Thursday, June 30, 2016


by Mr. Mean-Spirited

Academic anthropologists use the word pothunter as an insulting term for an ordinary person who discovers an archaeological artifact – you know, a member of the uncredentialed public who actually has the impudence to unearth a prehistoric object. No subculture receives more archaeological hatred than pothunters. The experts do have a reason to fear this self-service excavation. Pothunting is not just a personal, private collection of relics—but all this unapproved acquisition actually undermines the very foundations of the American establishment. Although this self-service excavation is proudly despised by the academic overlords, think of pothunting as guerilla archaeology.

Pothunters aren’t hypocrites about what they are doing—while university employees are not completely honest about their true objectives. Credentialed archaeologists will argue that pothunting destroys the context in which a pre-Columbian artifact might be discovered, and so it does—but what anthropologists might claim in the classroom is not exactly what they do in the field. Even if the academic excavator does bother to notice the context, no other person will ever be permitted to see the evidence. At least ordinary citizens get to see what the pothunter discovers.

Once a tenured authority has laid claim to an enticing figurine, the object goes straight to the basement of a museum—never to be viewed again. In spite of the fact that these assistant professors can bum a pitcher of lite beer from you with teary-eyed promises to “restudy” such treasures, they never even bother to unwrap the plastic around last year’s discoveries. There are cabinets of artifacts in the basement of a museum that haven’t even been looked-at for fifty years—those pots would be better appreciated if they were sitting on someone’s bookshelf, rather than being stored in some institutional warehouse. While uncertified taxpayers aren’t even allowed a peep at the loot in the museum backroom, the pothunter’s figurine collection will be vigorously admired by friends and nobodies.

Pothunters do not ask for your tax money. Tenured archaeologists don’t even set foot in the field without getting a government grant to pay for their little trip. These academic parasites can’t even scrape the dirt off the bottom of their grant-purchased shoes without looking up the proper procedure in the government-written manual; these publication-conscious professors won’t even put the ignition key in the official, corporate-sponsored SUV without approval from a university committee.

Pothunters pay their own way. Pothunters aren’t looking for a handout. Say what you like about pothunters, at least they aren’t asking for government money. The only looting here is what is happening to a taxpayer’s hard-earned income when it gets into the university system. The only theft of resources is the academic grant system itself.

Pothunters often do better prehistory than these scholastic pretenders. Anthropologists are there to provide academic justification for the existing social order. All university professors provide the wink-wink, nudge-nudge support for multicultural elite that funs this government. Archaeologists decide exactly what they are going to find before they even start the excavation.

After all, these poor professors wouldn’t get tenure without displaying adequate political correctness, like the way a plumber is required to display an adequate amount of butt crack. American archaeologists are there to legitimize the existent reservation system—because Indian land means Indian casinos, and the Indian gambling industry means plenty of cash to spread around to politicians. Anthropologists are they to promote cultural relativism – because increased migrant flow means government immigrant funding.

A tenured anthropologist’s job requires that the artifacts match the official view of prehistory. Pedagogues will be the first to cover-up and cast-aside any Chinese porcelain discovered amongst Anasazi grave-goods. Academics will conceal and camouflage any evidence of early Caucasian migration to North America—as the strange saga of Kennewick Man will demonstrate. Some associate professor’s entire career is going to depend on making anomalous, inconvenient Solutrean artifacts disappear from the archaeological record of the Americas. Whenever you hear of a farmer discovering a Viking rune stone, the archaeologist is the first to pronounce the artifact impossible because it contradicts his textbook. Whenever you read of Roman artifacts being discovered in North America, the anthropologist is the first to go around and hush it up. You can be confident about one thing in life: a tenured faculty member will always whisk-broom anything politically incorrect from his dissertation.

In illicit contrast, the pothunter is certain to boast about any anomalous finds to his redneck buddies. Anything that challenges academic orthodoxy will be widely publicized by a pothunter —the amateur has prestige on the line at the local dive bar.

Don’t get me wrong, current American Indians have cultures that are worthy of our respect and admiration, but those present-day cultures seldom have any historic or genetic connection with the pre-Columbian civilizations that left their artifacts upon the landscape. Amateur archaeology demonstrates that many previous societies have flourished and perished in the same geography. And because of the multicultural elitists, traditional Anglo-Americans will soon be yet another population group that has forever vanished upon this continent.

Just as you would not trust a news reporter who takes government money, you should not trust an archaeologist who receives official funding. Institutional excavation legitimizes the authoritarian control of knowledge; getting a government permit for an excavation will merely support the existing power structure. Pothunting liberates archaeology from its bureaucratic overlords. Unsanctioned excavation returns a glimmer of the marvelous to the trenches; unauthorized shoveling is a muddy insurrection.

Pothunters understand more about a vanished civilization than the experts. Because of the intimate experience with the geographic area, pothunters have an intuitive appreciation of the vanished culture. This illicit sweat allows such a deep, immediate awareness of a vanished society that the academic in-crowd tries to exorcise with the word “amateur.” Horror of horrors, terror of terrors, some relic hunters have even used a few of those pre-Columbian arrowheads to actually bring down a wild turkey. Pothunters actually experience the off-the-grind lifestyle of the civilization that they are excavating.

Faculty members diligently avoid getting any antique grime on the fashionable outdoor wear; a university employee will only spend the night in a motel suite with high-speed wifi, and the professor will only dine at the restaurant in town with the best wine list (all on grant money, of course). If any physical labor is required, they will delegate spadework to their unfortunate students; there is a sucker needing a degree born every minute.

Pothunters are damn-near inspirational. No matter how many buzzwords can be squeezed into a committee-written article, the peer-reviewed periodical isn’t going to get the general public interested in antiquity. Analysis of ceramic shards—no matter how impeccable the statistics, no matter how expensive the electron microscope—can never inspire. In unlawful contrast, the Redware glimpsed on a neighbor’s bookcase will motivate future exploration. It wasn’t the footnotes about African ethnography that inspired Braque and Picasso—as much as ritual objects of an exceedingly curious provenience that fertilized the blossoming and blooming of modern art.

If Indiana Jones were doing a little extracurricular archaeology, the only thing that he might like to find is something nice for the mantle.

Thursday, June 23, 2016


by Mr. Mean-Spirited
The future is a nightmare from which we struggle to awaken. Future generations only hold us back from reaching our full potential right now. Your own offspring are just a means of oppressing you in the here and now. There are no greater tyrants than your own posterity.

The notion that we should make the world better for our children only makes things worse for us today. The fancy that we should preserve the environment for generations yet to come just keeps us from fully enjoying life right now. Trying to improve education for the next generation will only increase tax rates on productive adults – but I’d rather keep more of my disposable income and let kids fend for themselves. 

No matter how much taxes increase, things will not be better tomorrow. No matter how much you might want life to be better, things will only be more horrible next year. The future will always be a worse place.  

After all, when, in all of human history, have things ever improved? The idea that society will become better for the next generation is the greatest delusion that human beings tell themselves.

The future can take care of itself. Let’s cut down all the trees. Let’s pump out all the oil. Let’s eat-up all the food. Let’s drink-up all the liquor. Your children will figure out a solution when they become adults; if they don’t, well … maybe they weren’t destined to survive anyway. Maybe it is best to adopt a scorched earth policy toward our descendants. Might as well disown the worthless bastards.

The future is only going to become even more of what it is now: a place of sheer dismay. Nothing can be done to stop the disintegration. The wisest thing we can do is to enjoy a barbecue and a brew as we watch the civilization collapse.

Monday, June 13, 2016


by Mr. Mean-Spirited

Hate-fucking is usually defined as sex with a person you have come to loathe – but until you cum, you cannot discern just how truly loathsome is that sexual partner. Hate-fucks are not just sex with a female you despise, but an act of discovery: you cannot fully realize just how much you despise the feminine until you fuck her.

Nothing is as intense and instructive as a hate-fuck. You might have loved a girl at one point in your life, and as usual in these things, she dumped you – but you can’t stop thinking about her.  

Even though there is something about her presence that now disgusts you, you can’t stop looking at her. Even though the feel of her body is now repugnant to you, there is still a desire to hold her in your arms again. Even though you now might bite her lips more than kiss her, you still want another taste of her skin.  

You take your affection out on her. You grab her by the hair – and whether you clout or caress her, you arousal is just contempt for her very existence. It is called “banging her” for a reason.

You are disappointed with yourself for gaining an erection by the feel of her revolting flesh. The more you thrust into her body, the more she repulses you. You endure an orgasm out of sheer abhorrence. That final ejaculation is the only way to get her out of your system.

A whore you feel nothing for. A girlfriend you might even like. But a lover is a different sort of entity: a soulmate must be dealt with – you defile her, and then you depart.