Red Pill in Fiction, Reverse Edition: Heinlein’s Friday

We spend a lot of time here at Neurotoxin mocking women’s adorable but addle-pated fantasies about men, as revealed in female-authored fiction. That’s a major part of our Red Pill in Fiction series.

However, every now and then there are some silly male fantasies about women that are revealed in male-authored fiction. Even yer humble blog author, Neurotoxin* himself, is not entirely immune to certain fantasies. (* Actually Neurotoxin is the blog, not the proprietor, but I don’t know what else to call myself, so I’m going with that.)

Which takes us to Robert Heinlein’s Friday, a science fiction novel published in 1982.

This picture activates my salivary response.

Friday is a genetically-engineered superwoman, mentally and physically superior to everyone except other “artifical persons” like herself. At one point when the espionage organization she works for is destroyed and she is forced to go job hunting, she describes herself on her resume as a “combat courier.”

So before proceeding, let me just take a moment to say that James Cameron is kind of a wanker. In his movies and TV shows he lifts material profligately from SF written by other people. In the case of Friday, you might be thinking, “Hey! Maxine, the character in Cameron’s series Dark Angel, was described as a genetically engineered combat courier! That bastard Heinlein lifted his idea from that show!” There was lifting, alright, but it went the other way. Look at the publication date again. Friday was 1982. Dark Whassis didn’t air until 2000. The term “articifical person,” which Cameron slipped into the movie Aliens, also comes from Friday. And the phrase “mimetic polyalloy” in Terminator 2 was lifted from an earlier William Gibson work (Neuromancer, IIRC) that used the phrase “mimetic polycarbon.”

Anyway, Friday is an extremely popular character among male SF fans. She’s had kind of an underground run, but more and more, I see male SF readers of a certain age grooving on that novel and its protagonist.

Even Charles Stross, who is not exactly in political alignment with Heinlein, couldn’t resist doing an entire novel that overtly referenced the character. I mean, really overtly, e.g., at one point his character has a hotel reservation under the name F. Baldwin. Friday’s last name is Baldwin.

Why is this character so lusted after admired?

Well, here’s a lead-up to the answer: It’s the equal-and-opposite equivalent of women’s fantasy about a bad boy who really has a heart of gold and will fall for them in the end.

Men love Friday because she’s an attractive young woman with no trace of drama queen in her personality.

In fact, if anything she goes too far in the other direction; she’s too matter-of-fact about life. Now there’s something you don’t see often. As a courier for a secret agency, she is captured by bad guys in the first few chapters, and raped and tortured as part of their attempt to break her down for questioning. She shrugs all this off. In fact, when she’s narrating the account later, she makes disdainful remarks about her tormenters, for being amatuerish in their torture techniques.

There is a major difference between the male and female fantasies: The female fantasy about the jerkboy who secretly has a heart of gold is not what women really want – they just think they want it. If the jerkboy ever actually became loving and attentive and faithful and all that, they’d instantly lose interest. (That does, in fact, happen sometimes; see the posts and comments at your local Game blog.) Whereas, the male fantasy is what men really want. There’s nothing a man would like better, in actual reality, than a hot and horny young woman with no drama queen in her personality.

Of course, a young woman with zero drama queen is as unrealistic as the cheating jerkboy who secretly has a heart of gold.

But it’s fun to fantasize.

Oh yeah, some thoughts on the novel as a novel: As fiction, this is entertaining enough, but it doesn’t really go anywhere. The pacing is ka-pow! but when it’s over you realize not much has happened. Or rather, a lot has happened, but to little effect.

Example: In the opening paragraph Our Heroine kills a man who’s following her. She takes his ID and credit cards and proceeds to a hotel where she doesn’t check in, but uses their lobby computer to do some sleuthing about the dude. She doesn’t find out much, so – this must be an hour or two after she killed him – she leaves the hotel. Later she learns that the hotel had been blown up a few minutes after she left. She dismisses this as a coincidence and proceeds on her merry way. Eventually, of course, we learn that it was not a coincidence. Some very powerful group of people wanted her dead and had enough resources to follow her and arrange a bombing in that small window of time. The novel goes on like this.

There is an emotional journey Friday makes, having to do with her initial insecurity over the fact that she’s genetically engineered. (As if it’s a bad thing to have superior intelligence, speed, and strength, etc.) But a novel needs a coherent external conflict as well as a coherent internal one. All which is a way of saying: Your Mileage May Vary. There is a certain lightness to the novel, but sweet damn, that main character!

Index page for my Red Pill in Fiction posts:


Red Pill in Fiction: Kelley Armstrong’s Driven

Driven, by Kelley Armstong. Estrogen-infused cheese. Basic run-down: Fantasy fiction about werewolves, told in first person from the point of view of a “female alpha.” Intimations of love triangles (quadrangles, pentagons, hexagons) all over the place in the first few pages.

This is a fantasy novel, so we might expect the inevitable Prologue. But Armstrong, not one to do the bare minimum, surpasses the standard requirement with a two-part Prologue, gah!

Here we go.

The narrator wants what she doesn’t want. As is often true with women, the narrator, who is plainly a stand-in for the author, wants to dominate men. She wants to boss them around, have them obey her, etc., ’cause she’s such a fuckin’ tough guy. Of course, she also does NOT want that.

Now an observation on drama as it’s written by non-top-tier female authors: Women have nothing at stake. In anything. And so for them drama is simply a game, a game that one plays to relieve boredom. Unlike men, who will suffer reproductive death if they get into a fight with the wrong other man under the wrong circumstances (because they’ll die or be humiliated, and women don’t mate with humiliated men), there is simply nothing at stake for women. They plainly don’t generally even imagine the idea of there being something at stake. Thus the drama is pointless, it has no internal logic (it doesn’t need to have it, since it is not about anything); it veers from topic to topic at random, it contradicts itself, etc.

An example of this comes when, at the end of Ch 1, the son and daughter of the “female Alpha” (for fuck’s sake) are pressing to have their mother let them meet the Big Bad of the story (Prediction as of end of Chapter 1: Big Bad’s penis will be in the narrator’s vagina by the end of the book). After the kids argue with their mother for a page or so about why they should get to meet the Big Bad, the son says, as an additional argument, “He will also see that we are not intrigued by him.” Dude, you just spent a page avidly arguing to be allowed to meet him.

Why wasn’t the author bothered by the blatant contradiction here? Well, if drama, for females, is zero-stakes distraction from boredom, then there’s no particular reason it has to be internally coherent. “Yes it does!” you’ll say, if you’re a man or a reasonably intelligent woman. After all, how can there be any drama if the situation is utterly senseless? If it even contradicts itself? How can I be on the edge of my seat, how can I experience any emotional tension, if the ostensible tension can’t even decide what it is!?

Well, apparently not all minds see that problem, obvious though it is. The idea is to get your blood pumping with pointless emotional outbursts, not to make some sort of sense. Each moment is disconnected from all other moments, so that if two kids are intrigued by a man at one point in time, it matters not all that five seconds later they’re proclaiming, “We are not intrigued by him.” That’ll show him!

For any women reading this, a note: For men, the analysis of interactions that may involve conflict must actually make sense, since everything is potentially at stake, including one’s life. Strategy, tactics, understanding the enemy’s goals and beliefs to aid in the prediction of their moves… these are all not only a thing; they’re vital.

So the red pill’s presence here is not so much about the content of the scene, as about what it reveals about the female author’s attitude toward pointless posturing and incoherent drama. Here’s the relevant passage, which occurs at the end of Ch 1 (I’ve elided some text for brevity; you’re welcome). The narrator’s 9-year-old son is speaking about the Big Bad, Malcolm. It’s important to note here that the backstory is that Malcolm is a serial killer who’s also a werewolf.

“We want to meet Malcolm–”

A snort from the doorway. Kate [the narrator’s early-teens daughter] walked through, arms crossed almost exactly like her father’s, and the scowl on her face probably an exact mirror of my own. “No,” Kate said. “We don’t want to meet Malcolm. He’s a murdering psychopathic son of a beyotch. We know what Malcolm is. Which is exactly why we need to meet him. Look him in the eye and let him know if he so much as touches us, he’ll regret it.”

This statement is idiotic, and what the fuck is the point of it? First of all, a young teen female is not going to beat up one of the most violent and scary killers in the werewolf world. (Of course, he’s not actually that, since apparently any adult male werewolf can beat him up, as well as Our Heroine, an adult female (we also get this as backstory), but the author tells us he’s a horribly tough “murdering psychopathic” killer, and she plainly wants us to believe that.) In the context of this fictional world, the daughter’s statement is violently insane. It would be like your 10-year-old daughter saying, “I demand to meet Charles Manson so I can tell him that if he messes with me, he’ll regret it!” It’s not just that the statement is blitheringly insane; it’s that it’s so blitheringly insane that even a young, overly cocky kid wouldn’t say it.

Furthermore, maybe she means to convey, “If you mess with me, my Dad will kick your ass!” But there’s no reason for her to arrange a meeting to say that to the Big Bad. Indeed, such a message would be much more convincing if it actually comes from her Dad. Note we are not talking about a kid who accidentally bumps into the Big Bad, and in a surge of fear blurts, “If you mess with me, my Dad will kick your ass!” That would actually make sense. No, we’re talking about someone who is deliberately going out of her way to try to meet someone who can easily kill her, so she can deliver a ridiculous threatening message that might provoke him into attacking her, and which message would be better delivered by someone else anyway. The whole scene Makes. No. Fucking. Sense.

We left off here:

“Look him in the eye and let him know if he so much as touches us, he’ll regret it.”

As if to emphasize the retardation, the conversation continues,

“I think regret might be pushing it,” Logan said.

“I don’t.”

Wait, what? Is this girl in her early teens (as far as I can figure out) seriously saying she’s going to take down a serial killer? WTF? This would only make sense if the next sentence were, “And that’s when I realized I had to send my daughter into protective custody on the other side of the planet while we tried to find a medication that would cure her radical insanity.” Actually, what we get is this:

“I think regret might be pushing it,” Logan said.

“I don’t.”

Atalanta [the puppy] growled, as if in agreement.

Oh, so now their cute little puppy-doggy is going to beat up the 200-pound remorseless killer. Armstrong, FOR FUCK’S SAKE!

“The point,” Logan said, “is that by meeting him, we put a face and a scent to his name…

Yeah, so?

“…and he knows it.”

Yeah, so?

“He will also see that we are not intrigued by him…” which is why I’m persistently begging to meet him… “Nor are we afraid of him. Which isn’t to say we don’t know exactly how dangerous he is, but he doesn’t scare us.”

Which is why we’re so very desperate to tell him, “You don’t scare us!” Ya big ole meany!

An excellent event here would be if the narrator suddenly realized that her kids are too stupid to live, and killed them both on the spot. The pack shouldn’t waste resources on members who are only going to be a burden. As I said about another potential move in my review of Werlin’s Impossible, this would be great because no reader would be expecting it. And, while no sane human would behave that way, a werewolf might.

In response to her son’s “he doesn’t scare us,” the narrator ruminates,

He should, baby. That’s what I wanted to say, and yet Logan was right, in his oh-so-logical way.

WHAT!? We kids should meet a serial killer unnecessarily, and for no reason, get up in face and provoke him. This is described as “oh-so-logical”! What the fucking fuck!?

Here’s another example of self-contradiction destroying the drama: The author obviously wants us to experience dramatic tension regarding the re-admittance of the Big Bad, Malcom, into the Pack. But she states that her husband (Clay), another pack member (Jeremy), and she herself have all beaten him in a fight in the past!!! God, the fuck-wittery!

So what’s going on? Well, Armstrong wants the reader to be all like “Oh no! Don’t clutch this scary viper to your breast!” But he’ll be re-entering a pack in which three of the members have already kicked his ass! The author can’t resist indulging in a little grrrrrl power fantasy about how she’s so tough she beat up a guy almost everyone else is scared of. FFS, Armstrong. If you chance to read this: You must choose. You simply cannot have it both ways. This is why–painfully blunt criticism coming up–there is no critical praise on the back of the book. It’s because readers notice things like this. And professional reviewers are of course even more likely to notice.

Maybe this will help: A big part of any Art is making choices. You cannot have your heroine–and two others!–beat the snot out of the bad guy, and have the reader worrying about their safety in the bad guy’s presence. I don’t mean you shouldn’t, I mean you can’t. If you refuse to choose one of these, the book falls apart because nothing is believable at any level. We can suspend our disbelief to believe in werewolves. We cannot believe in werewolves who shudder with fear at a guy they’ve whupped before.

You could avoid the problem by getting off your lazy butt and changing the situation. E.g., your heroine beat the Big Bad in a fight five years ago, but since then he has been bitten by a radioactive mixed martial arts fighter and developed super skills. Or whatever. But you must provide a clear reason for the change in the situation.

Page 97: More of thing where women think they want to boss mean around. The narrator and her husband, Clay, are visiting the office of a person, Marsh, whom they don’t know, to ask him some questions about a person they’re trying to find. When Marsh finds out they’re werewolves he’s annoyed.

“Don’t worry,” I said. “We’re housebroken. Now sit.” [Absolutely outrageous. Note the deliberately provocative and RUDE behavior toward someone they’re never met before, and who has done them no wrong.]
“I –”
“Sit,” I said, pointing to the chair as Clay moved forward.
Marsh sat.

Oh, bullshit. What man would actually behave that way? What Marsh would actually do is kick them out of his office. And if they didn’t go voluntarily there’d be a fight. I said women don’t want to boss men around, though some think they do. They DO, however, like the idea of their man dominating other men. So that “Clay moved forward” and thus intimidated Marsh is a genuine fantasy: The author is fantasizing that HER man dominates other men.(*) Ugh.

(*) If you think I’m contradicting myself here about what women want/don’t want, see my comments in my post on Werlin’s Impossible: “We must say “No, that’s horseshit, women don’t really want that” about some of the novel’s aspects and “Yes, this is a woman revealing what women actually want” about other aspects. Isn’t this inconsistent? What’s the difference? Simple: Reality itself… We do not use a woman-authored text to figure out what women want (God, no). Rather, we use it to illustrate things we already know about women from observing reality.”

This point about females and intra-male violence is made at greater length by Whiskey here:

Women are obsessed with male status hierarchies.

Another example, in Ch 12. A male werewolf they have just joined up with is all entranced with the narrator’s female scent. (They’re all in wolf form at this point.) One of the narrator’s pack roughs up the newbie a little and the newbie waves off. This is doublehuff of ego airplane glue because her packmate is beating down a male from another pack, AND she herself is the cause of the conflict because she’s so astoundingly sexy. Barf. You guys should be glad I read this cheese so that you don’t have to.

One thing I’m not really conveying is the degree to which the outsider males are humiliated in these little scenes. Let me quote extensively from one of them to give the flavor. The setup is this: A member of an outside pack has found two of his relatives, in wolf form, dead in the woods. They were skinned and hung from a tree, so it was obviously murder. Someone is going after werewolves and this young werewolf has no one else to turn to, so he goes to get help from the narrator’s pack. Malcolm, a former outsider who was just brought into the pack in the last 48 hours or so, is brought along on their little investigation. In the presence of the dead, the narrator, and her husband Clay, Malcolm disses the dead, since they’re not members of his pack.

Clay hit him. It happened so fast I didn’t even see it coming. No growl of warning. No Snarl. Not even glare. One second, Clay was standing there, impassively listening. The next Malcolm was on the ground, rubbing his jaw, and Clay’s expression hadn’t changed.

Malcolm leaped up and rushed him. Clay feinted, grabbed him by the back of the jacket and slammed him into a tree, pinning him there.

“I put you down for disrespecting the Alpha,” he said. “This is for fighting back. I know it’s been a while, so here’s a reminder. I’m her enforcer. If I punish you, what do you do?” [The realistic response would be, “Kick your ass,” Malcolm said, as he elbowed Clay in the solar plexus. The actual answer:]

A moment of silence. Then Malcolm ground out between his teeth, “Take it.”


“I take it.”

He threw Malcolm aside.

Ick. It’s not enough that Clay beats Malcolm in a fight. He has to humiliate him in the most grindingly unpleasant way possible. Also, it’s not realistic that this supposedly amoral psychopathic killer would take this kind of treatment, but never mind that. We are well in to the realm of fantasy here, in more ways than one.

By the way, after this scene I reversed my prediction that Malcolm’s penis will be in the narrator’s vagina by the end of the book. Women aren’t attracted to men who are constantly getting dominated, let alone beaten up.

End of Ch 12, start of Ch 13: The same thing happens, but now after Malcolm, defeated, limps away from the victor (Clay), the victor and the narrator have sex. They change back to human form – they’re naked, natch – and she wraps her legs around him, talking about how he beat Malcolm down, then they fuck. In other words, “I’m so turned on that you humiliated that other male! Let’s now have sex!” Ugh! God! I thought I was red-pilled, but this little glimpse into female psychology is unpleasant even for me.

Well, that was all rather nasty, so let’s end on an amusing note.

After a book largely taken up with male-on-male violence in various forms, we get a hilarious blast of 8th-grade-girl chick crap toward the end, in Ch 20. The setup is that the narrator’s friend Vanessa has to make a terrible choice: Deciding whether or not to move in with her boyfriend! Oh no! The narrator and Vanessa debate this little dilemma for 600 pages. No, wait it just seems that long to this male reader. God, women love their trivial little made-up drama thingies. Anyway, here it is, very heavily excerpted (I don’t have the heart to inflict the whole thing on you; it actually does run three entire pages.)

“Nick asked me to move in with him.”

Pause for comparison here. The male version would be, Dude 1: “I’m moving in with that chick I’m banging.” Dude 2: “Okay, tell me the address so I can pick you up when we go to the game tomorrow.” End conversation. The female version…

“Nick asked me to move in with him.”

“And the estate?”

“That’s up to me. I can move in with him or we can get our own place. Adding another dilemma to the pile. [The “pile of dilemmas” now consists of two questions: Should we move in together, and if so where?] I valued my independence more than I valued living with a lover. Nick is different.”

“So you want to move in with him?”

“Hell, yes. Without question. Which scares the shit out of me.” [It’s so DRAMATIC!!!!!!!!]

“I know you’ve been cautious with Nick. He’s never been a model of monogamy.” [Heh. Excellent little social proof bit there.]

“Only because – before me – he never had a monogamous relationship last long enough. [Confirms social proof. Also note the “I’m special!” aside.] Moving in together takes it to a whole other level.”

“The problem is that for you, moving in says, ‘This is it.’ You’re acknowledging how you feel.”

Blah blah. After they dissect the question of whose emotions are what for another 17 pages, they eventually get around to ANOTHER topic of HOORAY, DRAMA!, which is how Nick’s kids will feel about Vanessa moving in with their Dad.

Our Heroine: “Which is the problem. It’s his home. It isn’t that you don’t want to move in. It’s that you feel you shouldn’t. It’s the Sorrentino estate, and it’s Pack territory. You’re fine with it. But will they be fine with having you there?”

She managed a weak smile. “Nailed it. I understand the territorial issue, but it’s more than that. I’m an interloper in every way.” [Thus my very presence there is bound to cause… DRAMA!!!]

Blah blah. This goes on for another ten years. Women’s ability to extract drama, no to CREATE drama out of nothing, never ceases to amaze me. “Should I move in with my boyfriend? Augh, the drama! So many questions! I need to debate this with my girlfriends for ten years first! It’s all so fraught – freighted, weighed down, like a freight train – with potential consequences and emotional thingies of emotionality! How will I react? How will my boyfriend react? How will the people he lives with react? How will the Trilateral Commission react? Will the Cato Institute write a position paper on it?! I sure hope so, because then there’d be more attention, and… DRAMA!!!”

What makes this whole scene especially funny is the fact that it comes after dozens of pages of murders – recall those two hanging werewolf corpses, etc. Who’s moving in together is not a dramatic topic. And the author doesn’t seem to have grasped then when your main characters have just barely escaped violent death, the question of who’s going to move in with whom is not even remotely interesting.

In summary, I give this book 8 out of 10 chunks of cheese.

Index page for my Red Pill in Fiction posts:

Red Pill in Fiction: Grossman’s Magicians series

Lev Grossman’s Magicians trilogy is an excellent fantasy series set in the modern world. The red pill isn’t in it to a great extent, but there’s a crimson lozenge here and there.

They don’t seem to be there by the author’s design. Grossman’s a hellasmart guy, but I don’t think he’s red-pilled. If he is, then part of his intention for the viewpoint character, Quentin, is to show a guy who’s not red-pilled and how that screws up his romance life. What I think more likely is that Grossman just got a lot of this stuff right either by luck, or because he was drawing upon some of the less happy interactions that he himself has had with the opposite sex.

Anyway: First book, The Magicians, a.k.a. Quentin goes to magic school.

The problem with the relationship between Quentin and Alice – and anyone who has read the book will instantly understand what I mean – is:

Alice is an intermediate- to advanced-level girlfriend.

Quentin is only ready for a beginner-level girlfriend.

What he needs at age ~19 is a girl whose shit tests are normal, not advanced, and are only occasional and not too hard to deal with. In other words, he needs a chick who is not shit testing him most of the time, and when she does shit test him, flings tests that are (1) obvious and (2) standard. Something like suddenly snapping at him, in a bitchy tone of voice, “Don’t do it that way! Do it this way!” with an unspoken addendum of “…you idiot!” In other words, Quentin needs a ~19-year-old girlfriend who will give him standard shit tests of the sort that start in 8th grade and continue through college, for most chicks. That will get him going on the learning process (if he’s willing to learn) that would eventually let him handle a girl like Alice.

The problem is that Alice is at an entirely different level of shit testing. She doesn’t fling particular shit tests at him; rather, her entire personality is one big shit test. She is a shit test. Truly, this is a different kind of shit test; it’s not just the same stuff, but more of it. A woman who is herself a walking, breathing shit test is a different kind of thing to deal with.

It takes a certain kind of man to handle a woman like this intuitively. Otherwise, she can only be handled by a game-aware man who has had a certain amount of practice dealing with women from the perspective of utterly amoral sex war, which is the female sex’s natural perspective on male-female interactions. Either that, or a natural playah who has had so much pussy already, that he doesn’t have to fake a cavalier indifference to any one vagina, because he does, in fact, have a cavalier indifference to any one vagina.

Alice is actually an asshole. If she were a real person… hmm, but if she were a real person she never would have been with Quentin in the first place. (In the third book in the series, The Magician’s Land, Quentin and someone else discuss this puzzle [in Ch 20]. I was glad to see the puzzle of how Quentin and Alice got together explicitly acknowledged in-text.) But if their relationship were a real one – if we ignore the fact that it’s fundamentally implausible – I would (after predicting its imminent death) diagnose it as follows:

Alice is full of rage because she can’t find a man who will stand up to her shit testing. If a woman can’t find a man who will swat down her shit tests, she becomes full of anger because she feels she cannot find a male who is worthy of her (this is an aspect of standard female hypergamy). Alice is brilliant and magically powerful, so with the female hypergamy built into her neural hardware, she’s a walking rage bomb. God, there is so much anger in Alice. It’s weird: it’s like Grossman got that detail right without understanding why.

Then there’s the drama, which Alice carries with her wherever she goes. But again, it’s not so much that she creates dramatic scenes at particular moments – though she does that too – as that she herself is a walking blast of drama. She is constantly wondering why, though she’s an incredibly powerful magician, she was not detected by the Brakebills magic school and invited to enroll. She had to force her way in through their magic wards, upon which event the faculty basically said, “Okay, okay, fine, if you’re that strong, and if it means that much to you.” But the big unanswered question of her existence is what is so wrong with her that she wasn’t invited in the normal way. Later, we learn the answer to this question, which dials up the drama even more.

Anyway, she carries this drama around with her constantly. It is, as with her shit-testing, an entirely higher level of drama from that chick you made out with that one time in 8th grade and then started acting all weird. Quentin is not ready for this, either.


In the first book, Alice turns herself into a powerful demon (with the unlikely name of niffin, which sounds like a kind of cake that English people would have with tea. “Would you like another niffin, dear?” “Yes, thanks so much!”) because this is the only way to defeat the ultra-powerful bad guy that she and her friends are up against.

In the third book, Quentin figures out how to convert her back to human form. After sleeping 20 hours and getting re-accustomed to having a physical body, etc. she goes into full-bore drama mode:

“You robbed me.” She spat it… “I was perfect. I was immortal. I was happy. You took all that away from me. Did you expect me to be grateful? Did you? I didn’t want to be human again, but you dragged me back into this body.”
She held up her hands like they were low-grade meat, a butcher’s discards.
“I lost everything, twice. The first time I gave it up. But the second time you stole it.”

Well! That’s the quite the speech! But there’s one little problem: Alice knows the spell to turn herself into a niffin! That’s how she came to be one in the first place! So if she really wanted to, she could just cast it again. So she’s just being a melodramatic asshole.

Quentin figures out how to deal with this crap eventually, though it’s not how I would have and it’s not particularly red-pilled.

Pulling back for the broad view: Overall, this is a very well conceived and executed fantasy series. Just one caveat: It tends to provoke extreme responses; people mostly love it or hate it. So read enough to decide if it’s your kind of thing before purchasing.

Index page for my Red Pill in Fiction posts:

Red Pill in Fiction: The Other Boleyn Girl

Philippa Gregory’s The Other Boleyn Girl is a superb novel, particularly with respect to characterization. I may return to this novel in depth in the future, but today I simply want to lay out an unsurpassed example of girl game in fiction.

Anne Boleyn as portrayed here is a high-social-intelligence amoral Machiavellian manipulator. She has decided that she is going to marry Henry Percy, a powerful and wealthy English lord. Boleyn is alarmingly adept at manipulation. (It kind of makes one wonder about Philippa Gregory!) She’d defeat Scarlett O’Hara in some sort of “Who can get a certain man to propose to her?” Ultimate Grudge Match. O’Hara, while just as amoral pragmatic as Anne Boleyn, is a little too inclined to let her emotions run away with her (recall that she’s dizzyingly in love with Ashley Wilkes). Boleyn, in contrast, is remorselessly purposeful. She does nothing that’s not thought out.

Anne’s pursuit of Henry Percy begins in the chapter titled Spring 1523 (page 123 in my paperback copy). As told by the novel’s narrator, Anne’s sister Mary (with editing for brevity):

After that I watched Anne with more care. I saw how she played him. Having advanced through all the cold months of the New Year, now, with the coming of the sun, she suddenly retreated. And the more she withdrew from him the more he came on. When he came into a room she looked up and threw him a smile which went like an arrow to the center of the target. She filled her look with invitation, with desire. But then she looked away and she would not look at him again for the whole of the visit.

It was clear that he only had eyes for Anne and she walked past him, danced with anyone but him, returned his poems. She went into the most unswerving of retreats, having been unswervingly in advance, and the young man did not begin to know what he could do to recapture her.

He came to me. “Mistress Carey, have I offended your sister in some way?”

“No, I don’t think so.”

Skipping ahead: Eventually Percy finds Anne in the gardens of the palace and asks her to walk with him. Here I feel the sting of the omissions I’ve had to inflict for brevity. The omissions make this whole episode of Anne ensnaring Henry seem more direct, more blunt, than it is in the novel. In the novel Boleyn masterfully starts the thing at a simmer and brings it to a boil, and I’m not really conveying the smoothness of it here. But let’s continue. From here on the only two people present are Henry and Anne; the narrator is relating what follows as Anne tells it to her later.

He led her away from the bowling green, down the winding path that led to a seat beneath a yew tree.

“Miss Anne.”

“Your Lordship?”

“I have to know why you have grown so cold to me.”

For a moment she hesitated, then turned a face to him which was grave and lovely.

“I did not mean to be cold,” she said slowly. “I meant to be careful.”

“Why?” he whispered.

She looked down the garden to the river. “I thought it better for me, perhaps better for us both,” she said quietly. “We might become too close in friendship for my comfort.”

“I would never cause you a moment’s uneasiness,” he assured her.

She turned her dark luminous eyes on him. “Could you promise that no one would ever say that we were in love?”

Mutely, he shook his head. Of course he could not promise what a scandal-mad court might or might not say.

“Could you promise that we would never fall in love?”

“Of course I love you, Mistress Anne,” he said. “In the courtly way. In the polite way.”

She smiled as if she were pleased to hear it. “I know it is nothing more than a May game. For me, also. But it is a dangerous game when played between a handsome man and a maid, when there are many people very quick to say that we are perfectly matched.”

“Do they say that?”

“When they see us dance. When they see how you look at me. When they see how I smile at you.”

“What else do they say?” He was quite entranced by this portrait.

“They say that you love me. They say that I love you. They say that we have both been head over heels in love while we thought we were doing nothing but playing.”

“My God,” he said at the revelation. “My God, it is so!”

“Oh my lord! What are you saying?”

“I am saying that I have been a fool. I have been in love with you for months and all the time I thought I was amusing myself and you were teasing me, and that it all meant nothing.”

Her gaze warmed him. “It was not nothing to me,” she whispered.

Her dark eyes held him, the boy was transfixed. “Anne,” he whispered. “My love.”

Her lips curved into a kissable, irresistible smile. “Henry,” she breathed. “My Henry.”

He took a small step toward her, put his hands on her tightly laced waist. He drew her close to him and his mouth found hers for their first kiss.

“Oh, say it,” Anne whispered. “Say it now, this moment, say it, Henry.”

“Marry me,” he said.

Yikes! That’s terrifyingly good girl game. It is even better in the novel, not only because there are no omissions, but because by the time we get to this point Anne Boleyn has been established as the most purposeful and competent manipulator in a court full of purposeful and competent manipulators. One should also keep in mind that at this time, women were constantly plotting to make men marry them, and men were aware of this and constantly careful to avoid being tricked into a match they didn’t want. None of that hinders Gregory’s Anne Boleyn. It’s all just grist for her high-functioning, Machiavellian mill.

One’s first thought is, Whew! I’m glad I’ve never met a woman like that!

One’s second, chilling, thought is, What makes you think you haven’t?

Of course, we all have encountered people (men and women) like this. Statistics guarantees it. But most of them manage to cloak themselves most of the time, devoting a significant fraction of their manipulative social intelligence to hiding their manipulative social intelligence.

I once read, in an article about sharks,

“Beach swimmers would probably find it unnerving if they knew how often sharks cruise underneath them while they swim.”

What Lies Beneath indeed.

Index page for my Red Pill in Fiction posts:

Red Pill in Fiction, 200-Proof Edition: Nancy Werlin’s Impossible

Nancy Werlin’s Impossible is a blast of female sexual psychology in 200-proof form.

The central idea is that an elf knight has cursed a line of women. The novel’s curse is based on the folk song Scarborough Fair (apparently another title of the song is The Elfin Knight). In the story, the curse is actually the origin of that song. The curse began centuries ago with a human woman, Fenella Scarborough, because she rejected a marriage proposal from the elf.

The curse is this: Each woman in the line is raped by the elf when she is seventeen. She becomes pregnant with a daughter and must accomplish three seemingly impossible tasks, set forth in the elf’s curse, before the daughter is born. Thus, e.g., “Tell her to find me an acre of land, between the salt water and the sea strand.” Etc. If the mother fails, she will go insane and the curse will be passed on to her daughter. If the mother completes the three tasks before her daughter is born, the curse is broken forever.

No woman has ever managed to do this, as of the novel’s opening, so the curse is still in force.

By the way, this means that the elf dude is the father of all these chicks. Then he rapes them when they’re seventeen. Eeeeeewwww! Why why why would you do that? In fact he possesses a human male and magically accomplishes the rape that way, so he’s not actually related genetically to the girls, but still!

Before I get out the red pill hammer and start bashing away, a couple of positive notes:

One bit of perceptiveness in all this is that Werlin has grasped the fact that Scarborough Fair is not a love song. In the Author’s Note at the back of the book, she says she adored Simon and Garfunkel’s version as a girl: “I had then found the song beautiful and sad and oh-so-romantic. I was big believer in romance and true love, and, of course, in having a good cry over same.” (LOL, “having a good cry.” Women!)

But Werlin heard the song again when she was older: “But thinking about the ballad’s lyrics as an adult–and focusing fully on the words themselves, rather than the gorgeous melody and harmony… I found myself puzzled and then a little horrified. The man, singing, demands one impossible task after another from the woman… It’s a pretty cruel song, I thought. There’s no way that the woman can prove herself to that man. He’s already made up his mind. I listened some more, and then suddenly I thought: He hates her.”

Quite. I always wondered about that myself. The melody to Scarborough Fair is beautiful, but the lyrics ain’t nice. Kind of like The Police’s Every Breath You Take, which seems nice until you actually listen to the lyrics and realize the song’s narrator is a totally obsessed stalker. You’re like, “Whoa, calm down, dude! Smoke a jay or something.”

The other positive, or semi-positive, comment I have about this is that the basic conceit is pretty good. Oh, what a better author could have done with this! The problem is that apart from the estrogen-drenched delusionality I’ll take on below, Werlin is not that good a writer. Among other things, her characterization tends to the artificial.


1) SPOILER WARNING, as always.

2) When I reproduce quotes from the novel I will elide some words for brevity. To avoid visual clutter, I won’t use ellipses () to indicate elisions.

3) This novel has quite a blend of things women want and things they think they want but actually don’t. For this reason, we cannot take it (or any female-written text about anything related to sex) at face value. We must say “No, that’s horseshit, women don’t really want that” about some of the novel’s aspects and “Yes, this is a woman revealing what women actually want” about other aspects. Isn’t this inconsistent? What’s the difference? Simple: Reality itself. Reality itself is what we actually heed, because reality is what we’re interested in. We do not use a woman-authored text to figure out what women want (God, no). Rather, we use it to illustrate things we already know about women from observing reality. E.g., we know women love to have beta orbiters; they deliberately collect them. That comes from reality. But a beta orbiter who helps you deal with a pregnancy from being proxy-raped by a magical elf knight, well, that particular example comes from the veering mind of Nancy Werlin. It is, in other words, a particular illustration of a common female psychological feature.

Speaking of elf rapes, let’s get into the story.

This novel is a particularly extreme, and therefore particularly clear, illustration of the Alpha fucks, Beta bucks female reproductive strategy. The main character, Lucy, is fucked – raped, actually – by the evil magical fairy knight. Note: Evil, high status, powerful: Almost an archetype of the dominant bad boy. It’s also stated that he is irresistibly attractive to women. (Literally irresistible. Like, he goes into a hospital that isn’t hiring and asks for a job, and the chick who works in HR is overcome with lust and she basically says, “We don’t have any openings, but I’ll create one for you.”) Then Zach, the hapless beta who has a pathetic crush on the main character, pledges to support the child that is the result of that alpha rape, no strings attached.

Plus, the main character is cursed, which creates wonderful – and unique! – drama.

Chapter 11: The main character, Lucy, is dating a dude named Gray. (Yeah, “Gray.” Why does he have to have such an annoying name?) One of the first clues we get that there’s going to be a certain amount of female delusionality in this book:

Gray had his cheek right up against her neck. He was kissing her there. So warm, his lips. Warm like his hands. Softer than she would have thought. And she could tell he was just as uncertain, just as inexperienced, and just as hopeful as she was. Which was perfect.

NO!!! This is not what females want! God, the delusionality power of women to convince themselves that they want something they don’t. Women want a man who is experienced. At the tender age of seventeen, a girl might not be expecting a guy to have a double-digit notch count, but she definitely wants him to be self-confident, not “uncertain.” Inexperience is never a positive to a girl. Once the chick and dude hit a certain age— say late high school, college— it’s always at least a mild negative to the female, even if it’s not a huge deal to her.

End of Ch 13, p. 75: Lucy’s date, the annoyingly-named Gray, has been possessed by the elf, who is using Gray’s body to rape her.

[Lucy] fought, as hard as she could. That, also, had been a terrifying shock, because if anyone had asked her ahead of time about her own strength, she would have had confidence in it… And, too, she would have said that Gray wasn’t strong. He was a skinny band geek, for crying out loud. She would have thought that of course she could fight Gray Spencer, any day, and win.

So she was dating a guy whose ass she thinks she could kick. Uh, no. Females don’t do this. See, this is what we red-pillers mean by female delusionality. When she was writing this, Werlin might have thought, “Here’s something that’s totally plausible, that a human female – a young female of breeding age, no less – would do: Date a young man who she thinks she could beat in a fight.” NO, Werlin. Bad Werlin! No alpha rape for you! Neither you, nor any other woman, would be attracted to a guy whose ass you think you could kick. Not a good move, Nancy, if you want your characters to seem like actual humans. This is an extreme example of the artificial characterization I mentioned above.

Ch 26: Zach offers to help Lucy and be all supportive n shit. She says, Thanks, and if you don’t, then you can F off. His response is, “I totally deserved that,” which is completely fucking ridiculous. This whole scene is just chicks thinking that they want a wussy, which they don’t. Or maybe they do want a beta male who’s a wussy, because it makes the beta easier to control. They don’t want sexy-man who’s a wussy, though. Wussies aren’t sexy to women; even blue-pilled dudes know that.

The relevant passage:

Finally he spoke. “I”m just so angry for you, Luce. I know you’ll be okay. You and the baby. With my head I know that. But I’m still mad. It’s all going to be so much harder for you than it ought to be.”

“That’s why I need you for my friend.”

“I am your friend,” Zach said.



Lucy interrupted, suddenly fierce. “But let me say this. If you can’t be the friend I need now, if it makes you too uneasy or sad or angry or whatever it is, then you can go. And don’t let the door hit you on the way out. I’ll find better friends than you. I mean it, Zach.”

Jeez, what an asshole. Wuss-boy’s response:

“I deserved what you said to me just now.” NO HE FUCKING DIDN’T! “I know I did. I’m glad you said it. I needed to hear it.”

What a spineless, wimpy, self-abasing wuss! What the fuck is wrong with this guy?

Anyway, what we have here is the female craving for pointless drama, combined with grrrrrrl power fantasy – “I’m a total bad-ass, with a side order of tough guy!” – combined with their weird thing that they want a guy who will spinelessly kiss their butts (they don’t). Ugh.

I’m seriously annoyed that he doesn’t take a knife and stab her in the fucking eye.

Actually, that would have been really cool dramatically, because no reader would have been expecting it.

Moving on to Ch 29. Lucy and Beta Orbiter Extraordinaire are reading the diary that Lucy’s mother wrote before the curse hit and she went bonkers. When they’re done:

He sneaked a look at Lucy, who was also finished reading. She said quietly, “I’m going to read it again now. But I want to read it at my own pace and not have to wait for you. Okay?”

“All right,” Zach said. And then: “But you want me here, right?”

“Yes.” It was only a whisper, but it was clear.

“I won’t go far,” Zach said. “Just over here.” After a moment he added, “Here are my balls in a basket, since I’m not using them.”

I may have made up that last part about the basket. But seriously, dude, what are you, her servant? Get a spine, and a sack.

All purpose beta orbiter, will do whatever you tell him, no questions asked! Cheap! Note: Heavily used.

At the end of Ch 31 Zach, Lucy, and Lucy’s foster parents (remember, her Mom’s insane) are sitting around the dinner table. When everyone else is distracted, we get this eye-roll-inducing declaration:

Zach turned to Lucy and whispered:
“There’s something else you need to know. I’m not just your friend. I am completely in love with you.”

Grrr, that’s not how you do it. Wait until you’re alone together at least. The proper way to make a declaration is to be like Rhett Butler in Gone With the Wind and propose that the girl become your concubine. Watching Scarlett squawk like a wet hen in response to that is worth the price of the book. Or, in modern times, you lean in really close… so close your lips are almost touching hers… and you say, softly… “You have the nicest ass of any chick I’ve ever boinked.” Then she says, “Oh honey, do you really mean it?” And you say, “Well, top ten. Top twenty, absolute minimum.” Then she says, “Oh, that’s so sweet!” and fellates you.

Start of Ch 32, wuss boy is thinking about the object of his pathetic affections. He thinks:

I just realized this, jut today, just when you told me off. I loved you for that.

What the fuck?

I’d be happy forever if you’d only smile at me—although, come to think of it, I wish you’d kiss me.

Well, make a move, wuss-bag!

You make me laugh; you make me cry.

I might cry from the pain if this book gets any more ridiculous. It’s worse writing up these notes, because I have to linger on the text to write it down, whereas when you’re just reading it you just note the page number for later and quickly move on.

Anyway, the author decided the foregoing wasn’t outrageous enough, so his thoughts continue:

Nothing matters but you. Nothing matters but you.

Nothing matters but you.

Gah! Get a grip, dude! This guy needs some self-respect. Also, he seriously needs to shag a couple of chicas to get over his one-itis. And he really needs to hear the “Your girl is not your mission” speech.

The book has one funny line: When Zach, Lucy, and Lucy’s foster parents start to suspect that the curse is real, they begin thinking of ways to defeat it. At one point the implausibility of the whole thing suddenly hits Zach and he thinks, “We formed the Fellowship of the Ring when we all should have just gone on medication.” I laughed. That’s the only funny bit in the book, though.

Ch 34: Zach decides that instead of going back to college, he’ll defer for a semester, stick around, and help Lucy out. Now if this chick is really in danger of losing her sanity – that is, if Zach really believes the curse is real – then, well, maybe. I really don’t think he should do this, though, since he’s not banging her. It seems like a pretty draconian step. Can’t you just offer thoughts on how to defeat the curse by email from your campus? Whatevs. Seems pretty damn beta orbiter to me.

Ch 38: The most disgusting beta orbiter marriage proposal I’ve ever read. Lame-o boy gets down on his knees to propose – for fuck’s sake! – and waits there, minute after minute, while the beeeeyotch makes up her mind. Ugh! God! This is the woman’s conscious-level desire for a supplicating wuss on full blast. He’s sitting there on his knee, just waiting for her to say something. You have to understand how long this takes: It starts on page 221 and she doesn’t answer him until page 229! It starts in Ch 38 and bleeds over into Ch 39. Yeah, for 8 pages and two chapters she’s just sitting there ruminating about her answer. God!

Arright, put yer disgust shields on full and get ready. Here we go:

Later on, Zach acknowledged to himself that at this critical moment, the moment before he fell on his knees [Aaaaaigh! The pain!] and proposed marriage to Lucy – meaning every word – his mind was filled with one single, powerful thought, and it was this:

If this chick doesn’t do anal on our wedding night, I’m gonna divorce her.

No, sorry, that’s me again. Blah blah, Zach thinks:

I’m going to change my whole life plan right here, right now. For Lucy. And I know for a fact that it’s not the smartest move I could make for myself. But with everything in me, I believe that it’s right for her.

Aaargh! Are you begging for the sweet release of death yet? Grok this: We’re still on the first page of this bullshit!

The passage is a woman’s roar of female triumph at the notion of a man totally fucking himself over, in exchange for nothing at all, for her convenience. Ugh. The author must have realized, in a moment of sanity, that this is too much – or maybe an editor at her publishing house caught it and made her qualify it a bit. Let’s back up a little and continue:

I believe that it’s right for her—no. No. No.
For us.

Yeah, so the author tries to walk it back a little. Not nearly enough, though.

Steady, steady. Yeah, I know; it’s not pretty. Let’s skip to the second page of this monstrosity:

Zach was on his knees.
“Luce. Lucy. Lucinda Scarborough. Marry me. Please. [“Please.” Jesus! Unless you’re Mike Myers in that one comedy and you’re playing it for laughs, you don’t say “please” when you’re proposing marriage.] I want you, and I want to be your daughter’s father.”

AAAAAAAAAIIIIIIIIIGHHHHHH!!!!!!! The pain!!!!! There he is, offering to cuck himself for this chick’s convenience! Aaaaaaagh!!! Make it stop! The elf gets to have the sex, while Zach is offering to do all the work of raising the kid! Gah! And this scene is written by a woman, remember. This is it, the alpha fucks, beta bucks reproductive strategy, laid out right before your naked, horrified eyes. A BLAST of female id; plain, naked, and unashamed.

Hey, Game deniers: NOW do you get that the red pill community has something to say about female sexual and reproductive behavior?

(No, of course not. That group lives for denial of reality. Deny it all you want, punk-wads. It’s still true. And ya know how you’re always saying that we should listen to what women say they want? (LOL, as if.) Well, there it is, kids!)

So after making him wait a little, and repeat it, she eventually gets around to saying that she will graciously allow him the privilege of helping her deal with the mess that’s her life.

Keep that in mind as we move on to Ch 43. Lucy is talking with her friend Sarah. Sarah says,

“…you’re having trouble being the one who takes, instead of the one who gives.”

WHAT THE FUCK? There is nothing to justify this statement in the novel. Lucy is not a “giver.” She’s just a girl in a bad situation who lets everyone else help her deal with it. She’s totally a taker. This is the ideology of taking; it’s BS that says, “It’s okay for you to take from others with no guilt.” This is what a parasite would try to convince herself of as she contemplates her orbiter’s sad situation.

Sarah continues:

“Lucy, you have to learn to accept.”

Gah! That’s all she ever does! Sarah then recounts a false narrative about how Lucy helped Sarah deal with jerk boyfriend. In fact, that’s not what happened. What happened (back in an early chapter) is that Lucy told Sarah she was being an idiot about her boyfriend and Sarah ignored her and clung to her jerky boy. (More red-pill truth there, note.) Lucy didn’t do anything except say some words, like, “You shouldn’t let him treat you that way.” Yeah, what a heroic effort.

And Lucy’s sole interaction with her own mother thus far has been to avoid her, on the grounds that crazy Mom will be a social embarrassment to her. She’s such a giver!

Sarah continues,

“So now, you get to receive. From everybody in your life. It’s all right. It’s more than all right.”

In plain English: “You don’t owe anybody anything, and you have every right to just sit back and receive all the effort, time, money, and other sacrifices which they lavish upon you.”

You’re such a giver! Falser words were never spoken.

Lucy gloats,

“Zach is changing his whole life, his whole future, for me and the baby.”

“Yes,” said Sarah. “He’s giving. Your job is to accept.”

“But I have nothing to give back!” Lucy found she was wailing. “He gives everything and gets nothing!”

Another roar of female triumph at the merciless exploitation of a hapless beta male. Yes, this is a roar of triumph. It’s not a wail of guilt. How do I know? Simple: If the author felt bad about this situation, she could have simply changed it. Have Lucy bake Zach some cookies, for fuck’s sake. Or whatever. But noooooope. She gives nothing.

However, a ray of sunshine enters when Sarah tells Lucy to at least spread her legs for Zach, so that’s nice. At least the guy finally gets some booty out of all this. Not until after they’re married, though, FFS.

The snippet has more unintentional red pill truth, by the way. Here’s Sarah:

“I’m more experienced than you are. We can thank the hateful Jeff for that.”

Jeff is the jerky boyfriend that Lucy was advising Sarah to ditch earlier in the book. Did Sarah ditch him? No! She fucked him! LOL, red-pill truth leaks out.

End of Ch 46 – start of Ch 47: At least Zach finally gets to shag Lucy, though she’s many months pregnant by this point. Note: Women don’t look any better or worse, facially, when they’re pregnant. But obviously their bodies aren’t exactly svelte.

Ch 48: Zach had known before the marriage that Lucy’s pregnancy had somehow increased his love for her.

Oh barf. Cuck.

Maybe his father had even been correct when he said that Zach was suffering from a hero complex.

Yeah, in the red pill community we call that Captain Save-a-Ho. Don’t be a Captain Save-a-Ho. (I know Lucy wasn’t trying to get raped, but that doesn’t change the fact that it’s not Zach’s child.)

Well, I’m finally done with my red-pill comments on this thing. Man, that was exhausting. There is one more red pill aspect to this book, regarding the ending. I’ll reveal the ending below the next spoiler warning, for anyone who’s curious.


Lucy and Zach accomplish all three “impossible” tasks before her baby is born (just barely). Thus the curse is broken. The alpha bad boy elf receives absolutely no punishment whatsoever for his evil ways. His curse just ends and he walks away. Disgusting. But that’s Werlin’s female psychology at work. She just couldn’t bring herself – or maybe it didn’t even occur to her – to punish an alpha bad boy.

Dark corner of female psychology here, seriously. This being has raped who knows how many women over the centuries. It’s also revealed that after they die they go live with him as his prisoners and get raped more – for centuries! – until the curse is finally broken and they’re freed. And his punishment for all this? Nothing.

I’ve mentioned before that a game-related blog (In Mala Fide, I think) once referred to “the world-shaking amorality of the gina tingle.” Here it is, from the horse’s mouth.

Index page for my Red Pill in Fiction posts:

Red Pill in Fiction: Index

My “Red Pill in Fiction” series of posts reliably gets more Likes than any other kind of post. (BTW, WordPress doesn’t let the Likes show up on my page as viewed by visitors; I’m the only one who can see them. WTF, WordPress?) Here’s an index to this series of posts, in chronological order; I’ll update as appropriate.

Note the first one, The Inverse Bechdel Test, is one of the more “serious” of the series. (“Serious” being a relative term in this context.)

1. The Inverse Bechdel Test

2. Jerks, Nice Guys, and Female Self-Awareness: An Example

3. Red Pill in Fiction: Harry Potter edition

4. Red Pill in Fiction, part like, whatever

5. Red Pill in Fiction: Jonathan Strange and Mr. Norrell

6. Red Pill in Fiction: Bridget Jones’s Diary

7. Red Pill in Fiction: Every Rose Has Its Thorn

8. Red Pill in Fiction: Oh My Freakin’ God Edition: Suddenly Royal

9. Red Pill in Fiction: The French Lieutenant’s Woman

10. Red Pill in Fiction, Classics Edition: Gone with the Wind

11. Red Pill in Fiction: Red Pill Romance

12. Red Pill in Fiction, 200-Proof Edition: Nancy Werlin’s Impossible

13. Red Pill in Fiction: The Other Boleyn Girl

14. Red Pill in Fiction: Grossman’s Magicians series

15. Red Pill in Fiction: Kelley Armstrong’s Driven

16. Red Pill in Fiction, Reverse Edition: Heinlein’s Friday

LOL. In this thread about movies that pass a reverse Bechdel test, Banksiman’s comment is fuckin hilarious:


1. Are there at least two male characters with names?

i. Kyle Reese ii. Does ‘Cyberdyne Systems Model 101 Terminator with living tissue over a metal endoskeleton’ count as a name? There are bit-part cops named, but wouldn’t count that more than a nametag.

2. Do they have a minute of conversation with each other in the movie?


3. Is the conversation about something other than women?

Its all Sarah Connor this, Sarah Connor that …

A much better chick flick would have had lines like ‘Cyberdine … , you look sad. What’s wrong? If Kyle can’t see beyond the living tissue over the metal endoskeleton he’ll never know the real you, and then its him you should feel sorry for.’

Does a Children’s Story NEED Gay Kangaroos?

In The Girl Who Fell Beneath Fairyland and Led the Revels There, a fantasy novel variously categorized as children’s or young adult– no, I’m not going to provide a link– writer Catherynne Valente launches a psychotically vicious attack on traditional marriage. Don’t worry, though; she’s not against all relationships: She also includes pro-homosexual propagandizing.

Soon after our heroine enters Fairyland, the poisonously hateful attack on marriage commences. It comes in the form of the Hreinn, creatures who if captured by hunters must do all their cooking, sewing, etc., for them, as well as bearing “the hunters’” children. This is not at all subtle in its bizarre feminist editorializing about traditional marriage being female slavery, ZOMG!!!! Yet the traditional marriage portrayed here has one massive element missing: The man.

What is he doing all day in this rad-fem scenario, while the Hreinn are forced to clean “his” house? Oh, right, working a 40-hour-a-week job to support himself and his wife. All this is completely absent from Valente’s portrayal. The Hreinn (housewives) bitch that they have to cook, but don’t discuss that the man is working to buy the food, or they wouldn’t have anything to cook! OR EAT. They kvetch about cleaning the house. Who is earning the money to pay for the house? Seriously, who is working to pay the mortgage to keep the rain off your brainless little head? In the insane feminist fantasyland, when men say they’re going to work, they’re really just drinking beer and having sex with supermodels while women are doing the housework.

Just in case you’ve ever wondered if feminists are actually as stupid and self-centered as they seem. Talk about “out of sight, out of mind”! If a feminazi can’t actually see you doing the work, it literally doesn’t occur to her that you might be doing work! There seems to be nothing in their heads except for the impressions created by immediate sense data.

“I’m here, vacuuming the rug, and he’s not! Bastard!”
“What do you think he’s doing right now?”
“I don’t know. Never thought about it!”
“Where do you get the clothes you complain about laundering?”
“What do you mean, where do I get them? They come from my closet, duh!”

This is immediately followed by an ethereal “Three cheers for lesbians!” Valente includes a lesbian couple and works in that the poor dears are oppressed. This is because… wait for it… people “look at them askance.” Oh my God! Call Amnesty International! (The funny thing is that since this is fiction, she could have had them getting lynched or whatever. But no, being looked at askance is oppression in this whacko’s worldview.)

The surreal pro-homosexual propaganda continues in a later chapter, where we get underground mining kangaroos, one of which has a gay lover. This is established somewhat elliptically, but that’s the best we can say of it. First, the kangaroo, a male, says of another kangaroo, “he broke my heart.” Now this by itself is ambiguous, but there’s more. The two kangas shared a stone and a few sentences later it is remarked that that kind of stone is for lovers. Oh, barf. What kind of sicko attacks man-woman marriage and feels a need to get in three cheers for gay animal sex?

In a children’s book?! How sick do you have to be to write that?

Must we have stumping for gay sex in a children’s book? Would a reasonable, non-ideological person say that’s the best decision? Is it okay to have just… stories? Just stories that don’t leap up and scream politics in your face?

The Left’s usual party line in this kind of context is, “But they show heterosexual lovers and spouses all the time in children’s books! That’s just as propagandistic!” No it isn’t! Portraying everyday normality, and portraying it as everyday normality, is not propagandistic. Getting up and whacking people upside the head with your special-interest political agenda is. “But…but… in your preferred approach, heterosexual relationships are portrayed as normal!” Yes, because heterosexual relationships are normal, you morons!

Gotta love that “portrayed,” by the way.

“Portraying” the sky as blue is not propagandistic. Portraying the sky as an orange background, with the first-string roster of the 1982 Hartford Whalers written across it in flaming green letters, is propagandistic. That’s because the second one is not true, you fucking psychos!

The thing about the gay sex element is, it isn’t about reproduction, even implicitly, since gay sex is not reproductive. Therefore, what we have here is the portrayal of pure sex, sex for its own sake. In a heterosexual relationship, it is all about reproduction, even if only obliquely, because that’s the entire evolutionary reason that sex exists. So even if your young child asks you questions about a man-woman marriage that force you to discuss the sex, you can mention genital intercourse and segue to having kids. I.e., the sex isn’t just about the sex. Do I actually have to say that sex for the sake of sex is inappropriate in a children’s story? Sex for the sake of sex is pornography. Literally, that’s the definition of pornography. I’m all for porn in its place, but in a children’s story?

What exactly are you going to tell your kid if s/he asks about specifics of these gay lovers? What are these gay kangas doing that makes them lovers, as opposed to friends? Well, they’re either sucking each other’s penises, having anal sex, or giving each other handjobs, or I guess, pawjobs. Or all three. There is nothing here about a reproductive sexual act that has some raison d’etre outside itself. No, there is just a couple of male kangaroos fucking each other in the ass.

In a novel intended for children.

So Catherine Valente is so evil and insane, so damaged, that she spews hate propaganda about man-woman marriage… but presents her ideal fantasy land announcing, “I have seen the future, and it is ass-ramming kangaroos.”

Look, people, I don’t mind adult male kangaroos sodomizing each other, in the privacy of their own San Francisco apartment, if that’s what they want to do. It just has no place in a children’s novel.

In 2016 the Left themselves rejected the short story Space Raptor Butt Invasion for a Hugo Award, apparently on the grounds that it wasn’t really a serious nominee for a Hugo. But we’re supposed to keep a solemn expression on our faces and nod profoundly as we contemplate the loving eroticism of kangaroos sixty-nining. People, Space Raptor Butt Invasion was a joke. And it wasn’t offered to children. Ass-ramming gay kangas is presented as serious, and material for children.

Grok this: The Left is not a political movement. It is sheer evil and insanity that has masked itself as a political movement for strategic reasons.

To put it another way, it is the political arm of insanity. The Left is like Hannibal Lechter in that scene from The Silence of the Lambs in which Lechter carves off the dead cop’s face and places it over his own face as a disguise. The Left is not “political” as healthy, sane people understand the word “political.” It is pure evil in political guise.

The Left gave up its last tiny shreds of sanity years ago. It’s now on the descent into the combination asylum and torture chamber that is Hell. And its goal is to drag everyone else there – including your kids – with it.