Aurini - a generation wasted.

"Every generation is progressively more poor than the generation before it. Despite our iPods, despite our technology, we can't afford a family. We can't afford children. All we can afford is this noisy, shiny crap that distracts us so that we can go back to our useless jobs and work. And you wonder why we're pissed off?"

[...]"This is a sick, broken world, and we are all beginning to notice it, and we are all beginning to get very, very pissed off. But ultimately, we are the ones who are going to fix this. My brothers and sisters, the future belongs to us. It's up to us to fix this sick, sick society that we find ourselves in. Do what's right, and we will prevail. We have been in dark times before, our species, and I know we have it in us to survive this one."

I have nothing to add to this.

I'm saddened, but not surprised. Saddened, but not surprised.

We sick sons of bitches, the human species, have signed each and every one of our death warrants.

From the UK Daily Mail:

Pregnant South African women are deliberately drinking large quantities of alcohol to harm their unborn babies in a bid to earn more welfare money, it has been claimed.

Expectant mothers living in the Eastern Cape, one of the poorest areas in South Africa, are bingeing on a ‘moonshine’ type drink which contains battery acid – with some drinking up to five and six bottles a day.

It has been reported they do it to claim a disability benefit from the government – using their disabled children as a source of income.

Video taken by Sky News shows a mother drinking a homemade brew called ‘kah-kah’ while heavily pregnant.

[...]The addictive milky brown brew is made from yeast, water and battery acid.

[...]The World Health Organisation said there has been an increase in the number of babies born with Foetal Alcohol Spectrum Disorder (FASD) in the area  since 2002.
The syndrome is also the most common birth defect in South Africa.

The irreversible symptoms mean children suffer from speech problems, physical deformities, learning difficulties and behavioural issues.

Families receive 250 South African rand ($29 US) per child, per month but a disabled child brings in around 1200 rand a month ($138 US).

That's what a human's future is worth to these people. A hundred and nine US dollars a month. That's what living a normal life sans physical deformities, brain damage and psychological problems is worth. 

A hundred and nine fucking dollars a month.
 

Which is why for all its other faults, I will firmly applaud the Singaporean government's stance on welfare: you don't work, you don't eat, and charities shall be largely private (any Singaporeans reading this will know what happens when government gets into charity. NKF case, anyone?) Bad behaviour of filthy human cockroaches is not to be incentivised or even tolerated.

I wonder if those hundred and nine dollars a month will seem so great a sum in the future when those handicapped babies grow into handicapped children and then handicapped teenagers and handicapped adults. I wonder of many of these fools actually have any comprehension of the long run, or even cause and effect beyond "gimmedat!"

But back to the point, at this moment, if a comet dropped on the earth and wiped us all out, I wouldn't fucking care anymore. Just when you think that humanity has bottomed out, it finds ways to sink to new lows.

Where's my box?

Team Civilisation.

Vox Day has made a great post over at Alpha Game about Team Civilisation. A notable quote:

"It is important for even the angriest, most justifiably bitter men of the androsphere to remember that the survival of civilization requires the joint efforts of both the sexes.  By all means, denigrate, shame, and mock those women who are actively, if unknowingly, attempting to bring civilization down.  But it is vital to be able to distinguish between civilizational friend and anti-civilizational foe."

Mm. With all the talk over at SunShineMary's about sexbots replacing women (or at least, what far too many of them have become today, both in and out of the Anglosphere), at least for the middling and lower-ranked guys, I really find it hard to feel sympathy for any of them who embraced, or still embrace the whole "men are useless, for they are but muscles, ATMs and sperm banks" mantra.

I remember back in 2000, when the whole "the Y chromosome is dying" nonsense (odd how the trumpeting stopped and was replaced with derision when it was discovered it was capable of self-repair, and fell quiet completely when its mutability suggested it might have been responsible for up to 30% of human evolution. Nature does take more chances with men than it does with women, after all.) was at its peak, and seeing an issue of Time magazine with "men dying out?" splashed all across the cover. I remember reading one of Angry Harry's pieces back in 2004, when he quotes one glorious biologist as saying "men are parasites". And of course, in recent times, we have Greg Laden from A-doubleplusgood declaring that men are just women whose brains have been poisoned by testosterone.

So yes, with so many years of "men are useless" under my belt even as a young man reducing me to my penis and muscles, (I mean, who cares about all the stats which point out that children do far better in intact households?) I can't say I care much for what these women think of being reduced to a pussy and womb by sexbots. Perhaps then they'll have to bring more than a warm hole and a baby bag (sometimes) to a relationship.

And Vox Day has pointed out how to do that. Hop on the boat with the men and women on Team Civilisation, because instead of giving all of you ladies the benefit of the doubt and sifting out the bad apples like in ye olden days, the strategy of the red-pill man these days is to sift and screen and search for the single good apple that looks identical to all the others in the barrel. Others have chosen to abstain from the barrel altogether and will need to be persuaded back.

Their standards will be high, so you'd better be prepared. Those worthy of being on the boat will be on board when the flood comes, and those who aren't - sluts and simpering manginas alike - will simply be swept away by the tide to come, whether it's from collapse or from a brave new world.

Coasta Concordia or The Dark Knight shooting? As Aurini says, you choose the action, you choose the consequences.

Because we're all in this together.

We need to be paladins (not crusaders). All of us. We need, amongst other things, to live our lives according to precepts of civilisation and be shining beacons of what we stand for.

For Team Civilisation.

Eating things that have "hydrogenated" on the label may piss you off.

 
In short, trans fats - which include anything that's been hydrogenated or fractionated - make people irritable and aggressive. If you can avoid them, you may well become a happier person.

Nothing can be conclusively 100 % proven from a single study (more is always merrier), especially in this field, but I'm hoping that these fellows pick up this particular ball and run with it. It's another stike in favour of paleo and cooking your own food from scratch, if nothing else.

Day in the life of an Evil Patriarch(TM).

6:00 am: Wake up in secret volcano base, fresh and ready for another day of oppression and misogyny.

6:05 am: Curl and wax moustache in an appropriately evil manner, ensure that top hat, monocle and cane are in top condition. You can't be an Evil Patriarch(TM) without looking the part.

6:15 am: Practice twirling moustache in an appropriately evil manner.

6:45 am: Breakfast is served in the refectory. On the menu is: baked sammich, sammich juice, coffee brewed with fresh sammich grounds, and sammich salad, all fresh from the mines. A nice glass wall in the side of the refectory allows Evil Patriarchs dining within a grand overview of the sammich mines (known informally as the "kitchen") and the women toiling within

7:30 Brief inspection of the upper levels of the salt - er, I mean sammich mines, with the thirty-second oppression brigade as escort. Bacon and lettuce deposits are still workable, while a tomato vein has been tapped out - arrangements are made to move womenfolk down to the second pickle shaft further underground. Shipments of aprons and spatulas are made and distributed appropriately.

9:00 am: Hold workshop on Game in conference room thirty-four of the secret volcano base. Young nice guys who are really creeps are taught to hypnotise women into having sex with them, the logistics of real hypnosis notwithstanding.

10:30 am: Game workshop is done for the day; the Game-aware omegas, gammas and deltas are sent out into the world to exercise their dastardly deeds in the name of the Evil Patriarchy(TM) and rob young carousel-riding women of the alpha male they so rightfully deserve. A hovercraft is dispatched to send the lads to the mainland; reports begin to trickle in steadily from others in the field. Cackle maniacally at evil undesirable men tricking women into spreading their legs for them, without any decision-making on the part of those poor dears as to whether they really should be putting out for these guys.

11:00 am: Receive daily blowjob from favourite brainwashed woman, who coincidentally is also naked (except for the chain leading back to the "kitchen"), barefoot and pregnant. Cackle evilly once more, twirl moustache for extra effect. Another tick towards the rape and beating quota is added, as all hetrosexual sexual activity is counted as rape.

12:00 pm: Working lunch with the Evil Patriarchy(TM) Obfuscation Committee. Goal: to further the ends of the Evil Patriarchy(TM) by benefiting women so as to create positive discrimination. This will ensure that none of them figure out that men and their penises, right down to babies moments out of the womb, are all conspiring against them. Orders are given to double down on the obfuscation by channelling yet more government funding in that direction. Memos are sent out.

3:00 pm:  Observe the formal induction of the latest batch of boys into the ranks of the Evil Patriarchy(TM). Twelve year-olds from all across the globe are flown into the Evil Patriarchy(TM)'s secret volcano base and escorted to the ballroom. There, they receive their official gold-lined Evil Patriarchy(TM) membership cards and are taught the secret handshake of the Evil Patriarchy(TM). Boys dying of malnourishment and child soldiers are educated at length about how, due to their simple existence and the fact they possess a penis, that they can magically keep down a SWPL on the other side of the globe.

3:05 pm: Slight mishap during the Evil Patriarchy(TM) induction ceremony as the Ugandan boys keep on emptying the pastry trays. The Evil Patriarchy(TM) commands amazing catering resources, but even that has its limits.

3:15 pm: Benefits of membership in the Evil Patriarchy(TM) are explained at length, including but not limited to: free dental care, a time-share at the secret underwater base, the privilege of working a 60-hour week or two jobs to cover for a nagging, frigid wife who'll frivorce you for your assets and any children anyways, the privilege of being more likely to be killed on said job and dying earlier, so on and so forth. The dental care is acknowledged to be pretty good, though, as is the discount on hats.

3:25 pm: Induction ceremony proceeds with much banging on drums and dancing around the mystical twenty-foot golden phallus that occupies the middle of the secret volcano base. Volcano takes this opportunity to erupt, which is taken as a good portent.

3:40 pm: Induction ceremony ends. Boys are shuttled back to their respective countries. Ugandan boys reluctant to return to war and starvation, but must return or else their existences will not generate enough magical sparkly oppression to meet production quotas.

4:00 pm: Group of Chinese boys found hiding behind the girth of the mystical golden phallus, unwilling to return to their lives of child labour in dingy sweatshops. They are properly spanked and sent back to their destined duty of oppression and misogyny with the magical penises of doom. Much moustache twirling ensues.

4:30 pm: Meeting with the Society of Brainwashed Women, a wholly-owned subsidiary of the Evil Patriarchy(TM) consisting of women who are so foolish as to have vestiges of independent thought and fail to conform to enlightened feminist doctrine. Dress code for all women present is barefoot and pregnant.

4:40 pm: Standards and quotas are reviewed for the following activities: sister-punishing, gender betrayal, and giving good advice. It is pointed out that sister-punishing has fallen short of the quota by 8%, women responsible for the shortfall immediately assume the approved submissive doormat position and beg to be literally whipped into line. Evil Patriarchy(TM) whips are dispensed for self-flagellation in the case that enough men cannot be summoned to dole out the whipping.

5:00 pm: Meeting has been derailed into a discussion on the use of herbal extracts in uteral toning. The ladies are left to their discussion and the meeting is called to an early end, although the whips are left in the room for further self-flagellation if need be.

5:15 pm: Dinner is served. On the menu are sammich au lait, peanut butter and jelly sammiches, sammich mousse, toasted sammich and sammich casserole. Light talk is made with fellow Evil Patriarchs over how to best subjugate and control women. Theme for the discussion: impose consequences for choices that women make. Gold stars are awarded for the best suggestions and pasted on the notice board in the refectory to much applause.

6:15 pm: Make broadcast through the Old Boys Network, a form of communication so secret that the fact that it is not tangible or visible in any shape or form is taken as proof of its existence. All world leaders are reminded to comply with the Evil Patriarchy(TM) regulations that were discussed during lunchtime. Non-compliance will be severely punished with a trip to the Phallus Palace.

7:00 pm: Seventy-second grand council of the Hair Club for Men goes into session. Much hushed whispering is had behind closed doors. A heavy aura of...auraness hangs over conference room seventy-four.

7:30 pm: Ominous chanting can be heard from behind the doors. Men passing by in the corridor catch the jitters, women mysteriously aroused. The Hair Club must certainly be holding a lively party for everyone to be joining in!

9:30 pm: Turn in after a hard day's work of oppressing wymmyn, but not before receiving one last blowjob from yon evil patriarch's brainwashed, submissive woman. Remove monocle and top hat, ensure moustache is still appropriately evil and curly.

Beep boop, I am a robot...

 ...Beep boop, I am here to take your jobs. And your boyfriend. And your husband. And your beta orbiters. And so on and so forth.

SunShineMary has an ongoing discussion on sexbots on her blog here. I'm an agnostic, but a number of Christian reactionary blogs in the 'sphere make good reading and this post is one of them.

I suppose it was only a matter of time, 'ey? Ladies wanted to replace guys with the state, so turnabout is fair play when guys replace ladies with robots.

Edit: Nightskyradio has taken a stab at making some predictions as to how this will turn out.

We're all meat machines.

 
We're all meat machines.

It's a sobering, and as is usual for me, slightly depressing thought. Sort of like discovering Santa Claus isn't real, only he is, but he really lives in a third-world country to take advantage of the cheap child labour there.

In my game practice with the lab ladies (I'm sure it says something about me that I find it far easier to imagine people I'm familiar with as target dummies than near-complete strangers) I can see the marked difference from the complete invisibility I was labelled with for the first five months of my lab work compared to the last month and a half. No Don Juan here, far from it, but being warranted a second glance by a number of the lab ladies is...interesting.

I suppose it helped that we Singaporeans were recently voted as the least emotional people in the world. Go us. Of course, I don't intend to escalate any time soon, but just seeing the basic principles produce such a marked difference brings up various thoughts and emotions in me. Here's a small incident that happened a couple days ago. One of the lab ladies comes up to me and a friend while we're busy watching the readout from a piece of lab apparatus on an experiment we're doing.

Her: Hey, do you guys have a marker I could borrow for a moment?

My friend immediately starts patting down his labcoat, but turns up nothing and apologises. Now, I do have a marker in my labcoat pocket (always have one there, never know when I might need to mark a vial or two), but I don't turn, just watch her out the corner of my eye. Having determined that my friend doesn't have a marker for her appropriation, she turns her attention to me.

Her: Do you have one, [me]?

I ignore her and continue watching the instrument readout for a couple of seconds, then lazily reach into my labcoat and draw out my marker. Instead of handing it to her, though, I keep my eyes on the readout and hold out the marker to my friend with a small shrug.

Me: Give it to her, [friend].

My friend's a great guy and plays along as an unwitting accomplice, eagerly handing her the marker. What I do notice, as I continue watching her out the corner of my eye, is that she's not looking at my friend as she takes the marker, but me. Up till this point my insides feel like they've been all in a tangle, especially with using my friend like this, but I wait for her to turn and start walking away when it's my turn to face her and call out in the quietest yet most commanding voice I can manage at the time (my insides were still twisted, and it being a lab doesn't do well for shouting, either.) One eyebrow slightly arched (I hope, I didn't have a mirror at the time), one arm outstretched with my index finger in the air.

Me: [her], return the marker later. Set it on my workspace if you can't find me.

She half-turns, and her face lights up completely, betraying her spinning hamster for a fraction of second or so before shutting down again and giving me a nod and scurrying away. But what I'm finding most interesting isn't her reaction, but rather, my reaction to her reaction. She had no way of knowing I was attempting to apply Game, so I can't fault her. I, however, knew the whole thing was a farce, the courtship equivalent of going down to the range and shooting a few targets as opposed to going hunting - and yet the meat machine that I was reacted anyway.

My lizard brain's pounding and drooling away, while my more conscious and rational self is feeling...well, I don't know. By the time I finish collecting all the data I need and retrieve my samples, my lizard brain's stopped howling and all I feel is this mild interest, I guess, tinged with just a hint of disgust. Sort of like a naturalist who's just discovered a particularly interesting strain of yeast, and is now faced with the task of characterising it. Yeast, by the by, generally tends to smell really bad, at least in my experience.

Oh, and my marker was already on my workbench when I got back.

Game does open you to part of the bitter truth of how people work. We all like to think we're sane, where logic and emotion come together to produce some vestige of rationality through which we can view the world. And yet there are so many undercurrents present, and it takes a huge dollop of self-awareness to even notice it, let alone actively direct it where it needs to be.

The realisation that you're a meat machine is a shock to your system. How much of you is you, and how much is just a soup of chemicals floating about in a sea of cells, making you feel and do things against your better judgement? Sure, you hear about antidepressants and SSRIs and Ritalin and all that trash, but experiencing the raw stuff for yourself and identifying it as such truly drives the point home. Staring out of the box and seeing the world sail its merry way along its path straight to oblivion, all the shit in the world makes so much sense when you stop viewing most people as beings that even attempt to be rational, and start seeing them as meat machines whirring away on automatic.

We're goddamned meat machines, and there are far too few of us who know of, let alone try to harness or rein in our natures.