Perfume Nationalist Excommunication Countdown

Thomas777 (bandana, long hair, shades) vs. Barrett (delicate features, earrings, fashionable sweater)
  • (Top) Notional average TPN listener

  • (Bottom) Actual


The Perfume Nationalist will necessarily have a final episode. Everything episodic must. The end will occur because, one by one, all of the soldier-redolent boys who hurl themselves olfactorily at Jack will dare to voice a single criticism each. So in turn will other fans. These are all people who… have no reticence to speak their minds.

Jack – with no capacity to tolerate dissent or criticism, even while regaling us of his tales of growing up gay, fat, popular, and well-adjusted (also right about everything) – will block every one of them. After the Ice‑9 manner, soon there will be no one left to block. Jack’s fan base will be as corpses gauzily visible beneath the frozen Thames.

Thus will conclude the Perfume Nationalist – “delivered to an audience of no one, for no reason.”

Our friend Jack the Perfume Nationalist (it’s an eponym that, like Charlie, he has no choice but to wear) is well on his way to blocking, denouncing, unperson(n)ing, and freezing out his entire fan base one at a time.

  1. I was first on the receding ice floe.

  2. Fascistic cinephile, frequent guest, and crack-of-dawn irritant Ty E (no relation) was next to be excommunicated.

  3. Then the show’s unwanted third-wheel faghag cohostess, Jugs, was mysteriously airbrushed out of future photographs of Jack with his boyfriend and that lady from Red Scare.

    (Was Jugs shitcanned because that other Red Scare lady refused to appear on the Perfume Nationalist if Jugs were there? Shall we transcribe Jugs’ reminiscences of how she almost but not quite started her own show for the Right Stuff, aimed at crypto-fascist wymmynz?)

  4. Soon enough, the queen of TPN underachievers, recherché arctic polyglot Grant Cook (q.v.), dared to profane the sacred name of Paglia and had to be pushed overboard – and not in any Hitchcockian Lifeboat manner, either. (The next tripwire shall be Michael Jackson.)

The same fate will befall any number of Barrets or Barretts, mestizo Brendans, LDS missionaries, tough guys who live for Angel and live out of their cars, and beloved Catholic art podcasters. (I warned the last of those already.)

Jack’s BF unit and that Red Scare lady will reënact the last hours of the Ceaușescus – baffled by the route by which they ended up against a brick wall, about to share quite the black Christmas.

Recall Jack’s stated philosophies of blocking

  • Say what you will about blocking[,] but every time I see an egregiously awful tweet or everyone’s mad about a particular account on here I click on the tweet and it turns out I already have the person blocked, no idea who they are, because you can accurately judge from v[ery] little info[.]

  • Love that people pretend it’s noble and brave to engage with random anon antagonistic reply people instead of banish[ing] them to the shadow realm forever because it’s really easy to read whether people are good or bad on here[.]

  • “These tweets are protected”: Oh, AKA this person is a baby who’s addicted to Twitter but won’t even properly participate in it, gotcha[.]

  • There’s literally no reason to post anything if you have your account locked.

The unstated philosophy of this stated enemy of censorship is “distribute a pre-blocking list.” Soon enough, Jack will run out of other people’s money (reckoned in Patreon memberships).

A mere three podcasts have changed men’s lives

Joe Rogan’s, Jordan Peterson’s, and our friend Jack the Perfume Nationalist’s. All are Howard Beale–style false prophets of the airwaves. (“Mad prophet” was what Beale was called in Network [q.v.]. I’m not changing my statement.)

I can think of three reasonably obvious methods by which our friend Jack could secure the annual hundred grand or so he would need to liberate himself from his quotidian shackles and become the god-emperor of cinephilic parfumerie he was meant to be. But Jack is like his listeners, and indeed like the listeners of the other two men’s-life-changing podcasts. He, and they, have no ability to monetize their intelligence, a topic so perennial it has its own category here.

I concede that Andrew Tate, whose factotum actually invited me to one of his Eastern Bloc bimbo/cigar retreats, is correct. He who gets rich is he who spends all day thinking about how to get rich. Why am I three steps ahead of Jack there?

Moreover, let’s recall that the man who demands his acolytes buy physical copies of everything refuses to make money selling physical copies of his own show. Indeed, his brother Peter (“Speed”) lampooned that idea on air.

Still the only coverage of the Perfume Nationalist

Jack’s lifelong enemies in the military–industrial–entertainment complex have enacted a commensurate lifelong omertà against him. He’ll barely ever even be acknowledged. Jack has nought to complain about there, as he does the same with the kulaks he excommunicates.

I cannot be eliminated. The articles will continue until morale improves.