After driving 1,000 miles to Cape Cod, we were panicking, frantically trying to pry two Hispanic girls away from the cursed words on the screen.
“They’re just haters,” and “it’s all fiction” were our mantras. We alternated, repeating these lies, over and over, in an attempt to drown out the horrible, evil Reddit review.
Why did he have to tell them the name of his Substack? Why did he have to be honest? Couldn’t he have just pretended to be Delicious Tacos or something?
An urge compelled me to snatch the phone out of their hands. WorstBoyfriend nervously laughed and said it might be time for us to leave.
The Brazilian asked,
“so, is this like, sex stories?”
I tried a creepy Hail Mary to move the conversation beyond the horrors of the Reddit post. Anything but the Reddit post. “Yeah, like, have you ever read smut?”
She confessed,
“Well actually, when I was 15, I used to write smut.”
She seemed drunkenly proud of herself, like a Hawk Tuah girl holding a beer between her tits.
I asked her what this story was about.
“Well, in the story, I’m called Cherry,1 and it was all about me having sex with James Franco. Like, he was my teacher, and I was his student. It was actually really popular... I had a lot of followers..."
Of course, she was a virgin.
WorstBoyfriendEver and I are homeless
road trippers, meeting people through the internet, reputed to be sick freaks. WorstBoyfriend is controversial for cheating on his girlfriend and legally ambiguous rape-play with Asian women. I am controversial for hating poor people and defending the Epstein client.
Next to my bed in our shared AirBNB is a bookshelf full of fiction. I hate fiction. Reality is so much more interesting. There is so much history, so much to learn... Reality is the universal story we all share.
Or at least that’s the idea. Functionally, we live in different realities.
Some live in the “Pedophile elites sacrifice babies to Moloch” reality,
some people live in the “trans women are women” reality,
some people live in the “Trump is secretly fighting Israel” reality...
Lots of different realities out there. Which reality is real? Hard to say.2
We are on work-cation.
Every day, we work. But neither of us have a job. For the first few days of living together, we barely talk and just work separately in cafes.
Finally, it is Friday, and I try to initiate.
I do not smoke or drink, but I want to be a good roommate. Perhaps we could go to a bar?
WorstBoyfriend agrees. 8pm, we will go to the bars. I am nervous and excited.
I am the ultimate wingman. I will not initiate anything, but if dared to do so, I will go beyond all reasonable expectations to fulfill the request.
We walk up and down the street looking for bars. He orders two fruity gay coconutty martinis, which I am assured taste very good. He asks me,
“so, what is the deep left?”
I am fairly confident he has not read any of my articles; maybe he has skimmed half of one. A quarter. This is ok -- this just gives me an opportunity to explain myself.
The fact that no one really knows what the deep left is speaks to my obscurantism, fear, and obsession with being unique and nuanced. Here was my attempt to explain
Deep Leftism:
In 2017, I came up with the term “deep right” in distinction to “alt-right.” The Deep Right was supposed to solve the problems of the alt-right, which were:
Swastikas, Nazi fetishism, and retard rallies
Populism and democratic thinking
And an inability to produce great works of art beyond memes
The central question of the “deep right” project was to discover what makes art left-wing or right-wing, based on the teachings of Camille Paglia.
So, after cheating on my girlfriend with a cross-eyed, anorexic cross-fit girl in the basement, I put on one of my “deep right” traditionalist films as she fell asleep.3 Like the male version of Lauren Southern, I was a trad-pest. Perverse, contradictory, absurd, and performative.
In contrast to the Deep Right, I came up with an idea of the Deep Left, which went beyond the issues of the 18th century, and stretched back to the Gracchi brothers of Rome, even to the Greek worship of Dionysus.
After being a bit more honest with myself, I decided that I needed to leave the right-wing label behind, and embrace the Deep Left. This label was still confusing and contradictory, but it helped me get across three basic points:
It would be hypocritical and deceptive for me to claim to be conservative.
Deep Leftism transcends the issues of the present day, like race and gender, and even the modern economic theories of Marxism. It has little aesthetically in common with antifa, blue-haired cat ladies with tattoos, or chucklefuck leftists. It is esoteric and cannot be understood with a surface-level appraisal.4
Deep Leftism is the Faustian spirit itself, in contrast to the conservative perennial traditionalism of all other cultures. It is only the West which developed a Left; not China, not the Aztecs, not Islam, not the Inuit.
As I try to explain all of this, WorstBoyfriend asks,
“Uh, what does Faustian mean?”
My friends, we are dealing with a normie.5 That is ok. I actually like the fact that he knows nothing about politics or philosophy and I have to explain all of this. I love monologuing. I want to develop a five minute elevator pitch for my ideas which is understandable and compelling to normal people.
I explain Goethe’s Faust, and Spengler’s use of the term, and how Spengler’s concept of civilization and decline is derived from Nietzsche’s understanding of Greek tragedy, and how Faustian civilization used to mean the heroism of the Aeneid and taking over the world and exploring space, but now it has turned perversely inward, and it means deconstructing gender and consent theory...
“Uh, what’s the Aeneid?”
I explain to WorstBoyfriend how, because of a kidnapping fantasy gone wrong, Aeneas lost all his friends in the Trojan War: his former status, power, and wealth as a prince was null and void, and he became a homeless wanderer on a road trip. Then he found himself in Carthage, in the abode of Queen Dido. She fell in love with Aeneas, and promised him the world, but the Gods told him to keep journeying. He left Dido behind, and she burnt herself on a funeral pyre.
“Hmm, that kinda sounds like me.”
The bar we’re in is closing,
and we must wander elsewhere. We spot something he likes, but there’s a $10 cover fee.
Now you may be thinking that he and I will be paying this $10 cover fee, but you would be mistaken. $10 is 2% of my monthly income, which, for a normal middle-class person, is like $100. I am not paying $100 to walk into a bar.
Thankfully, this is some sort of outdoor bar, and WorstBoyfriend suggests we go around the back and try to sneak in.
The back has a gate which is pressed tightly up against a row of hedges, like the maze in the Tree Gnome Village.
Working together, with WorstBoyfriend on the lookout, I squeeze my body between the gates and the hedges. He says I must proceed alone, to prevent the suspicion of two trespassers at once. I boldly hide in a portapotty to avoid the gaze of the drunk denizens of the beer garden.
After 30 seconds pass, I exit the portapotty and make my way into the Elysium that awaits me. Beautiful wealthy people smile back at me. There is nothing more satisfying than getting away with it.
WorstBoyfriend pulls off the same trick, and now we are playing Corn Hole. He suggests we play for three rounds, but this soon turns into 30 rounds. WorstBoyfriend really likes cornhole. He is obsessed with cornhole. Perhaps this is a metaphor for his obsessive need to have sex with dozens of beautiful women, compulsively, without any sense of limitation or satisfaction.6
As we play on, an elder Millennial frat-bro with a backwards cap and a hot wife challenges our skills. We stand up to the challenge, and win a few handshakes. People are friendly, and they want to be our friends. We are two handsome young men, and people like us.
WorstBoyfriend and I use the restroom, and then we stand awkwardly listening to the music from the live band. I ask him,
“How are you feeling?”
He says the music is loud, and we go to sit down on a coach. I point to two girls. We’re two guys, and they’re two girls…
WorstBoyfriend objects. The girls are fat, he says -- “I don’t even see them.” I feel bad for the girls, and bad for stooping so low. How could I expose my lowly chubby-chasing ways before this pussy master?
It’s really not about the pussy, to be clear. It’s about love, or something worse. Girls need attention, and WorstBoyfriend gives it to them in the worst way possible. For this, he is evil. But better to be evil than to be neglectful.
I get up by myself and walk around the beer garden. WorstBoyfriend says it’s impossible to meet people if you’re not in a group. Futile. Hopeless. He’s right. I make eye contact with a girl, but she is in a group, and I am not.
I return to the couch, and next to WorstBoyfriend, on the very same couch, are those two Hispanic girls I pointed out earlier, chatting to each other. They sat down next to him, sensing his psycho dark triad energy, wanting to be talked to. But he does not fancy them, and keeps his distance. There is a person-sized gap between him and them. He is chilling, alone, disengaged.
I sit down next to WorstBoyfriend, filling the person-sized hole, while ignoring the two girls. I face away from them, mirroring his aloof behavior. Two guys, two girls, segregated by gender, sharing the same couch. The girls aren’t willing to initiate, and neither are we. Eventually, the girls realize we aren’t going to talk to them, and they get up, leaving us alone. Failure.
But WorstBoyfriend regales me with the most amazing stories about how sick and sad women are, how they are obsessed with him and will do anything for him, how they eventually come to hate him, but even in their hate, they still love him...
“Hate and love are the same thing.”
He apologizes to me for calling both of those girls fat. One was obviously fat, admittedly, but the other one was actually quite hot,7 and he was over-generalizing the pair in his rush to judgment.
We discuss how difficult it is to be a fat girl with a hot friend, because you have to witness, over and over, how men prefer your friend over you. It is humiliating. I am determined to right this wrong.
The two Hispanic girls are back, somehow, for some reason. They refuse to take our silence as a final rejection, and come running back, begging for a second chance.
The fat Puerto Rican asks, “can I sit here?” I say, “of course!” and introduce myself. They are eager for the attention, and I give it to them. I try as much as possible to talk to the fat girl and ignore her hot friend, but my penis betrays me, and my eyes stray.
I drag WorstBoyfriend into the conversation by forcing the girls to guess his age, and he is activated. No longer a bystander, he is amazing them with his Amazon-published book, his 4,000 subscribers, his road trip, his homelessness, his Adderall addiction... They love this.
It is at this point that the hot Brazilian pulls up the Reddit screed attacking Worst Boyfriend Ever, and we try to distract the two of them from their phone by explaining that those are just haters. It is futile. The girls gape their mouths in shock at what they read, but they do not get up and walk away in disgust. Their shock is excitement.
Somehow, do not ask me how, the hot Brazilian decides to tell us a story of how, when she was 15, she used to publish fanfiction sex stories of her having sex with world-famous pedophile8 James Franco.
Look, this is some really sick stuff, and it pains me to write this, but it is the truth -- these females are absolutely vile and disgusting and do not respect the norms of consent.9
I turn the conversation toward astrology, and ask the girls if we are compatible. The answer is stunningly accurate -- WorstBoyfriend wins the hot Brazilian, and I win nothing, not even the fat Puerto Rican.
Anyway, WorstBoyfriend asks the girls for their ... email addresses. They provide. The girls tell us they have work in the morning and they need to go.
To Play Us Out
WorstBoyfriend and I have the visual-spatial memories of house flies, so we spend an hour looking for the car. I take us in the wrong direction several times, until at last, WorstBoyfriend saves us.
We are both exhausted, delirious, and unable to find food. I thought we had to go straight, but WorstBoyfriend’s GPS says turn right, so I make a drunken-swerving motion at the last moment.
Immediately, within five seconds, a cop pulls us over.10
We get warnings for a broken light and a past-due inspection. Through a combination of jedi mind tricks and main-character-thick plot armor, the officer is so impressed and charmed by WorstBoyfriend that he lets us go with multiple warnings.
When you’re the Worst Boyfriend Ever, they let you do it.
WorstBoyfriend is leaving tomorrow. He says he has more women he needs to have sex with, and I cannot follow him. They want to feed and clothe and house and fuck him for free, and there is not room for two perverts on this journey. I am not invited to watch from the cuck chair.
I tell WorstBoyfriend, “I wish I had more friends to go out with.”
He laughs.
(because he pops her Cherry, get it? very classy)
My job is to smash and dissect these realities, to glimpse something outside the ghetto...
For films (the ultimate artistic medium), I identified Feherlofia and The Tragedy of Man as right-wing films.
Picture of me explaining this to WBE:
WBE: Okay, I wouldn’t call myself a Normie… I think “deeply politically ignorant” is a better way to put it.
WBE: Erm, it’s more like, I prefer Activity/Game-based Socialization as opposed to Sit-Down-and-Interrogate-Strangers-based Socialization. If there’s a game at a bar I will play the game.
WBE: I would describe her as a fit healthy pale curvy light-skin hispanic girl with a big ass and genuine desire for connection. She wore a back-less sun dress and she was quite drunk... she wanted something but was too mild to say exactly what. Her poor fat brown friend with big dead brown mutant eyes was the main obstacle between this girl and my hand.
They were mere TEENS (18-19) -- I wonder if Mr. Franco read all the smut that these 15 year old girls were producing about him and if this drove him insane, causing him to commit heinous acts which I dare not utter on the pages of this blog.
She lusted after the violation of Professor Dr. Franco’s professional professorial obligations, abusing the trust placed in his authority… (scandalous)
Apparently every WBE story involves getting pulled over by the cops and always getting away with it. If I were the reader, I would assume this is a fictional trope, but these are just the facts. If I were making stuff up I would say I had sex, and she said I had the biggest penis ever, etc.
Oh, you met WBE? That’s cute. You know who I met this weekend? Fucking HITLER. Yep, that’s right. I took some mercurial elixir, passed out, went to the Realm of the Nagas and met the actual fucking Adolf Hitler. And I also met FUCKING OMNI MAN!!! And then I woke up in the hospital.
Crossover episode? Incredible