Prepare your anus, you’re about to get a red pill suppository.


“Just when I think you couldn’t possibly be any dumber, you do something like this…and totally redeem yourself?” Not this time, unfortunately. Millennial narcissism has hit such an impressive new low, the “empowered” careerists are getting married to themselves. You did in fact read that correctly. And what’s more pathetic, they’re having ceremonies to commemorate the occasion. It’s evidently called “sologamy. Now I know it’s almost passé at this point to dump on the Lost Generation Redux, but Christ, at least the first one was embittered by the most savage war the planet’s ever seen and had the decency to produce great literature as a consequence. This one’s some kind of great cosmic joke that can’t seem to take one.

A number of men have simply opted out of a system that’s totally rigged against them, turning instead to video games and porn. They don’t even have sex let alone procreate, and the same can be said for their female counterparts so consumed by $40,000-a-year salaries as Gender Equity and Diversity Coordinator at some office in Boston or their non-profit gig tutoring brown people in the inner city that thirty-five hits, their wombs are barren, vaginas sewn shut and filled with dust and moths like the mouth of that dead guy from Hocus Pocus, and sure enough, staring longingly into a pool of water at one’s own reflection doesn’t seem to have charged their lives with any meaning.

Yes I know your sophomore year sociology professor was adamant about the wage gap and the need for strong, independent women to get out there and challenge the patriarchy on its own terms, but you’ve been sold a bill of goods, ladies. You’ve swallowed the shop-worn bait hook, line, and sinker, and so internalized Third Wave feminism’s inherently contradictory victim narrative and push for “gender neutrality” you’ve lost sight of what makes you a woman while being relegated to a second-rate version of what you think masculinity is. This is not empowerment, this is enslavement.

Men (if you can call most Millenials that) are looking at you sideways and choosing Skyrim, autism, and neck beards over a false rape accusation. We’re at a point, particularly on college campuses, where belief automatically goes to the accuser, even in situations where there is substantial evidence to the contrary. No one is minimizing the horrendousness of sexual assault, but if we can’t talk openly and honestly about it, we can never solve the problem. Title IX abuse runs rampant, and post-college, things don’t look much better. Dating sites are some kind of perverse Pokemon exercise where you “gotta catch ’em all!” and the grass always seems to be greener in someone else’s pants; the plethora of “options” on these sites signal the same reward pathways as pornography, and for men, the payoff is cheaper and more immediate with the latter, especially if women are “interviewing” several men at once. Men are guilty of the same behavior, of course, also causing women to remove themselves from the dating scene and re-focus on their careers, most of which can’t even credibly be called that. Looking even further, there only seem to be dis-incentives for men to marry: 50% divorce rate, where you’ll be on the hook for lifelong alimony and lose a minimum of half of your assets and savings; custody of the children rarely going to men (Kramer vs. Kramer anybody!?); child support payments that often bear little resemblance to true earning potential determined by an unelected judge; and the list goes on. It’s not hard to see why so many Millenials are voluntarily removing themselves from the pool of available prospective mates.

Speaking of pools, our culture is a rotting cesspool. When Nietzsche declared God dead, he did not do so exultantly. Culture was supposed to fill the void, and instead we’ve got vacuous, vapid, insipid crap clogging social media and television screens. Nicki Minaj is a pretty goddamn far cry from Vivaldi; she is little more than a Botoxed fabrication with her skin bleached to look whiter, layers of cosmetics and God-knows-what injected into that behind to produce a borderline inhuman figure, everything air-brushed and photoshopped, everything PR-approved by a team of consultants, musically adrift and beholden only to whatever new trend is emerging. Come to think of it, she’s a perfect representation of this generation: a hollow shell, an empty void behind the mask, living only on a superficial, material plane. Celebrities like Beyoncé are no better, with her commoditization of “social justice” causes for material gain, intensely virtue-signaling while hiding behind a vast network of security, safe with her hundreds of millions wailing about the patriarchy and racism in America. Nothing says FEMINISM like objectifying yourself by grinding your ass into your cheating husband’s lap during the MTV Video Music Awards!

This is the world according to Millenials. Everything is cheap, ersatz, skin-deep. Je suis Charlie and all that. A generation of cowards taught by cowards. Sure, feminism got women out of the kitchen and into the workforce, and it is a major net positive for our society that one hundred percent of our population in the West has the option of pursuing a career. The issue here is that it’s become looked down upon by other women for one of their own to choose child-rearing and home-building instead of a career. They may even opt to balance the two by working, albeit less than their male counterparts, but even this is viewed derisively if not sacrilegiously by the Third Wave feminists who insist men and women are the same. Exactly the same. No biological difference, all socially constructed, as if I could just snap my fingers and have a child magically appear by calling myself “Woman.” Ah, the god-like powers! I believe it was Mark Steyn, a favorite of this site, who said something to the effect—I’m paraphrasing for I don’t remember the quote exactly—of “We’ve only recently had to grapple with phrases like ‘her penis.’” 

Grab your tissues, men. What a time to be alive.

The Last American Cowboys

The Last American Cowboys

Sic Transit Gloria Steinem

Sic Transit Gloria Steinem