Wednesday, May 24, 2017


by Mr. Mean-Spirited


If there were some button that would end the world, I am going to be pressing so hard that I might break the bone in my finger.   If there were some switch that would terminate all life, I am going to hit that lever so fast that I might snap my thumb.

But there is no knob to shut off this horror of existence.  What scares me most is that there will never be any end to human subsistence.

I grew-up with etchings that celebrated the ravage and wreck of Armageddon – and those engravings of the Apocalypse yielded a sense of serenity because I imaged that there might soon be an end to my own personal suffering.  I found a calm, quiet relief in the knowledge that there might be a kill switch to the human species.   But now I feel apprehensive that I will not witness the final reckoning.

Government is not going to be overthrown, just ever more intolerable.   This despotic diversity is never going to diminish because of some new piece of legislation; this totalitarian tolerance will never be defeated by a change in politicians.   Each year, things are going to get a touch more liberal; popular culture will become a tinge more degenerate; the policeman’s tap on the shoulder is going to be tad more insistent.  Individualists will continue to be persecuted for not being kind enough.  The independent citizen will always be punished for not being nice enough.  In the next decade, things will get a bit more egalitarian for your neighbors – and a lot less equal for you.  As society becomes ever more compassionate, freedom will become ever more constricted.

It is not the Last Days that frightens me – what I fear most is that there might be no end to this life.  I am afraid that this gradual social decay might well continue until I finally die off.  I grew up hearing about the end of the world – and I was praying, I was pleading for this destruction.  But now I think that this long-promised collapse will never come – that things will continue in this slow decline until the end of my days.  This, to me, is more dissipating than any Judgment Day.  The greatest horror is that things will just muddle on.

I was hoping that the nuclear weapons industry might help end this nightmare, but all the warmongers turned coward on us.  I had faith in a global pestilence, but viral evolution is letting us down.   I’ve still got my money on a good old-fashioned famine, but mass starvation takes its own sweet time

There is no greater anguish than the knowledge that there will never ever be any end to the agony.  If there was once pain, you will feel it over and over again.

Sunday, April 30, 2017


by Mr. Mean-Spirited


There is nothing more worthless than human life.  When the planet is so grotesquely overpopulated, the usefulness of a given personality is not all that great.

Your own personal property is more important than other people. Household belongings are more valuable than human beings. You can always shit out another child, but a Franklin Mint figurine is damn near irreplaceable.

There is a reason why Satan is always willing to buy your soul. Because your spirit doesn’t have any value.  Satan doesn’t really want your useless psyche – the Devil just wants you to realize just how insignificant your life truly is.

Stuff is going to be of more use to you than offspring.   Possessions are better than posterity. Knickknacks are going to be of more comfort to you in old age than your own grandkids.  Brand-name luggage is going to get your further in life than brotherly love.

An action figure is never going to let you down.  A brass sculpture is never going to betray you.  People are flawed, but a Tiffany lamp is perfection.

I judge a man not on the content of his character, but on what he has accumulated on the shelf above the fireplace.  An unblemished Hummel porcelain on the mantle is worth more than the entire mass of humanity.

Thursday, April 20, 2017


by Mr. Mean-Spirited


This is going to be the least popular post on the blog, but it still needs to be said.   I will lose some readers, but sometimes it is good to be unpopular.  

A red-blooded man who goes to the gym may be attracted to women when he enters the door, but when he leaves the locker room, he won’t ever be completely straight again.  There is always something faggy about lifting weights.  

If you claim that you are going to the gymnasium to build-up a physique that will impress women, but end-up showering and sudsing with a bunch of nude men – then you obviously aren’t doing something very heterosexual.  If you think that reclining in a sauna with some half-naked men will somehow result in finding a new girlfriend, then you’ve got another thing coming.  

If you are doing “squats” in front of another chap, then there is something unnatural going on here.  If you are asking another man to “spot” you – then you aren’t being honest about what you have become.   If you are sitting in a puddle of some other guy’s sweat on the bench press, then the “gay” is seeping into your very being.  

If you are spending more time hanging around the gym than in your girlfriend’s bedroom, then you are only fooling yourself.  If you are looking more intently at some other guy’s muscles than at a broad’s tits, then your sexual orientation has been affected.  

If you are pumping iron, then you are simply in denial about what you find stimulating.  If you are flexing in front of a mirror, then you have pretty much lost interest in fucking the female of the species.

I got news for you.   If women avoid you when you don’t have muscles – then you are not going to be able to pick them up when you have bulging biceps, either.   But that ripped guy in the stream room … well, he might hook up with you.  

Don’t get me wrong, there is nothing unsound about genuine fitness.   Think of it like this: you should consume all your nutrients from a natural diet – rather than from questionable supplements.   And, in just the same fashion, you should develop a healthy body by living a healthy lifestyle – not from degenerate exertions in a slimy gym.

I don’t care how many extra pounds your body might carry – a real man acknowledges himself as he is.  There is always something effeminate about trying to make yourself into a better person.  If you were born with a certain body type, you need to accept your genetics.  If your fate is to be chunky, then you need to resign yourself to being an endomorph.  If you are a fat slob, then you just ought to accept that fact.   No woman is going to look at you as anything else but a disgusting, distended lump of human filth no matter how much you might work-out. 

Women might not be very smart, but they sure as hell can see through you.