Not Red Pill in Fiction: The Dirty Girls Social Club

The Dirty Girls Social Club, by Alisa Valdes-Rodriguez, published in 2003. Fair warning: This is mostly just me venting at the identity politics bait-and-switch that is this “novel.”

Aw, man, I had such high hopes for this one based on the first few pages. Classic female chunks of cheese all over the place (details to follow). Then the estrogen-infused cheese disappears. Worse, it becomes a politically correct race-sex-LBGTQ tract. With no plot, not even a pretend plot. Not even a gesture in the direction of faking an interest in thinking about the possibility of coming up with a plot. Sigh. Well, at least I got this for just 50 cents at a local library book sale. If I’d paid full price for this I’d be pissed. I mean, the title, “The Dirty Girls Social Club,” come on! That’s purposefully designed to trick 25-year-old chicks into buying it, expecting a lot of graphic sex, just so they can be conned into reading the author’s political complaints.

And it started so promisingly! Here’s what I’d written when I was a few pages in:

A “novel” about six “Latina” chicks living in Boston. They call themselves “sucias,” which we’re told means “dirty girls.” Each chapter is narrated by a different chick. At least judging by the first chapter there’s a lot of PC whining about being Hispanic in the US, which I am mostly going to try to ignore. But some of it is bound up with the author’s standard-mold female drama queenery, attention-whoring, and humble-bragging, so it’s impossible to avoid all of it. I hope that later chapters, narrated by other characters, will dial this the fuck down or it’s going to get really old really fast.

(Boy, was that hope dashed.)

But judging from the first 3 pages, this is going to be great as far as the female psychology stuff goes. The narrator of the first chapter is one Lauren Fernandez. In a horribly violent act of cultural genocide, I am omitting the accent mark over that last letter a. (I’m tempted to include an umlaut over one of the consonants, like Spinal Tap.) She bemoans her excessively dramatic life in classic female drama queen fashion – in particular the fact that her boyfriend is cheating on her – does a humblebrag about a guy at the bar checking her out even though she describes herself as “gross,” and obsesses about her fingernails and her variable clothing sizes, thus confirming that if men portrayed women as being half as obsessed with clothing and personal grooming as they actually are, feminists would go into tachycardia. She then returns to the fact that the men in her life all cheat on her. Complete with the standard excuse-making and denial of responsibility: “I don’t pick them, exactly. They find me, with that whacked radar…” All this within the first two pages! You can see why I had high hopes for this one.

She’s a reporter, because of course she is. It had to be either that or lawyer. Assuming that another one of the “dirty girls” is a lawyer, what do the other four do? Can’t wait to find out! My guess as of page 5: One of them does something in education, one works for a charity, and one has some sort of “high-pressure” corporate job. That leaves one for government, maybe “social work” of some kind. LATER: Not one but two “journalists”! And one professional musician: how could I have forgotten “rock star”?

P.6: More PC whining about how hard it is being a non-white chick. Complains that when she doesn’t do her job, a white man dares to note that fact:

“I’m always early. It’s the reporter training—come late, lose the story. Lose the story, risk having some envious and mediocre white guy in the newsroom accuse you of not deserving your job.” Can you believe that? Some white guy might say I don’t deserve my job just because I didn’t do my job! The nerve! I’m a non-white woman! I deserve to keep my job even if I don’t do it! Grr. Talk about entitlement mentality! I’m noting this because it’s relevant on the very next page, so put it in your short term memory.

P. 7: In case you didn’t get the drama queenery a couple of pages ago: “Men like Ed [her boyfriend] find me, because they smell the hidden truth of Lauren on the wind: I hate myself because no one else has ever bothered to love me.” Leaping cats! How do people who are so un-serious take themselves so seriously? You can practically see her striking a pose. The back of one hand presses against her forehead as she slumps to the ground in a faint. From all the drama! Of being forced to date jerks!

Still p. 7: More self-obsessed PC whining: “First week on the job an editor strolled past my desk and said in the deliberate, too-loud English they would all come to use on me, ‘I’m so glad you’re here representing your people.’” No whiteys talk like this to Hispanics, at least not that I’ve ever heard. The other two options are to say “I’m not glad you’re here,” in which case she’d complain about the hostility, or to say nothing, in which case she’d complain about being “culturally erased” or something.

Still p. 7: Check this out: Our Narratrix wants another beer, and is peeved that the waitress is distracted by the bar’s TV: “Como? she asks, looking confused. She was watching a Mexican soap opera on a small TV behind the counter and looks annoyed to be bothered with, you know, work.” Jesus, bitch, it was just at the top of the previous page that you complained about being expected to do your job!

P.9: attention whore ultra-fantasy. Our Narratrix is a reporter, as I may have mentioned once or twice. The paper she works for, The Gazette, has recently, well, read:

“It’s getting a little harder to take public transit because the Gazette recently put up billboards all over town with my huge red-brown curly hair and grinning freckled face on them, accompanied by the idiotic words ‘Lauren Fernandez: Her Casa Is Your Casa, Boston.’”

This chick—I mean the author, Alisa Valdes-Rodriguez— is 200-proof female psychology. You can sense her having some sort of attention-whoregasm as she fantasizes about having her face on billboards all over a major city.

Why the billboard thing targeted to Hispanics? Because…

“Money talks, see. Hispanics are no longer seen as a foreign unwashed menace taking over the public schools with that dirty little language of theirs; we are a domestic market.”

What you mean “we,” hon? On several previous pages you mentioned that you don’t speak Spanish, and acted all aggrieved that whiteys might assume that you did just because you’re, you know… Hispanic. (She actually calls that assumption “illogical.”) Now in the context of the Spanish language you’re suddenly using the word “we.”

Seriously, from page 7:

“Here’s how my job interview went: You’re a Latina? How… neat. You must speak Spanish, then? When you’ve got $15.32 in your bank account… what do you say to a question like that, even when the answer is no? …With a name like Lauren Fernandez, they figured Spanish was part of the package. But that’s the American disease as I see it: rampant, illogical stereotyping.” (If you hate it so much here, you are quite welcome to leave.) And page 8: “But what I thought was: Just hire me. I’ll learn Spanish later.”

Having explicitly stated that she doesn’t speak Spanish, and called anyone who assumes she does a bigot, she then says, “Hispanics are no longer seen as a foreign unwashed menace… with that dirty little language of theirs; we are a domestic market.” We?

Let’s skip ahead 100 pages to page 105: Her boss Chuck, a ridiculous dorky white man – of course – can’t speak Spanish. While she doesn’t actually say “I’m aggrieved by this!” it’s a strong subtext:

“It wasn’t until [blah blah] that Chuck figured out who Ricky Martin was. Now he goes around, years too late, singing “Livin’ la Vida Loca,” only he can’t say vida and he can’t say loca, so he ends up singing ‘Livin’ Evita Loqua.’”

He can’t pronounce words in Spanish – a language which I don’t speak either. But I’m going to act aggrieved anyway. It’s so culturally insennnnnnsitive! How DARE you not speak a language which I also don’t speak?! You fucking American bigot!

I remember when Livin’ la Vida Loca was a hit. I never encountered a whitey who couldn’t say it. “Vida” and “loca” are easy words to say. She couldn’t even be bothered to come up with a word that contains, for example, the letter ñ (say “enye”), which is not pronounced like n, and which a non-Spanish speaker might actually be confused about. For someone who writes so voluminously – you should read the 100 pages of pointless filler I skipped over – she sure is a lazy writer. How hard would it have been to make up such an example?

Enraging though all this is, it’s a great example of the sheer illogicality of leftism and female-think. And when you combine leftism and female-think, WOW. First she whines that she’s expected to do her job (how unfair!). Then whines that the waitress isn’t doing her job. Then she denies speaking Spanish, then acts personally aggrieved that some whiteys might have a low opinion of Spanish. Jeez. The sheer lack of any consistency, or any concern for consistency, really is shocking. Yeah, I know I shouldn’t be shocked. I’ve been studying leftists, and women, for decades. Yet the Satan-level hypocrisy and double standards make steam come out of my ears.

A Net search reveals that the author of this identity-politics Communist Manifesto got a job at the Los Angeles Times after this novel was published. (The double-journalist set of characters was obviously an author-insert fantasy.) Anyway, she ended up quitting her job at the L.A. Times, accusing that paper of… can you guess? I bet you can! … racism and sexism! Surprise!

In what other country in the world would people put up with this crap? If you went to China, got a cushy “job” as a “reporter” and then quit with complaints that the newspaper was full of Chinese people, I’m pretty sure they’d “invite” you to leave the country. Only in the white world do we let people come to our countries and abuse us this way. The situation cannot last.

Back to it. P. 102: a diatribe against a right-wing journalist lying. Unreal. Who lies more, right-wing journalists or left-wing journalists? On the same page, a diatribe against a right-wing political group throwing Molotov cocktails. Bitch, please! Who throws more Molotov cocktails, right-wingers or left-wingers? It really is true that leftists always project.

Also on page 102: She recalls that when she started working at the newspaper, an old hand gave her three pieces of advice, Blah, Blah-blah, and “Three, don’t wear your skirts so short ’cuz you’re makin’ me sweat.” You wish, honey.

P. 103: Back near the start of the book, the Narratrix had recalled a scene in which a college professor was so scared of having several hispanic women in the class that he was literally trembling. (WTF?) on p. 103 we get more surreal fantasizing that white people find her scary because she’s hispanic: “I love my desk. I have draped it in Mexican rugs and Santeria beads just to scare everyone.” Then, in the same paragraph, some whining about her boss sending her out to cover a story and adding, “Bring me back some biscotti, almond.” Ah, yes, I always order people I’m scared of to run errands for me.

P. 103-4: Complaining about how her boss sent her on a job to cover some Mexican laborers. How dare he assume that I’m Mexican, just because I’m hispanic! MAYBE THAT HAS SOMETHING TO DO WITH THE FACT THAT YOU DRAPED MEXICAN RUGS ALL OVER YOUR DESK, YOU FUCKING CUNT.

Alright, I’m done. Pretty sure this book doesn’t contain any fun “dirty girl” stuff, now that I’m more than 100 pages into it. Given that nothing prefigured by the title actually appears in the novel, as far as I can tell, I infer that the title was purely chosen to trick people into reading the identity politics screeching.

Red Pill in Fiction, Classics Edition: Milton’s Paradise Lost

John Milton’s Paradise Lost was first published in 1667. It is a rewarding work for several reasons. Milton’s writing is captivatingly vivid and imaginative. E.g. there’s a scene in Hell in which Satan, approaching Hell’s gates, has his path blocked by Death. They square off, and you can practically smell the thunderclouds gathering. And Milton’s descriptions of Eden are lush, as lush as Eden itself.

Another interesting element of this work: I’d always thought that beginning a work of literature or theatre in media res was a peculiarly modern practice. But Paradise Lost opens with Lucifer and the other fallen angels picking themselves up and dusting themselves off in Hell. Only much later do we get a flashback to the battle in Heaven that ends with them being cast down into Hell.

Because the language is three and a half centuries old, I have benefitted from reading an annotated edition, with the annotations at the bottom of each page so one needn’t flip back and forth to get at them. I recommend such to anyone who plans on reading this classic.

But enough preliminaries. This is a Red Pill in Fiction post. Our focus will be the passages in which Eve, and then Adam, are tempted into sin. This whole section of Paradise Lost draws out and makes explicit certain features of female psychology that are present but less explicit in the Bible. Back in the 1600s there were a lot fewer delusions about women in the cultural air.

(1) Milton knew about the female rationalization hamster. The setup: Satan is lurking around the Garden of Eden to tempt Adam and Eve into sin. God, aware of this, sends the angel Raphael to warn them. Raphael describes the War in Heaven to Adam and Eve, establishing Satan’s evil, then basically says, “That demon is coming to tempt you into sin. Don’t fall for his wiles.”

Eve’s hamster kicks into high gear the moment she learns that Satan is on the loose. She hamsterbates wildly, spewing a bunch of sophistry to convince Adam to let her wander off when she knows there’s an evil man in the area.

After Raphael has departed, Eve: Adam hon, we’ve got a lot of work to do, pruning all these plants and whatnot as God has ordered us, so

“Let us divide our labours; thou, where choice
Leads thee, or where most needs, whether to wind
The woodbine round this arbour, or direct
The clasping ivy where to climb; while I,
In yonder spring of roses intermixed
With myrtle, find what to redress till noon:
For, while so near each other thus all day
Our task we choose, what wonder if so near
Looks intervene and smiles, or object new
Casual discourse draw on; which intermits
Our day’s work…”

We wouldn’t want to hang around near each other; we might be tempted to interrupt the work God has assigned to us!

Adam: Aw, babe, God hasn’t told us that we can never talk or snuggle-boo! He created us to enjoy life. And besides, this Garden is never really going to be in control until we have more hands to help us out, if you know what I mean. Nevertheless…

“to short absence I could yield:
For solitude sometimes is best society,
And short retirement urges sweet return.
But other doubt possesses me, lest harm
Befall thee severed from me; for thou knowest
What hath been warned us, what malicious foe
Envying our happiness, and of his own
Despairing, seeks to work us woe and shame
By sly assault; and somewhere nigh at hand
Watches, no doubt, with greedy hope to find
His wish and best advantage, us asunder;
Hopeless to circumvent us joined, where each
To other speedy aid might lend at need:
Whether his first design be to withdraw
Our fealty from God, or to disturb
Conjugal love, than which perhaps no bliss
Enjoyed by us excites his envy more;
Or this, or worse, leave not the faithful side
That gave thee being, still shades thee, and protects.
The wife, where danger or dishonour lurks,
Safest and seemliest by her husband stays,
Who guards her, or with her the worst endures.”


“that thou shouldst my firmness therefore doubt
To God or thee, because we have a foe
May tempt it, I expected not to hear.
His violence thou fearest not, being such
As we, not capable of death or pain,
Can either not receive, or can repel.
His fraud is then thy fear; which plain infers
Thy equal fear, that my firm faith and love
Can by his fraud be shaken or seduced;
Thoughts, which how found they harbour in thy breast,
Adam, mis-thought of her to thee so dear?”

In short, “Don’t you trust me? I’m hurt!” This is the kind of thing you get in field reports on long-term-relationship Game blogs today. Not only is female nature the same, even the particular bullshit arguments and emotional manipulations are the same, as back in Milton’s day.

Adam at this point should say, “There’s a dangerous being about; you’re staying with me, discussion over.” But instead he’s like, “Babe, it’s not that I doubt you; it’s just that the very fact that he might try to tempt your virtue would be an insult to you. He wouldn’t dare try it if I’m around, so stay with me.” Notice he’s trying to reason with her, and he’s also showing weakness. She knows quite well he doesn’t trust her— and as events show he’s damn well right not to— but by showing himself afraid to lay down the law, he earns her contempt and makes the situation worse.

Her response is— surprise!— more hamsterbating rationalizations about why she should wander off alone:

“If this be our condition, thus to dwell
In narrow circuit straitened by a foe…
How are we happy, still in fear of harm?
But harm precedes not sin: only our foe,
Tempting, affronts us with his foul esteem
Of our integrity: his foul esteem
Sticks no dishonour on our front, but turns
Foul on himself; then wherefore shunned or feared
By us? who rather double honour gain
From his surmise proved false…
And what is faith, love, virtue, unassayed
Alone, without exteriour help sustained?”

She really wants to jet off and find the bad boy. If I were Adam, what I’d be learning about my wife in this conversation would totally change how I see her, and not for the better.

Adam: Babe, look: God Himself made us, so we basically already know we’re pretty much perfect. We don’t need to test that. But also, he did give us free will, which could be an entry point for some subtle sophistry of the enemy…

“…Not then mistrust, but tender love, enjoins,
That I should mind thee oft; and mind thou me.
Firm we subsist, yet possible to swerve;
Since Reason not impossibly may meet
Some specious object by the foe suborned,
And fall into deception unaware,
Not keeping strictest watch, as she was warned.
Seek not temptation then, which to avoid
Were better, and most likely if from me
Thou sever not: Trial will come unsought.
Wouldst thou approve thy constancy, approve
First thy obedience; the other who can know,
Not seeing thee attempted, who attest?”

If only he’d stopped there. But he continues:

“But, if thou think, trial unsought may find
Us both securer than thus warned thou seemest,
Go; for thy stay, not free, absents thee more;
Go in thy native innocence, rely
On what thou hast of virtue; summon all!”


“With thy permission then, and thus forewarned
Chiefly by what thy own last reasoning words
Touched only; that our trial, when least sought,
May find us both perhaps far less prepared,
The willinger I go, nor much expect
A foe so proud will first the weaker seek;
So bent, the more shall shame him his repulse.”

Yadda yadda, hamsterbate hamsterbate, see ya later! Now where’s that lawless rebel bad boy?! Whoops, goodness, I almost slipped and fell! Some slick substance is coming out of that hole between my legs and running down my leg. I wonder why? How strange!

(2) Lucifer’s corrupting of Eve is almost explicitly sexual. The whole scene reeks of seduction. It is very much the bad bad man seducing a woman away from her nice-guy boyfriend/husband.

It starts with… peacocking! Satan, having possessed the serpent:

“toward Eve
Addressed his way: not with indented wave,
Prone on the ground, as since; but on his rear,
Circular base of rising folds, that towered
Fold above fold, a surging maze! his head
Crested aloft, and carbuncle his eyes;
With burnished neck of verdant gold, erect
Amidst his circling spires, that on the grass
Floated redundant: pleasing was his shape
And lovely”

When he sees that Eve has noticed him he lays on some flattery about how goddess-level beautiful she is. Should’ve opened with a neg, but I guess Milton wasn’t that much of a playah. Eve expresses surprise that the snake can talk all of a sudden, and he’s like, “Oh yeah, it was the weirdest thing! I just ate some fruit from this one tree and suddenly I became like so much smarter and wiser! Isn’t that cool?!”

You’d think Eve would catch on at this point— she and Adam have been warned about a particular tree— but she doesn’t, or tells herself that she doesn’t.

Here’s part of Satan-as-the-Serpent’s patter:

“I chanced
A goodly tree far distant to behold
Loaden with fruit of fairest colours mixed,
Ruddy and gold: I nearer drew to gaze;
When from the boughs a savoury odour blown,
Grateful to appetite, more pleased my sense
Than smell of sweetest fennel, or the teats
Of ewe or goat dropping with milk at even,
Unsucked of lamb or kid, that tend their play.
To satisfy the sharp desire I had
Of tasting those fair apples, I resolved…”

There are a lot of double meanings in Paradise Lost (again, get an annotated edition to pick up on it). As one commentator has noted, the language in it is “unceasingly active.” With that in mind, note the double-entendre in the reference to teats dripping with milk, and then “To satisfy the sharp desire I had
Of tasting those fair apples…”

This juxtaposition is almost certainly not an accident, and it brings the sexual element of Satan’s tempting of Eve to the forefront.

Serpent: “About the mossy trunk I wound me soon.” I know I have a dirty mind, but this also strikes me as sexual; he’s physically taking possession of the tree. I mean, why is he even telling Eve this detail?

And recall the word “erect” describing the serpent earlier, when he first appears in Eve’s view, and note it’s emphasized by being placed at the end of its line.

Eve, who doesn’t know which tree the serpent is referring to, says, “Lead me there.” He does, and she’s like, “Oh, too bad; this is the one tree that God told us we can’t eat from.” Satan lays some sophistry on her: “Come on, you know you wanna; live a little!” When he’s done making his case:

“He ended; and his words, replete with guile,
Into her heart too easy entrance won”

The serpent (who is a big long tube of muscle) easily gets into Eve. It’s too easy to read this in Beavis-and-Butthead voice. But seriously: of all the animals that could have seduced a female into bad behavior, it just happens to be the one that’s unmistakably phallic? No, the sexual element is definitely there. Of course it’s there in Genesis to begin with, but Milton took it and ran with it.

Anyway, the serpent’s bullshit just kick-starts the temptation process. The real work is done by Eve herself, who becomes one with her rationalization hamster at this point:

“ ‘Great are thy virtues, doubtless, best of fruits,
Though kept from man, and worthy to be admired;
Whose taste, too long forborn, at first assay
Gave elocution to the mute, and taught
The tongue not made for speech to speak thy praise:
Thy praise he also, who forbids thy use,
Conceals not from us, naming thee the tree
Of knowledge, knowledge both of good and evil;
Forbids us then to taste! but his forbidding
Commends thee more, while it infers the good
By thee communicated, and our want:
For good unknown sure is not had; or, had
And yet unknown, is as not had at all.
In plain then, what forbids he but to know,
Forbids us good, forbids us to be wise,
Such prohibitions bind not. But, if death
Bind us with after-bands, what profits then
Our inward freedom? In the day we eat
Of this fair fruit, our doom is, we shall die!
How dies the Serpent? he hath eaten and lives,
And knows, and speaks, and reasons, and discerns,
Irrational till then. For us alone
Was death invented? or to us denied
This intellectual food, for beasts reserved?
For beasts it seems: yet that one beast which first
Hath tasted envies not, but brings with joy
The good befallen him, author unsuspect,
Friendly to man, far from deceit or guile.
What fear I then? rather, what know to fear
Under this ignorance of good and evil,
Of God or death, of law or penalty?
Here grows the cure of all, this fruit divine,
Fair to the eye, inviting to the taste,
Of virtue to make wise: What hinders then
To reach, and feed at once both body and mind?’
So saying, her rash hand in evil hour
Forth reaching to the fruit, she plucked, she eat!”

Intent now wholly on her taste, nought else
Regarded; such delight till then, as seemed,
In fruit she never tasted, whether true
Or fancied so, through expectation high
Of knowledge; not was Godhead from her thought.
Greedily she ingorged without restraint,
And knew not eating death…”

(3) After the damage is done, Eve tells Adam that he should have resisted her wiles more. “How dare you not stop me from doing what I did!” What a twat.


“Would thou hadst hearkened to my words, and stayed
With me, as I besought thee, when that strange
Desire of wandering, this unhappy morn,
I know not whence possessed thee; we had then
Remained still happy; not, as now, despoiled
Of all our good; shamed, naked, miserable!
Let none henceforth seek needless cause to approve
The faith they owe; when earnestly they seek
Such proof, conclude, they then begin to fail.”

Eve refuses to take responsibility and blames him:

“What words have passed thy lips, Adam severe!
Imputest thou that to my default, or will
Of wandering, as thou callest it, which who knows
But might as ill have happened thou being by,
Or to thyself perhaps?…
Was I to have never parted from thy side?
As good have grown there still a lifeless rib.
Being as I am, why didst not thou, the head,
Command me absolutely not to go,
Going into such danger, as thou saidst?”

Fuck you, bitch! Aargh, this pisses me off. She tries every argument she can muster to get away by herself, then commits a sin, then blames him for not stopping her! Grrr!

She continues:

“Too facile then, thou didst not much gainsay;
Nay, didst permit, approve, and fair dismiss.
Hadst thou been firm and fixed in thy dissent,
Neither had I transgressed, nor thou with me.”

“Sure, I sinned, but it’s your fault for not stopping me!” Bitch!


“I thought
No evil durst attempt thee; but I rue
The errour now, which is become my crime,
And thou the accuser. Thus it shall befall
Him, who, to worth in women overtrusting,
Lets her will rule: restraint she will not brook;
And, left to herself, if evil thence ensue,
She first his weak indulgence will accuse.”

(4) God’s judgment on Adam and Eve in Eden contains a lot of red pill ideas. By the way, in Paradise Lost it is not God but Jesus who descends from Heaven to judge Adam and Eve. This is bizarrely contra-textual: Genesis is very clear that it’s God. I have no idea what Milton thought he was doing here. I seem to remember some theological controversy about whether or not Jesus always existed in Heaven before he was born on Earth. I’ll leave that one to theologians. Milton’s position on that is quite clear, since the judging of Adam and Eve is preceded by pages of text of Jesus in Heaven, first being introduced by God to the angels, then kicking Satan’s ass out of Heaven during the War in Heaven, then talking with God about how to handle Adam and Eve. I’m going to un-do Milton’s weird ret-conning and correctly portray the judge as God.

Adam to God: “Uh, the woman tempted me, yeah, some commands were disobeyed, some forbidden fruits were eaten…”

God to Adam:

“Was she thy God, that her thou didst obey
Before his voice? or was she made thy guide,
Superiour, or but equal, that to her
Thou didst resign thy manhood, and the place
Wherein God set thee above her made of thee,
And for thee, whose perfection far excelled
Hers in all real dignity? Adorned
She was indeed, and lovely, to attract
Thy love, not thy subjection; and her gifts
Were such, as under government well seemed;
Unseemly to bear rule; which was thy part
And person, hadst thou known thyself aright.”

And after rebuking Eve, back to Adam:

“Because thou hast hearkened to the voice of thy wife,
And eaten of the tree, concerning which
I charged thee, saying, Thou shalt not eat thereof:
Cursed is the ground for thy sake; thou in sorrow
Shalt eat thereof, all the days of thy life…”

God: You are banned from this Garden; by the sweat of thy brow thou will earn thy bread.

Adam: Can we get our hands stamped so we can get back in later?

God: NO!! You’re banned forever. And I’m setting up a bouncer at the eastern door that’s a giant sword that turns every which way. And thou, Eve, will suffer tribulations of child-rearing.

Eve: Whatever, how bad can it be? OW, fucking Legos! Damn, these things are sharp. If we had shoes instead of being naked…

God: Very well, here are some animal skins you may use as raiments.

Eve: Thanks. Now we’ll just be on our way. Oh, DAMN IT, what a mess! Spill-proof child cup, my ass!

God: Take off. And don’t touch my stuff ever again. I foresee that the next person who tries that will be many centuries in the future, with a forbidden ark, and I’m gonna melt his face off like a wax candle in a microwave.

(5) Vox Day’s “Women ruin everything,” John Milton style. After sentence has been passed and God has returned to Heaven, Adam addresses Eve. Regarding the first line of this next passage, my edition notes that when Milton wrote, the name Eve was thought to be etymologically related to the Hebrew word for “serpent”:

“Out of my sight, thou Serpent! That name best
Befits thee with him leagued, thyself as false
And hateful; nothing wants, but that thy shape,
Like his, and colour serpentine, may show
Thy inward fraud; to warn all creatures from thee
Henceforth; lest that too heavenly form, pretended
To hellish falsehood, snare them! But for thee
I had persisted happy; had not thy pride
And wandering vanity, when least was safe,
Rejected my forewarning, and disdained
Not to be trusted; longing to be seen,
Though by the Devil himself.

And more that shall befall; innumerable
Disturbances on earth through female snares,
And strait conjunction with this sex: for either
He never shall find out fit mate…
Or whom he wishes most shall seldom gain
Through her perverseness, but shall see her gained
By a far worse…”

The preface to my edition mentions that feminists don’t like Milton, for some reason.

Well, there it is. Pretty based on the red-pill stuff, and I haven’t even given you all of it.

But most of this work is not about chicks; it’s about religion. It has war between good and evil, excellent descriptions of various locations (Hell, Eden, etc.), love, sin, death, pride, promised redemption, a fuck-ton of allusions to Greek myths (if you like that sort of thing) and of course the Bible, and some very vivid, hard-core descriptions of monsters, gods, and devils. As just one example, here’s Milton’s take on Sin: She looks like a beautiful woman from the waist up but from the waist down she’s a bunch of snakes. Dogs erupt from her womb hourly, run around, then climb back inside her and gnaw at her internal organs until they’re all eaten up, then they burst forth again and the cycle repeats. Yikes.

Definitely recommended.

Beavis: Hey Butthead, the book she’s reading to me has a naked chick and a talking snake! Butthead: Cool!

Index page for my Red Pill in Fiction posts (or just see the top of this page):

The Best Guy Movies

The best guy movies, in no particular order:

The Godfather

The Hunt for Red October

Die Hard – the movie that taught an entire generation to associate Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony with automatic weapons fire.

The Terminator – I love a nice feel-good movie where everybody has a good cry at the end.

The Killer – “One vicious hitman. One relentless cop. Ten thousand bullets.”

The Sound of Music – When a young nun’s Mother Superior is brutally murdered by drug runners, she trains in a Chinese dojo for ten years and re-makes herself into a inexorable weapon of vengeance. But little does she know, the leader of the gang who killed her boss is actually her own long-lost sister. While feminists hated the girl-on-girl sex scene that takes place in a Beijing opium den, audiences in general loved the film. And who can forget the wacky car chase in Vienna, set to snappy banjo music? Filled with breathtaking action scenes, eye-popping effects, and intense family drama, this film set a new standard for action movies.

Desperado – “He came back to take revenge on someone. Anyone. Everyone.” Don’t see this flick with your woman, because there’s no way you’re going to match the deadly rebel bad boy musician cred of Antonio Banderas in this. Unless you’re a guitarist whose former girlfriend was killed by (wait for it) drug runners and you now obsessively pursue revenge, with no thought for consequences to the rest of the world, with the help of a guitar case full of firearms and grenades.

    Criticism: They couldn’t find a hotter brunette than Salma Hayek? Really?

Weekend at Bernie’s – fuck me, this movie is hilarious. Given the ridiculous premise, it really is funnier than it has any right to be. This may actually be the funniest movie I’ve ever seen (narrowly beating out Schindler’s List).

Probably you could make a case for some Bond movie, but of course Bond movies are often campy and over-the-top. In the Roger Moore era, quite deliberately so. What’s the best Bond movie? Starfall? Goldeneye? (I remember the Russian chick in Goldeneye as being pretty hot. Say it with me: Nataaaaaaallllllya.)

To be serious…

Commenter Aidan at

“You do not have to larp as a dumb thug. Your heritage as a European is smart men who were very good at war. Embracing your masculine love of violence as a high-IQ man feels incredibly good.”

What the first three movies have in common is that, while they certainly have the bang-bang stuff, they are also all significantly cerebral. This is obvious in The Godfather (strategy, bluff, deception) and The Hunt for Red October (strategy, deception, cooperative and non-cooperative game theory), but don’t dismiss Die Hard: it involves a lot of quick thinking by both the hero and the villain. It begins when the shooting starts and McClane has to decide not to go in blazing but to head up several floors and signal for help. In doing this he has to bet that his wife, Takagi, that asshole Ellis, and a couple of other people who know he’s there will all manage to keep their mouths shut. But, a calculated risk.

He finds a fire alarm and pulls it. The bad guys cancel the fire alarm, and then one of them finds McClane and tries to kill him, but McClane kills him and gets his radio and other stuff. (“Now I have a machine gun. Ho ho ho.”)

McClane pulls a clever move in the elevator to get some details about the bad guys, then uses the radio to try to get the cops to come. Once he starts radioing the cops, Gruber instantly realizes the best place to transmit is the roof, and sends three guys up to kill McClane. That almost does McClane in right there.

Later, when Gruber is checking the explosives under the roof, McClane happens across him. Gruber and McClane have a game of bluff in which Gruber pretends to be a hostage escaped from a lower floor and McClane pretends to believe him, but he has set things up so that Gruber is tricked into revealing who he is. And of course McClane palms a bullet at a crucial juncture. Finally, there’s the deception McClane uses to dispatch the bad guys at the end.

So yeah, plenty of the fast-twitch muscle stuff, but also lots of lightning-quick thinking by the belligerents.

The Godfather. Ah, so very kick-ass. The pacing is kinda marred by the long intermezzo in Italy, but that’s necessary to set up Michael’s murdered love, which sets up his utterly cold-blooded relationship with his wife later.

The Terminator. Dripping in estrogen, this movie… kidding.

The Hunt for Red October. So very fucking awesome. Is there anything wrong with this movie? At all? Or is it the perfect guy movie? There’s a moment that gives me goose bumps: The Russian sub and the U.S. sub are very near each other, sliding by each other in the water, engines off. Each suspects the other is there, so the captains order their crews to be quiet. It’s a moment filled with tension of course. As this happens we hear, in voice-over, the Russian sub captain, Ramius: “Forty years I’ve been at sea. A war at sea. A war with no battles, no monuments… only casualties.” We hear this as we see the men in the subs, as quiet and still as statues, knowing that an accidental clang of a coffee cup against the hull could spell their deaths. And over this, Ramius summing up the long, unacknowledged submarine standoff that went on for decades during the Cold War. Makes the hair on my arms stand up just thinking about it. Damn, but this is a good movie.

Neurotoxin and the Christmas Miracle

One December day Neurotoxin was skating at a rink. He chanced to skate over a section of the ice that had been sectioned off by the Orange Cones of Do Not Trespass.

Lo, a Rink Employee appeared and made it known to Neurotoxin that the Ice Planes of Do Not Trespass were forbidden, for they were dangerously rent by gaps and bumps and other hazards.

“What about skating between that last cone and the wall?” Neurotoxin asked. “That’s cool, right?”

“Nay,” the Rink Employee replied, “for it is our intention that people just avoid that whole area entirely.” And the Rink Employee withdrew.

And Neurotoxin began to cry.

Grievous and copious were his tears, for he had been rebuked by Rink Staff.

And lo, as he cried, his tears fell upon the damaged ice and began to resurface it.

And the other skaters gathered around, gazing in wonderment, for they had never beheld such an occurence. And then a bold one placed a foot upon the resurfaced ice and did skate upon it a little. And then did other skaters begin to emulate the bold one’s example. Tentatively they skated at first, but then with more confidence, and they exclaimed in wonderment, “This is like unto a resurfacing done by the best Zamboni that ever was!”

It was a Christmas miracle.

And God looked upon it, and saw that it was ace.

And then Scrooge appeared and gave everyone cigars and a turkey.

And then Tiny Tim, or maybe Long Dong Silver, I forget which, said “God bless us, every one.”

Also, there was a kitten there.

And a puppy.

Merry Christmas!

Miscellany 27: When you stare long into the Miscellany, the Miscellany also stares into you

(1) I don’t agree with the view of NRx that monarchy is better than democracy. I suspect the people who think that are comparing the sordid reality of democracy to the radiant vision of the best theoretical monarchy. That’s not a valid comparison; we must compare the sordid reality of democracy to the sordid reality of monarchy.


It looks like we don’t have a choice anyway. Apparently history says either we’re going to get totalitarianism, which as a practical matter is going to be led by one person a la Stalin, or we’re going to get a Caesar, who is going to destroy our current totalitarianism and replace it with a non-totalitarian monarchy. In other words, in the long run it looks like our only choices are one kind of monarchy or another kind of monarchy.

If it is true that those are the only two possibilities, then it indeed makes sense to think about how to bend the coming monarchy, if we get one, into its best-case scenario.

(2) Director Eats Too Many Finger Paints in Art Class, Tries to Make TV Show Trailer

“Drama is people doing amazing things for good reasons; melodrama is people doing amazing things for no reason.” —Dictum of fiction writers.

Via Blind Prison of the Mind

There’s a desperately sad trailer for an upcoming Wheel of Time vidya series. The Wheel of Time books are a fantasy series I haven’t read, but they’re well known among fantasy fans.

The trailer goes like this. A bunch of people – suitably racially diverse for Current Year – are sitting around in an old-timey tavern and inn. It’s definitely not a pub, let alone a bar or club, but a tavern. There’s no electricity, everything’s made of wood, etc. There’s a massive fireplace, the fireplace equivalent of a walk-in closet. That bad-ass fireplace turns out to be the best thing about this moronic trailer. We get enough shots of the clientele laughing to get that this is a laid back/party environment where everyone is having a good time. In fact, there’s enough unexplained acausal laughing that I started to wonder what the fucking joke was. But okay, whatever.

There’s a moment of two dudes having some dumb beta orbiter talk about the barmaid.

Then the stupidity really kicks in. The tavern door opens and we see a pair of boots. The camera is on the floor, lingering on this pair of boots. We cut away to some reaction shots of the tavern’s customers. They’re all appalled, or shocked, or just stunned into silence. My God, what is it? Back to the floor-level camera, showing us the boots walking a bit. “This is weird,” I thought, “what’s with the boots?” Then another couple of reaction shots of the stunned clientele. What is it, a dude with two heads or something? Then another floor-cam shot of the boots, walking. At this point I blurted, “What the hell? Is the director of this a foot fetishist?”

Then the camera pulls back and we see what has caused the tense hush among the people. It’s… a man! This is what has shocked the tavern’s customers into speechlessness. Or maybe it’s the fact that he left the door open behind him – on this rainy winter night – and they’re all thinking, “What a douche!”

(New joke:
You: “A guy walks into a bar.”
People you’re telling the joke to: “Yeah, then what?”
You: “I can’t tell you; I’m shocked into silence by a guy walking into a bar.”)

Challenged by the barmaid to identify himself, he dramatically pulls back the hood of his cloak and introduces himself as “Joe Shmoe, moron who was raised in a barn,” or whatever, I wasn’t really paying attention. Then we jump to a flashback or dream sequence or hallucination or something. It’s a severely out-of-focus shot of a figure walking toward the camera. What does it mean? The focus resolves and wait, nope, it’s not a dream sequence; it’s just a woman walking into the tavern, out of focus for absolutely no reason whatsoever. In she walks, and she also leaves the door open, even though there is no one else coming in after her. What a fucking twat!

The man introduces her and she orders a stable for their horses and a room for the night, a move that is so unexpected in this tavern and inn that everyone is still speechless. Finally the tavern owner is like “No prob; I’ll sesh you,” and… that’s the scene.

As one YouTube commenter asks:

“How do you reckon that conversation went? ‘Okay, so here’s the plan. I’ll walk in alone while you stay out in the rain and wait for people to stop what they’re doing to notice me before announcing myself. Then when I announce you you dramatically walk out of the downpour, and we leave the door open.’”

There also is a thread of commenters who have read the books wondering why these two people, who apparently need to be traveling incognito, are doing everything possible to draw attention to themselves short of setting their hair on fire.

The whole trailer is notably fuckwitted, and it raises a question: What the fuck was the animating idea for this scene? Worse, this is what the producers of this thing think is one of the best scenes in the production, good enough to be featured in an ad for it. It’s clear from watching it that the director had no idea what the fuck he – or she! – was doing. An ad for a new show should make us think “Wow, that looks really cool” or “Hmm, I’m intrigued by the mystery.” Instead we’re thinking either (1) Close the fucking door! or (2) Why did they hire a director of foot fetish porn for this project?

That foot thing is surreal. You have to watch the clip to believe it. The director was just copying some technique he saw somewhere and now he thinks that’s just how you do it: You focus on the feet. This is a textbook example of the cargo-cult mentality: copying techniques without the faintest idea of why and how the techniques were originally used. Presumably this kind of shot originally was used in a way that made sense. One can easily imagine such uses. E.g., it’s from the viewpoint of a character who just got slugged and is lying on the floor. Etc. But this dumb-ass director has never even contemplated the notion that cinematic techniques are used for a reason. He just saw it in a music video once and thought, “I’ll do that.”

(Is western society becoming more idiotic? Or was it always this stupid, and the past seems better because the crap is forgotten over time, leaving mostly the good stuff?)

I tried to come up with a hypothesis of some conscious goal that the producers of this crap had in mind as they tried to string a coherent thought together in the fog of their oxygen-deprived haze. And maybe there is a semi-sentient purpose in this: to name two major characters who will be familiar to the fans of the book series. Thus we get Barn-Boy dramatically pushing his hood back and saying “I’m Barn Boy,” then adding, “And this is Standing-In-The-Rain Girl.” (No, I’m not going to re-watch it to see what their actual names are; I’ve already watched the crap twice, which is more than enough.) But this is done badly; badly enough for the YouTube comments to be overwhelmingly mocking. Do it correctly, asshats.

Off the top of my head: We start with the tavern. Two people enter. They don’t leave the door open, they don’t stand there in the middle of the floor, and they don’t do anything else to call attention to themselves. They unobtrusively go straight to a table and take a seat. They doff their hoods, not melodramatically, but normally, and we see that one is a man, who is sitting with his back to a wall so he can see the whole room, and the other, facing him, is a woman. He says to her, “Why don’t you swing around a bit so you don’t have your back to the room, [Her Name].” And she replies, “I don’t have to worry about that, [His Name]; I have you to watch out for me.” Thus we get their names for the fans, and we also get realistic behavior. We also get some mystery for the non-fans, because we want to know why it’s dangerous for her to be sitting with her back to the room and how/why she has this bodyguard traveling with her. And can the average person afford a bodyguard? Presumably not, so that raises the question of her social position as well. Is this a countess traveling incognito or what? And if so, why?

If that’s not enough there’s her ring, which figures prominently in the actual trailer. I have no idea what its significance is, but that could be worked in as well. Just have a barmaid come over to take their order and have the woman quickly pull her hand under her sleeve, obviously trying to hide the ring. That adds more mystery. And the whole scene, if I say so myself, has an appropriate measure of drama. None of it involves bizarre camera work that pulls the viewer out of the scene with its grating pointlessness, people traveling incognito going out of their way to call attention to themselves, or humanly unrealistic reactions of people being shocked into speechlessness by the once-in-a-lifetime spectacle of a guy walking into a bar.

Now my version doesn’t end on a dramatic note, so if you want, you can then do the standard rapid-fire montage of action shots to let people know that, yes, there is some action, and yes, we have a special effects budget of more than fifty bucks. Fine. It’s been done, but it’s better than trying to whip up drama with a couple of people requesting lodging at a tavern/inn.

Now as I said, I’ve never read the books. Maybe they’re not on some dangerous quest and my bodyguard notion is off. But I’ve heard this is a classic “band of heroes teams up to defeat the bad guy before he destroys the world” fantasy series. So there’s something interesting about them, or there wouldn’t be a series of like ten books devoted to their quest. Whatever that interesting thing is, the dialogue between them can hint at it.

I literally just made this up, and I dare say it does a better job than the version they actually came up with. I’m pretty sure that my version would at least dodge dozens of comments to the effect of “Close the fucking door, asshats,” and might even interest a few people.

(3) Circa November 8, 2021: I read some article about a guy slashing a bunch of people on a train in Germany. They don’t report the perpetrator’s name or any details. So of course I make certain inferences about the attacker.

If you dig around you can, with a little effort, find out the attacker’s salient identity-politics characteristics. He’s a Syrian immigrant. Surprise!

But that’s not my main point. My main point is that it recently hit me:

We now read the news like the citizens of the Soviet Union read their news.

Soviet citizens would read Pravda not because they thought it told them the truth, but because they could infer certain truths from Pravda by analyzing its content. They noted what it said, what it didn’t say, how it said what it said, how the narrative would do a blatant 180 from one week to the next, etc.

All that is stuff we do now, at least those of us with a clue. The newspaper didn’t tell me that the attacker was a Muslim and/or non-white and/or immigrant, but I inferred that with a high degree of confidence from what they didn’t say.

Of course, those of us who aren’t leftist wackos have been reading in a manner somewhat like this for decades, but it’s become different in the last few years. Consider e.g. the media’s simultaneous assertions, starting in late 2016, that subverting US elections is impossible (and anyone who thinks it’s possible is a fascist), and that Trump and Russia subverted a US election. That is a new level of double-think. The media has demanded that its faithful leftist readers abandon all principle, and embrace hypocrisy, for a long time. But

“US elections cannot be subverted and Trump subverted a US election”

is new. It is a leveling-up of the psychological demands made on the ideologically faithful.

Another case from 2016 is the case of Hillary Clinton having a blatant seizure on video, followed by the media saying, “You did not just see her having a seizure.” This was the clearest case of “How many fingers am I holding up, Winston?” that I can think of.

The other major example over the last few years is the new approach to reporting based on racial criteria. The media always reported in ways that helped the leftist party line on race. But lately the deliberate burying of news stories of black-on-white violence, playing up of the opposite stories, etc., has intensified significantly. It has mutated from silence about black-on-white violence to an attempt to convince the population of the opposite of the truth about inter-racial violence. The truth, which one can still learn from official crime statistics— for the time being— is that blacks are several times as likely to attack whites as vice-versa. But the media purposefully report, and don’t report, news stories in such a way as to create the opposite impression. I fear that many young people in the US might believe that whites attacking blacks is more common than the opposite.

Of course we know the media does this, but here’s an interesting case in which they actually admit to doing it. Here’s a piece at a Binghamton NY media outlet in which they lament, in 2019, that a 2009 shooting has all but been forgotten. Gosh, why was it forgotten?

“Not that the community wants to be solely identified by its own active shooter at an immigrant center that claimed the life of 13 victims 10 years ago.”

Goodness, a shooting at an immigrant facility! It must have been a white supremacist!

“But with each subsequent mass shooting, it seems the shocking incident that gripped this community in fear and mourning on a rainy and chilly Friday morning fades further from the nation’s collective memory, creating a double tragedy for the innocent, many of whom were foreign nationals in an English class.”

We read a rather lengthy article filled with woe that this shooting has been forgotten. Strangely, the identity of the shooter is never mentioned. Then we get to an editor’s note at the end:

“Editor’s note: Though the identity of the man who killed 13 people at the American Civic Association in 2009 is public record and has been widely circulated, the Press & Sun-Bulletin has chosen not to include his name or likeness in these articles.”

Yeah, I noticed that. A quick Net search reveals this at Wikipedia:

“Jiverly Antares Wong, a 41-year-old naturalized American citizen from Vietnam, entered the facility and shot 17 people…”

Of course we don’t need the editor’s note or an article identifying the shooter to know why they censored his identity. This is merely a rare case in which they are relatively explicit about their censorship.

(What goes on the minds of people who censor news stories, then wonder why those news stories are forgotten? I can’t even imagine what it’s like to be that stupid.)

Even people who aren’t aware of egregious cases like this know the media does things like this all the time. And so we read and watch the media the way people in North freakin’ Korea read and watch their media.

And so we take another step into the psychology of totalitarianism.

Miscellany 24: Shred the Miscellany like You’re a Surfer and It’s the Ultimate Wave

(1) June 2021, the Dark Herald makes a side remark about Lois McMaster Bujold’s novel Memory, prompting me to glance at its Wikipedia article. I find this:

“After years of refusing to marry any of the tall, slim, eligible Barrayaran ladies paraded in front of him…Gregor unexpectedly falls in love with a short, voluptuous Komarran…”

I.e., short and fat. I’m guessing this is a fiction version of…
Sailer’s Law of Female Journalism: The most heartfelt articles by female journalists tend to be demands that social values be overturned in order that, Come the Revolution, the journalist herself will be considered hotter-looking.”

(2) First, some background: The Williams Institute at UCLA is a gay and lesbian think tank. In 2011 they released a study claiming that 3.5% of American adults identify as homosexual or bisexual. (A little over half of those are people, mostly women, who identify as bi.) And since this is a gay think tank, they have an incentive to exaggerate the number. So this is an upper bound on the percent of homo- and bi-sexuals.

With that number in mind, let’s consider a recently-published novel.

Leigh Bardugo’s Crooked Kingdom is a novel about a criminal gang of seven people (To recall them for those who have read it: Kaz, Inej, Matthias, Nina, Jasper, Wylan, and Kuwei). Three of the seven are homo or bi: Jasper, Wylan, and Kuwei. In the follow-up King of Scars, per Cataline Sergius’s review June 2021, Nina becomes a lesbian, making it 4 out of 7. So more than half of the main characters are homosexual or bisexual.

This is not about “representation.”

(3) A funny aspect of Game: Because it starts by accepting certain features of female psychology like their desire for assholes instead of nice guys, one way of describing Game in general terms is

“Men cannot change women. Men have to accept women as they are.”

If just left at that, it would prompt shouts of agreement from women in general and feminists in particular: “Right on, pal!” “Preach it, brother!” “You got that right!” But the details— what it actually means to take women as they are instead of trying to change them— is something that fills feminists with rage. Feminists of course cannot abide any speech other than “All women are totally perfect in every way.” And women in general do not like to be understood in the mating game: it destroys much of their power in the game.

(4) Uri Harris, July 2017: Even moderate leftists are becoming rarer in academia.

“What is particularly striking about this shift is that the number of moderates has dropped sharply among professors…

As part of the survey, members were asked to identify their political affiliation on an eleven-point scale, from ‘very liberal’ to ‘very conservative’…

Intriguingly, the least popular point among the left-of-centre points was the most moderate one… More than two thirds (67.8 per cent) chose one of the three points furthest to the left on an eleven-point scale, and more than a third (38 per cent) chose one of the two points furthest to the left. And 16 per cent chose the furthest possible point to the left on an eleven-point scale.

This means that there were almost as many people who chose the furthest possible point to the left as there were who chose all the conservative points, the centre-point and the most moderate left-of-centre point combined.”

(5) I once read that an old definition of heresy was focusing on one of God’s attributes at the expense of others. I don’t think this definition is doctrine, but maybe it should be, since it could damp holiness spiraling. For example, focusing on God’s justice at the cost of ignoring his mercy, or focusing on God’s mercy at the cost of ignoring his justice, would be heresies.

In an environment in which promulgating heresies in this sense is energetically punished, holiness spiraling probably would have a harder time getting off the ground: You and your buddies start holiness spiraling about who can be most like God in the sense of being most just. But soon the inquisitor shows up (or tons of people weigh in on Twitter) to give you a warning about obsessing about God’s justice at the expense of ignoring His mercy. And the opposite if you’re spiraling on mercy. It could be a built-in moderator.

As I was surfing around on this topic I came across the same thought here:

The problem, rather, is judging the acceptability of statements and actions on the basis of a single sacred criterion. Fundamentalism in this sense is part-and-parcel of the piety contest. No matter what your foundational principle, if you have only one, there will be bullets you have to bite.

The defense against piety contests, therefore, is to cultivate a multiplicity of irreducible sacred values. This gives the moral community a vantage point from which to evaluate the consequences of each norm against something else. Christianity, for example, is filled with pairs of concepts that orthodoxy holds “in tension”: trinity and unity, free will and predestination, grace and works, and so on. Indeed, heresy has been defined as emphasizing one element of one of these pairs at the expense of the other, and throughout Christianity’s history it has been heretical movements of just this sort that have been filled with the fervent zeal of the piety contest.

(6) Biden appoints a person who said that blacks are genetically superior to whites as his civil rights Czar.
The nominee is Kristen Clarke. Writing in the Harvard Crimson,

Clarke cited a number of “experts” regarding what she called the “truth” about the “genetic differences between blacks and whites.”

She posited that “human mental processes are controlled by melanin — that same chemical which gives blacks their superior physical and mental abilities.” Additionally, “melanin endows blacks with greater mental, physical, and spiritual abilities.”

The liberal editors of [Harvard University newspaper] The Crimson found Clarke’s “racist theories” to be “outrageous,” saying that Clarke had “resorted to bigotry, pure and simple.”… Not long after she penned her letter claiming that blacks are genetically superior to other racial groups, the Black Students Association under her leadership invited professor Tony Martin to campus.

A notorious anti-Semite, Martin’s ensuing lecture about his tract, “The Jewish Onslaught,” was apparently a racist diatribe against the Jewish people, their history, and their traditions, claiming they were the source of the supposedly “ordained” notion of “African inferiority.”

Yet Clarke told The Harvard Crimson that “Professor Martin is an intelligent, well-versed black intellectual who bases his information on indisputable fact.”


(7) Related: In the comments at, Rick says “This isn’t surprising but remember to let your people know the score:
Black guy murders white retired police chief, confesses to the crime and the all black jury lets him walk.”

Here’a another link which confirms that he was acquitted:, though neither link mentions the race of the jurors.

(8) France is worried that US identity politics is penetrating France and damaging it. It’s good to know that they have the sense to be worried. Though it might be too late at this point.

“French President Emmanuel Macron has joined numerous French intellectuals & journalists in warning that ‘out-of-control woke leftism of US campuses and its attendant cancel culture’ poses a grave threat due to the social strife it creates.”

Though I am curious about what they used for lube in Mississippi in the 1800s

Here are some quotes from the USA Today article “5 books not to miss”, January 2, 2021. I present the entire list of books from the article with some of its commentary on the books, and the whole fucking thing is leftist cultural propaganda. You’d think that a tiny saving grace would be that, every once in a while, leftists would get bored of constantly spewing propaganda. Nnnnnnnope. They fucking love it!

  1. “The Prophets,” by Robert Jones Jr.

What it’s about: Jones’ powerful debut novel centers on a forbidden love between two enslaved gay men on an antebellum Mississippi plantation.

The buzz: Kirkus Reviews calls it an “ambitious, imaginative, and important tale of Black queerness through history.”

So two men fuck each other in the ass. Yeah, so?

  1. “Outlawed,” by Anna North

What it’s about: It’s 1894, and Ada is an outlaw. After a year of marriage and no pregnancy, in a town that hangs barren women as witches, the teenage wife joins the notorious Hole in the Wall Gang, a new safe haven for outcast women.

The buzz: “It’s ‘The Handmaid’s Tale’ meets ‘True Grit’ in the best sense…”

  1. “A Lie Someone Told You About Yourself,” by Peter Ho Davies.

What it’s about: A family has a child after terminating an earlier pregnancy that yielded catastrophic test results and grapples with the decision made and the unending work of parenting.

  1. “Bone Canyon,” by Lee Goldberg

What it’s about: Eve Ronin, the youngest female homicide detective in LA, always feels like she has something to prove, but especially when a cold case heats up…

  1. “The Push,” by Ashley Audrain

What it’s about: Blythe never wanted to be a mother but changes her mind for a man she loves. But motherhood turns out to be everything she feared and her conviction that there is something deeply wrong with her daughter tears her family apart.

Summarizing: “Black queerness through history” plus “slavery!” (the Emacipation Proclamation was in 1863, more than 150 years ago) plus “Yay, abortion!” plus other forms of anti-natalism (“the unending work of parenting”) plus “women, oppressed by the Patriarchy as they are, have something to prove.”

Apropos of nothing, here’s a quote from Orwell’s 1984:

Winston turned a switch and the voice sank somewhat, though the words were still distinguishable. The instrument could be dimmed, but there was no way of shutting it off completely.

Red Pill in Fiction: LibraryThing’s Name That Book

The book cataloging site LibraryThing has a standing community project called Name That Book where people ask for help identifying books they’ve read but the titles of which they’ve forgotten. The Romance requests are revealing from the content of the requests, and often just from the titles of the requests. E.g. …

Thread title: Historical romance – starts off with heroine being spanked for being a spoiled/dirty brat?

Thread title: Historical romance with a cruel hero.

Request details: I have been looking for the title of this book for MONTHS. I read this over a decade ago, so some of the details are fuzzy. What I remember is the heroine has inherited her land from her father and she doesn’t want to get married because she doesn’t want to give up her independence, but this guy swoops in and pretty much forces her to.

Thread title: Romance , bad boy , series. (Bad boy, bad boy! Complete with misplaced commas.)

Thread title: Romance: inheritance, western. “…He’s pretty rough, and mean. At one point they get stuck in the snow together out in a cabin, have a snowball fight, he spanks her. They end up together, of course…”

Judging from the plot summary here, the book, eventually identified as A Man To Call My Own by Johanna Lindsey, sounds intriguingly madcap:

“Historical romance fiction. Identical twin sisters sent to live with unknown (twin) aunt of their dad after he dies from New York to out West. One sister disguises her beauty (bottle glasses which cause her to be accident prone and frumpy clothes) because of her twin, the “beautiful” twin would steal the other twin’s beaus. Also, father favored the beautiful sister over the other. Find out later that he did this with his other sibling. Get left in their stagecoach in a small town because the beautiful twin is too demanding. Aunt sends a cowboy to find them. Cowboy thinks he falls in love with the beautiful sister, but in reality it is the one in disguise. He gets confused with how the beautiful sister acts towards him after sharing a kiss and he blames her horrible behavior on the circumstances. The ugly sister keeps it a secret, but the beautiful sister figures it out and sleeps with him. Aunt realizes the ugly twin’s disguise and learns that she is waiting for her sister to get married before she sheds her disguise, she is even willing to allow the cowboy to marry her sister. Sister runs off with cowboys rivalry who owns the bar/gambling house. Aunt causes a shot gun wedding for beautiful sister and the guy who owns the bar/gambling house. Cowboy figures out what happened. They all go to New York and the former ugly twin believes she has seen her father. Turns out their father actually fakes his own death because he got his mistress pregnant [Yawn. I always fake my own death after I get my mistress pregnant.] and the beautiful twin was just too expensive and the mistress gave him a boy and wanted the son to be his heir. I think one of the twins name may be Amanda.”

BONUS: It turns out that the handsome and charming cowboy is actually named… Chad!

By the same author: Tender is the Storm. Yes, seriously. But the title is only the half of it. Check out the cover: He’s actually tit-fucking her!

Ted couldn’t decide whether he wanted a fuck or a blowjob, so he decided to split the difference.

“I read a book… about a 19th century Englishwoman shipwrecked along the Arab coast, captured by Tuareg Berbers [whoever the fuck they were] and sold to an Oxford-educated handsome sheik.”

This request is funny for the way it starts: “I am looking for an historical romance I read some time in the last 1-2 years. I don’t remember the title, author or characters names.” LOL. How disposable is this stuff if you can’t remember anything about it after 1 or 2 years? I suspect women buy these, have a wank or two over them, then toss them. Why oh why can’t women be more ecologically responsible?

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Red Pill in Fiction, Classics Edition: Pride and Prejudice

That man is a scoundrel and a miscreant! His manners are appalling! I would never entertain a marriage proposal from him!

Since little or no new information on the political situation appeared over the Thanksgiving break and we’re not likely to get any until Monday, here’s some lighter material.

In the Red Pill in Fiction posts on Alpha Trio and Suddenly Royal I wrote that female authors often fantasize that they (via their author-insert character) will get the alpha by being “feisty,” and that this seems to be a form of snowflaking. On Suddenly Royal I wrote,

Many women have this fantasy that they’ll attract an alpha male by being “feisty” and “stubborn.” (While all the other girls fail to snag him because they’re too compliant.) I’m not sure what the psychology is here. My current best guess is that it’s snowflaking. I.e., “I’m going to stand out from the crowd by doing the opposite of what all the other girls do with alphas. I’m unique! No other girl is like me! No other girl ever thought of being ‘feisty’ before!”

This is stated explicitly in Jane Austen’s Pride and Prejudice, in the last few pages (Ch 18 of Vol. III). When Elizabeth and Mr. Darcy get engaged, she says,

“Now be sincere; did you admire me for my impertinence?”

“For the liveliness of your mind, I did.”

“You may as well call it impertinence at once… The fact is, you were sick of civility, of deference, of officious attention. You were disgusted with the women who were always speaking and looking, and thinking for your approbation alone. I aroused, and interested you, because I was so unlike them… You thoroughly despised the persons who so assidiously courted you.”

Here it is explicitly, from the horse’s mouth. As I type these notes up it occurs to me that female projection is another reason for this trope of female-authored fiction. That last sentence, “You thoroughly despised the persons who so assidiously courted you,” is the female reaction to any man who seems to really desire her. So: snowflaking plus projection.

There’s other red pill stuff in this novel too. E.g. the main male character, Darcy, comes across as a completely rude asshole at first but then falls for the heroine and they fall in love and get married. At a ball, a mutual acquaintance offers Darcy to introduce him to Elizabeth. Elizabeth is sitting right there. Here’s Darcy’s nuclear neg which is the first thing he says to her… or rather, about her:

“Which do you mean?” and turning round, he looked for a moment at Elizabeth, till catching her eye, he withdrew his own and coldly said, “She is tolerable; but not handsome enough to tempt me; and I am in no humour at present to give consequence to young ladies who are slighted by other men.”

LOL, what an asshole. They end up engaged. Pride and Prejudice was written by a woman in 1813 and is arguably the most famous and popular work of chick-lit in the English language. (The only other contender is Gone With the Wind.) Tell me, go ahead, tell me, that Game is just a bunch of nonsense that some male PUA nutters made up in the 1990s.

More: Later, when they have a little spat he tells her, “Could you expect me to rejoice in the inferiority of your connections? To congratulate myself on the hope of relations, whose condition in life is so decidedly beneath my own?” LOL. Your family sux! Now get on your knees and get on my cock, bitch!

In the end– surprise!– the asshole falls for the heroine. And, bonus, he turns out to have a heart of gold: Darcy pays off a man who was threatening to run off with Elizabeth’s sister without marrying her, thus ruining her reputation. He does this solely because he’s so in loooooove with Elizabeth. So you see, he’s an asshole… Who Really Has A Heart Of Gold Underneath It All.

Oh yeah, thoughts on the novel as a novel: You know, it’s actually not that bad. (I know, I was surprised too!) What happens is, because it’s a classic of chick lit loaded with shopworn tropes like the jerk who really has a heart of gold, etc. you think it’s going to be one huge wedge of cheese dropped on your head like Dorothy’s house landing on the Wicked Witch of the East. Actually, there’s a good deal of humor, which the admirers of this novel really should play up more if they want to effectively proselytize on its behalf. For example, consider the well-known opening sentence:

It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune, must be in want of a wife.

I always read this as a straight line, as if Jane Austen actually believed it. Ha, no. The passage, and indeed the rest of the novel, proceeds in a way that makes it clear that she’s joking:

However little known the feelings or views of such a man may be on his first entering a neighbourhood, this truth is so well fixed in the minds of the surrounding families, that he is considered the rightful property of some one or other of their daughters.

And then we swing right into this bit of dialogue:

“My dear Mr. Bennet,” said his lady to him one day, “have you heard that Netherfield Park is let at last?”
Mr. Bennet replied that he had not.
“But it is,” returned she; “for Mrs. Long has just been here, and she told me all about it.”
Mr. Bennet made no answer.
“Do you not want to know who has taken it?” cried his wife impatiently.
“You want to tell me, and I have no objection to hearing it.”
This was invitation enough.
“Why, my dear, you must know…”

In other words, social satire with understated English humor.

Due to its droll comedy-of-manners humor and its generally well-written dialogue, I am afraid this novel is not even a serious contender for the coveted Ten Chunks of Cheese prize. I can award it several chunks due to its “bad boy who eventually falls for the heroine… and turns out to be rich” blurt, directly from the Universal Female Id. We’ll call it six chunks of cheese. Sorry, Jane Austen, but the state of the art in female porn romance cheese has really advanced since 1813. Your competition is much tougher now. Good effort, though.

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Red Pill in Fiction: Witches of East End, by Melissa de la Cruz

From the back cover: “Freya, the younger sister, is trapped between two handsome brothers in a dangerous game of desire.”

As I was looking for a cover image for this slab of cheese, I learned that it was a TV show for a couple of years. There’s no accounting for taste. Anyway, the setting is our contemporaneous world but with magic. The “witches” in the title are not metaphorical. The first couple of chapters power-wash the reader’s brain with estrogen forced through a hose at 10 gallons per second. There are three witches, a mother and her two daughters. The sisters are both friends and rivals (female authors love that story element for some reason). There’s a hapless nice guy and a rough-cut Harley-riding Bad Boy(TM).

Of course, Our Heroine has sex with the nice guy and tells the Bad Boy, “I just think of you as a friend.” Ha, no, just seeing if you’re paying attention.

As usual, I’ll edit for length. Also, “Spoiler Warning,” LOL.

The opening to Chapter 1:

Freya Beauchamp swirled the champagne in her glass… This was supposed to be the happiest day of her life—or at the very least, one of the happiest—but all she felt was agitated.

Immediately I guessed that this was her wedding day and that she has just gotten married to a boring nice guy who is going to have something bad happen to him. Well, not far off: Turns out it’s an engagement party, not a wedding, but everything else falls out how you expect… only more so.

She loved Bran. “Bran”? LOL. Poor bastard. She truly did…. There was something about him that felt exactly like home, like sinking into a down comforter into sleep: safe and secure.

Poor guy.

There’s then a little interlude about how all the other females in town are forced to come up to her and congratulate her, through gritted teeth, on the engagement. They’re jealous because “Bran” (LOL) is incredibly wealthy. He attends charity regattas on the weekends, wow!

…she accepted the insincere congratulations from another cadre of female well-wishers… All the eligible ladies of North Hampton, who not so long ago had harbored not-so-subtle dreams of becoming Mrs. Gardiner themselves… had all come to the grand, refurbished mansion to pay grudging homage to the woman who had won the prize…

For a sex that’s not supposed to be obsessed with dominance hierarchies, women sure do spend a lot of time fantasizing about having their intrasexual rivals forced to kiss their asses. Read fiction by men, the supposedly competitive sex. You won’t find a tenth as much of this sort of thing. Also, men like to fuck hot pussy; we really don’t care whether other men are envying us. The point is the pussy, not other men’s opinions about the pussy.

We then get that the main character, Freya, was possessed of an effervescent beauty… Small and petite… She’s small AND petite, mind you. This is also funny because we’ve just been treated to a little homily (which I spared you, dear reader) about how modern beauty standards are too focused on “emaciated” women. In the same paragraph, we get that Our Heroine is “small and petite.” Also, she has cheekbones that models would kill for, a tiny little nose, and as for her tits: No one would ever forget her breasts—in fact, they were all the male population looked at when they looked at Freya.

In general the writing qua writing is not great, as you’ve just seen. The author will manage a couple of paragraphs without perpetrating anything stupid or grammatically incorrect, then she’ll say something like “The tennis courts gleamed in the distance…” What? I grew up in a house that was less than 100 yards from a set of tennis courts. They don’t gleam in the distance. Or we get (in the inevitable Prologue) “Perpetually damp, even during its brilliant summers, its denizens were…” LOL, its denizens were perpetually damp? Come to think of it, maybe the female ones are, if the main character’s hormone-revved behavior is typical. But obviously that’s not what the author meant. (Don’t dangle your participle here; there are children about!)

Freya originally meets Bran – shit, I laugh every time I have to write that. BRAN?! Seriously, fucking BRAN?! She’s named after a sex goddess and he’s named after… a cereal product that’s good for your colon! Anyway, she meets Bran (snerk) by tripping into his arms, literally, because she’s so surprised when a load-bearing element of her dress snaps and her unforgettable tits spill out. It’s stated that she never wears bras or underwear (which Bran should have taken as a warning sign, as we will see).

Read this and guess whether she’s ever going to have sex with Bran:

It was Bran’s acute embarrassment that had endeared him to her… But what most people did not know was that he was kind. When Freya met him, she thought he was the kindest man she had ever met. She felt it—kindness seemed to emanate from him. The way he had been so concerned, his embarrassment, his stammer—and when he had recovered enough, he had bought her a drink and never quite left her side all evening, hovering protectively.

An absolute clinic in What Not To Do.

He radiates niceness, he buys her a drink, and he hovers around her the rest of the evening. He’s combining Too Nice and Possessive Creepy Guy. I haven’t read past the first chapter yet, but I foresee him conveniently having a lethal heart attack or something before their wedding day, before the main character has to have sex with him.

Don’t worry, it gets worse!

Bran Gardiner was not at all charming or erudite or witty or worldly. He was awkward and self-conscious. The first night they met, he hadn’t even asked her out because he was simply too modest to think she would be interested in him. Instead he showed up the next night during her shift at the Inn, and the next night, and every night after that, just staring at her with those big brown eyes of his, with a kind of wistful yearning (GOD!) until she had to ask him out.

Gah! The author is stacking the deck here; she’s not even making it plausible that any female in the multiverse could be attracted to this guy. I’m hoping she has a twist queued up, because otherwise this is about as telegraphed as a punch can get. Especially by contrast with Mr. Sexyman:

The problem was Killian Gardiner. Bran’s younger brother, twenty-four years old, and looking at her as if she were on sale to the highest bidder and he was more than willing to pay the price. When they were introduced, he had looked at her with those startling blue-green eyes of his, and she had felt her entire body tingle. The Tingle! Directly from a woman’s word processor! He was, for lack of a better word, beautiful, with long dark lashes (WTF?) framing those piercing eyes, sharp-featured with an aquiline nose and a square jaw. A clean-limbed fighting man of Barsoom, narrow of waist and broad of shoulder, he wielded his sword with—sorry, I just had an Edgar Rice Burroughs flashback from when I was thirteen. He looked like he was always ready to be photographed: Brooding, sucking on a cigarette, like a matinee idol in a French New Wave film. LOL, fucking what? French New Wave… Melissa de la Cruz, you weirdo! Anyway…

Stop looking at him, she told herself. This is insane, just another of your bad ideas. Um, what is? Not that we can’t guess…

Goddamnit, did he have to be so good-looking? She thought she was immune to that kind of thing. Such a cliché: tall, dark, and handsome. Well, at least she includes the Oxford comma, of which I’m a partisan. So this book is not ALL bad. She hated cocky, arrogant boys who thought women lived to service their voracious sexual appetites. She bangs him within a page. As per the Chateau and Rolo Tomassi (Rational Male), women both love and hate male sexual entitlement. Because they both love and hate it, be prepared for a hella shit test, more like several, if you project this attitude in real life. Note I didn’t say “Don’t do this.” I said, “Be prepared for a hella shit test.” He was the worst offender of the type—screeching up in his Harley, and that ridiculous hair of his—that messy, shaggy, bangs-in-your-eyes kind of thing, with that sexy, come-hither smolder.

Let’s get it over with:

She looked up and found him still staring directly at her. He nodded his head, motioning to a nearby door. Truly? Right here? Right now? In the powder room? Was that not just another cliché that went with the motorcycle and the bad-boy attitude? Was she really going to go into the bathroom with another man—her fiancé’s brother, for god’s sake—at her engagement party?

She was.

Now I’m thinking this is too reprehensible for the heroine of a novel. Maybe they don’t have sex; maybe she turns into a magic vampire and sucks the life force out of him or something. They don’t actually show them boinking.

LATER: OK, I’ve read, er, skimmed to the end, and here’s the deal: de la Cruz indeed has some mis-direction queued up here. It is, in fact, an estrogen-drenched mechanism for the author-insert character to have her cake and eat it too. That is, to get fucked by the bad boy in the bathroom at her engagement party and still be a demure, virtuous good girl. How? you ask. Does he cast a spell on her to force her to have sex with him against her will? Is the whole scene just an elaborate fantasy, dream, or magical illusion? Nope. Here is the key surprise of the book, revealed in the last couple of chapters:

Our Heroine, Freya, is actually Freya, the Norse goddess of sex, fertility, and all that stuff. “Bran” is actually Loki, the Norse god of mischief, who had put a spell on her to make her think she was in love with him. And Mr. SexyBadBoy is actually another god named Balder who is her One True Love and Destined Husband. So you see, all along she should have been having sex with Mr. Bad Boy – who is in a truer, deeper sense the Good Guy – and she should have been monumentally dissing “Bran,” who is actually a villain who uses the magical equivalent of a date rape drug on her.

Well, it’s interestingly inventive, the mental acrobatics a chick will go through to justify having no-strings-attached sex with a Harley-riding Bad Boy in the bathroom.

By the way, Freya does have sex with “Bran” one time, but since he actually turns out to be Loki, the god of mischief, the point that chicks don’t want nice guys stands.


Page 18: The main character’s sister is melodramatically described as the “ranking archivist” of the library where she works. LOL. I associate this phrase with rather more dramatic situations, like, “We should destroy the alien spacecraft before it comes any closer to Earth!” “No, I’m the ranking officer here and I say hold your fire!” Not so much “Let’s re-shelve these books now.” “No, I’m the ranking archivist here and I say we’ll re-shelve them after lunch break!” The drama of the language should match the drama of the situation, unless the author is deliberately going for humor.

Page 39: “Natasha Mayles was all wrong for Ross. She swanned into the North Inn with her haughty accent and her bored, quasi-European attitude.” “Quasi-European attitude”? Every now and then de la Cruz will write something that makes you go, “What was she even trying to say there?”

Pages 85-6: The librarian chick – the “ranking archivist” – is about to be asked out by this one dude. She thinks about how to let him down gently, until it turns out that he’s actually soliciting her advice about asking some other chick out. At this point she suddenly becomes jealous and interested in the dude. The power of the neg, right from the horse’s mouth.

Chunks of cheese rating: Hmm. This has a few standard female cheese elements, to wit, the “must choose between two men” cliche, the “must have sex with Bad Boy!” thing, and hypergamy, in that the viewpoint character has sex with actual gods.

Yet somehow, after the first couple of chapters, the overall effect wasn’t a mammoth blast of cheese, perhaps because after the main character cheats on her fiancé at their engagement party, everything else seems tame by comparison. Or maybe because I’ve read so much of this stuff now that I’m becoming jaded: It takes a lot to compete with a cyborg woman having sex with the man who burned off all four of her limbs and poked her eyes out, or a female author’s fantasy of being raped by an immortal alpha and having a worshipful beta help raise the resultant child. (I hope y’all appreciate the suffering I bear to bring these little reviews to you.) Or maybe the estrogen hose-down didn’t bug me as much because the mediocre-at-best writing distracted me with its irritating just-below-competence obnoxiousness.

Chunks of cheese rating:

If the main character fucking her fiancé’s brother at their engagement party actually turned out to be what it seemed at first, that would be eight or nine out of ten chunks of cheese right there. But since, thank goodness, it’s not what it seems, I award six out of ten chunks of cheese to this book.

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