When people fall out with me, often as here through no fault of my own, they form bitter little hater circles and I see their [avatars] pop up whenever anyone has a nasty word to say. They attempt to make TPN without me, which doesn’t work since I’m the king and I keep winning[.]
This is very comical coming from a degenerate emotional baby who’s still crying over the fact his lady friends from college don’t want to watch rape movies with him anymore.
Hayden is a beautiful kind artistic soul and you’re a weird satanic faceless do-nothing with nothing to show for it[.]
I like Hayden. You have been repeating the same thing in the same style for at least four years and will still be doing so for the next four decades, and that thing is uselessly footnoting your influences through paid discussion panels until death. You are an algorithm.
Our friend Jack the Perfume Nationalist has any number of catchphrases, two of which are “Paglia is right about everything” and “I’m right about everything.” Broadly stated, yes, he is.
But so am I.
Jack will methodically excommunicate his most loyal supporters
All you need to know here is this statement Jack blurted out: “My brother quit the show.” I could ask about this, but I suspect the two of them aren’t speaking anymore. I surmise Jack got Peter into a lot of trouble making him comment, for the permanent record, on rape/torture/exploitation movies – for years at a stretch. He’s got a wife and a son – responsibilities our “depraved” friend Jack cannot comprehend. (At least the brother reproduced. Isn’t that “nationalism”?)
I did list the Perfume Nationalist Excommunication Countdown. We haven’t hit zero yet.
- Jack alienated somebody who is a real creep and an even worse underachiever, Grant Cook from some frozen tundra, whose spectacular long-haired dachshund is his only saving grace. Deserved exile on an ice floe? No. (You expected me to say yes.) But it is par for Jack’s course.
- Our friend Jack, a high-functioning drunk, picked a fight with a Catholic dad whose accomplishments rival Jack’s. The latter produces one of the three podcasts that have changed men’s lives, while John Dios’ sui generis Catholic art podcast, the Holy Agony, has restored souls when it didn’t save them outright. (“Jack, I do not use the word ‘friend’ lightly. I do now and always will consider you a friend. Regardless of any disagreement we have or company we keep. My door is always open to you.”) John does not realize he has a perfect life. He too gets into “Twitter fights” with abandon, claiming to find them distasteful while, just like Jack, relishing them the way Nassim Taleb does. One of these men claims to be a Christian, while the other affirmatively is, not least in deed.
- Hermaphrodite Christlover2000, herself hardly a paragon of normalcy, excommunicated Jack. (“Drained the colo[u]r out of my life for a week after listening[. Y]ou held up heroically as the only person who has pushed back when confronted with the abyss and dared give her a taste of her own medicine.”) In so doing she gives us insight into the kind of asymmetrical warfare needed to bring Jack to heel. Block him first.
- Our friend Jack (recall he got nailed for an actual DUI) uses the Twitter to tell dedicated fans to get lost and never so much as mention his name again.
- Jack sours friends of friends. The Surfing Violinist still won’t talk to me after he imagined he and I had some kind of “beef” regarding Jack. (Ford didn’t respond.) What happens to the social circle of TPN-flanker podcasts when he disowns just enough of them to make any mention of Jack a minefield?
Backing the wrong horse
I do that all the time. Surely I have done so here.
I want to say our friend Jack, who can down most of a bottle of booze in a single TPN episode, will rue the day when he assailed Catholicism while defending transvestites, pederasts, the worst homosexualists (define that as you will – he’ll back them), and anything that allows him to run a rape-movie podcast and muse about drunkenly fellating Lou Grant. (Might Jack’s noticeably more petite boyfriend unit, inevitably named Chris, be on the same page with that?)
The completely unpublicized Unregistered Live in Chicago
Another scion of depravity, Thaddeus Russell, brought TPN and any number of flanker podcasters together (certainly including Ghost Jail) in Chicago. When was that? Was it promoted anywhere, except in a Patreon post that was deleted and in a sidelong comment to Filthy Armenian Alec Mouhibian?
(Recall that Russell, who was surely stoned on pot, could not tell Jack to his face onstage what perfumes he’d been wearing lately [“I’ll send you a list”].)
I have samizdat-style access to the worst of Jack’s excesses in Twitter “group chats,” which, by virtue of using a surveillance platform as their medium, stand a good chance of making Jack rue them one day.
As one example that doesn’t involve calling blacks failures:
Not my place to say it[.] but the [I]nternet idea that I am ugly is literally just inaccurate
Jack, a soi-disant top, before he allegedly lost 40 pounds:
And a week or so ago:
Jack has sadly begun to believe his own press, all of which he wrote himself
Jack is a textbook wounded narcissist. One day, all his friends will have become enemies at Jack’s behest. You’re next.