Archive for the ‘Music’ Category

Sung to the tune of AWOLNation’s “Sail”, a brilliant parody of the dogmatic leftoid hivemind (h/t Jay in DC):


BTW the lyrics on that ‘cover’ NPC version of AWOLNation are fucking comedy gold, a sample:

♫♫ FEEL!!
I’ve got no inner monologue
I bow before the Syangogue
Maybe I’m an NPC, baby

This is how the ego dies
I’m taking my SSRIs
Maybe I’m an NPC baby.

Feel! ♫♫

lzolzolzolzolzolzolozlol dude nailed it

Leftoids really don’t think for themselves, so this meme hits them right in the….feels.

Jay adds that this timeline is unbeatable,

does anyone else find it absurd and ironic and somewhat befitting of clown world that Taylor Swift who was meme’d into Third Reich ubermensch status has come out as a virtue signaling shitlib and her nemesis Kanye fucking West! is /ourguy/

That is some bizarro world type shit, innit?

Abandon Boomer tropes, all Ye who enter here.

PS Paul Watson has a good take on the NPC meme phenomenon:

I know PJW catches flak from some quarters of the Maul-Right, but I think his vids are polished explainers about the shitlib insanities of the day that effectively reach a normie audience.

PPS I wonder if MPC will see a bump in traffic from people mistyping searches for “NPC”?

PMS Anglin has a funny take on the NPC shiv. (It’s been promoted from meme to shiv status, based on the anguished wails coming from butthurt leftoids.)

Here’s another great follow-up NPC post by Anglin, riffing on the JYTimes coverage of the meme.

[The NPC meme] speaks to the core nature of this unhinged leftist mob: that they are not real, that their entire lives are faked, that their emotional state is the result of a marketing campaign.

It trivializes all of them in the most brutal conceivable way.

Spot on.

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Why is this post titled “Spot the Chad” instead of “Spot the Alpha”? You’ll understand why after seeing the photo I’ve attached:

This is REO Speedwagon, pre-snowflake era rockers. Despite the classification I’m about to reveal, all these guys got mad pussy. Comes with the job.

They were (are) all alpha males according to the CH and Darwin definition of alpha male:

The alpha male attracts hot women, attracts women strongly, and attracts a lot of women.

Quantity and quality of female interest defines the alpha male.

By that metric, all the members of REO Speedwagon were alphas, hauling groupie pussy in its prime like a shrimping net.

But within the subset ‘rocker’, we find subtle and not-so-subtle physiognomic differences of male value. In the photo above, there is a clear Chad and a clear Cuck.

CHAD: far right (ofc)
INTENSE ALPHA: 2nd from left
NICEGUY: middle
CUCK: 2nd from right

FYI, “intense alpha” is the brooding artist type who may or may not leave a lover before morning light. “Goofball alpha” is the class clown if the class clown wasn’t a secretly low self-esteem basketcase.

The Cuck with the homo pose is the lead singer, Kevin. The Surfer Chad is the bass player, Bruce. So did their real lives match their physiognomies? reactionary writes,

Mostly. Kevin was their lead singer and had a very effeminate/annoying voice. Bruce was there bass player and would occasionally do vocals. “Back on the Road Again” is sort of an alpha song.

So what distinguishes the Chad from the generic alpha male? Politics, for one. No Chad is With Her. In point of fact, very few alpha males are With Her, so that’s not telling us much. The Chad phenotype tends to more often align with conventional views of what characterizes an alpha male (heavy jawline, Eastwoodian squint, overhanging brow ridge, mesomorphic frame, perpetual smirk). This serves as a reminder that more often than not, real life alpha males don’t look like central casting alpha males. They don’t look like soyboy cucks either, but the physical properties of the alpha male span a wide spectrum.

Crucially, I think the biggest delineator of the Chad is his aversion to emoting. He keeps it “close to the vest”, except when he’s giving atomic wedgies to nerds. There’s an IDGAF vibe about him that says “when the time comes, I’ll gladly take up sword and rid our land of these locusts”. Balancing this is a hint of playfulness in the eyes, honed from years in middle and high school teasing girls to heights of tingle eruptions.

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One of the greatest tunes (and visually arresting music videos) of the ’90s — Tool’s Stinkfist — uses the symbolism of fist fucking to warn against creeping consumerism in both the material and romantic senses. Stinkfist’s pairing of the vulgar with the transcendental is right in the Chateau wheelhouse. Pure poetry, and possibly a proto-vision of what would later become this blog outpost’s overarching theme.

Knuckle deep inside the borderline.
This may hurt a little but it’s something you’ll get used to.
Relax. Slip away.

There’s something kinda sad about
The way that things have come to be.
Desensitized to everything.
What became of subtlety?

How can this mean anything to me
If I really don’t feel anything at all?

I’ll keep digging
‘Til I feel something.

I bring this up because Tool’s frontman and creative genius, Maynard James Keenan, was recently PoundMeToo’ed by a slutty groupie.

Maynard is as pozzed as any Left Coast musician, but surprisingly he is not on record as an anti-Trumper. The little political stuff he’s said is radically banal, by the standards of his artfag subculture, which means in the current climate of Leftoid Intolerance he stands accused as insufficiently anti-Nazi.

So maybe that’s why he was just MeToo’ed. Or maybe our society is being corrupted by lonely attention whore has-been roadie skanks who upon approaching the long midnight of post-Wall sexual obsolescence decide to spit out totally unverifiable 20-year old sexual assault accusations against famous men to scratch their itch to be vaginally relevant again.

weev has the deets:

actual Maynard quotes:

“Trump is not your enemy”

“We have the privilege to do that because of active and former law enforcement and military, defending our right to do so. Those of you who are law enforcement and military, your job is to defend our right to act like whining, entitled snowflake assholes – myself being one. Snowflakes, your job is to respect them f**king doing that for you.”

Regarldess of these quotes just read the lyrics of “Hooker with a Penis” and “Vicarious” and tell me he’s not our guy.

Maynard is a singular musical genius, unlike any other, and even if he wasn’t now that Neil Peart is retired Danny Carey is objectively the greatest living drummer. Forty Six and Two, The Grudge, Triad, Ticks and Leeches. Listen to the drums in those.

Don’t you think it is pretty likely that baseless impropriety accusations by an anonymous Twitter account getting massive coverage by the (((music journalism))) industry is a direct result of Maynard’s statements in regards to our President?

“I went back to a trailer with a rock star and watched a movie in his bed and we ended up having sex. It was rape.” Seriously, who believes this?

No one who doesn’t have an axe to grind against the expression of normal male (and female) sexuality. And by normal, I mean men are attracted to youth and beauty and women are attracted to power and fame. Put the two together, and sparks fly (which is later retconned as assault by spiteful slores).

I hope this Synchronized MeToo Menstruation will end soon, despite the overwhelming majority of the accused coming from the one group that I despise for their efforts to ruin my homeland under a deluge of Dirt Worlders…

The Bad Hair Brigade

…because the whole media-crafted enterprise reeks of forgotten sluts clamoring to revisit a few seconds of fame to slander and demonize famous men with whom those sluts didn’t have the integrity nor the horniness self-discipline to walk away from when the lay-for-play proposition was put before them.


The Judge comments,

Lol “..he rapes in every city”

It’s not enough to have fucked a rockstar. Now you must be raped by one.

There’s something to this cynical take. A couple generations of coke-carved lithe groupies getting banged out by rockstars (which is something of an anomaly in the sweep of human history) has inured the public to the reality of it. Everyone expects it now, so it’s no big deal, for better or worse. How’s a groupiegirl supposed to preen when throwing her legs open for rockstars has lost its cachet? Of course, she says she was raped by a rockstar! It’s not much of an achievement to be a rockstar’s ho-hum Tuesday night strum receptacle, but to arouse the ardor of a rockstar to the raping point? Ladies, that is the stuff of GRRLPOWER.

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Mexican Colony

I see the beaners on the corner
And the grime of a world with no borders
I leave my town and check the neighbors
I leave again when it’s full of invaders
I hear the rhythms of ranchera
I plug my ears but it’s in my cabeza
I hear the talking of the lawn guy
Can’t understand but he’s 5 bucks a day

We’re in a mexican colony
We’re in a mexican whoa-ohh colony

I look around and see invasion
They talk about a new globalist nation
I understand more than a little
Yo comprende, my vote is whittled

We’re in a mexican colony
We’re in a mexican whoa-ooh colony
We’re in a mexican colony
We’re in a mexican whoa-ooh colony

I wish I was with Bernie Sanders
Living with folk who are mannered
I’d sneer at rednecks in haughty tones
And keep the riff raff far from home
MS-13 is round the corner
The south has moved to north of the border
I hear the talking from the Beltway
Can’t understand they must live far away

We’re in a mexican colony
We’re in a mexican whoa-ooh colony
We’re in a mexican colony
We’re in a mexican whoa-ooh colony
Mexico El Norte
Mexico El Norte
Mexico El Norte
Mexico El Norte
We’re in a mexican colony
We’re in a mexican whoa-ooh colony
We’re in a mexican colony
We’re in a mexican whoa-ooh colony
Colony colony
Where is my say?

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Ironsides triggered this post with reflections on ultra-posturing fathers of hotter younger tighter daughters,

Translation of all this huffing and puffing:

“I spoiled my daughter absolutely rotten, giving her an ego-swollen princess syndrome which is almost certain to launch her onto the Carousel with Saturn rocket boosters because she thinks that she’s so Precious and Special that no solid regular guy is worthy of her …

… and realizing my mistake at some level, now venting my futile beta rage by being as obnoxious as possible to young men interested in her, which has the effect of driving off the decent, hard-working betas who would actually care for her and make her happy with a family, while the alpha cads see right through my posturing and pump-and-dump her over and over again, laughing at me as they swagger out the door at 3 AM in search of greener puss-tures.”

Matt King strikes out a lot but when he connects he goes yard. His reply to Ironsides,

… now venting my futile beta rage by being as obnoxious as possible to young men interested in her …

The cuckservatives have queered this meme beyond all usefulness. It’s now nothing more than how to dramatize oneself as the Ultimate White Knight Orbiter to one’s own flesh and blood.

Fatherhood is a kind of game, and just as in game, a little mystery and a lot of ambiguity goes a long long way to getting her to behave the way you want. Putting up a Top Ten list of your intentions, along with the least subtle photo of a threat imaginable, creates the opposite effect. These are unreconstructed dorks who grew older but never left their beta insecurities behind.

To see schlubs fawn over the only alpha female (i.e., their young and attractive daughters) ever obliged to give them attention is one of the most putrid side-effects of the veteran-carouseler-incel-betamale alliance for the creation of one designer baby in wifey’s late thirties. I know how I’ll make pretty girls pay attention to me! I’ll make one!

“Omigod ur so hawt” in college transforms 20 years later into “My daughter is an angel.” Learning curve flat.

Fucking hardcore.

It shouldn’t go beyond most woke men’s notice that beta daddy soyboys, when they manage to convince a veteran cock carouseler to take them under her marital wing at the ripe age of 38 to pop out that one designer baby three years later (and not a baby more!), curiously produce some of the hottest prime nubility daughters this side of Kiev. The Helical Holy Spirit has a sense of humor about these recombinant mysteries, and with a little thought it’s easy to figure that feminine low T daddies shoulder more than their share of the burden of gracing the world with HBdaughters, should they have daughters who inherit daddy’s supple skin and manteats and mommy’s defined triceps and cock hunger.

(The sons of such unions tend to fair poorly in the physiognomy department.)

Thank the Cosmic Overlord that He has seen fit to ensure the sexual appetites are properly redirected to outside the immediate family circle, else these beta daddy orbiters of HBdaughters might wind up nursing a hellacious case of incestual blue balls. As it stands to everyone’s relief, their blue balls are strictly of the emotional, psychological variety. The captured company of hot daughters is likely the best chance daddy orbiters have had to monopolize the attention of the kinds of women who ignored them most of their lives or, worse, toyed with them by dangling effervescent promises of a future hookup in exchange for months and years of sounding board provisioning. It’s no wonder daddy orbiters are gung-ho to shove gun barrels in the faces of any suitor of his daughter-cum-sublimated girlfriend.

Apropos King’s comment and the Roy Moore moral panic of the past week, it’s a good time for this song:

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The Alpha Male Anthem

There have been plenty of cad anthems in the rock and country music pantheons celebrating raw masculine privilege, but the song “I’m a Wanderer”, sung by Guinea-American Dion and released in 1961, is in my factual opinion the greatest alpha male anthem in American history.

Read the lyrics (along with my editorial commentary) and you’ll agree with my judgment of this song’s ZFG ALPHA GLORIFICATION:

Oh, well, I’m the type of guy who will never settle down
Where pretty girls are, well, you know that I’m around
I kiss ’em and I love ’em ’cause to me they’re all the same
I hug ’em and I squeeze ’em they don’t even know my name

Man of Mystery Game plus an attitude of Outcome Independence, aka Zero Fucks Given. The Wanderer knows that the pussy pedestal is a penis prison, and he should fight the urge to idealize women and to succumb to oneitis by treating women as if they were interchangeable.

They call me a wanderer
Yeah, a wanderer
I roam around, around, around, around

Chicks love a hard-to-get man.

Oh, well, there’s Flo on my left and there’s Mary on my right
And Janie is the girl, well, that I’ll be with tonight
And when she asks me, which one I love the best?
I tear open my shirt and I show “Rosie” on my chest

Poon Commandment VII: Keep two in the kitty. Season with a bit of Dread Game and jealousy plotlines.

‘Cause I’m a wanderer
Yeah, a wanderer
I roam around, around, around, around

What’s the opposite of a beta male puppy dog begging for validation? An alpha male lion roaming the veldt for prey!

Oh, well, I roam from town to town
I go through life without a care
And I’m as happy as a clown
I with my two fists of iron and I’m going nowhere

I’m the type of guy that likes to roam around
I’m never in one place, I roam from town to town
And when I find myself fallin’ for some girl
Yeah, I hop right into that car of mine, I drive around the world

Love is The Wanderer’s Achilles’ heel. But instead of allowing himself to swoon straight into tingle-killing domestication, he makes distaff hearts flutter wildly by refusing the nuptial leash.

Yeah I’m a wanderer
Yeah, a wanderer
I roam around, around, around, around

Oh yeah, I’m the type of guy that likes to roam around
I’m never in one place, I roam from town to town
And when I find myself a-fallin’ for some girl
I hop right into that car of mine and drive around the world

Disappearing acts are cunt-nip.

Yeah, ’cause I’m a wanderer
Yeah, a wanderer
I roam around, around, around, around, around, around

‘Cause I’m a wanderer
Yeah, a wanderer
I roam around, around, around

‘Cause I’m a wanderer
Yeah, a wanderer

I doubt a song with this unapologetically caddish message could be released today. Not so much because the arts and entertainment complex is suffused with bitterbitches and gays, but because there aren’t any men left with the requisite high T and heavy balls who’d want to proudly celebrate the male romantic prerogative. We’re in a male feminist world now, and our women are the worse for it.

The theme of this song and its time — 1961 America, right in the heart of the Great Compression when relations between the sexes were at its precious polarity zenith and wage-earning men could still acquire a reasonably pretty and slender wife (and nonWhite Diversity™ had not yet gutted the soul of the nation) — is puzzling when examined in its cultural context. Was it a rebellious sneer against the implicit monogamous restrictions placed on men, or was it a reflection of a sexual market that was perhaps wilder than we assume, or (my personal theory) reflective of the attitude of people at the time who understood the sexes were innately different and that men who make themselves a challenge to women are sexier than men who appease women?

PS On another note, check that handsome 1961 crowd in the video. Not a fatty, bluehair, or soyboy in the mix. America was truly a better country then, and no amount of blathering about BUT MUH IPHAG is gonna change the reality that as a culture, we Americans have devolved into quasi-mutants. Sad!

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A Music Video Idea

Staking claims to a moral high ground doesn’t have to be the sole purview of the Leftoid Equalist gimposium. The Maul-Right can do it too. I had an idea for a music video that would be a great example of recapturing moral ground ceded to the anti-Whites.

If you were an alt-composer of catchy tunes with a flair for the dramatic, you could write a song about censorship as a tool of the establishment Left (gussy it up with lyrical license). In your music video, you croon, ladies swoon, then halfway through, still singing and playing as before, total silence envelops the scene. Your voice is nothing but soundless mouth-moves, your guitar gently sleeps. Suddenly, black tape appears over everyone’s mouth. A Goolag-clad mystery figure is seen pulling the plugs on everyone’s amps in a cutaway. None of the central characters in the video notices, but the silence continues baffling the viewer.

A minute of silence passes, visuals still proceeding as if all was normal, then on the last note the lead singer rips off his black tape, perhaps aware of his silencing, and belts out an E major howl of protest.

I wish there were more artists on the Right, because it’s not like our side is lacking for material, inspiration, or enemies to lampoon. Maybe everyone on the Right needs to suffer a little more under the boot heel of their equalist oppressors before their artistic instinct can flourish.

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