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Why I Don’t Complain About Modern Art

NOTE: This is the text of my monologue from the most recent episode of Heyoka Pod, “Redman Trip Creek.”

George Carlin once said that he never talked about politics because the only reason America had selfish, ignorant leaders was due to Americans themselves being selfish and ignorant. For that same reason, I don’t complain about art. The reason modern art is bad is because modern artists, musicians, and writers are self-obsessed, gormless twits. As Carlin put it, this is the best we can do, folks.

There’s one girl my mind inevitably wanders to when I think about the emptiness of modern artists. She was an aspiring writer who glommed onto me like a remora, hoping to absorb my talent and success through osmosis. Her Black No. 1 hair dye and the Hot Topic wardrobe her mom paid for perfectly matched the pitch-black mole just off the coast of her lips. She had one of those weird asexual names like Madison, Aidan, or Bailey, the kind where you can’t tell whether you’re dealing with a boy or a girl.

I first met her when she slid into my DMs, telling me she wanted to interview me for her college paper. She had a tattoo on her bicep, proudly flaunting it on Twitter with the hashtag “#NeverGettingMarried.” She always got mad because I could never remember whether it was a dragon or a unicorn, because my eyes always wandered to that mole. Her tattoo was just a black outline because she couldn’t afford to get it filled in. I asked her why she didn’t just wait until she’d saved up the money to get the whole thing, and she replied, “But I really wanted this tattoo!” Or more accurately, one-eighth of that tattoo.

One day, she sent me a link to her Tumblr blog, asking me what I thought of her posts. They were all about her favorite subject: herself. Her blog was nothing but navel-gazing on how badly she wanted to be a writer and how nervous she was about graduating college, even though the most adventurous thing she’d ever done was bus tables at a Waffle House. This was my reply: “Stop talking about yourself. You’re a 24-year old from Indiana. You’re not that interesting.”

She told me to go fuck myself. I didn’t speak to her for two months.

She messaged me asking how I’d been, and I told her that things had gone south between me and another female writer, who she’d been intensely jealous of after I told her to read that writer’s novel. Sensing her chance to become the millennial Amber O’Neil, she came to visit me in Chicago for a weekend.

I ended up suppressing the memory of that weekend out of pure rage, like a porn star blacking out her childhood visits with Uncle Bad Touch. But three things about her visit always bubble up out of the cauldron of my mind.

The first happened the morning after she arrived. She made bacon and scrambled eggs for breakfast in an attempt to impress me. She then promptly ruined it by pouring the bacon grease down the kitchen sink. I had to use two bottles of Drano to unclog the drain.

The second was when she confessed to me that she had been engaged to a guy the previous year, before meeting me. I asked her why she broke off the engagement. She said that she had felt guilted into it by her Christian parents and that she wanted to “see the world” and “follow her dreams.” I responded by ordering two more IPAs from the bar.

The third was when I told her to get on all fours because I was sick of having to stare at her mole. After assuming the position for two seconds, she suddenly turned around and smacked me in the face, screaming, “Don’t look at my asshole!” I contemplated kicking her out, but stopped after realizing that a pretty white girl wandering around that part of Chicago at night would probably end up in several different trash bags in a dumpster.

I took her to the Greyhound station the next morning. When I got home, I blocked her on my phone and social media accounts.

A few months ago, Instagram recommended I follow her. She’s married now, and pregnant. Her husband is some older guy who looks like he has money. She’s not using the Black No. 1 anymore, none of her recent selfies show the tattoo on her bicep, and there’s no mention of her writing career.

And that’s why I don’t complain about modern art, folks.

Poosy Paradise: Matt Forney’s Do the Philippines

This is a guest post by William Rome. William originally published this review of Do the Philippines at his blog Smoking While Rome Burns, but he deleted the site a few days ago so he could focus on other projects. I asked him if I could re-post his review on my own site and he said yes.

Since Adam busted his first nut, men have been searching for the mystical Poosy Paradise. The land of boobs and blowjobs; where tits taste like honey and lips part like the Red Sea. Byron thought he found it in Regency-era Venice, while Jack Nicholson thought he found it in 1960’s Hollywood. But Matt Forney has found it today on the far side of the globe.

In his entertaining and informative new book Do the Philippines, he lays out the blueprint for you to carve out your own slice of Heaven in this sexual Shangri-la. Forney covers it all from accommodation and airfare to avoiding diarrhea and lady-boys. And of course, the main thrust of the book is the girls. In the pages of this book are lessons to be remembered, whether you want to spend your time in the Philippines recreating your favorite squeaking Asian porn or experiencing the type of summer romance you thought was only possible in old movies. Hell, if you want a good wife, Forney has written this book for you.

That was the most encouraging thing about Do the Philippines. In our Aspie society, the only choices you’re often given are being a total cad or a sputtering pussy. In the Philippines, you can indulge both your decadent Byronic side and your hopeless romantic Gatsby-esque side. Matt gives tips on what types of girls and where in the country you give in to each aspect of your personality.

The biggest thing I took from Do the Philippines is that femininity is not extinct worldwide. Just because cultural Marxism-inspired feminism has all but quarantined it in the West doesn’t mean you’ll never know what it feels like. This is the biggest reason the book has encouraged me to go to the Philippines. I want to know what it is like to be with an actual girl, not inferior males seething with resentment cause they were born without a penis that feminism has created. I think many men are booking their plane tickets now that they know those girls do still exist.

So get online and buy this book. Matt has told me to get to the Philippines since he was there. Do the Philippines has encouraged me to do it. I can’t wait to go.

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If you liked this post then you’ll like Do the Philippines, my 102-page book that teaches you how to sleep with Filipino women during a visit to the Philippines. It contains tourist tips, game advice, and city guides that give you all the information you need to bang Filipinas, with exclusive information I haven’t published on my blog. Click here to learn more.

She Submits as She Dominates: Flakes, Zooey Deschanel and the Abusiveness of the Manic Pixie Dream Girl

As the collective IQ of America slides every year, our discourse becomes increasingly juvenile and trivialized. The cultural Marxists of yesteryear at least had some intellectual chops: our modern overlords can’t discuss anything more complex then pop culture. The chattering classes collectively piss themselves in response to Beyonce having a lit-up “FEMINIST” sign during one of her shows; Anita Sarkeesian collects hundreds of thousands of dollars worth of donations to create a gussied up TV Tropes (itself a mind-numbing cavalcade of stupidity); and the guy who coined the term “Manic Pixie Dream Girl” has been forced to flagellate himself for inventing a “misogynistic” slur.

I’ve never actually seen any of these Manic Pixie Dream Girl movies, mainly because I run like hell from the kinds of “quirky,” navel-gazing indie comedies that feature them (e.g. Garden State, (500) Days of Summer). From my reading of the “literature” on the topic, MPDGs basically serve as props to the male protagonist, experiencing no character development or inner life of their own. So it’s bad writing; big deal. Pretty much every movie these days is written poorly, action movies in particular—no need for an original plot or unique characters when you can just CGI up a bunch of explosions—but the Manic Pixie Dream Girl gets special attention from middlebrows because it’s “sexist.”

How dare men depict women in an idealistic or fantastical way! Don’t you know that every time you fantasize about a girl who’s attractive and not a cunt, the patriarchy wins?

The Manic Pixie Dream Girl trope is also applied to films that have almost nothing to do with the onanistic early-oughts effluvium from which the concept originated. For example, Katharine Hepburn’s character in Bringing Up Baby is identified as an MPDG, an analysis which completely ignores that Bringing Up Baby was a screwball comedy, a genre that is defined by its flipping of traditional sex roles on their heads. The humor in Bringing Up Baby comes from the fact that Hepburn’s character is domineering and bossy while Cary Grant’s is nebbish and weak-willed, an inversion of the way men and women were typically depicted in films of the time.

But because I am on an eternal quest to understand the thought processes of ordinary fuckin’ people, I decided to watch one of these Manic Pixie Dream Girl movies for myself. The one I got stuck with was Flakes, an indie comedy so insufferably pleased with itself I could practically see stink lines of concentrated smug wafting off my TV. It stars everyone’s favorite hipster pin-up Zooey Deschanel in one of the most psychotic and disturbingly un-self-aware roles I’ve ever seen in a film. I enjoy Deschanel’s music and her loopy, “feminist” philosophy of quirkiness and femininity, but I’ve never actually seen any of her MPDG movies: this was probably not the best place to start.

The Manic Pixie Dream Girl is a nightmare, a creepy fantasy for men and women to indulge in.

Flakes revolves around hipster slacker Neal Downs (Aaron Stanford), an aspiring musician working a shit job at a New Orleans cereal bar managed by a senile old hippie (Christopher Lloyd). His girlfriend, Miss Pussy Katz (Deschanel), is tired of his loafing around and decides to leave him… ha ha, just kidding! Nope, instead she insists on taking his place at the cereal bar so that he can get the free time to finish his album. Neal rebuffs her for the sensible reason that he has to pay rent, so she hatches a plot to run the bar out of business by helping build up a ripoff cereal bar across the street, giving him no choice but to record that damn album.

On the surface, we have the Manic Pixie Dream Girl trope: a woman who selflessly works to kick her moping, brooding boyfriend into action. But who in their right mind would call this a good thing? Sabotaging your boyfriend’s job, even if you claim to be doing it for his own good, is the height of manipulative, controlling behavior. If a woman did this to a man in real life, people wouldn’t hesitate to recognize her actions as abusive and sadistic. If a man did something similar to his girlfriend, he’d be pilloried as a “batterer,” particularly with the bizarre new initiative against “financial abuse.” And it’s not like the film was trying to be ironic or satirical; it’s made obvious throughout the whole thing that we’re supposed to empathize with Miss Pussy Katz.

Far from being an empty male fantasy, the Manic Pixie Dream Girl goes out of her way to dominate and control her man in sick, clandestine ways.

Flakes provides a perfect example of “topping from the bottom”: women who dominate their husbands through a facade of submission. So-called “red pill women” are notorious for this kind of behavior: adopting a mask of wifeliness so that they might better cut their husbands’ balls off and stuff them in their purses. On the surface, the woman appears to submit to her man’s headship, but privately she controls him through domesticity and sex appeal. Deschanel’s character’s actions are an extreme example of this: using underhanded methods and feminine charm to remake her boyfriend into what she wants.

Topping from the bottom and the Manic Pixie Dream Girl trope persist because they appeal to a particular type of man and woman. The man for whom Zooey Deschanel’s Pussy Katz represents an ideal is a psychological codependent. Lacking the will to achieve his goals, too spineless to command his woman, he dreams of a mommy figure who will do all the hard work for him. He wants to submit to a woman, if not de jure, then de facto. You can see the desire for emasculation shot through the sexual fantasies of left-wing/SJW men (click here for a particularly nauseating example), and the Manic Pixie Dream Girl is a more clandestine manifestation of that impulse.

But what do women get from the Manic Pixie Dream Girl trope? Answer: power and control. The MPDG represents the secret desires of a particular type of narcissist, a woman who wants to manipulate and control her man with subterfuge. Manic Pixie Dream Girls dominate not through the typical ball-busting, confrontational acts of the harridan, but by weaponizing their femininity for personal gain. After all, what red-blooded man can resist a bubbly girly girl who’s in love with him?

Calling the Manic Pixie Dream Girl trope “sexist” is completely missing the point.

What movies like Flakes represent is not some wave of misogyny on the part of bespectacled, fuzzy-bearded hipster filmmakers, but a fundamental sickness both in those men and the women they are attracted to. Without masculine guidance, they seek solace in twisted Oedipal fantasies, which their polka-dot romper-wearing paramours are all too happy to give them. Much like Severin in Venus in Furs, they don’t realize that their desires will end up spelling misery for everyone involved.

Click here to watch Flakes.