Matt Forney
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Kill Yr Manosphere Idols

This post stands a good chance of wiping out my readership. I don’t care. I’ve turned my guns on my own readers so often over the years I’m shocked that I have any left.

The manoblogs are all a-twitter with righteous outrage. Mark Minter is a fraud! A liar! A hypocrite! How could a guy who railed against marriage, called it an institution for “pussies,” go back on his words? With a single mother no doubt? Why did he lie about the fact that he’s a penniless bum who’s been living with his sister for the past few years?

Why? Why? WHY?

You’ll notice that I haven’t joined in the ritual witch-burning, and that’s because I didn’t care for Minter to begin with. I have nothing against him, but I just clicked past when guys like Roosh started boosting the angry comments he left on manosphere blogs. Part of my problem with the Cult of Mark Minter was that his central thesis—the idea that marriage is a bum deal for men—is so old that it has an AARP membership card. This shit’s been done before. I’ll bet not a single one of Minter’s fanboys know who Pook or Bonecrker or zed or Rob Fedders or any of the countless men who’ve written about this stuff before are.

Nobody’s got any respect for their elders nowadays.

So ultimately, I can’t blame Mark Minter too much. He was just a pissed-off guy who found a forum to vent in. By any objective measure he made out pretty good, seeing as he’s getting married to a groupie nearly half his age. Think about that: a guy who comments on blogs is popular enough to have his own groupies. Toss in the fact that he’s a broke deadbeat and from his perspective, he’s practically won the lottery.

So who do I blame? I blame you.

You credulous cronies. You gullible dipshits. You idol-worshipping nimrods. You’re no different than the legions of Oprah-watching soccer moms who turned on James Frey after his fabrications were revealed. “But-but-but he LIED to me!!!!!1” No asshole, you lied to yourself. Frey sold a vision of life that appeals to bourgeois prigs, where rich white boys snort glue, illiterate black inmates learn to love life by reading War and Peace, and drug use always leads to the worst fate imaginable. It didn’t matter that his memoirs had gaping holes the size of GeishaKate’s vagina; people ate them up because they wanted to believe the swill Frey was selling.

Same with Mark Minter. The evidence of him being a broke basement dweller was sitting in plain view, but no one bothered to do a basic Google search before they decided to deify him. Why? Because he sold a vision of life that the manospambots found appealing, where marriage is always doomed to fail and divorce is always the woman’s fault.

Now those same cultists are crying that their self-made swami isn’t cutting the mustard anymore.

This is a big part of why I quit blogging at In Mala Fide; I was tired of being worshipped by people who thought I was something other than I was. More importantly, I realized that I was actually buying into the press, starting to believe the bullshit that was being erected around me. I’ve realized that if you’re a good enough writer, people will form all kinds of mental images of you based on their own prejudices. When people started trying to turn me into their personal game guru, emailing me for one-on-one advice, I knew that the end was near.

I never claimed to be a player, a pickup artist or anything more than a guy on the edge of nowhere, telling you what he thought about the issues of the day. Right now, my life is laughably unglamorous. I work eight hours a day at a monkey’s job. I live in an overpriced hovel outside an Ivy League university, which is deserted right now save for Russian and Chinese exchange students. I spend most of my time lifting, reading and writing. Fuck, I didn’t even bother going out this weekend; I spent Friday and Saturday night plowing through a couple of books while drinking Woodchucks.

I’m nobody’s hero, at least until I can break out of exile.

If you don’t want to get fooled again, stop being so easy to fool. Stop building shrines to every halfwit who assuages your prejudices. Start demanding verisimilitude from your favorite writers.

Oooh, big word! What does “verisimilitude” mean, you ask?

It means realism, but it’s more than that. Verisimilitude is a quality of truthfulness that unconsciously pervades everything a person does: their writing, their behavior, their very personality. It’s not a quality that can be faked, except by a clinical sociopath; you either have verisimilitude or you don’t. Fakers can put up a false front, but it will eventually slip, as it did in the case of Mark Minter.

The writers that have lasted the longest in the manosphere and have the largest readerships are the ones with the most verisimilitude. Roosh. Danger & Play. Heartiste. Naughty Nomad. Delicious Tacos. Rollo Tomassi. Virgle Kent. The list goes on. These men and more have survived this long and won so many fans because their writing oozes with honesty and frankness.

Even if you disagree with some of the things they’ve said or done, you know they’re not bullshitting you; they come from a position of experience.

Up until now, blogs that lacked this inherent honesty have tended to fall by the wayside because the manosphere has largely been populated with guys who can tell fact from fiction in their guts, if not consciously. I’m sorry to say that I’ve played a role in promoting phonies and fakes in the past, but the self-correcting nature of the system still kept the losers I gave undeserved attention to from gaining much of a foothold.

Unfortunately, 2013 is becoming the Year the Manosphere Broke.

Mark Minter’s fall will hopefully become a lesson learned for some of you: no man is worthy of being treated like a god. Before you decide to shine a spotlight on someone, ask yourself if they really deserve it. Do you like this man because his writing has truth, or do you like him because he’s telling you what you want to hear? Are you building a pantheon or an echo chamber?

Idol worship isn’t healthy, and it’s not a good look. If you act like a swooning groupie, don’t get mad when you’re treated like one.

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