Psychopathic, underachieving savants become what they beheld

The ecosystem elliptically orbiting Jack the Perfume Nationalist has become what it beheld – liberals. A crowd of underachievers, these artists’ vice is nothing so déclassé as heroin or as trailer-park as fentanyl. It is psychopathic cruelty.

As I have explained at length over my decades online (a corpus far in excess of anything the TPN demimonde has produced in totum), what I have called downtown progressives decide to inflict opprobrium and ostracism on an unworthy, then justify their mobbing as the very least he deserves.

A downtown progressive is a liberal in Jack’s nomenclature. Like André the Giant, Jack’s got a posse, and I’ve had them mob me the way BLM and antifa (and black guys on the subway) have done.

The art podcaster’s vice is mislabelling an ardent supporter a vexing adversary (in their argot, a “hater”) and pillorying him directly. And, in Jack’s case and his brother’s, passive-aggressively writing me up on Twitter. Jack is ringleader of the tormentors.

These guys are all underachievers. I would expect something resembling class solidarity from a cohort all of which listens to Aimée Thérèse, the fastest talker this side of Eminem.

  • Jack has simply not figured out how to monetize his brilliance and works a front-desk job dealing with neoliberal yuppies he loathes. On Canada Day a decade ago, I listened to an Adam Carolla episode in which he was explicitly coached and schooled about how to make money in podcasting. Deservedly or not, who’s the millionaire now?

    Umpteen straightforward options are available so that Jack can bring in a hundred grand a year and pursue the intellectual leisure he and everyone else agree is his birthright. He’s doing none of it.

  • The latest defamer, a 49th-stater with the facial laxities of the visible depressive, can’t get his upstairs neighbour to stop blasting rap music and just barely upgraded himself to office lady, a position I had held in the previous century.
    Grant Cook and boom mike

    This little man ruined my day today. He, like Jack, calls himself a Christian, or at least they allow Trans Regret Snoopy to believe same.

  • The mastermind behind the second-best art podcast, Ghost Jail, works a 9‑to‑5, as do the passel of Barret(t)s in this circle. Even Jack’s brother is surrounded by cubefraus on all sides. A boisterous fan is purgatorially consigned to a health-food co‑op. Then there’s that insurance adjuster.

Of course they’re frustrated. But the scenario here is the same as Jack’s: I’m right about everything, and another thing I’m right about is you guys have decayed into a liberal mob who can’t wait to express the bottomless hatred that springs from the frustrations of your stunted careers.

I don’t initiate shit. I show up pre-blocked on Twitter. (Jack’s lies about forgiveness and generosity in this regard gall still.) On luckier days I can actually talk to these men. One of them hasn’t turned on me yet (Zion is still to fall). The rest have.

In their view (the view of the liberal), I deserve it. I deserve so much more.

The psychopathy of the TPN-adjacent underachiever is far worse than pulling a Heath Ledger and leaving a beautiful corpse. While amassing unique works of art, building them up episodically in formats that can be destroyed in a flash, these wayward manchildren put a whole lot of day-to-day effort into nastiness and cruelty.

This distributed gang warfare by skinnyfat podcasters brandishing Bijan like a sigil is something they’re quite proud of. In their Walter Mitty– or Billy Liar–redolent imaginings, they really would harangue me in person. They really would take it to the next level.

Overall, this is the wrong way to be a tortured artist, and these are life choices you can unmake on a dime. Since that’s how much you’re basically making on what has become your life’s work, take the advice.

Skill-testing question for TPN acolytes

Is your first response to this posting to lash out even more?