Category Archives: leftards
My essay on Russian propaganda was published over at Sarah’s the other day, and I’ve been busy running around and failed to link to it. In it I discuss why Russian propaganda is so effective – especially in the west. There are some people who actually believe that the Soviet system was effective and fair, that there were no bread lines, and if there were, it’s because those greedy Russians insisted on fresh bread every day!
Here’s an excerpt.
The Russians don’t make a whole lot of mistakes in the agitprop and brainwashing arena. They indoctrinated generations of young people into worshipping suffering, and compared to their subtle campaigns abroad, the efforts against their own populace were positively hamhanded!
Today’s propaganda efforts are subtle and gradual. From drafting new history books that whitewashed tyranny – both past and present – to positive Russian messages through media outlets such as RT and Sputnik, to the nearly inconspicuous and dignified repatriation of the body of Russian nationalist philosopher Ivan Ilyin, the Russians continue to excel at indoctrination and propaganda. Is it any wonder they are spending billions to purchase media outlets in neighboring countries to spread their message?
Note how eagerly American Marxists fall for Russia’s victim routine.
No, Russians say, they never invaded Crimea! Crimea wanted to separate from Ukraine! There were no little green men, and they certainly weren’t Russian! That’s just a Western ploy to discredit Russia and keep Russia down, because the United States can’t stand to see a successful, sovereign Russia. Oh, and by the way, the US was responsible for manipulating oil prices to ensure that the ensuing sanctions to punish Russia for its actions in Crimea would hurt more!
No, Russia says, life was so much better in the past! There was law and order. There was nationalism. There was love of country and patriotism. All lived for everyone else. We need to turn inwards, says Russia. Do you see how much the West hates us? They impose economic sanctions. They lie about is. They want to cause us economic ruin and steal our resources. Time to look inward and turn away from the evil West.
I think the Russian propaganda efforts provide just the confirmation bias American leftists need to support their lunacy. They’ve never lived it. They don’t understand it. And when Russia says it’s not possible that people stood in bread lines, used wadded up newspaper to wipe their asses, and were, at best, denied employment, and at worst, arrested and sent to the gulag for WrongThink (read: criticizing the mighty state), they want desperately to believe it!
There can’t be suffering and privations when everyone gets the same, right? It’s ultimate equality!
The United States is just evil and is victimizing those poor Russians!
The Soviets took away money and power from those evil capitalists, those evil “rich” until there was no “rich” left and everyone suffered equally (except for those with connections, of course, but we don’t talk about that!).
Literally, every bias the American Marxists have is confirmed by Russian propaganda.
Anyway, so I blogged there. The discussion is quite lively, so enjoy!
The brilliant Dr. Glenn Reynolds of Instapundit was temporarily shitcanned from Twitter and was only unblocked if he promised to delete an objectionable post that urged motorists to run over rioters blocking traffic in Charlotte, N.C.
“Yes, that was my post,” he wrote in the email. “It was brief, since it was Twitter, but blocking highways is dangerous and I don’t think people should stop for a mob, especially when it’s been violent.”
Reynolds also expanded on his comment in a post to his blog:
“I’ve always been a supporter of free speech and peaceful protest. I fully support people protesting police actions, and I’ve been writing in support of greater accountability for police for years.
“But riots aren’t peaceful protest. And locking interstates and trapping people in their cars is not peaceful protest — it’s threatening and dangerous, especially against the background of people rioting, cops being injured, civilian-on-civilian shootings, and so on. I wouldn’t actually aim for people blocking the road, but I wouldn’t stop because I’d fear for my safety, as I think any reasonable person would.
” ‘Run them down’ ” perhaps didn’t capture this fully, but it’s Twitter, where character limits stand in the way of nuance.”
Blocking traffic like the last set of piss guzzling bug fuckers and preventing a child from getting medical care is NOT peaceful.
Jumping on top of innocent people’s vehicles and threatening them is NOT peaceful.
And Professor Reynolds is absolutely correct. If these savages are blocking the roads and threatening you, there’s no reason for you to stop. None.
Meanwhile, at least one British newspaper is evacuating its bowels because a man drove through the rioters brandishing a gun, and *GASP!* he was WHITE!
But look – this post isn’t about the
protests riots. It’s about silencing your opposition.
Professor Reynolds described a perfectly reasonable reaction to being threatened by violent mobs – KEEP DRIVING. Yes, he did say “RUN THEM DOWN,” but anyone who’s not a blithering fuckwit understands that when you’re surrounded by agitated throngs of malcontents, jumping on cars and setting trash on fire, you keep moving. Period. It’s certainly preferable to getting a beatdown at the hands of “protesters,” who think rioting and destruction of property are legitimate outlets for their rage at societal injustices.
And for this thought crime, Twitter suspended his account until he promised to remove the “offending” tweet.
Do you remember what Social Justice Howler Monkeys do when they don’t agree with someone? They riot. They threaten the employment of the individuals with whom they disagree. They report their social media accounts in an effort to shut them down. They even doxx them and threaten their loved ones.
And, of course, they try to shout the opposition down a la Trigglypuff.
They don’t want a debate. They’re scared of being proven wrong. They’re terrified of their worldview being challenged in any way. Any speech they don’t like, immediately gets shut down.
Like Dr. Reynolds.
Like Milo Yiannopoulos.
Like Mike Williamson on numerous occasion thanks to a howling, perpetually offended twat named Natalie Luhrs, who decided to stalk his social media and report his offensive speech.
In June 2015, a white supremacist shot up a historic black church in Charleston and killed nine worshippers. Williamson went online and tweeted a joke about it. Appalled, Natalie Luhrs of Radish Reviews began going through his twitter feed and Facebook page to see if he’d made similarly offensive comments. He had, and she documented quite a number of them. Williamson was eventually suspended from Facebook on account of his racism, though he quickly switched to an alt account and kept right on going.
Anyone with whom they disagree needs to be shut down and silenced, because it’s easier to shout into an empty room and then proudly beat your chest that no one could refute your incoherent screeches.
Debating, learning, accepting different points of view – all that requires effort, which they’re not willing to put forth.
It’s much easier to scream, “ALL WHITE COPS ARE DEVILS” after a police shooting of a black man (without realizing or caring that the officer involved was African American) than it is to stop, listen, consider, and gather facts.
It’s much easier to silence your opposition and bully them into a corner than it is to have the courage to accept a different worldview as valid or correct.
Twitter and Facebook aren’t government entities, so this is not a First Amendment issue. When push comes to shove, they have the right to control what people post on their platforms. That’s not the issue here. The issue is this propensity to silence viewpoints with which they do not agree. The issue is the inability to tolerate dissent. The issue is outright cowardice.
The first reaction is not to consider the facts and examine them, but rather to punish and silence. Much like these two douche canoes commenting on the Knoxville News Sentinel story. Their first reaction is to remove the platform – to shut up those who speak words they don’t like.
Because you can’t be wrong if you silence dissent.
I’m too busy today to actually blog properly, so I will direct you to my buddy Lawrence.
Lawrence is a lot of fun. He makes the best ass jokes of anyone I know. He and I think very much alike, although he tends not to curse as much as I do. He makes up for it with fart stories, though, so it’s OK.
Anyway, Lawrence has written a piece I consider wonderfully thoughtful, considering the topic is what he accurately calls “anti-think.” Here’s an excerpt.
Anti-Think hijacks ordinary thought processes and twists them in the opposing direction. Let us say a good and proper French Feminist is walking home late at night and she suddenly realizes her course has taken her a little too close to an Islamic ghetto. Think would cause her to change course away from the potential danger. Not-Think would cause her to ignore the thought and proceed on her present course, heedless of the consequences. Anti-Think would whisper in her ear and tell her that her fear is bigotry. So to prove to herself and the world what a good Feminist she is, she intentionally steers into the ghetto. Then, if raped or mugged, she might act as one woman raped in Haiti did and blame white people for it.
Anti-Think convinces these people that the greatest threat to, say, women’s rights is white males living in the United States. While, of course, bastions of Islamic fundamentalism are excused, and even celebrated as ‘liberating’ for women. Because wearing a massive black bag in the middle of the scorching heat is what freedom looks like. Whatever a sensible conclusion is, the Anti-Thinker will reliably choose the opposite view. “It can’t be the fault of the person who raped me,” says the Anti-Thinker, “the patriarchal conspiracy in a completely different country made this man to attack me.”
Do yourselves a favor, and give the rest a read. Well worth it.
Why is it that every time I want to stop writing on the lunacy of the SJWs, some lunatic forces me back into the half-baked cage of SJW psychosis?
Perhaps it’s because that sewer is an inexhaustible circle jerk of cultural Marxist jackoffery that will never run out of deviants. Or maybe I have friends who love to see my head explode at the stoopid.
Take this pearl-clutching schizo Damien Walter who writes about all things weird. He’s supposedly a writer of speculative fiction or something. He’s got one book on Amazon that I can find, with five reviews – 40 percent of them shitty. He’s also a favorite chew toy of one of my favorite authors – the International Lord of Hate himself Larry Correia – who accurately assessed a while back that somewhere in Britain a village is missing its idiot.
In other words, you know that whatever this uber douche vomits will likely be borderline retarded and somewhat ponderous. And guess what! He doesn’t disappoint – if by “disappoint” we mean dash our expectations that something incredibly stupid will come out of that stagnating, gelatinous mass of goo the Guardian newspaper thinks is a brain. It is, in fact, that stupid.
Walter spends the first couple of paragraphs in his latest screed in a wistful rumination about Conan the Barbarian’s pecs… or was it Arnold Schwarzenegger’s pecs? Regardless… you know he’s going to attempt to transform Conan into an irrelevant relic of white, male patriarchy, because he begins the essay with a nostalgic disclaimer about his latent desire to rape and pillage. He really LUUUUURVES Conan, but…
…the macho white male is only the fantasy ideal for a minority. As Lisa Cron argues in her excellent Wired For Story, the power of story reaches far further than mere entertainment. Our brain thinks in stories, but when stories don’t reflect our lived experience and our sense of identity, our brain will often reject them.
So there’s this thing. It’s called imagination. When a story is well written, the imagination lights up with ideas, with desires, with joy, with experiences that come alive from the reading! As Meg Rosoff observed – and was excoriated for – good literature expands your mind. It doesn’t have the “job” of being a mirror. But Damien Walter, as all good little howler monkey troops must, toes the SJW party line.
Now, I will admit, I haven’t read Ms. Cron’s book, but here’s a partial description from Amazon.
The vast majority of writing advice focuses on “writing well” as if it were the same as telling a great story. This is exactly where many aspiring writers fail–they strive for beautiful metaphors, authentic dialogue, and interesting characters, losing sight of the one thing that every engaging story must do: ignite the brain’s hardwired desire to learn what happens next. When writers tap into the evolutionary purpose of story and electrify our curiosity, it triggers a delicious dopamine rush that tells us to pay attention. Without it, even the most perfect prose won’t hold anyone’s interest.
Backed by recent breakthroughs in neuroscience as well as examples from novels, screenplays, and short stories, Wired for Story offers a revolutionary look at story as the brain experiences it. Each chapter zeroes in on an aspect of the brain, its corresponding revelation about story, and the way to apply it to your storytelling right now.
I’ve also read a few reviews on the Internet and some quotes from the book itself. It sounds interesting, and it’s apparently based on heavy research in neuroscience and psychology. What I’m not seeing is confirmation of Damien’s claim that “when stories don’t reflect our lived experience and our sense of identity, our brain will often reject them.”
Cron seems to be discussing storytelling from an evolutionary perspective. “Recent breakthroughs in neuroscience reveal that our brain is hardwired to respond to story; the pleasure we derive from a tale well told is nature’s way of seducing us into paying attention to it.”
Tale. Well. Told.
Not a mirror. Not message fiction. Tale well gold.
Damien, of course, twists this concept into tossing the old muscle-bound hero stereotypes in favor of less traditional heroes, such as… well… you guessed it – minorities, women, bureaucrats, homosexuals, transgendered individuals, logistics officers, and others that aren’t generally portrayed as heroic. Because muscly, violent men are out, and dull, tax auditor-types are in (and it would be great if they were women and gay too!)
Hercules is out. Here comes Pajama Boy!
Forget Superman. Let’s see more HR specialists.
Red Sonja the tax auditor.
Damien apparently compensates for his lack of testicular fortitude and barely hidden, slithering envy of strong, masculine archetypes by projecting his inability to relate to fun, masculine heroes onto others.
Seth Dickinson is one of a growing movement of fantasy authors re-engineering older stories for readers who don’t see themselves reflected in Conan, Frodo Baggins or Luke Skywalker. The Traitor Baru Cormorant begins with one of fantasy’s most famous tropes, the hero’s tribe are conquered by an oppressive empire, and he must take revenge. Or, as in the case of Ms Cormorant, she. And how will Baru Cormorant bring down the empire that murdered one of her two fathers? By learning to swing a sword? No! But by becoming a civil servant.
Translation: I’m bland and unimaginative, and I can’t relate to burly, powerful heroes. Solution? Make heroes bland and unimaginative, and invent fun things for them to do, like… you know… keep inventory, run budget meetings, coordinate on EEO policies, and all that. And if she fails at this task, the world as she knows it will end! I also note the worship of worthless bureaucracy that seems to be present in many progtard circles is oozing into what these tools consider literature.
There’s a clear logic to the conceit at the heart of Dickinson’s novel. Lone barbarians, however ripped, don’t defeat armies. But politicians and bureaucrats can wield the power to topple empires.
Except politicians and bureaucrats aren’t fun storytelling; they mostly sit around, tap their computer keys, and bloviate a lot. And while scheming is interesting, it’s the execution, the action, the actual toppling of empires that keeps us reading. Remember that good storytelling thing Lisa Cron talks about?
Baru Cormorant is a woman, from a conquered people, who discovers she is attracted to other women, trapped in an empire that kills her kind.
I’m shocked. Damien loves the abused lesbian victim.
Her only chance to survive is to learn the Masquerade of lies and deception that power the empire, and beat it at its own game. Dickinson’s novel arguably pursues the same strategy as its protagonist, imitating the genre it seeks to subvert, and perhaps one day, topple.
You know… learning to subvert the enemy is fine, but what are you going to do with it? That’s where that storytelling comes in. Learning is fine. Filling out logistics forms incorrectly, not so much.
I also love how Damien immediately projects his own desire to topple what he apparently can’t match in intellectual, and I’d be willing to bet, physical prowess, onto Seth Dickinson. Apparently writing a novel about a lesbian bureaucrat taking on the system = wanting to destroy other types of heroes. It’s either/or in Damien’s world. Seth Dickinson’s heroine apparently cannot coexist with the strong, masculine hero types out there! There’s only room in this world for one or the other. It’s so typical of the SJW mentality: if it doesn’t agree with you, destroy it!
Additionally, as you will see shortly, Damien’s reference to Cron’s ideas on storytelling is a ruse meant to provide his idiotic claims with a glossy veneer of legitimacy. He doesn’t give a flying rat’s fuck about quality and storytelling, and he admits it.
Dickinson’s re-engineering of the heroic fantasy genre is not entirely successful. The Traitor Baru Cormorant has neither the heart stirring adventure of a heroic fantasy, or the political depth of a Wolf Hall. But in a field where too many writers simply retell the same old stories, Dickinson’s originality and ambition are to be applauded, even when he doesn’t quite manage to meet the narrative engineering challenges he has set in himself.
Here you have it, boys and girls. There’s no heart. There’s no stirring adventure. There’s no political depth. But see… Dickinson is original, because he wrote a book about a lesbian in a world where gays are apparently killed (’cause that’s never been done before; see: Iran, Saudi Arabia, Yemen, Sudan, etc.), so that makes it all good.
Walter then heaps drooling praise on authors such as Michael Moorcock, Kate Elliott, and NK Jemisin for being oh-so-progressive, as if progress is somehow limited to writing disadvantaged minorities one has unearthed from the proglodyte-approved the Victim-of-the-Month club.
The fantasy genre has always contained a progressive streak. From Angela Carter and Michael Moorcock to China Mieville and Kate Elliot, writers have re-engineered older narratives for audiences who don’t share the traditional values of Howard or Tolkien. But as the values of our society shift, those writers are creating the new mainstream of the genre. NK Jemisin’s Hundred Thousand Kingdoms, Ken Liu’s The Grace of Kings and Ilana C Myer’s Last Song Before Night, among many others, joy in re-engineering the traditional fantasy narrative to create new kinds of story.
Notice once again, there’s nothing here about good storytelling, which he spent some time telling us was oh-so-critical by citing Lisa Cron. The only thing that matters is the renunciation of traditional values and characters. Not the story.
The story is what sells the book. The story is what keeps our brain hanging on, according to the same author whose writing he twists to support his ridiculous theories. The story is what matters. It keeps us readers turning the pages. It keeps our imaginations engaged, our emotions burning, and our loyalties to the author whose work gives us such joy! It certainly doesn’t matter to us, the readers, whether the author has checked a gay/trans/black/purple/queer box on some imbecilic conformist checklist.
But to Damien… Oh no! HIS story can’t be allowed to stand!
“See, this is the thing about history. His story. That’s all it is. The Old Man’s version of events, which basically the rest of us are supposed to accept as the undisputed truth. Well, call me cynical, but I’ve never been one to take things on trust, and I happen to know that history is nothing but spin and metaphor, which is what all yarns are made up of, when you strip them down to the underlay. And what makes a hit or a myth, of course, is how that story is told, and by whom.”
Cynical? No, this festering yambag is not cynical. He’s filled with that trademark progtard arrogant self-loathing that he projects onto innocent authors, who don’t conform to his version of those deserving of literary success, of those worthy enough to be read with heart and soul! Because in his freakish vision of literature, the hero is not strong, exciting, attractive, or entertaining. It’s a cranky cockroach, sitting behind a computer, filling out forms, and creating bureaucratic hurdles for those who want to actually do something, sullenly plotting the destruction of those it sniffily thinks have dominated long enough – Walters’ own little euphemism for the evil, patriarchal literary world he seeks to destroy and infest with puny, tedious pseudo heroes, whose mediocrity is the “virtue” he seeks to promote.
Perhaps that’s why this sniveling dick weasel can’t seem to write a novel without financial support from the government.
I’ve never sat at it.
When I was a kid in the old USSR, there was nothing “cool” about me. I was kind of scrawny, shy, and I had that damn Jewish last name, so teachers and other students in Soviet schools shunned me as a Jew, ensuring I never got to engage in activities with the other kids. Yeah… I was that lonely kid you saw on a swing by herself in kindergarten while all the other kids were building huge forts and playing team games.
My last name in Russian sounds like the Russian word for “hockey puck,” so guess what my fellow students called me back then! They also beat me around quite a bit – much like a hockey puck. I was a Jew after all, so beating up on me became pretty much sport.
When I came to the United States, I was definitely not a cool kid. My parents didn’t have much money – well… really hardly any at all – so I would wear the same clothes every day, which didn’t endear me to my fellow students. They never bought sweets, or junk food, or sodas. I never got ice cream. We didn’t have money for such frivolities. I tasted cereal for the first time in my life when I was nine years old, and it seemed like an amazing treat at the time! What furniture we did have was procured from other people’s trash. So was our TV – a tiny little black and white thing that my dad fixed up, so he could watch the news and learn English. So kids from the neighborhood didn’t come visit. I had no friends. Add to that the fact that they thought I was Russian (despite the fact that I tried to convince them I was French) at the height of the Cold War made me not so popular.
When I was older, I went to summer camp. People weren’t mean to me, but I certainly was not one of the cool kids. I didn’t have many friends. I was generally left behind when my bunk mates got together to play games or go swimming. I spent a lot of time by myself, reading, writing letters to my parents, or walking through the wooded areas of the campground. I had learned sufficient English by then, but I was a bit introverted, and I preferred to spend time by myself.
I was never invited to cool kid parties in middle school – you know those parties where everyone plays “spin the bottle” and hooks up with members of the opposite sex. I did go to some, but I felt awkward and weird, and when I invited kids in my class to my own birthday party, one person showed up, and embarrassed, I never wanted another party.
I did find my voice, so to speak, in high school choir. I participated in concerts and plays. I loved the stage. But ultimately, we were choir and theater geeks, and my husband likes to remind me that I was the type of kid he would have beaten up in high school. I wasn’t a cheerleader. I didn’t play sports. I was a music geek, and I was expected to and did hang out with my own kind.
Frankly, I like it that way.
I don’t care about being popular, or cool, or well liked. I have never chosen the easy or popular path. That’s never interested me. So when time came for a decision about whether or not to support the Sad Puppies, it was easy, and the way the cliquish “cool kids” acted at this year’s Hugo Awards ceremony cemented that choice.
Larry Correia started the Sad Puppy campaign in hopes that the Hugo Awards would become a bigger, more inclusive tent that rewarded good storytelling regardless of politics, personal views, or religion. What culminated in the awards ceremony this year was snark, arrogance, downright cruelty, and slaps in the face to many deserving, well-regarded, talented authors and editors.
There were personal attacks – racist attacks, in fact against a kind, generous, talented man. There were false accusations of racism against some of the kindest, most generous people I know by people who are their peers. Arrogant racists, who claim moral superiority, because they feel entitled to abuse anyone who is white or male and has the temerity to not feel guilty about it, see it fit to impugn the intelligence and soul of one of the brightest, kindest women I’ve had the pleasure of knowing.
Don’t know what I’ll do if Sarah Hoyt stops being nice & starts getting real! Her mighty intellect– sry, can’t say that w/ a straight face
— K Tempest Bradford (@tinytempest) August 29, 2015
Oh no, you guys! Sarah Hoyt says that if we anger her too much she might turn the full force of her personality on us! *falls down laughing*
— K Tempest Bradford (@tinytempest) August 29, 2015
This is, of course, the same Cuntasaurus Rex who issued a racist reading challenge to all its drooling, frothing acolytes to stop reading anything written by straight, white, cis male authors for one year. The same wackjob SJW who, by her own admission, couldn’t get through anything written by those evil white oppressors, and would get all ragey and quit reading, because PRIVILEGE! Or something… has the temerity to impugn the Mensa-level intelligence of Sarah Hoyt – a successful, Latina female author, whose talent and wit Tempest, who admits to have mooched off her rich friends for a while after leaving her oh-so-privileged New York existence, couldn’t even begin to match!
But hey… Tempest is one of the cool kids, right?
Yeah, if that daft bint is at the cool kids table, pardon me while I eat with the nerds!
No, the Sad Puppies will never be at the cool kids table. They will always be the nerds – old fashioned, dedicated to actual talent, strength of writing, storytelling, and love of the craft. They will never be the progtards who worry more about the color of the author’s skin, the political leanings of the writer, the pronoun he or she (YES, I’M USING THE BINARY, YOU MICROAGGRESSED ASSHOLES! DEAL WITH IT) prefers, or the sexual orientation the author happens to be. The Sad Puppies will always choose talent and hard work over pronouns, race, and gender. And that makes them not cool in the eyes of the establishment science fiction and fantasy community.
Not cool. Not progressive. And therefore, intentionally left out in the cold – just like that five-year-old Jewish kid on the swing, sitting alone while all the others built forts.
Well, that’s OK. These are the people I prefer to associate with anyway. Because I love literature. Because I love art. Because I love integrity and honesty. Because I admire talent, intelligence, and dedication to one’s art. And because I think that’s what the Hugo Awards should be about – innovation, imagination, and ingenuity. And I’ll take those a thousand times over the racism of K. Tempest Bradford, the ignorance of Arthur Chu, the disdainful conceit of David Gerrold, the disingenuousness of George R.R. Martin, and the stubborn, arrogant, defamatory libel of Mary Robinette Kowal.
They can have the cool kids’ table. I’m proud to stand with the Sad Puppies. Again.