If It were True…

Being a natural contrarian, I like to play little what-if games in my head.  And when everyone keeps telling me that a matter of opinion is actually a matter of fact, those what-if games go into overdrive.  So:  Everyone keeps telling me that the election is over; Hillary’s only dilemma now is whether to pull her starters, or run up the score.  If that were true….

…well, for one, I’d expect you could fit your average Trump rally in a gas station bathroom.  Americans don’t like a loser, and Trump has lost so badly that the WaPo says even Georgia (speaking of running up the score) might go Democrat this year.  But as the Z Man points out, that’s not true — Trump’s rallies are still yuuuge, and even the media toadies have to admit it.  Hmmm.

But hey, maybe those rallies are just the die-hard remnant, the no-hopers, the Götterdämmerungers who see two umlauts in Götterdämmerung and think that’s so fuckin’ metal, they just gotta check it out.  You know, gap-toothed hillbillies who have grabbed a pussy or two in their time, of either the blood-relative or farm-animal variety.  Maybe Hillary is too classy a dame to rub it in, but we know the media are shameless — I’d expect pictures of every Trump rally, of whatever size, to be nothing but Cletus the Slack-Jawed Yokel.

And as every college football fan knows, the fourth quarters of blowouts are also auditions.  That’s when you let the hotshot sophomores get in a few snaps against someone other than the scout team.  Politics is no different.  If it were a blowout, I’d expect a whole bunch of thumbsucking op-eds about “setting the priorities for Hillary’s first hundred days” by earnest young bootlickers trying to score an administration job.  I don’t read the Media, so somebody clue me in — lots of those every day now, am I right?

And speaking of losers, you’d think the rats would be abandoning ship right about now.  Maybe Trump’s senior people will commit seppuku with him, since Hillary is certain to sic the IRS on them (if not the FBI or a drone), but what about all the junior-level folks?  Hillary has wars to start; she can’t be bothered with going after every lowly footsoldier from the Trump campaign.  Certainly lots of these folks are Nuremberging up right about now?  “I was just following orders, comrade, but I know lots of dirt; let’s cut a deal.”

As I say, I don’t read the Media.  Maybe all this is happening, and I’m living in my own little bubble out here.  Five Regular Readers, you wanna clue me in?

“The Most Useful Room in the House is the Toilet”

I’m hardly the first guy to point out that Liberals are, at heart, curdled Romantics. But it’s worth re-emphasizing, as it sheds some light on their peculiar psychology as they get crazier and crazier this election season.

Romanticism celebrated individualism and the beauty of nature. It rejected the present and looked to the past, especially the medieval and epic past, for inspiration. It was a rejection of Enlightenment universalism and the mechanization of life that was just over the horizon in the nascent Industrial Revolution.

Fast forward fifty years, and Romanticism is untenable. The machines won. The new artistic movements, then — aestheticism, Decadence, the whole dog’s breakfast called “Modernism”— had to reject the entire past in favor of abstraction. “Art for art’s sake,” was this movement’s motto.

Théophile Gautier didn’t actually say “art for art’s sake,” but it’s an accurate summary of his position. Beauty, Gautier said, is useless — if it has practical value, then it fulfills a need, which beauty by definition doesn’t do:

There is nothing really beautiful save what is of no possible use. Everything useful is ugly, for it expresses a need, and man’s needs are low and disgusting, like his own poor, wretched nature. The most useful place in a house is the toilet.

See what I mean about “curdled Romantics?” The Liberal considers himself a fearless individualist, fighting the twin forces of Conformity and Capitalism on behalf of his fellow man. But…. his fellow man is disgusting. His fellow man is a money-grubbing philistine — les bourgeois, Gautier would say, which is literary French for “redneck.” Like as not, your average Liberal’s fellow man spent most of high school shoving him in a locker. Hence Liberals’ well-known tic of loving The People but hating people. What can you do?

There are only two options when the souls you’ve set out to save turn your stomach. You can embrace the gutter, which was the preferred method of the old-school Commies. They pretended there was nothing more to life than bread, shoes, and shit — give the prole three hots, a cot, and a toilet, and he’s got everything he will ever need. This is why pictures of female Bolsheviks can be used to terrify small children — stone-faced creatures with bowl haircuts, wearing shapeless sacks and clodhopper shoes, always ready with a pamphlet about birth control but rarely in contact with soap.

The other method, which was Gautier’s method, and the SJW’s, is to aestheticize your disgust. For Gautier, the only true art was useless. The SJWs fetishize useless people. They love trannies, for instance, because they’re so elaborately, determinedly bizarre. SJW’s love “victims” because “victims” have nothing else in the world to do but come up with ever-weirder iterations of their pathologies. Like Gautier’s true art, they’re completely useless — by design.

And, of course, there’s still the off-chance that one of them will be sufficiently revolting to epater les bourgeois, which was Gautier’s other goal in life. And as there are fewer and fewer bourgeois left to skewer — thanks to the success of Liberal policies — that becomes ever more important.

Ain’t art grand?

The Mandarins and the Masses

Sometime back when — maybe it was the early 90s — it was briefly fashionable among badthinkers to call DC folk “mandarins.” It’s time to revive that. See if this sounds familiar:

There’s no private enterprise out in the provinces, because somebody minor official’s nephew’s cousin’s former roommate got himself a government job out there, and the minute an aspiring entrepreneur sniffs success, said dimbulb shows up with his hand out, explaining that this obscure regulation he just discovered in paragraph 404(a)(3)(vii)(b2) of page 895 of the tax code sure seems to apply, nudge nudge, wink wink. So anyone with anything on the ball realizes that the only safe way is to become an official himself.

So he grinds his way up a laddered series of exams, going all-in to memorize approved texts word-for-word until he can recite them all, word for word, from any given point and in any order required. He masters an obscure vocabulary and syntax used only on these exams. He passes first the local exam, then the provincial exam, and then, after many more years of brain-breaking study, often accompanied by usurious loans for tutors, he passes the national exam. Which lands him a job on the lowest rung of the bureaucracy, from which he starts patiently grinding his way up again.

His “job” in the bureaucracy is entirely ceremonial, and conducted only in the obscure, convoluted language and syntax of the exam system. His world consists of rituals that must be carried out even when nobody’s watching… especially when nobody’s watching, because of course somebody is always watching, and the danger is highest when you think you’re alone. So he grinds on, year after year, saying only approved words and doing only approved acts until, having trained himself to think only approved thoughts, he reaches one of the top tiers of the bureaucracy…

… at which point he’s “qualified” for an administrative post in the provinces and is dispatched to a distant part of the empire, approved texts in hand, to govern the locals.

He’s not stupid; he sees that the peasants are starving, that industry is nonexistent, that infrastructure is crumbling and the barbarians are massing just beyond the wall. He must report this to the Emperor! But as reports must only be produced in the official language and can only quote approved texts, he searches in vain for a way to say it. The approved texts contain only musings, phrased in court language, about the movements of the heavens and the proper ritual postures. There are no words for things like “reform” and “barbarians,” so he carefully selects some phrases about the changing of the seasons and dispatches them capital-ward, hoping that some official somewhere, higher than himself, will interpret it correctly and inform the Emperor.

And then the barbarians come pouring over the wall. He’s the official on the spot; he must act! So he calls out the garrison… with an ornately-worded court-language missive about the changing of the seasons. The commander laughs in his face; the troops join with the barbarian horde and start pillaging the countryside. And our official’s last thought, as they’re bending him over the chopping block and sharpening a stake for his head, is…. something about the changing of the seasons, ornately phrased, in impeccable court language.

It doesn’t end well, rule by mandarins. Good thing we don’t have that here!

Proles Don’t Like Being Called Proles

and other wisdom from Captain Should-Be-Obvious-But-Amazingly-Isn’t. Are any of the Five Regular Readers artists? I think we could use a nice graphic for this… I’m thinking a big musclebound guy carrying a rolled-up copy of the Constitution to use as a clue bat. Anyway….

Paul Ryan, white knight extraordinaire, got himself shouted down at his own rally. “Trump! Trump! Trump!”

I assume Paul Ryan lurks on this site (everyone in DC does), so let me explain it to you in itty bitty words, Gamma boy:

The American people are sick of being condescended to, preached at, nagged, hectored, and otherwise vilified for being themselves. Remember how the Republicans moralized themselves into irrelevancy back in the 90s? Bill Clinton got grilled on national tv about a years-long adultery; he won both his party’s nomination and the presidency. Have you forgotten? Surely you haven’t forgotten that he then played hide-the-cigar, literally, with a fat chick half his age in the Oval goddamn Office?

Now that’s not decorous behavior, Paul; I’ll grant you that. And I personally would prefer it not to happen. In fact, most Americans I know would prefer that their President keep it in his pants while on duty. But let me tell you what I, and every other American male, said when we heard the juicy bits of the Starr Report: “He’s the President of the United States; he could pull much better ass than that! JFK porked Marilyn Monroe, for pete’s sake!”

I’m not saying you’re a mincing little faggot for not knowing that, Paul; I’m just saying you seem to reside in a world where whatever residual testosterone anyone has is channeled into juggling commas on page 89,304 of the tax code.

You see, Paul, everybody knows a guy like you. A suck up. A lickspittle. A rump-swab. A toady. You, and all your DC friends, are the type of greasy little worm that we either shoved in a locker ourselves, or wished we could, and cheered when the quarterback did. You’re a glorified hall monitor, Paul, always willing to tattle on other kids for saying bad words, then running and hiding behind teacher’s skirts when you get called on it. I promise you, Paul: if there were ever a time the Average American wanted to take etiquette lessons from you, it was about 15 months of unemployment ago.

And here’s a further tip for ya, Paul, at Undocumented-American labor prices: Women talk like that, too. Again, not saying you’re too busy sucking Koch to have ever talked to a real live heterosexual girl, but trust me, they do. Girls are far more sexually explicit than guys are. Guys in the locker room brag “I got some pussy last night;” girls out on the town discuss length, girth, and technique.

Is this polite? No. Coarse, crude even? Yes. But that’s where America’s at, Paul. We’d all have country club manners, Paul, except we can’t afford the goddamn valet parking fee. And we can’t even make some extra cash as valets, because illegal fucking Aztecs have cornered that market, Paul, and lots more, all with your active connivance, Paul.

So go intercourse yourself with a rabid porcupine, Paul, and get creative with it. There: Is that polite enough for ya?

“Women are to be Championed and Revered”

Says Paul Ryan.

You know, this election has taught me a lot. For instance, I believe that women are just people, no better or worse than anyone else. That makes me a “sexist.”

I believe that people should be judged by the content of their character, not the color of their skin. That makes me a “racist.”

I believe that governments exist to protect their citizens against foreigners. That makes me a “fascist.”

I believe that my fellow citizens have the right to want what they want, and like what they like, whether or not it’s “good for them,” as defined by idiots who racked up $100,000 in student loan debt getting a Gender Studies degree. That makes me a “populist.”

I believe that people are unique individuals, not interchangeable widgets or cells on a spreadsheet. That makes me… I don’t even know what anymore, but it sure isn’t a “conservative,” the definition of which now appears to be “trying to beggar myself and my children so that GOP donors can have cheap Mexican labor on their fourth yacht.”

So thanks, Paul Ryan – I’m getting a better handle on who I am all the time. And I rather like it. Maybe other folks like me will start getting together in little clubs — bunding together, if you will.

PS this is the, what, seventy-fifth time that “Trump’s candidacy is over”? There ought to be a (TM) by that phrase, it gets parroted so much by the pundits. My fearless prediction: Hillary’s going to lead with that in the next “debate;” Trump is going to say “ask Bill what he thinks about it;” and Trump’s poll numbers keep going up.

Intro to Political Theory [Guest Post]

Guest post by Nate Winchester:

Intro to Political Theory

I thought this was stuff everybody knew but wouldn’t you know it, I’m running more and more into people who somehow don’t know or understand this stuff. So here’s a brief intro to politics for all those who need an outline.

Fact 1: People will be assholes to each other.

Yes, this is a rule. No, there are no exceptions. I already hear you trying to formulate some kind of objection. Just stop. No there are no “reasons” for it. There is nothing that can be “taken away” to make people stop being assholes. Not religion, not property, not reality TV, nothing. All those things and whatever other excuse you’re coming up with are not the reason for assholery, they’re rationalizations for it. Want proof? What was the cause of the last time you were an asshole to someone? Can you remember any? Or is every time you recall being an asshole you had a really good “reason” for it? That, dear reader, is rationalization. Remove religion, and people will find another excuse for being jerks. Any system set up denying this fact will fail. Feel free to try and deny this as long as you want, we’ll wait here until you’ve learned it.

Fact 2: People are assholes because of 2 words: “I want.”

“I want something, and you are an impediment to it.” If you think “oh, well we can just get rid of desire then” the only man free of desire is a dead one. Which is why communism, which aims to ditch desire, ALWAYS leads to the grave. Buddha at least aims to have people willingly abandon want and admits it requires sacrifice. Marx thought if we could give everybody what they want, they would no longer want anything. Never realizing that when man has food abundant, then he becomes a picky eater. And that’s just the obvious desires, much less the ethereal ones from “I want you to smile” to “I want you to suffer.”

Therefore: All of human history is built around dealing with these two facts.

It probably began when the biggest caveman went up to the smaller caveman and took the smaller one’s shiny rock. Then the smaller one got a friend and together they beat up the bigger one. So Bigger went and got 2 friends to help him only for Smaller to get 3 friends to help him… On and on until eventually we have nations throwing thousands of their members at each other in the name of being assholes to each other.

I can already hear your protest. “That’s not the way it is today.” Well no, because the places in the world where these two facts are very much in evidence you wouldn’t have internet access so you’re probably not reading this. If you are, you’re in one of the nations that figured out the 2 best methods for handling these 2 facts.

1) Obviously capitalism. “I have something you want, you have something I want – we could be assholes and fight over it, or we could just swap these things. While I would rather have both things, the swap would be easier and more efficient. Also if I don’t kill you, you can make more things that I want and I can make more things that you want.” Is it perfect? Of course not, people will still find ways to be assholes to each other even economically but it’s far less bloody than the old methods.

2) The other method is politics. See, if one group of people got in charge for awhile, they may be thrilled their style of assholishness was ascendant, but there were entire other groups of people (the “victims” if you will) who weren’t happy. So they would deal with it and deal with it until eventually they up and aimed to kill the chief and then they get to be in charge. If they were, that group then got to be the assholes for a time until the former rulers or a whole new group finally exploded in violence all over the rulers. On and on and on it went in cycles. EVENTUALLY a bunch of men started asking, “what if we put this cycle into a system? like with rules?” Thus, modern government. The different groups (called “interests”) meet up and play in a system according to the rules (usually called “elections”). Whoever wins, gets to be the assholes in charge for a period of time until the next schedule “game day” and then it all happens again, this time one of the other interests hoping to be the assholes in charge this time around.

The system is brilliant and works usually well because the normally boiling resentment the groups out of power possess is allowed a release valve. America had the unique idea of not just playing the game, but setting up a system and rules so every group has a little bit of power and how assholish the group in power can be has limits. Was it perfect? Of course not! It took so much effort just to get the principle interests involved to play that other groups couldn’t be allowed into the system yet. As it stabilized and rule patches (amendments) were put in, more and more groups were steadily allowed into the game.

That’s where we are now, with a lot of the new arrivals wanting to be the same level of assholes to the groups they perceived as being assholes to them. Thus we have minority group Z (and its sympathizers) calling that we need to exclude group A (or some central feature of A that would ultimately result in “banning group A”) from the game of politics. Well stop. If you ban or drive out someone from the game, you just build resentment and anger in them (for proof, look at your actions and feelings now). Part of joining politics is learning the rule that you can’t keep people out without consequences. And if you have a plan or idea which requires your group to never lose at the game, you best look for a new ones right away.

You’re Kidding, Right?

Via the leading amateur Trump-hate vanity site on the internet, we have a professor wondering why there’s Queer Studies:

Of course, it isn’t hard to understand why same-sex attraction draws political support. The professoriate is uniformly liberal on social issues. To them, the case for anti-discrimination is a no-brainer, and conservative resistance to same-sex marriage and transgender rights amounts to a lingering Jim Crow. But making LGBT topics into a research field and a professional identity doesn’t make obvious sense.

Confirming that professors are the dumbest smart people in captivity. It’s capitalism, baby! “Publish or perish” is the rule in academia, and as Shakespeare ain’t writing no more sonnets, Humanities folk need to find something new to publish on. Hence, academic discourses on “Space Raptor Butt Invasion” (just wait). Plus it allows the professoriate to add to their collection of Pokemon Diversity Pets, on full salary.

Remember, you’re paying $40K a year for idiots like this to chant political slogans at your kids.

We’ll Go Fascist from Sheer Exhaustion

Back in college, back in the Jurassic, I had one of those weird work-study jobs where for one semester, I was stuck working in isolation with one other person for extended periods of time. This fellow was a self-described “queer militant,” so naturally I ended up learning a LOT about the “gay rights” movement as it stood back then.

I had a lot of sympathy for this guy’s position. Still do, actually — if you really want to enforce sexual morality, make adultery a jail-time offense. (Trust me: you’d end up with all the homos behind bars, too).  What consenting adults do in private is none of my affair, and it’s certainly none of the State’s.

Given that, I’m naturally sympathetic to this….um….individual:

Last week the tragic news of the untimely death of Artemis Silverowl rocked both the Women’s and Leather communities. Artemis was a long time member of both, beginning in the early days of the “feminist wars in the 70s” . . . She leaves behind her fiancée, Denice, members of her Leather Families, and hundreds of other Leathermen and Leatherwomen.
To quote her own words from her bios, “I have been an out Dyke since 1975 and an OUT Leather woman since 1976. I came out as a dyke at the age of 18 years old and I came out as a leather woman at the age of 19 years old.”

It’s safe to say Artemis Silverowl (nee Cynthia Babbitt, and how’s that for an ironic surname?) wasn’t too tightly wrapped, but so what?  So she likes a little more slap than tickle in her slap-and-tickle.  I can think of 5,000 things more pressing to worry about than this….

….except folks like her won’t let me.  My “queer militant” coworker and I quickly came to an understanding: Conversations between us shall be work-related, or of mutual interest.  As we were both English majors, that actually worked out fine on the jobsite.  But if we ever ran into each other outside the confines of our gotta-be-there, get-along-or-kill-each-other student worker gig, it’d be all politics, all the time, because “queer militants” by definition can’t leave us normies alone.

And frankly, I just don’t have the calories to fight it anymore.  My position on any and all sexual relations between consenting adults, which leaves me with a clear conscience in front of my family, my God, and the Constitution, is: Keep it behind closed doors, and I’ll do the same.  I don’t want anyone prosecuted for being an “OUT  Leather woman,” whatever that is (and please, our Five Regular Readers, I do NOT want to know).  But at the same time, I don’t want anyone prosecuted for saying they’re hellbound deviants.

Viddy well, o my brothers: I find both positions equally boorish, and I’d go a long way to avoid both “Artemis Silverowl” and the ranting fundie who wants to ship her off to reeducation.  But at least the ranting fundie doesn’t require me, under penalty of law, to deny observable reality.  “Leather folk” are deviants, under any statistically valid definition of deviance:

“I am a decidedly butch woman.
I am an alpha slave who identifies as a boy. …
I am a switch and I am a pansexual player.”

How many people could that self-description possibly apply to?

Again, that someone wants to describe xyrself this way doesn’t bother me in the slightest.  Live and let live, and love is real, as a great philosopher of our age recently said.

But that’s illegal now.  Thanks to sixty years of Cultural Marxism, I have to pretend — under penalty of law!!– that this is normal.  We’re to the point where saying that a self-described weirdo is, in fact, a weirdo is a prosecutable offense if said weirdo doesn’t feel affirmed and nurtured by it.

And that’s why we’ll get Fascism — pure, bone-deep exhaustion.  Fine, fine, bring back the Hays Code, make it triple strength, and enforce it by trebuchet.  I just don’t fucking care anymore.  It’s all I can do to keep my head above water with the economic lunacy coming down from the Imperial Capital; if my kids don’t end up getting drafted to fight in the Ukraine here in the next 10 years I’ll thank my lucky stars.  I just don’t have the time or energy to deal with cultural lunacy as well.  I’d be perfectly happy — ecstatic! — to leave the Artemis Silverowls of the world flagrantly, ruthlessly alone.  But they won’t let me.  So let the armband-and-jackboot boys deal with them, is what lots of folks will be saying here before too long.  At least they aren’t forcing me to swear that 2+2=5….

Why Little League Should Be Mandatory


574830_v1Allow me to explain.  Boys, you see, all dream of being baseball players.  The chances of any given boy making the Majors are, effectively, the same as any given girl’s chances of becoming a Disney princess.  The difference is, boys get a chance to learn this at a young age.  It’s why they succeed.

Some boys don’t make it out of tee ball.  By the time they’re five years old, then, they realize that athletics aren’t their thing.  They turn their focus to their strong suits — math, Dungeons and Dragons, whatever — and go away happy (or whatever passes for happy for D&D dorks.  Point is, they were undoubtedly pushed into tee ball by their Dads anyway).

Some boys top out in Little League.  This is the level that separates the talented from the hardworking from the coasters.  Boys who top out here learn that natural talent varies wildly in any given population, and that hard work can overcome some — but not all — inherited disadvantages.  Some boys quit with a sigh of relief — they suspected they weren’t that good, weren’t having that much fun anyway, and now it’s ok, because how in the hell are they supposed to compete with a fifth grader who shaves?

High school is next.  Here you learn that even the natural athletes have to work hard.  No amount of hard work will get you over the minimum talent threshold to compete at this level, and only the insanely naturally gifted can compete here without a lot of hard work.  Then college, where every player is insanely naturally talented.  And then maybe, after all that, the Minor Leagues…. where everyone is one-in-a-million and only the top 1% advance.

See the difference?  Unlike “princess,” “ballplayer” has a set of clearly defined, measurable skills that can be tested.  And back in the Jurassic, pretty much every boy tested his, whether he wanted to or not.  You learn a lot about yourself getting struck out, or tackled out of your cleats, or taken to the hoop, or whatever you call getting beaten to the goal in soccer (“prancing foppishly,” I think).  You learn it’s not the end of the world.  You learn you have different skills.  You learn that wanting something is not the same as getting it, no matter how hard you want.

Princesses never learn this.  Princesses learn something much, much worse – that if you can’t be a princess, it’s somebody else’s fault.

Jack wants to be a ballplayer, but he’s got no arm and can’t hit a curve.  He’s got no natural aptitude for it, and if he doesn’t figure that out on his own — some kids have a preternatural ability to endure public humiliation — his coach will eventually take him aside and explain it to him.  Coach will kindly but firmly point Jack to the Model UN club.  Coaches are good at that kind of thing; they get lots of practice.

Jill doesn’t want to be an engineer, but after 50 years of feminism, her mommy is convinced Jill should be one.  So Jill struggles in math class.  She’s got no natural aptitude for it… but wait, that can’t be right!  There’s no such thing as “natural aptitude” for academics!  If Jill’s no good at calculus, doesn’t get fired up by solving quadratics, and never wanted to build bridges in the first place, it’s Patriarchy keeping her down.  No teacher will ever take Jill aside and explain to her that it’s ok not to be so great at math, that calculus is the mental equivalent of being able to hit a curve — it weeds out most of us — because it’s the end of that teacher’s world if she does.  So she doesn’t, and… well, you know the rest.

Mandatory Little League.  It would solve most of America’s problems at the root.

Master Debaters

How’s this for obvious: Your reaction to the debate says a lot more about you and your priorities than it does about the debate.

I know, I know: that’s exactly the kind of hard-hitting, iconoclastic analysis you come here for. Seriously, though, I didn’t watch the “debate,” as these things have always been clown shows. I was hoping Granny Fallsalot would have actual convulsions right there on the stage, preferably following a juicy Trump zinger about the Clinton Foundation and/or email, but whaddaya gonna do? It sounds like it was basically a wash, and in politics as in baseball, a tie goes to the runner — Granny was default naggy and schoolmarmy; Trump didn’t look like a lunatic; ergo Trump won.

The best thing about debates, in my opinion, is how they’re by liberals, for liberals, so you can conduct some psychological research on the fly. As much as the socio-sexual hierarchy of the “Game” people is a massive spergout 99.8% of the time, “Gamma” really does describe the liberal psyche:

Gamma: The introspective, the unusual, the unattractive, and all too often the bitter. Gammas are often intelligent, usually unsuccessful with women, and not uncommonly all but invisible to them, the gamma alternates between placing women on pedestals and hating the entire sex. This mostly depends upon whether an attractive woman happened to notice his existence or not that day. Too introspective for their own good, gammas are the men who obsess over individual women for extended periods of time and supply the ranks of stalkers, psycho-jealous ex-boyfriends, and the authors of excruciatingly romantic rhyming doggerel. In the unlikely event they are at the party, they are probably in the corner muttering darkly about the behavior of everyone else there… sometimes to themselves. Gammas tend to have have a worship/hate relationship with women, the current direction of which is directly tied to their present situation. However, they are sexual rejects, not social rejects.

This is geared towards the mating world, obviously, but Vox Day has another, much shorter description of Gammas that’s most applicable here: The Secret King. Just as in generic extruded fantasy product novels, the humble dorky awkward farmboy is always the Savior of the Universe, so the Gamma / Liberal is the real hero of whatever situation he’s in, because he has some secret untapped power. The difference between GEFP and real life, of course, is that in real life the liberal believes he has found and activated his secret untapped power: Words!

Observe liberals for any length of time — particularly on the internet — and you can’t help but conclude that they really think they’re winning by being snarky and dismissive. They act as if coming up with a really great comeback 20 minutes after getting stuffed into a locker by the quarterback is the same thing as — no, better than!– beating him up in the parking lot.

This is anecdotal, of course, but I bet you all have a similar one. Back in the George W. Bush era, I got a liberal colleague literally screaming mad by saying that I didn’t much care what the President’s IQ is. Note that I wasn’t defending W. in the slightest, as known conservatives are ruthlessly disemployed in my field. I simply said that I don’t think a high IQ is the main, or even a primary, qualification for president, and I quoted somebody to the effect that Benjamin Disraeli played cards while Czar Nicholas played chess, and who would you rather have running your country? Horse sense and the ability to shift gears rapidly — the top two things “intellectuals” obviously lack — are far more important. This sent my colleague into Hillary-level conniptions.

Part of this was W. specifically — they’d cling to their precious “he’s the dumbest idiot evar!” narrative even if he trounced Einstein in a calculus contest — but a lot of it is their own insecurities. Which leads them to vastly overrate the importance of specifics, details, and especially “debate” performances. While they tuned in and saw a Secret King tying Trump in verbal knots, I’m betting the rest of America saw — and especially heard — a hectoring shrew doing a damn good impersonation of Tracy Flick running for class president of the nursing home.

We’ll see. If poll numbers drift Hillary-ward in the next week, she won. But I bet they continue their Trumpward momentum with hardly a pause.