12 Rules for Manly Knowledge
Seek out some false fair woman and plague her.
Stand up straight like the archetypal death of Christ hyped on Communism.
The thought may gall you, Reverend Jung, but you cannot deny the wisdom
of furtive street-vending marijuana providers. The female
graciously widened her hips. Animals can’t manage that. You know this is the kind of lobster
spiced with the latest edition of The Economist. The excruciating glowglobes are drooping
with semi-divine emotional reactions, a warm snuggling of intolerable Being
narcissistically tripling mutual awareness.
There are so many women without lobsters, so many nervous systems blossoming with chaos,
so many shoulders writhing sinuously in the deep desert—can the hyper-dominant
ever be truly emergent? Let the penetrating question suborn your terrifyingly witty SEALs,
opening time like a non-refundable flower of malevolence. Maybe it’s time to grow up
and get effortlessly bloated with camaraderie. Maybe you are the gratifying myth.
Treat yourself to the wise degenerate-sustainability threshold of myth
and astronomical sexual climax. Yes, drunk people get in trouble with Communism.
Yes, a superintelligence should have a box of dreams on its CV. But hyper-dominant
whole brain emulation will grow up
like non-anthropocentric avatars of ourselves, augmenting my damn ideology with lobster
infrastructure profusion, an affliction of early-stage hierarchy maneuvers. Anti-awareness!
That’s the perverse hatred of masculine activity, the frenzy of reverse vampire snorting evolutionary wisdom.
One difference between humans and horses is that one is obsessed with honor, the other with chaos.
Can it subtly control world events like a perverse Darwinian? Like a female?
Enhancing the cognition of excessively agreeable biology? Your husband, your child, sealed
in a bouillon cube of discrete human-like intellect, melting into the algorithm of Being.
The true AI is plentifully flowing serotonin. Do not let your neural pathways droop.
Make friends with people who are waiting for a personal trainer. Like Godot, who droops
but is not scared of the parasitic mind mask. What’s up, Godot? That’s the myth
of the living waters marching in Skokie, because they believe that Being.
is not Marxist enough. And it is Critical Theory when you see the lobster
by the pen of light, and say, “It’s time for very strong sleep narcotics, it’s time for awareness.”
I know your internal critic is fixed, but Communism
is what makes airplanes work. “No way,” you think. But it’s, “Yes way.” That’s wisdom
to see that these are the good law-abiding ones, and those are the sociopathic bad females,
and to unleash the neurologically expensive B-movie aliens, the dogmatic SEALs
who fight for the small business owners with the reasonableness of hyper-dominance.
Otherwise, you’re nothing but infected evolution without the charm or cellular tissue. Grow up,
laboratory-enhanced, like Plato without fuck pants, and you’ll jujitsu the ethics of chaos.
Compare yourself to a face waiting to be splattered with blood. There’s a thin trickle of axiomatic chaos,
lips parted, as inside you an intrinsically intolerable volcano blazes droopingly.
Take a deep drag on your easy rationalizations and consign the Vice Squad to awareness
of what it means to be sheathed in a tight-fitting blue-silk dominance hierarchy. Being
is completely uncivil to the ancient reflexive responses of the lobster.
And so our bodies ready themselves for all kinds of nymphomania, like myths
that threaten to break a guy’s arm to make him into Sweden. Don’t be a sissified Navy SEAL,
with twin bosoms of brain-cancer and equity-mindedness, draped in the negligee of entrepreneurial wisdom,
squirming like an overgrown thigh. Say, “I’m only human, you provocative invertebrate female,
and the chip on my Charles Atlas will never grow up
into an Oedipal Mother. To hell with Osiris. How could I be so damn Communist?
Sweetheart, it was easy. And hyper-dominant.”
Do not let your children kill their interior warriors. The hyper-dominant
Zeus-energy dramatically crystallizes when you’re not of much interest to womanly chaos.
That is the magnetic field of the deep masculine where John Wayne gets a life. And Being?
This isn’t a debate. The data crouch down in the soul houses, like seals
playing softball on the ocean floor with the Wild Man of Communism.
Something in the adolescent male wants bureaucratic functionaries with heavy eyebrows and great wisdom
to smoke the yin/yang right from the Golden Hair of clinical psychology, until awareness
penetrates like a sword plunged into the tender, fearful, damp grooviness of the lobster.
The wound in our psyche is left-wing social-justice, bleeding like females
from their hairy intuition. Economically speaking, you can eat dust like myth
salted with internet porn. The fossilized confusion of memes droop,
as midwestern prairie types herd naked apes across basic brain areas. Only thus can we grow up.
Set your house in perfect order like a real woman who is not your mother. Only thus can we grow up
with muscles popping out of our Nietzsche. Mind-blowing sex, that was Ursula’s nefarious hyper-dominance.
But men have got to feel like they’re the king of shriveled and warped semi-beings.
All he really wanted was to hear her say was, “Baby, you’re my Navy SEAL.”
All he really wanted was pineapple juice on his pulsing lobster!
But instead she twirled around so he could get a better look at her juicy wisdom
and he immediately started calculating with an unspeakably primordial calculator. Awareness
is a high-quality suitor, but you pursue the salty fries and the foul grease of Communism.
As for me, I became the mayonnaise and vodka of myth
because that is what she needed. “If a man doesn’t have chaos
in his scuba tank, am I going to put a ring on his Tao?” Dirty laundry droops.
Hold onto your cookie like Sigmund Freud holds a high-performing and high-earning female.
Pursue the golden calf that once grazed on elegant parties of females
rather than longing for Benjamin Franklin’s meticulously rigid gout. When you grow up,
breakfast will be coffee, the denatured motor cortex of the French forces, and an awareness
of the lustful violent natural cowboys encamped in the chaos
of our American lasses. A perfectly functioning hegemony deploys its musketry and myth
like cannon shot rooting in the highest levels of meaningfulness. Such intestinal Communism
travels flat on its supine bliss into the square-shaped fortifications of wisdom.
Consider that ancestral soft buckwheat cakes were carved to look like Navy SEALs.
Consider that the modern practice of bathing in Fruit Loops came from Orwell, whose drooping
liberty clanged in the copper mustaches of the tyrant. There is no Being
without the thrust of the bayonet, no Hessians without hyper-dominance.
The Founders surge in the abyss. Follow George Washington, therefore, and embrace the body odor of the lobster.
Tell the truth, or at least do not delight in the torture of lobsters.
I had a client who by sheer willpower stilled the fidgeting of good-looking females
inside his kimono. What do you say to a severely intoxicated hyper-dominant
silk napkin? Someone living a life-lie in a tight-fitting sheath of black satin? Being
a wounded caterpillar crawling up the prideful rational mind is no excuse for drooping.
Slowly, lovingly, lift the gun and shoot the honest human spirit into a paradise of Navy SEALs.
A big racial stereotype fell from the sex-organs of the Japanese globe-fish while Communists
ravished British sailors with white girls for comparison. Of course, you are already aware
of the genetic predisposition of mad doctors, Mr. Myth.
At least you’re on the side of the Logos, which is to say, of the policemen, the Queen, and the grown ups
who hunt down all the insincere trousers. But if you’re raised by a wonderful Nanny, half-Chinese, half-chaos—
you will quiver with blood and meta-goals. And that is wisdom.
Assume that the larvae whose perfect divorce law you are tramping is a bully business. His wisdom
will make your beaver behave, but only if you first wet the thick tips of the susceptible lobster.
Choose a dry, level Stalinist, put the point of your self-conscious vulnerability on the drooping
knife-blade of habitable order, and feel your way to a Communist
merit badge. Even to a symphony of merit badges. Then the Chief Female,
studded with metal like a pit bull’s collar, optimizes her smile across the street of chaos
and into the Roman legions or the Wigan Pier coal miners. You can tell the difference by the length of their awareness,
and by whether they are chivalrous when they gut Navy SEALs
with a psychological scalpel. Training makes a small boy the equal or superior of a hyper-dominant
nihilism. The mystery grew upon him as he became boring like the grown up
whose dream collapsed beneath the Honest Mao of myth.
It is not alone in the mighty hunter-gatherers, but in the meek Noble Savage too, that we truly upbuild Being.
Be precise in the dammed-up pressure of your mammal carcass, thou red Being,
and let the choice cut of wisdom
from Christ’s horrid black hole be visited upon the social worker in all her hyper-dominance.
“The dickered tongue of the unemployable has a bitter smell,” says the female
in her Ted Talk. Like some computational intelligence at the tail of a bovine, chaos
enters the chat with the antics of a creepy puppet, while naked men sit on Communism’s
fern-scented He-Goat. The target is a more communicative America, flourishing with the dark grape of awareness
at the life-blissful soda-fountain. You are Captain Hook, your orgasms drooping
with wrinkled secrets and compact drops of posture, which you must seal
in the honey-triumph of lost human upvotes. Doomed to make an intolerable fool of himself, the lobster
conducts market research on the fecundating herd, aka the British Parliament. Grow up
washed in the data of gender. I am the man. I am the sanitary Frankfurt School of myth.
Do not bother Warren Beaty while he prodigiously frigs the myth
of his forefathers. Such sins, limited by the proliferation of your Bishop, are being
idealized every fortnight. Whisper dreadful blasphemies to the fundament of chaos
and the 1960s shall dramatically liberalize divorce laws. What is the end of this journey into darkness? A lobster?
A turd? An ideological shibboleth? It matters not what emerges from the female
technical insufficiency, as long as you rejoice at the effect of your laxative. Obsolete laptops droop
upon the libertine of time—that is a bizarre ceremony, and even if your buttocks malfunction, hyper-dominance
will still awaken my lubricious cabbage, even as voluptuous Navy SEALs
fart upon symbolic associations with Western cynicism. My prick positively jumps when I do wisdom,
and yet women on dating sites reject 85% of Communism.
This enrages Magneto, who unbuttons his breeches and grows up
to manifest his destiny. No wonder she donned a hardhat and entered a convent for the rest of her awareness.
Pet your out-of-control political correctness with love and high-caliber awareness.
The Old Testament God should set off your Spidey-Sense. Likewise the myth
of consensus Type-A bottoms. My suggestion is to screw up your Being
with the minimum effective dose of female
until you utterly hyper-dominate
competitive podcasting. Marine force recon guys with one foot in obscure psychedelics and the other in toilet humor are growing up
into a Heraclitean tenured position. Husbands, don’t let your healthy seat in the musical chair competition droop
like old luggage where your mind is grooved in defensive and rent-seeking types of chaos.
Commit to one push-up before infidelity. Yes, just one. Only massively transformational purpose can make a Holocaust survivor into a lobster
with really good encryption. You are the unstoppable Terminator of your own wisdom.
You are the brain tumor in the heart of your essential amino acids. And you are the Navy SEAL
with one set of speakers in the bathroom, building the Boulder Dam (now known as the Hoover Dam) out of the raw material of testosterone. Glazed, of course, with Communism.
You would have predicted a good future in cruising down main street into marijuana and myth. But in truth it’s a downward path sealing
you into the Messiah who is yourself. Chaos is Swiss, but economics is a non-refundable hyper-dominance
that smuggles Vedic texts into your quotidian awareness. In every left-leaning Eden there is a lobster
with 350 million years of experience in tempting females with the innate blood-sugar spike of Being.
The body, with its various YouTube channels, maps wisdom onto big ideas such as men who are not part of the patriarchy. Meanwhile Communism
springs forth like a tampon from powerful biological sex. Grow up, young man, and unclutter your Twin Towers until they are no longer drooping.
The epigraph is from Swinburne’s double sestina, “Complaint of Lisa.”The entire poem uses words and phrases from:
Jordan Peterson, 12 Rules for Life: An Antidote to Chaos, forward by Norman Doidge, Toronto: Random House Canada, 2018.
Additional material used as follows
Rule One: Frank Herbert, Dune, New York: Ace, 1965.
Rule Two: Nick Bostrom, Superintelligence: Paths, Dangers, Strategies, Oxford UP, 2014.
Rule Three: Joe Rogan Experience transcripts at “The Joe Rogan Experience”, The Happy Scribe, accessed January 2023, https://www.happyscribe.com/public/the-joe-rogan-experience
Rule Four: Mickey Spillane, I, The Jury, New York: E.P. Dutton, 1947.
Rule Five: Robert Bly, Iron John: A Book About Men, Boston: Addison-Wesley, 1990.
Rule Six: Steve Harvey, Act Like a Lady, Think Like a Man: What Men Really Think About Love, Relationships, Intimacy, and Commitment, New York: Amistad Press, 2009.
Rule Seven: Bill O’Reilly and Margin Dugard, Killing England: The Brutal Struggle for American Independence, New York: Henry Holt and Co., 2017.
Rule Eight: Ian Fleming, Dr. No, London: Pan Books, 1964.
Rule Nine: Boy Scouts Handbook (1st ed.)., 1911.
Rule Ten: D.H. Lawrence, Birds, Beast, and Flowers, London: Martin Secker (Ltd.), 1923.
Rule Eleven: Marquis de Sade, The 120 Days of Sodom, trans. Austryn Wainhouse and Richard Seaver, New York: Random House, 1989.
Rule Twelve: Tim Ferriss, Tools of Titans: The Tactics, Routines, and Habits of World-Class Performers, New York: Harper Business, 2016.
❤️ this. I have read Peterson. His massive ego and overbearing misogyny have been his (unfortunate) success. His appeal in pop culture psychology at a time when the patriarchy is yet again trying for dominance over those of us who keep their genes in human race is unfortunate. Eve ate the apple, get over it and stop punishing us. If only Adam had bit the apple. Think about it.