This Valentine’s Day, I introduce a new Starving the Monkeys series, Making Men Great Again, a cooperative effort among various alt-Right sites. As I have said before, the Trumpening heralds, not a man, but a revival of our heritage and a revival of ourselves. An important part of that is teaching young men, particularly from the lost generations, the things young men once learned around a fire from their fathers, brothers, uncles and grandfathers before single-momism became celebrated and elders left for RV parks clutching their Social Security checks, leaving that cultural wisdom destroyed in the void. Wisdom means learning from mistakes as well as successes, and I’ve had plenty of both. Let’s celebrate today by diving right in to this pointless Valentine’s Day massacre that men have been taught to put themselves through year after year.
My earliest recollection of Valentine’s Day as a thing was in early grade school, when everyone was expected to get those cheesy bulk packs of generic “Be My Valentine” cards and give one to everyone in the class, male or female, so that no one would feel “left out”. This was in the mid-seventies, so the poz-train to hell was apparently already chugging along at breakneck speed. I thought this was gay long before I really knew what gay meant.
A year or so later, we had to make a construction-paper-and-crayon drawing and enter it into a grade-wide art contest. The theme was what Valentine’s Day means to you. Nestled among the wall full of predictable cardiovascular horrors was my entry, a jet inspired by some recent rooting through my grandmother’s Life magazine collection and some articles featuring the Vietnam War. Some concerned teachers pulled me aside for yet another in a long, ongoing series of heartfelt counseling sessions.
Addressing their concerns about my choice of subject, I pointed to the dozens of pink and red marks fluttering down in the jet’s wake, and told them that it was carpet-bombing the village below with Valentine’s Day cards just as we were required to do in school each year. Had I known about cluster bombs at the time, I could have made a better drawing and subsequent presentation. I think the words “carpet-bombing” was enough; one of the teachers was a hippie hottie with big hoop earrings and tight paisley pants. As she knelt down, hugged me and wept softly over my lost soul, I wondered how to reproduce this experience of being engulfed in a generous, unfettered bosom. Sobbing, beautiful women offering me their physical affection would forever imprint on me as the true meaning of Valentine’s Day.
But alas, between that experience and my eventual paleo-shitlording of The Audrey as related in a previous article, globalist media took its toll. Happy Days, Laverne and Shirley, The Love Boat, on and on, it was all a constant stream of beta-training poz, and I was not immune. For a time, I led a double-life, playing with eager band girls on the one hand, and, on the other, fapping to the seemingly unattainable girls, band or otherwise, that I actually wanted. The latter were simply, and now understandably, nauseated by a constant and embarrassing stream of all the wrong behaviors and attitudes, which I admit to on these pages for the benefit of our younger brethren lest they commit the same horrors.
Audrey herself had suffered through a series of her own supplicating beta-boys white-knighting their way through slippery and congealing pools of her vomit. For an extreme example of this repulsive behavior (fortunately at my lowest I wasn’t this bad), check out this Chateau Heartiste dissection of a misguided sap. Read especially all the comments, those are usually rich with their own value.
Eventually, the summer before my senior year, I had the epiphany that all men must one day have to live as a whole man, an epiphany that is simple and glaringly obvious in retrospect, but which I had to painfully construct out of basic principles and which is impossible to fully capture in a few words on these pages.
That summer, I realized that I am the prize.
The layers of nuance and meaning in that simple statement are impossible for the uninitiated to comprehend, rejecting it instead as they have been taught by globalist media. The blue-pilled naive only see the seemingly superficial arrogance, and completely miss the relentless responsibility that comes with that world-view. Fortunately, for young men today, there is Game, itself only one facet of the red pill. Game always was, and is, an essential part of life, just that now we have the vocabulary that our elders lacked, even for those remaining elders who still cared to teach.
That summer, I cut off my Chachi hair, it never to return, and spent a few months detaching myself from my forlorn quests of old. I became a well-rounded ZFG shitlord before such a thing had a name, hence the paleo- prefix. My implementation of it was rough and awkward by Game standards today, but the important principles were there.
The following Valentine’s Day, four days after our first date 33 years ago, I gave The Audrey a Valentine. This was a stock Peanuts card with Linus and Sally (link provided for those too young to know the backstory). On the outside were the words “You make the world a better place.” Printed on the inside was “Weirder, but better.”
Below that, I had scrawled the following romantic message:
You are a parasite on the ecosystem of the world.
She read it, wept and hugged me.
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8 Comments on "Making Men Great Again"
It was around a year ago that I was at our local dept. of motor vehicle gulag, (office) and after I left, I realized I’d left my well used copy of Starve The Monkeys on the counter there. Of course I left some paperwork in the book, so to my horror, I had to go retrieve it,,,Thoughts of getting tazered went through my mind as I thought of the social misfit behind the counter reading the book. No worries though, of course she didn’t read it, she thought the monkey on the front was cute! I love that book, and I have started your Python course. Thank You! Really enjoy this new blog too.
How do you start the Python course? This is the first I’ve heard of it.
(ed. We’ll put it on one of our .biz sites, along with the tractor book, then do a post. We’ve reworked all of our sites in the past six months, thanks for noticing it was missing!)
[…] Epic. […]
We are great.
It was always good being a shitlord. I understood what shitlord was the moment I saw it. Man did that feel good. I remember Tom. You never fit in, you intimidated most men because they where pussies but didn’t have a clue, and not having a clue mistook it for arrogance, because you are a man of action, all the rest is bullshit, you scare most barren wombs, rightfully so, nobody messed much with you. You where alone even in a room of people and having a good time but in the back of your mind, wondering what the fuck you was doing there. Give me the forest, an axe, a knife and a rifle, a couple of basic comforts in a nap sack, a way to make a fire, a break down fly rod, and contentment is a primal joy. To be a shitlord is to not fit into this vulva-rized society. Good thing, I know I could never live with myself. I never believed something can’t be done, perseverance, there is always a way.
To me a shitlord is a man who knows what an axe a shovel a wrench and a rifle are for, humbled for there is a great creator behind the design when he looks into the nights sky, a man who knows how to defend his home his woman and his meat every day, but knows too groveling in the mud will never be a part of that shitlord equation.
Nobody can tell you who you are.
from “When a man must be a man”
“There is a land where a man, to live, must be a man. It is a land of granite and marble and porphyry and gold—and a man’s strength must be as the strength of the primeval hills. It is a land of oaks and cedars and pines—and a man’s mental grace must be as the grace of the untamed trees. It is a land of far-arched and unstained skies, where the wind sweeps free and untainted, and the atmosphere is the atmosphere of those places that remain as God made them—and a man’s soul must be as the unstained skies, the unburdened wind, and the untainted atmosphere. It is a land of wide mesas, of wild, rolling pastures and broad, untilled, valley meadows—and a man’s freedom must be that freedom which is not bounded by the fences of a too weak and timid conventionalism.
In this land every man is—by divine right—his own king; he is his own jury, his own counsel, his own judge, and—if it must be—his own executioner. And in this land where a man, to live, must be a man, a woman, if she be not a woman, must surely perish.”
Harold Bell Wright
My beloved Ozarks. To be so once again.
Well said. I am from the same vintage as yourself and your recollection of the established process was exactly as I recall in the Mid-West. It likely was the Phase 1 of the “Medals of Participation” and “Awards for everyone” within our societal norms.
Treasure the aspect that THE AUDREY and you have shared the experiences to date. It will be a primary reason that you will likely come out on the other side of the future events.
[…] the cultural war to Make Men Great Again continues apace, with feminists outraged about a billboard in North Carolina, emblazoned with the […]