Matt Forney
Spread the Word!

Last Rites to the Dying

During my time in the oil patch, my best friend was Billy, a kid I’d met on a insulation job near the Little Muddy River. Billy was a great example of how the hydrofracking boom was benefiting men who were down on their luck. He had come to North Dakota from the Deep South with literally nothing but the clothes on his back, after spending much of the past few years variously abusing meth and living on the streets, his home life an utter mess. A month of temping in Williston and he’d earned enough to not only feed himself, but buy a laptop, a cell phone, an MP3 player and stash a good deal away.

But goddamn, Billy was dumb.

You ever meet someone who is smart enough to come up with good ideas but too stupid to implement them properly? That’s Billy to a tee. The whole time I knew him, he was obsessed with writing this book of his. I can’t reveal what it’s about, only to say that it involved a lot more work than the typical book project undertaken by writers in this part of the ‘sphere.

More importantly, Billy labored under the delusion that a major New York publishing house would accept his book. I kept urging him to self-publish on CreateSpace and Kindle, listing off the various reasons why going the mainstream route would be a waste of time. I explained to him that most publishers don’t accept unsolicited manuscripts, that he’d have to get an agent who would take half of his royalties (which would amount to 10% of the book’s sale price at most), assuming that he could even get an agent or that they could successfully sell his book. I told Billy that he’d be far better off starting a blog and marketing his book himself instead of relying on the idiots at HarperCollins or wherever to do it for him.

He didn’t listen. The last time I spoke to him (around Thanksgiving), he was convinced that he’d be rich and famous in a year’s time.

“Save those you can, read last rites to the dying.” That’s Rollo Tomassi’s philosophy in regards to unplugging sheeple from the Matrix; you can’t convince everyone, or even most people, to accept the truth, so there’s no point in even trying. I’ve ostensibly tried to hew to this myself, but I keep finding myself relapsing into the role of lifestyle prophet, demolishing pretty lies to my friends and family.

It never works.

It’s only natural that men who discover the manosphere would want their loved ones to benefit from the same knowledge they did. Like a Christian convert zealously thumping his Bible to anyone who’ll listen, we are compelled to parrot the truth of dieting, dating and making dinero to those we care about. If it helped us, it’ll help them too… right?

While it will, the reality is that most people don’t want to hear it.

It takes a certain kind of man to seek out a milieu like the manosphere, a kind of man who is unusually discontented, intelligent, and perceptive. We make the solipsistic mistake of assuming that most people are like us, that we’re the normal people and the sheeple are the freaks.

The truth is that we have it backwards: most people want to be slaves.

They really do believe the bullshit they see on TV and read in the newspaper. They honestly think that high-carb, low-fat diets are good for the human body; that it’s still possible for people under the age of 30 to “settle down” and live the 2.5 children and white picket fence lifestyle; that all a man has to do to get laid is “be himself.” They believe these lies because they literally don’t have the ability to think independently; it requires mental hardware that they simply do not possess. Their minds are empty chalkboards on which our government, media and universities can inscribe whatever ridiculous nonsense they want.

Not only that, most people won’t accept the red pill because it would require admitting that they’re wrongThis applies particularly to middle-aged and old people, who’ve invested most of their lives into believing the mainstream narrative. It forms an integral part of their identities, to the point that they would rather die than give it up. Attempting to divest a fiftysomething cubicle jockey of blue pill myths is like trying to convince a devout Baptist that God doesn’t exist (not making an argument for/against religion, just making an analogy); you’d be better off slamming your head into the nearest wall.

This hits home for me in a number of ways. I’ve known a person I’ll call “Aidan” for a few years now. Aidan is a driven, charismatic and outwardly successful individual. Thing is, Aidan has made a number of choices that will all but guarantee that they will have an absolutely miserable life in two, three years time. Signs of it are already starting to appear. Aidan is completely oblivious to the unfolding disaster because they are childish and immature (despite insisting that they aren’t) and because they surround themselves with sycophants who either reinforce their delusions or are too cowardly to criticize their choices.

I am literally the only person Aidan knows who is trying to get them off their road to nowhere.

I’ve tried convincing Aidan with logical proof that their lifestyle is going to crash and burn. Aidan never listens to me, instead arrogantly lecturing me on my life choices, despite the fact that they’re both younger than me and have seen far less of the world. I’ve also tried to reach Aidan’s friends and family; none of them will listen, completely taken in by Aidan’s bullshit artist act.

After five plus years of casting my pearls before swine, I’ve had enough.

I’m washing my hands of Aidan. Despite the facts being on my side, Aidan would rather continue down the primrose path to hell than admit that their entire worldview is a bleeding lie and they’ve wasted the last five years of their life. A tiny part of me is looking forward to being able to jump up and down like a maniac in two or three years hollering “I told you so!” when Aidan finally realizes how badly they’ve fucked their life up, but they’re not worth the effort.

Aidan’s made their bed; now they can sleep in it.

I’m not wasting any more time helping people who don’t want to be helped. I’m happy to mentor young men who seek me out and are eager to listen to my counsel, but I’m not going to spend my waning days on this earth trying to talk sense into what are the human equivalent of dairy cows. Despite their protestations to the contrary, these two-legged heifers will merrily march up the slaughterhouse conveyor belt to get drilled between the eyes because they don’t know any better. Livestock can moo, bray and cluck all they want, but at the end of the day, they always do what they are told.

Face it, my friends: most people aren’t cut out to be rebels. Our path is a lonely and treacherous one, one our friends and family don’t have the courage to walk. Read them their rites and leave them to rot in the ground.

Read Next: BUtterfield 8 by John O’Hara