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.