still be wrong (about the consciousness, not always about the status).

Do humans have consciousness? Yes. We can separate our individual meat vessel from the genes that created us. We can look at our body and say: every cell in this body is made and inhabited by genes, about 30.000 of them, packed in 46 chromosomes, safely hidden in cell nuclei.

Which leads to the realisation our genes don’t really care about us.

It’s not like they hate us, just that they are indifferent. To our genes, we’re just temporary vessels waiting to die. To us, they’re just little immortality factories waiting for us to die.

Yes, we are guardians to our genes. We protect and spread them. But we do it because we are programmed to do, like the puppet obeying the puppetmaster. If one gene combination won’t do, there will be others. Plenty of duplicate chromosomes in the genepool. Genes have safety barrier insurance against malfunctioning guardians. Said differently: from the point of view of our genes, there is no free will involved. It is evolve or die: you either evolve in accordance with your genes, or you die and are no longer relevant.

Though our relation is not exactly that of a puppetmaster-puppet. As said, we are conscious about our puppetmaster. The nature of the DNA survival strategy makes it so that while DNA is floating in a tiny space of cell fluid, we are walking and lifting meat machines. Your DNA is stuck with you, whether it likes it or not.

Still we are very strongly nudged in certain directions, in fact our decisions are defined by the nervous system created by DNA. This is why the nature/nurture-debate is post-modernist bunk. The answer to the debate is: nature. Nature wins. Nurture, or more accurately, meatspace, counts. It is good to have nice meatspace, very important even. But we modify the environment to fit ourselves instead of modifying ourselves to fit the environment, no matter how much veganists try to convince themselves of the opposite. Nurture is only important insofar DNA allows for cell plasticity. You may throw buckets of water at my feet or stuff kilos of oven-baked pork into tree hollows, you will not overcome nature.

Phrased differently: does magic dirt change tribalists into feudalists? Does a chimpanzee learn English if you teach it? The answers are no and no. [Are there more factual Nrx posts on nature/nurture are floating around…? As I understand one-egg twins separated at birth grow up to be fairly similar but not identical. Adoption children have close to zero resemblance to foster parents. But can not back that up. Links appreciated.]

Another modern debate that is bunkum: is there free will? The answer to this question is: well, a little, if you allow for a very broad definition of ‘free’ and ‘will’. But mostly it’s just people making themselves way more important than they are. You are a guardian for your genes, that is your designated role. How you choose to fulfil that role is about as much freedom as you’ll get.

In the end there is no escaping Gnon.

Of course, not for our lack of trying. We try to overcome Gnon at every turn. Take Jesus, who had no kids but has made much larger cultural impact than Genghis Khan who had tons of kids. But then you can say that Jesus was completely in line with Gnon in that he was good for the Jew gene pool, or even more broadly, good for cooperative genes similar to the ones Jesus had. But as the Jesus-propagated gene pool is cucked and and on the retreat, so does Jesus’ legacy diminishes.

Similarly, there is the archetype of the villain obsessed with eternal life, but then again there is the even stronger archetype of the vampire with eternal life. The former archetype is morally signalling that you are holier than Gnon. The second archetype is admitting that Gnon rules. Vampires are cool.

So no escaping Gnon.

Like it would be an insult to a chimpanzee to expect a chimpanzee to be human, it would be an insult to the sun if Icharus didn’t get knocked down a peg.

The question is, where does Gnon end and God begin? Probable answer: we never get to see God, only Gnon. We see a lot more evidence for Gnon than for God. God is fickle and vague, only talking to us through mostly Jewish texts. Why shouldn’t a man sleep with another man according to God? Because it is written. OK.

Why shouldn’t a man sleep with another man according to Gnon? Because gays are like eunuchs, in that they have no interest in society beyond their death and thus would rather have sex with children than care about them. [a cursory google search on ‘how many pedophiles are gay?’ links to indignant scientists telling me with statistics that I am horrible for even thinking there is a link, but personal observation tells me gays are obviously overrepresented in pedophilia, similar to how jews are overrepresented in Hollywood.]

So Gnon seems more accurate than God. And the earthly incarnation of Gnon seems to be genes.

But it is kind of cold to worship genes, especially when we observe genes’ indifference towards humans. So easier to worship God and have His commandments be completely in line with Gnon. Morality becomes intertwined with natural law. That is the symbiosis between biology and theology.

Sinterklaas bleeding, but not dead

I. Sinterklaas & politics
I wrote about Sinterklaas in 2015 and 2016.

Originally I was going to title this ‘Sinterklaas dead, but no dancing on the grave’ but after observing current events I have become more hopeful.

It turns out that most Dutchies like Sinterklaas and Black Piet (pronounced Peet, plural Peeters). In fact, many are distraught by the sudden assassination of Sinterklaas. Change has come quick indeed: 5 years no one gave the colour of Peeters a second thought, except, surprise surprise, the international community attending Dutch liberal arts & social science universities.

It has now become clear that the change came in 2014 when a United Nations tentacle called The Working Group of Experts on People of African Descent decreed that Sinterklaas and his blackface Peeters were racist and evil. Promptly the media, professors and politicians announced Sinterklaas was evil and suddenly Sinterklaas morphed from a children’s tradition into a politicised fight between adults.

3 years later, what is the damage? The cathedral being the cathedral, it has killed the official Sinterklaas. This is apparent through the Sinterklaas journal on tv, where Sinterklaas is surrounded by weird white men instead of his trusty sidekicks. It is similarly apparent through his official arrival in Dokkum, where it has been made sure that a Peeter close to Sinterklaas is as obviously fake as possible.

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Sinterklaas in the Netherlands, 2017

BUT, a resistance has sprouted. When several buses of Social Justice Warriors from Amsterdam went to Dokkum to ruin everyone’s day, this resistance blocked the highway and forced the SJWs to go back. Locals planned to set up even more barricades. Because of this grassroots resistance, the mayor of Dokkum declared anti-Sinterklaas protests illegal. I’ve also heard that in other towns, during the arrivals of non-offical Sinterklaases, black Peeters were painted more black than usual. Impressive!

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Highway blocked

 

II. Sinterklaas & Children’s rite of passage

 

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Sinterklaas, not in the Netherlands

Though the tradition of Sinterklaas is likely derived from Germanic fertility rites, the original Nicolas of Myra (280 AD) was always known as a patron of children. Sinterklaas has always been a festivity for children — he visits every year with his helpers, the black Peeters, who dance and smile and give candy and presents to good children. Bad children get twigs and salt. How does Sinterklaas separate the good children from the bad? He carries with him a big book in which he keeps note of all the good and bad stuff children have done.

Sinterklaas is a rite of passage for children. Every kid believed Sinterklaas was real at one point until he no longer did and then asked himself how he could ever believe something so obviously fake was real.

Through Sinterklaas kids learn about many things, such as:

  • The difference between good and bad.
  • That there are adults who care about children.
  • How to behave as a wise old man.
  • Assabiyah.
  • And, finally, the happiness low-IQ people have and spread when they follow a wise leader.

This last point especially triggers leftists to no end, thus betraying leftists’ utter contempt for low-IQ people.

#metoo is societal meltdown

#metoo doesn’t seem to have stopped with Weinstein. It seems those in power have quite some trouble putting this genie back in its bottle.

#metoo is a minor meltdown in elite society, representative of a bigger breakdown in Western society.

Women have attained much power relative to history, yet retain the same insecurities women are wired to retain, insecurities which progressive culture only exacerbates. Dating culture is hell. City life is harsh and lonely. Working hours are long. Anti-depressants have mediocre effects. Stress, anxiety, frustration builds up until it finds a vent in the form of a nuclear shit-test. ‘Why are we so unhappy? We were raped by [all men]!’ 

Progressivism made this attack possible yet has no defence against it. Hence, leftism eating itself.

The question is raised whether shitlords should be happy or scared with these developments. One the one hand I could not give a crap about Hollywood celebrities, cesspool of degeneracy they know they are. Boomers loved Kevin Spacey movies, let them swallow this black pill. One the other hand it is pretty clear that Every man now stands to be accused of rape for looking wrongly at a woman.

After thinking it over, I am happy with these developments. Male sexuality has already been pathologized some years ago (hence the rise of the manosphere). The only change is that men that traditionally were exceptions to the rule (e.g. the Weinsteins) now no longer are. To see my enemies turn one each other; this is only a good thing.

In case you were wondering, yes, the craze has caught on in the Netherlands. Take for instance the curious case of journalist/writer Jelle Brandt Corstius. During his stint as regular guest on a talkshow, Corstius accused an unknown man in the Dutchywood business of drugging him 15 years ago and forcing him to perform oral sex. It was only when this man tried to anally rape him that ‘a survival instinct took over’ and Corstius escaped. That unknown man turned out to be Gijs van Dam, a producer, who, with his lawyer, appeared on a consequent talkshow. There van Dam says that, yes, sex did happen, but it was consensual between two drunk men. He was 25, Corstius was 24, they were both young talented sexy men. According to van Dam It was a one time thing and after they went separate ways he didn’t think of it again. Until now of course, since Corstius brought it up on national tv. (Spicy detail: Corstius has a wife.)

The case will now go to court — van Dam sued Corstius for defamation of character, Corstius sued van Dam for rape.

Popular opinion on this is mixed but leaning towards van Dam. I say Corstius lies and his physiognomy shows it. But let’s see what our non-Dutch readers think! 2 pics, 1 is Jelle Brandt Corstius and one is Gijs van Dam. Which is which?

Part VI – An unexpected turn

The sun had risen by the time the Land Rover rolled into Single street, Bromley. Green hedges and mansions adorned the sides of the road. ‘This is it’ said Perv and he pointed to an Aristocratic-looking white house. They parked in front of the house. Jack stayed in the car as look-outs, the others walked up to the gate. Perv pressed the intercom button and a distinctly British voice answered: ‘Yes?
– ‘Nigel, Perv here. Did you get my DM?’
Nigel? Barron thought, it couldn’t be..?
‘Ah, yes’ the voice answered. ‘Come in.’ The gate opened and the men entered. They rang the doorbell and the 3-meter high oak door was opened by no other than Nigel Farage. Perv put his hands on Nigel’s shoulders and said it was good to see him. Nigel averted his gaze. ‘I wish it was under different circumstances’, he said. Perv nodded. ‘So do I, my friend.’ Barron shook hands with Nigel. They had met before in the Golden Palace, but for some reason Nigel was a lot less friendly now. He looked like a man under a lot of stress. Barron shot a glance at Perv, who apparently noticed the same thing.
‘Uh, come on in’ Nigel mumbled, ‘I’ll make you some tea and we can, uh, talk things over.’

They followed Nigel into his living room, which was furnished with Persian carpets, red leather sofas and old, hand-made oak furniture. Sides of the room were decorated with blue velvet curtains. Nigel shifted around nervously, fluffing up pillows and adjusting the coffee table. ‘Yes sit down, I’ll make you some tea…’
Perv stepped forward. ‘Nigel. Is something wrong?’
‘NOTHING is wrong mr Pervert’ came a voice from behind the curtain. Out stepped a dark-skinned man with a gun in his hands. ‘Sadiqh Khan!’ cried Perv.
‘I am glad you still follow the media’ Khan said. He turned to Barron. ‘Ah the young Trump. I apologize for the mediocre welcoming committee earlier, perhaps now we can make amends.’ He snapped his fingers and from behind the curtains several butch women with short blue hair stepped forward. On their upper arm they wore thick bands with on them a rainbow symbol intercrossed with an Islamic moon. One of the blue-haired woman was holding a gun to another woman’s head, whom Barron recognized as Nigel’s wife.
‘How did you know we were here!?’ Barron asked.
– ‘Let’s just say I have… Sources. You see, we are everywhere. We have all the momentum. Your hateful, racist and misogynistic ways, your… ‘white supremacy’’ Khan spit out these words ‘is at an end. WE are the future!’
‘You won’t get away with this’ said Perv.
Khan grinned. ‘Oh but I already have. You see, with the death of a prominent presidential family member’ he waved his gun at Barron ‘at the hands of extreme right-wing terrorists, I have no choice but to declare martial law and rise above the petty limitation of democracy. And perhaps you hadn’t noticed, but back in America president Trump is not feeling to well and soon enough my friends will have to intervene to… Save America. Yes, things are looking pretty good I’d say.’
Barron was dumbstruck. Perv gnashed his teeth and started to raise his fist, a response met by Sadiq pointing his gun towards mrs Farage. ‘Ah ah ah, mr Pervert. One wrong move and Mrs Farage will meet a most unfortunate fate.’
‘The British people will rise up against you!’ cried Farage. Immediately, Khan hit Nigel’s cheek with the back of his gun. Nigel fell to the ground, blood spatters hitting the carpet. ‘Dorothy, Molly!’ Khan snapped his fingers.
2 rainbow soldiers grabbed Nigel’s arms and brought him up on his knees.
‘You know Nigel, I’ve been looking forward to this for such a long time. You have been such a pain in the ass, you know that? You know how much work it will be to permanently end Brexit?’ He punched Farage in the stomach, who bent over double in pain. ‘Not that it will matter. You people had your chance a long time ago, back when London still belonged to you.’ But you gave it all away with barely a fight. The West is ours now. Don’t worry, it’s for the better.’ Another punch. Nigel looked up with a blue eye and fat lip. ‘You’ll never win’ he said. Rage filled Sadiq’s face. As he raised his fist for another punch, Perv extended his arm towards the rainbow soldier keeping mrs Farage hostage. Suddenly a gun appeared in Perv’s hand. He pulled the trigger – the bullet connected with rainbow soldier’s forehead.

Then, many things happened at once.

On 10-year old girls

Every so often you come across a title you instantly like. I’m not sure this is one of them.

Truth follows canon. The canon goes from Jesus to [Enlightenment thinkers] to Nietzsche to Moldbug to Jim. Why Enlightenment thinkers? Because in hindsight their shtick was such an obvious lie that it told a deeper truth: ‘I want power, fuck you.’ Marx repeats this.

If truth is what you are after, have to submit to Jim’s ideas. Not because he is infallible or super-human, just ‘cos he’s right.

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The point that raises most emotions is usually an important point. Jim tells us that 10-year old girls lust for older men and aggressively pursue sex with them, if need by entering their room at night and mounting them in bed. Therefore, need to control 10-year old girls. Jim ‘nuances’ this by adding that not all 10-year olds are sexually aggressive, yet a non-insignificant minority are, and a smaller minority of girls is sexually aggressive at the age of 8.

Needless to say this bounces off the brains for most men. Does not compute. I get this response. But I believe the evidence supports Jim’s position.

Woman’s life revolves around sex, or as she prefers to call it: love. Woman lives life defined by her male counterpart. As Roosh said, she is like water. As Byron said: Man’s love is of man’s life a part; it is a woman’s whole existence. Hence why a woman has trouble figuring out objects: she is apt to shit-test objects like she shit-tests men and is inevitably frustrated when objects don’t respond to her shit-tests. Similarly, why women love cats: cats respond very well to shit-tests, are hardwired to pass them. Similarly, why women dislike dogs, because dogs are low IQ betas that eagerly fall into every trap, though I guess even cunnilingus by a low IQ beta is better than no cunnilingus (C’mon man get to your point).

Young girls obsess over high-status men. Watch an old Justin Bieber concert. How old are the thousands of fangirls, screaming their lungs out, crying ITS HIM, holding up their phone repeating ohmygodohmygodohmygod, fainting? 11? 12? If we have extensive evidence that a young girl’s entire physiology is shaken up by meeting a sufficiently high-status man, is it so hard to imagine that the same young girl might aggressively pursue sex with said man?

No, it is not. In fact it makes it completely obvious as to why males aim to control females: because female sex drive is anti-civilizational. By saying the opposite, that females are chaste and innocent at age 10, fathers are made to give up control of their daughters. And if she is innocent at age 10, why not innocent at age 11, or 12, or 16…? Before you know it females are holy creatures and it is misogenystic to speak out against her coming home with boyfriend #14 (homeless drugsdealer). It is exactly this foot in the door technique that Jim counters by going in the opposite direction: you thought girls are nymphomaniac at age 9? You should see them at age 8!

In a cooperation/cooperation-society men control their women’s sexuality. If women are not controlled, cooperation (by males)/defection (by females) ensues, which eventually leads to defect/defect when men discover only criminal badboys get laid. To get back to cooperation/cooperation, need to reinstate control of daughters and wives. To successfully reinstate control of daughters and wives, need to make it perfectly clear from what age women’s volcanic sexual urges need controlling. Which is probably around age 7, if not earlier.

Part V: a new plan

Barron landed in a tree. With the help of some sturdy branches he reached the ground with relatively few bruises. He opened the flashlight on his smartphone and headed in the direction where Perv landed. Soon enough he found him. Some phone calls back later the team was together again. Huddled in a circle they discussed their options.
‘Steal a plane?
– ‘First place they’ll be looking for us will be nearby airports. Perhaps some distant airport, but that will cost too much time.’
‘Head for the US embassy?’
Hans shook his head. ‘That’ll be the second place they’ll look for us. They’ll stop us before we enter the place and even if we succeed there’s no telling how long they’ll keep us there. We need someone we can trust, someone well-connected.’
The men were silent for a moment.
‘Okay’, Perv sighed. ‘Perhaps I know someone. He’s not exactly low-profile, but he is well-connected and they won’t expect us visiting him. He lives in London. Judging from our position it’ll be a few hours by foot. We’ll see if we can get a car.’
They nodded. Perv turned to Mike. ‘Can you arrange a car?’ ‘Maybe’, came the answer. ‘Has to fit 6 men.’
– ‘Great. Let’s move on before the dogs or whatever are on our tail.’

With as little light as possible they navigated through the woods, avoiding roads. Sometimes they’d stand completely still when they’d hear a sound too close for comfort, as when they heard a helicopter in the distance, but overall the men kept the tempo high.

After an hour Barron was exhausted. They paused near a creek for some rest and water. As Hans, Mike and Jack did some stretching, Barron caught some breath. Perv sat next to him. ‘You holding in there?’
– ‘yeah, I think so.’
‘Good. There’s something I need to talk to you about. The plan was, I escort you all the way to Saudi Arabia, but the plan did not include us being shot down. I don’t know what will happen next. Worst case scenario and I am taken out, you should not be a sitting duck.’
Barron listened intently as Perv continued.
‘Look, there’s three things in the world you need to survive: money, a passport and a phone. Phones you can buy anywhere. As for the other two…’ Perv held out a passport and a wad of money. ‘Here you go.’
Barron took the passport and opened it. In it was his face, but it went with quite a different name: Ashton Bucksley from Oakland, California. ‘I can’t take this!’
– ‘you can and you will. I’ve had strict orders to give it to you in case of an emergency. Take the money as well. Better to use cash only from here on. It’s a hundred 50 euro bills.  Should be more than enough to get you to Saudi Arabia and back.’
Barron sighed. ‘Let’s just hope it doesn’t get to that.’
Perv agreed. Barron let himself fall backwards and gazed up to the stars. Something about the sound of rippling water gave Barron a serene feeling, even if the circumstances were far from that.
‘Perv?’
– ‘hm?’
‘I’ve been wondering to ask you. Why do you do it?’
– ‘Do what?’
‘This. Helping me out. Are you with some kind of agency?’
Perv laughed. ‘Hell no. I am a free man. And as a free man, I enjoy the finer things of life. Finer things which are, quite unfortunately, under attack. So I must fight.’
– ‘You don’t have to.’
‘Of course I do! For thousands of years men have fought! It is a most noble and virtuous pursuit. Besides, I am needed.’
– ‘By whom?’
‘Well right now by you. But others as well. We must unite and cooperate, but many are stubborn. Through superior aesthetics, I will help teach our people submission, then cooperation, then victory! Do you understand?’
– ‘…I think I do.’
‘Good.’ Perv smiled. ‘Now if you’ll excuse me, it is handsome Thursday. I have some business to take care off.’ And with that he turned to his phone.

The men continued their journey. After another hour the forests made way for meadows. They passed some farms. When Mike spotted an exposed car near one of them, he signaled the others to wait in a ditch next to a road. 20 minutes later a dark green Land Rover stopped on the road next to them. Mike opened the front door: ‘you guys need a lift?’ The men chuckled silently. Barron was very impressed, but as he got in he had to ask whether they could return the car later on. Mike raised his eyebrows. ‘If the situation permits it, sure.’

He put down his foot on the gas pedal and they sped towards Perv’s connection in South-East London.

Poor Eminem

I recently caught Eminem’s freestyle rap against Trump. I felt bad for Eminem.

I listened to his old albums quite a few times (from Slim Shady LP up to Encore). I liked them. Too be honest he never had the best beats. In fact there’s this signature Eminem-beat, it’s a sort of staccato rhythm that vaguely reminds me of hardcore music, which is surprisingly popular in the right Dutch subcultures but revealing of lack of taste in music. Too aggressive, too unimaginative. For me at least.

But as a rapper Eminem was one of the greatest, even if rap is the most overrated genre in the modern music game. He had good flow, was good with words, didn’t shy away from rapping about fucked-up shit that just made you laugh. And at his peak he was Big. Eminem got as close to being a rap god as you can imagine.

But of course, in the end, he is still a white boy in a black neighborhood. Prior to being famous he had a shitty life. Then Dre came along and Eminem blew up. Saved by the black man. What an interesting fate. Leftists may say this, rightists may say that, but Eminem thanks his entire fortune to an industry dominated by blacks embracing him into their midst. So it is no wonder he now stands with them. He simply feels more loyalty towards the music business’ diverse ethnicity than to the ‘plight of the white man’ (a problem shared by Dutch white hip-hop artists whose Dunbar make-up makes it impossible for them to think Diversity+Proximity=War thoughts).

Yes, Eminem is vapidly virtue signaling, but really, who cares? The failed campaigning by Beyonce, Jay-Z and Katy Perry for Hillary Clinton taught us that artists’ impact on politics is quite small. Fans don’t change political opinions for stars.

I suspect that most of Eminem’s original fans, angry young white males, dislike this freestyle anyway. I know I do. He looks like an old man with a midlife crisis. Listening to a creative rapper with something interesting to tell was fun, listening to this self-righteous useful idiot, not so much.

At any rate, when J.K. Rowling came out as a frothing-at-the-mouth Social Justice Warrior, I felt scammed for ever having read Harry Potter. I don’t have so much hate towards Eminem. He had a good run while it lasted. R.I.P.

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.

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.