I ordinarily give about as much thought to celebrity gossip as I do to piles of dog shit on the sidewalk (i.e. none), but a couple of articles from Heartiste and W.F. Price on Kristen Stewart cheating on her boyfriend with the director of her latest movie piqued my interest. I was a bit surprised that neither of them mentioned that this scenario has already played out… in fiction, in the 2009 movie Adventureland, though that’s probably because neither of them have seen it.
Adventureland holds the distinction of being one of only two movies (the other being Watchmen) that made me physically ill when I first saw it. Whereas Watchmen left me drained and depressed, like my soul had been raped, Adventureland made me angry. I literally left the theater with my fists clenched and my teeth grinding, my date looking at me like I was nuts. This was around the time I was starting to digest the red pill, a transformation that made it impossible for me to watch the movie without wanting to break something.
After I put up my article gleefully pissing all over Krista Jane Heflin’s (aka “Femitheist Divine”) self-mutilated body, I began to wonder if the whole thing was made up, like a few others in the manosphere. I figured it didn’t matter, because someone who would fake their own suicide just to get attention is an utterly loathsome human being, on top of Heflin’s already existing loathsomeness. Plus, that post got me a degree in Red Pill Pharmacy from The University of Man, so cool beans.
On this trip so far, I’ve met two people via the blog. When I was in Chicago, one reader bought me lunch at a bar near Lincoln Park, and I had vodka Sprites with another guy off State Street in Madison. Both were cool, interesting dudes: I haven’t run into any Stydie-esque spazzy morons, though that may be because I’m not yet popular enough to attract them. (For those who don’t get the reference, in Assholes Finish First, Tucker Max relates his experience meeting one of his fans, who went by the online handle “Stydie.” The guy was a socially inept dweeb who spastically dropped cups of beer, made weird mix-CDs, and wore a trench coat out to bars.)
It’s both reassuring and strange to talk about this stuff in real life.
I always hated those “deserted island” questions. You know what I mean: “If you were stranded on a deserted island, what albums/video games/pointless media distractions would you bring with you?” Bitch, if I knew I was going to be stranded on a deserted island, my number one priority would be bringing things that would help me a) survive and b) get off the island as quickly as possible. Things like a tarp, a poncho, rope, a water purification system, tent stakes, a hammock, a GPS, a buck knife, a toolbox, and matches.
A copy of Planescape: Torment would be pretty far down the fucking list.
A few days ago, a radical feminist blogger who went by the handle “Femitheist Divine” decided that life was just too difficult and decided to check out of the hotel. One bullet to the head and it was all over.
Good for her, I say. The more feminists voluntarily recuse themselves from this vale of tears, the better it’ll get for us normal people.
What’s the longest a human being can go without sleep? I have no idea, but I know the longest I can go without sleep is about four days, mainly because that’s when I start getting Lost Weekend-style hallucinations and passing out whenever I sit down. All the sucky parts of tripping balls, none of the fun.
If you want your kids to get their sleep, that’s what you should tell them: “Go to bed, or you’ll start seeing visions of Cthulhu everywhere you turn and the walls will start warping whenever you look at them for more than two seconds!”
A feminist troll left this remark on one of my posts last week:
You’re idea of feminism couldn’t be more off base. I’m sure your mother would be thrilled to read this.
This is a common refrain leveled at anti-feminists: “What would your mother/sister/female relatives think?” The idea, of course, is that the opinions of women are just so sacrosanct and inviolable that we simply can’t run afoul of them in any way. No one’s ever asked me what my father thinks about what I write; despite him having an equal hand in raising me, having a Y chromosome apparently makes his opinions worth jack shit. I’m also pretty sure no feminist has ever been asked, “What would your father think?” whenever she said something blatantly misandrist.
Didja hear? Some nutjob shot up a movie theater a few days ago, killed a bunch of people and wounded a whole lot more. Clearly, this means we need tighter gun laws. It’s precisely because of Americans’ love affair with guns that these sorts of tragedies happen. If we were like
Canada, Norway, Finland or any other country with sensible restrictions on gun ownership, violent crime would drop and these kinds of spree shootings would never happen.
If you think the primary issue with the Colorado shooting (and mass shootings in general) is gun ownership, you’re missing the point.
What the Fuck is Your Excuse? is a brand-new, once-in-a-blue-moon series of posts designed to shame (yes, shame; get over it, MRA crybabies) men into getting off their rear-ends and making their dreams reality. Are you the kind of person who’s constantly saying stuff like:
“Man, I wish I could learn how to play the drums, but I don’t have time to practice.”
“Man, I wish I could backpack around the world, but I can’t quit my unrewarding office job.”
“Man, I wish I could pick up girls, but I’m too ugly and shy.”
I am officially cooler than you. On Friday, I ambled over to Union Park, site of the annual Pitchfork Music Festival, America’s premiere indie music event (exempting SXSW). I spent all day sipping overpriced Heinekens, rifling through boxes of vinyl LPs, and watching performances by acts you’ve never even heard of with thousands of other indie kids. How can you possibly top that? You can’t.
Bow down to your new Lord of Hipness.