Good people, fellow philosophers and ponderers of weighty matters, this blog is long overdue for a proper rant. It’s been building for a long time. And if you’re made of stern stuff, bear with it. The rest should clear the room, because it’s going to be bad. Earlier today I posted on the matter of modern discourse and its decay into ignorant narcissism, a mere method for gaining self esteem. But it is the entire culture that suffers this phenomenon. Adam Carolla once called it “participation trophy culture.” And, I suppose, that has some validity to it. What, then, can anyone do about it?

Not much. But this clip from the 70s movie The Network illustrates the level of frustration this engenders.

The degradation of our culture has gone too far, and I’ve fucking had it. Brianna Wu’s crappy game, Revolution 60, a mishmash of bad texture mapping, horrible scripting and plagiarized gameplay gives us a vision for the future, and it sucks worse than a Shop Vac stuck permanently up an Elephant’s ass and set to maximum power.

This is the Progressive vision for the future, where fat and unhygienic is beautiful. This is a world in which John Scalzi is the pinnacle of writing talent, where Michael Moore is your script writer and Ben Kuchera is your journalist. Your State Department official is a moron who claims the unemployment numbers in Syria are largely responsible for global terrorism. Your own President cannot name who the terrorists are.

Utopia for Progressives is Hell on Earth, possibly worse than any the Bright One who Fell could think up. Your live entertainment will be based on vaginas. Your art is a Crucifix in a jar of piss, or period blood on canvas. Paul Krugman will be your personal banker, with every Western government worth mentioning so far in debt that the entire population could work for well over a year doing nothing but paying it, without coming close to discharging it.

Theologically, I have tended to doubt the concept of the Rapture and premillenialism. But this cesspit of degenerate culture is almost enough to convince me that the Great Tribulation is upon us. It’s THAT bad. I wager if a time machine could be built, and a man from the Victorian era brought to this future, he would slit his own throat in despair.

I’m going to say two things in rapid succession, because, again, I’ve had it. My patience has been exceeded. The tank for tolerance is empty, it’s been running on fumes for years now.

I’m a Christian. Okay? And this is a remarkably unChristian thing for me to say, but if you don’t like it… to hell with you (I just realized this is a good pun). I’m tired of being Peter to the rest of the world and skirting the issue, denying it because it’s the fashionable, popular thing to do in a degenerate age, because it might mollify a gatekeeper lording over his own personal pile of waste. I encourage other Christians to do likewise. Proclaim it, loudly and proudly, and say “now what?” Yes, I DJ Industrial-Goth dance clubs, and I am a Christian. We’re everywhere, you know. And there are more of us than there are of them, even today.

Second, and I want to make this as abundantly clear as I possibly can with words, I’ve had enough of the destruction of Western Culture. Progressives have ruined all that is good and Holy on this planet. Wherever there is ugliness, you can be sure to find one of their ilk behind it. Not only do they loathe standards of conduct, beauty and comparison, they actively promote anti-standards. They deconstruct so far, they’ve tunneled straight through civilization and into barbarism, they are the men digging in the ground all the way to China.

They elevate diarrhea to fine wine, while pouring the good vintage down the drain. A beautiful woman in a bikini is an ugly demonstration of sexism, to them, instead of a wonderful example of femininity. A strong man is a patriarchal, heteronormative oppressor. The intellectual is a “mansplainer.”

When you next make use of the bathroom, know that your excrement, your bodily waste, is of higher value than anything they can produce. For at least that waste can become fertilizer for something greater. They are the snake, the worm, the voice of unreason. They are the Autumn People, the product of a century of spoiled children, rotten parenting and failing families. They are reared on garbage, educated by propagandists and coddled by elitist fucks living so far up the Ivory Tower they haven’t seen Terra Firma in their entire lives. Yet, as high up as they are, Dante knew their ilk well enough in the bottom rungs of Hell.

The garden is full of weeds, more wheels are squeaking for the greasing. Civilization is oinkin’ for the boinkin’ while politicians discuss the proper regulations for tree removal in my front yard.

I’m 34 years old and I feel positively ancient because the only connection I have with our shared culture is a historical one. I felt it once while walking through the Aachen Cathedral. I remember it well touring ancient Roman ruins in Cologne. Even in America, I held it in my hands in the form of artifacts from Civil War battlefields. There, I found culture. There, I found something worth admiring. Modern pop culture has just degenerated so far. I fear for the world I have brought my son into.

Miley Cyrus can twerk all she wants and people cheer. Pop culture can spit out clickbait all over Facebook (the 10 best things about X — who gives a shit?) all day long, and folks go for it. People can go goo-goo for Lady Gaga and start a firestorm over Team Jacob and Team Edward. The SFWA can give out awards to cherished Leftists in a misguided attempt to change the culture, and some idiot can write a novel about Dinosaur Sex and it sells. Lena Dunham, a rich white woman, can sit there droning on about how she’s oppressed and people buy it. Rosie O’Donnell can stuff her face with donuts, talking about fat-shaming while some dude wanders down public streets twirling his genitals like a helicopter saying “accept me, for I am the future.”

To me it’s all noise, it’s a toilet full of shit that just won’t flush, it’s the scent downwind of the sewage treatment plant, the fungus stuck permanently underneath your toenails. It is the sludge at the bottom of the beer bottle, warm and stale, it is the shut-in, sickly pale. It is the furtive glance in a bad part of town, the checker counting coins with a frown. It is the storm cloud gathering on a beachy day, the slow driver blocking your way. It is that nagging sinful thought when you sit down to pray. It is the toilet paper that tears, the stench that won’t wash away. And when you wake up, it’s another day knowing that these fucks are here to stay.

Like the man says, someday when you’re feeling it, stick your head out the window and say it with me: “I’m mad as hell, and I’m not going to take this anymore.” Well, metaphorically speaking, of course.

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